She saved her open computer files in an encrypted format, then logged into a White Pages website and typed Katy Royal Regan in the search field. The search engine instantly kicked back Randall and Katy Regan, 18 Royal Road, Lake Concordia, Louisiana. She memorized the address and scrawled the phone number on a Post-it, then typed in Royal Insurance Company, Vidalia, Louisiana. Adding this phone number to the Post-it, she made a quick plan.
Lake Concordia was ten miles from the Examiner offices. She could call Royal Insurance on her way to Louisiana, and with any luck verify Randall Regan’s presence at his office. If he wasn’t there, she’d have to find a way to make sure he wasn’t home with his wife. But given what she’d learned about that relationship, Caitlin felt confident that home was the last place Randall Regan would be. With adrenaline pumping through her like fuel, she stuck the Post-it to her Treo, dropped a Sony tape recorder into her purse (next to her pistol), and headed for the front door.
CHAPTER 75
CAITLIN KNEW SHE was risking her life to interview Katy Royal Regan. To minimize that risk, while driving over the bridge to Louisiana, she’d called Royal Insurance and asked for Randall Regan. When the receptionist asked for her name, Caitlin answered that she was Special Agent Glass of the FBI. When Regan came on the line, speaking like he had a bad case of laryngitis, she informed him that an FBI search team would arrive at Royal Insurance in thirty minutes with a warrant, and that he should be prepared to produce all files pertaining to the state insurance fraud case of 2003. If Regan had any trouble remembering which case that was, she said, it was the one in which two female employees who had given evidence to federal agents had disappeared. Before Regan could do anything but curse, she’d hung up.
As for Katy Regan, Caitlin had reluctantly decided on an ambush interview. According to Henry’s notes, the woman hadn’t been upset by his questions about Pooky Wilson during his interview, and she’d been gracious to Henry throughout. But when he’d called back two days ago, she’d angrily rebuffed him. Caitlin wasn’t going to risk spooking her quarry before getting inside her house.
Dusk was falling by the time Caitlin reached Lake Concordia, and the first thing she saw was a line of houses decorated with Christmas lights. None could compete with the Regan home for gaudy splendor. Every surface of the house had been lined with colored bulbs, and the yard boasted at least six inflatable displays, one depicting Santa landing in a helicopter. Caitlin called the house immediately, identified herself, then told Mrs. Regan that the Examiner was doing a lifestyle story on Christmas displays. Could she possibly stop by for ten minutes to discuss Mrs. Regan’s decorative sense? When Katy agreed, Caitlin hung up before the woman could change her mind. Five minutes later, she presented herself at the front door, which had been covered with red foil wrap.
The interior of the Regan home looked like a photo spread out of Southern Living magazine—French country fireplaces, contemporary furniture, and three antlered deer staring down from the living room walls. Katy herself looked like a Stepford wife of indeterminate age. Caitlin knew from research that Brody Royal’s daughter was fifty-nine, but Katy already had the scared-cat face of the plastic surgery addict. When she answered the door, her eyes had a glaze that Caitlin read as the result of a couple of gin-and-tonics. Her polite drawl had the beginnings of a slur, as well. Caitlin hoped the alcohol might loosen the woman’s tongue.
The Regans’ living room looked out over the narrow oxbow of Lake Concordia, which reflected a thousand colored lights. Caitlin accepted the offer of a glass of sherry, though she detested the stuff, and watched her hostess walk to her kitchen to pour it. While Katy was out of sight, Caitlin switched on the miniature tape recorder in her purse.
Soon her glassy-eyed hostess handed her the sherry, then went to the chair opposite Caitlin and sat with her legs crossed so perfectly that she must have learned the art at some finishing school for southern belles. Caitlin found it difficult to reconcile this poise with her knowledge that Katy Regan had been forcibly committed to a mental institution where she’d been subjected to primitive electroshock therapy for nearly a year.
“You look very chic,” Mrs. Regan said, nodding at Caitlin’s black silk T-shirt and jeans. “I could never carry off that look.”
“Of course you could,” Caitlin said, smiling.
“Oh, no. But thank you. Aren’t you and the mayor getting married soon?”
Caitlin forced her mind to shift gears. “Ah … yes, we are. I mean, we were getting married this weekend, but some family issues came up. We’ll probably have the ceremony this spring.”
Katy Regan’s smile broadened. “Will it be a big wedding? Dunleith and the carriage? All that? I love big weddings.”
Caitlin forced herself to sip the sherry, then set down her glass. “Mrs. Regan, I’m sort of under a deadline.”
“Of course, dear. What would you like to know?”
She took a deep breath, then spoke in the most sympathetic voice she could muster. “I’m going to be honest with you. I didn’t really come here to talk about Christmas lights.”
The surgically augmented lips flattened into a tense smile. “I never thought you did. I’ve read your stories, Ms. Masters. You’ve never written anything but hard news.”
Caitlin was startled to hear such frank clarity from this seemingly airheaded woman. “The truth is, I’ve been working with Henry Sexton, and—”
“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Regan cut in, her face a caricature of shock. “Wasn’t that terrible what happened to him?”
“Yes,” Caitlin said, sensing a chance for cooperation. “That’s why I’m working on this story now. And Mrs. Regan, I must tell you—”
“Please call me Katy, dear.”
“Katy,” Caitlin said thankfully. “Both Henry and I believe—we fervently hope—that you can shed some light on one particularly heinous crime.”
Mrs. Regan blinked like a young ingénue auditioning for a lead role. “What crime is that?”