Page 1 of Chameleon Killer

Chapter

One

THE AUDITOR

“A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.” — Alfred, Lord Tennyson

You don’t notice how much something matters until it stops showing up.

The workshop hadn't changed.

The task lamp cast a clean pool of light across the oak workbench where ledgers, financial statements, deposition transcripts, and photographs lay arranged in neat rows. Nothing overlapped. Nothing remained where it didn't belong.

The regulator clock still lost exactly three seconds every month. My kettle still clicked at precisely six-fifty each evening so I could prepare a pot of lapsang souchong. At seven o'clock every evening, I still turned on the television.

The television occupied a shelf above the filing cabinets opposite my workbench. I rarely looked at it unless she was on and for the past nineteen days, Mallory McBryan hadn't been there.

The replacements had all been competent, professional, and utterly forgettable.

None of them understood the story.

None of them understood me.

And none of them were Mallory.

One relied almost exclusively on prepared statements. Another confused confidence with authority and never once challenged a police spokesman when the opportunity practically begged for it.

They didn’t notice patterns or ask inconvenient questions. They didn’t seem to understand the difference between evidence and narrative. They reported whatever story had been placed in their hands.

I told myself her absence didn't matter. It was another disruption in a series of them caused by the FBI’s meddling with Mallory. This particular hiatus merely provided an unexpected variable. Our routine would reestablish itself.

Except it hadn't.

Guy Reardon had lingered for eleven days before finally succumbing to his injuries.

Long enough for surgeons to operate.

Long enough for hospital spokespeople to issue optimistic updates.

Long enough for every network in Chicago to speculate about whether he might survive.

He hadn't. His death launched a dozen rehashes of the story, but Mallory disappeared. She offered no field reports, no evening broadcasts, no interviews, and worst of all, no questions.

Only carefully worded statements from the network thanking viewers for their concern while asking for patience during an ongoing federal investigation.

Brewster.

The conclusion presented itself almost immediately. He’d successfully convinced someone to pull her off the air and keep her off. Or she'd finally become enough of a liability that someone above her had made the decision for her.

Neither possibility sat well with me.

The copycat had already demonstrated a willingness to weaponize my work. Removing the only reporter who understood it would have been the logical next step.

The television flickered.

I glanced up before I realized I’d stopped reading. It was too early for the evening tea. Early enough that the mug at my elbow still held coffee.

A brightly lit studio replaced the financial reports I'd had on in the background.