Page 13 of Chameleon Killer

Flint waited until the elevator began its descent before speaking. "You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen him almost lose that professional veneer of his.”

I glanced sideways. "I thought he hid it pretty well."

"He has." Flint's mouth curved into the hint of a smile. "I've just spent too many years interviewing politicians and liars not to notice the cracks."

I laughed because he had a point. It was one of the things about Elliot that made trusting him a challenge. "Which one do you think he is?"

His smile lingered another heartbeat, then Flint shrugged. "We’ll have to let history decide.” That told me Flint didn’t trust him either.

Not anymore.

I leaned back against the elevator wall, the tension finally beginning to bleed out of my shoulders. "He needs to stop treating me like evidence."

Sobering, Flint shook his head. "He doesn't know how."

"What does that mean?"

"It means..." He searched for the words. "Most agents like him spend their careers chasing people others can't predict. But you are making him feel like he’s losing control of the one person he can.”

"And that's my problem because...?"

"It isn't." His voice softened. "But it will become yours if he starts believing protecting you matters more than respecting you."

The elevator chimed and then the doors opened to the parking garage. Neither of us moved right away. I wasn’t sure Brewster respected me now.

That was an uncomfortable thought.

Very uncomfortable.

Finally, Flint looked at me. "Come on, we’ve got work to do."

I glanced at him then pushed off the wall, coffee in hand to follow him. We had work to do.

We.

Together.

Chapter

Three

FLINT

The crime scene tape and the blood were both gone. That should have made the executive floor feel more normal. Unfortunately, all they’d done was give it this feeling of being staged like a facade to cover the grimy reality.

Facilities had replaced the carpet outside Guy Reardon's office before sunrise. Fresh paint covered the wall where paramedics had leaned equipment. The cracked glass panel beside the door had been swapped out so perfectly that only someone who'd seen the shatter in the aftermath would know it had ever happened.

Corporate sent down word that the newsroom should move on from this part. They really backed up that edict by not returning any executives to this level. Sure, made total sense. The idea that we would move on from this story was ridiculous. We were in the news business, this was our job.

I unlocked Guy's office and stood in the doorway.

For two weeks, the FBI had photographed every square inch of the room. They'd dusted for prints, seized computers, cloned hard drives, subpoenaed emails, and copied enough surveillance footage to keep a team of analysts busy for months.

Which left me with one increasingly irritating question.

How the hell had anyone managed to attack Guy Reardon in the middle of one of the most secure buildings in downtown Chicago?

Every hallway had cameras.