Page 18 of Chameleon Killer

I adjusted the visitor's badge clipped neatly to my jacket pocket as the revolving doors carried me into the Cartwright building.

The badge wasn't counterfeit. Neither was the company name printed beneath it.

A few years ago, I'd established a limited liability corporation specializing in forensic accounting and insurance loss assessment. It maintained a modest website, a dedicated business telephone answered by an automated service, and enough state registrations to satisfy anyone inclined to verify my existence.

Most people weren't.

The receptionist glanced up. "Good morning."

"Morning."

She smiled. "You're here for the executive offices?"

"I am here to review several insurance documents for the network following Mr. Reardon's death."

Not a lie. No one had asked me. But the insurance documents certainly deserved another review.

"I'm sorry for the delay."

"Quite all right." She printed a temporary card that would serve as a credential for me to access the floors in question.

I signed a visitor log that already contained six names from delivery companies, two attorneys, an HVAC contractor, and a florist.

She didn’t ask for identification or confirm my appointment. Organizations relied on procedure until procedure became routine. Routine was where mistakes lived.

The visitor’s badge was a magic wand for bypassing bureaucracy. She pointed me to the elevators and I headed that way.

The elevator carried me toward the newsroom.

Large monitors lined the walls, each broadcasting a different network, every screen chasing the same stories with slightly different adjectives.

Producers hurried between editing bays. Assignment editors barked into headsets. Telephones rang. Steaming cups of coffee seemed to be going cold as they were ignored in favor of the work. Deadlines dictated everything.

Journalism reminded me of emergency medicine. Everyone appeared to be running. Very few people were actually moving. I walked among them unnoticed, my badge said I was no one important and I wasn’t here to interfere with their work.

I moved with the traffic instead of against it. That mattered. People noticed when you hesitated. They focused on someone who stood still too long particularly if they had to go around you. If you paused to stare—whether you were looking for signs or people—they noticed.

So I did none of those things.

The newsroom occupied two full floors connected by a wide central staircase and too much glass. Open offices had been designed to imply transparency, though the executive suites above proved the company still understood the value of doors.

At the assignment desk, a producer in red glasses argued with someone from legal about whether the phrase “person of interest” had been approved for air.

Near the weather wall, two assistants rolled a light kit past a man balancing three coffees and a laptop.

A field reporter in shirtsleeves adjusted his tie while reading copy off his phone.

No one looked at me twice.

Good.

I passed three security cameras before reaching the cluster of desks assigned to investigative.

Camera one covered the main walkway.

Camera two had a clean view of the staircase.

Camera three overlooked the far bullpen but lost the last row of desks behind a structural column someone had hidden with decorative plants.