Page 180 of Chameleon Killer

Alisha continued. “She has surrendered the access card, envelope, written invitation, and clothing she wore at the scene for examination.”

Technically my coat had been confiscated.

That, I wanted back. It was a good coat.

“She has also consented to fingerprinting and collection of trace evidence.”

Brewster's attention stayed fixed on me. I could almost feel the sizzling burn of his irritation.

“She has not,” Alisha continued, “agreed to disclose the substance of privileged newsgathering material or information provided by a confidential source.”

Brewster inhaled. The aggravation flashed into his eyes once more. “An unidentified serial offender isn't a protected source.”

Alisha's expression remained pleasant. That made the response more effective. “Then obtain a court order establishing that.”

“He's the subject of an active homicide investigation.” Oh, Brewster was furious. I leaned back in my chair, almost half-wishing I had popcorn to go with my gut-rotting brew.

“Then you should have no difficulty articulating your legal basis.”

“He contacted her.”

“Yes.” Alisha nodded once.

“He lured her into a building.”

“Also, yes.”

“He manipulated federal surveillance.” Oh, Brewster was not a happy camper.

“Apparently.” Alisha was unmoved by his intensity or theatrics.

“He may have threatened her.”

Alisha looked at me. At the slight arch of her brows, I shook my head once. She nodded then looked at Brewster.

“No threat,” she said.

Brewster stared at me. “How would you characterize the invitation?”

Alisha answered for me. “As stated, an invitation.”

His jaw shifted. “Alone.”

“Asked and answered,” Alisha countered, “That was one of the instructions.”

“At midnight.”

“Established and my client owns a watch.” As if to demonstrate, she indicated the watch on my left wrist.

Flint's knee bumped mine under the table. Whether warning or amusement, I couldn't tell. I was too busy being entertained.

Brewster settled back. “Did he identify himself?”

I didn’t answer immediately, allowing Alisha to give me the nudge. At her nod, I said, “No.”

Brewster’s eyes sharpened.

I hadn't lied. Simon was not identification. It was a name. Maybe it was a name. At the moment, I suspected it was a name only for me and Brewster’s laser-focus on it was more than likely the reason he gave it to me.