Page 20 of Chameleon Killer

A voice cut across the newsroom. “Flint?”

Mallory.

I didn’t turn immediately. That would have been horrifically amateur. I adjusted the next stack of papers in my hand and shifted half a step so the glass reflection of a dark monitor gave me a view.

She moved through the bullpen with a file tucked beneath one arm and a phone in her hand. Dark hair loose today, brushing the collar of her charcoal coat. No studio polish. No audience lighting.

Better. Seeing her on television was always a treat. But here in the newsroom? She was so much more real.

She stopped at her desk. Her gaze went first to the chair. Then the flowers. Then the tabs.

Flint appeared in his doorway before she called again. “What?”

“Someone moved my chair.”

The smallest possible smile touched my mouth. Excellent.

Flint crossed toward her immediately. His presence radiated control. “What else?”

He didn’t ask if she was sure.

Mallory looked around her desk without touching anything. “Flowers.”

“Those were here this morning.”

“Not like that.” She pointed to the vase. “They were closer to the phone.”

Flint’s attention sharpened. “Anything missing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Her voice remained even, but her shoulders had gone still.

I glanced toward the nearest camera. If she asked security to review footage, they would see me near the copier and not at her desk. I closed the portfolio.

Time to move. I walked past the investigative pod toward the executive elevators, keeping my pace unremarkable.

Behind me, Mallory said quietly, “Someone’s been at my desk.”

“Then we find out who.” Flint answered just as softly.

He was laser-focused. I approved.

The executive level required a second badge scan. My temporary credential opened the elevator without protest.

That was either incompetence or permission.

I suspected both.

When the doors parted, the atmosphere changed.

Newsrooms were in constant motion. Executive floors were insulated luxury.

Thicker carpet.

Softer lighting.

Closed doors.