Page 21 of Chameleon Killer

The woman sitting at the executive reception desk glanced up at my arrival. I touched the badge with a light hand and she gave me a sad smile and nodded toward the hall.

“Thank you.”

She focused back at her work. The desire to not be up here kept her from glancing down the hall to where Guy Reardon’s office sat.

Guy Reardon’s office sat at the end of the corridor. The glass panel was in perfect condition and the open door clear of any crime scene tape or even suggestion of it.

The FBI had released the office and apparently corporate had cleaned it to pristine fashion.

I paused at the door and removed a slim folder from my portfolio. Anyone reviewing footage later would see a consultant checking notes.

Inside, the office smelled of fresh paint, cleaning solvent, and bland ambition.

Guy Reardon had favored dark wood, leather chairs, and framed success. Awards from business councils lined the wall. Photographs captured him beside politicians, advertisers, media executives, and donors.

I closed the door behind me and there was a quiet click as it locked. The room had been cleaned too well. That was the first problem.

Whatever signs of violence had been here couldn’t be erased totally. They could replace the carpet, repaint the walls, and even bring in new furniture. But what had been done here would have left a mark.

Folder in hand, I walked the perimeter first.

Window.

Desk.

Credenza.

Visitor chairs.

Bookshelf.

Liquor cabinet.

Camera angle from the hallway would catch entry and exit, assuming the camera functioned.

The same device which hadn’t worked for a specific, and quite convenient, eleven minutes.

A camera did not fail for eleven minutes unless someone had timed the failure or exploited an existing one.

I crouched beside the credenza.

Dust patterns remained faintly visible on the glossy surface. A square absence near the left corner. Something had been removed after the room was cleaned.

Framed photograph, perhaps.

Small award.

Decorative box.

I measured the space with my thumb and forefinger.

Four inches by six.

A photograph.

The bookshelf confirmed it.

Family photo.