Page 244 of Chameleon Killer

Flint didn't. “Not your business,” he said.

Brewster ignored him.

I studied Elliot. Not Agent Brewster. Elliot. Because Agent Brewster would never have asked.

“Is that why you came?”

“No.” The clipped response echoed with everything he wasn’t saying.

“Then we're not discussing it.”

His mouth tightened.

Flint shifted beside me, his thigh pressing against mine beneath the table. A constant reminder that he was there, at my side and he had my back.

Brewster looked down at his coffee. “I withheld the toxicology because the results were inconsistent with the official cause of death.”

No segue. No warning. Just the bomb placed neatly between the sugar dispenser and laminated dessert menu.

I forgot about coffee. “What was inconsistent?”

“Guy had a sedative in his blood.”

My pulse kicked. “What sedative?”

“Midazolam.”

Flint leaned forward.

I knew the name. “Versed.”

“Yes.” Brewster nodded once.

“Hospital administered?” Flint caught the thread of my questioning and jumped in.

“No.” Yet, the way he said that one word suggested either he didn’t believe it or there was something else he was holding back. Elliot was a very good liar, skilled at compartmentalizing but Flint and I were throwing him off his game.

Or maybe his suspension was. I shoved those both to the back of my mind. Not important at the moment.

I went with my next question. “When was the sample taken?”

“After admission.” Brewster took a sip of his coffee.

Flint’s turn. “How long after?”

“Approximately four hours.” That information left a disgruntled expression on his face.

“Approximately?” I raised my brwos.

With a sigh, Brewster went from sipping his coffee to turning the cup into a slow circle. “The draw time and processing time don't match.”

I stared at him. “How badly?”

“Thirty-seven minutes.”

A huff escaped Flint. “That isn't a rounding error.”

“No.”