Page 31 of Chameleon Killer

Guy Reardon.

Men whose lives had been reduced to chronology, patterns, and markers. My job was to see what connected them.

The Auditor selected targets—in this case only male—who seemed to believe that their fraud would remain invisible. They were middle management and had multiple access points to the funds and the numbers.

Men who touched ledgers, inventory, payroll, procurement, contracts. Men who knew exactly how to move money without ever looking like they had taken it.

The first deaths had been deliberate.

Spaced apart.

Documented.

Then the pattern accelerated. The deviations with Colin Thorne and Guy Reardon were not enough to derail the investigation. They were close to Mallory, a prime player that had opened a dialogue with the Auditor.

I would bet my last paycheck she was still communicating with him. She’d shown me his messages and I’d seen when she’d returned one. Now, she shut me out with the rest of the FBI.

The Auditor wanted her attention and she was going to give it to him because it would get her access to him. Carter seemed ready to back her plays all the way into an early grave.

No matter how I looked at this case, Mallory McBryan was right at the center and it made her vulnerable.

Only one of us had federal authority to do anything about it.

Me.

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I answered without looking away from the photographs. “Brewster.”

A pause. Then a distorted voice, low and flattened by software. “You’re watching the wrong door.”

The line went dead. I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at the screen.

Flores looked over. “What?”

“Get telecom on this,” I said.

He reached for the phone. I didn’t hand it over immediately.

Wrong door.

My gaze moved back to the frozen security image of Mallory and Carter in Guy Reardon’s office.

Then to the consultant in the elevator.

Then to the reception desk downstairs.

Wrong door.

No. Not wrong. There were too many doors, too many people near her, and far too many variables to account for.

That was the problem with Mallory McBryan. Everyone thought they had a claim. The public, her network, the killer, and her boss.

Even Mallory herself, reckless enough to believe her autonomy mattered more than survival.

I closed the victimology folder. “Where is she now?”