Page 40 of Chameleon Killer

Nothing from childhood.

Nothing with family.

Interesting.

String music drifted through concealed speakers.

The safe selection probably made by a committee. There were servers moving through the crowd delivering drinks. I avoided the tables and moved to the small bar that had been set up not far the from the entrance.

“Drink, sir?” The man behind the bar was FBI. His smile was a little too neat and his shirt a little too pressed. He was young for a full-fledged agent, but he might just have one of those peculiar baby faces that made him ideal for the work.

“Do you have coffee?” I let the tiredness in my pores ease into the words as I glanced at my watch. “Long day.”

“Absolutely. How do you take it?”

“Black is fine.”

I accepted coffee I didn't intend to drink. People carrying refreshments looked occupied and were thus easily forgotten. I found a place beside a decorative column and watched.

The stream of attendees—I hesitated to call them mourners because I doubted that many of these people had even known Reardon personally. They were here because attendance was expected. More than one would probably sneak out once the words began.

All they had to do was be seen by the right boss or manager, then poof. The rest of the event would be the stage for deals, assignations, and answers.

I just needed them to answer my questions. Eventually, she arrived. Not a latecomer, at all, but with five minutes to spare before the published start time.

Mallory was here.

She arrived dressed simply, black dress and heels, with her hair pinned neatly away from her face. I couldn’t really see a lot of cosmetics, but she’d gone for subtle and softened the darker shadows under her mismatched eyes.

Television might transform people into larger than life versions of themselves, but the real Mallory was every bit as captivating.

Her jewelry was equally restrained, a stainless steel watch and a pair of small silver hoops in her ears only. Practical and elegant, but also—a message. For the FBI? For Flint Carter? For me?

To be determined.

She looked beautiful. Beauty had nothing whatsoever to do with investigations. Yet as she paused just inside the doorway, I remained captured by this inconvenient observation.

Fortunately, the angle let me see her and avoided her catching me as she scanned the ballroom, the layout, the people—everything.

When she finally continued into the ballroom, it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds at most, yet the pause felt like it lasted so much longer.

Flint Carter entered half a step behind her. Behind and slightly to her left. Interesting. He wasn’t just escorting her, he covered her blind spot and protected her.

His eyes moved continuously. Crowd. Door. Podium. Waitstaff. Then back to Mallory.

Protective. Not possessive. An important distinction. Carter watched the room so Mallory didn't have to. He never once asked her to watch him in return. I had underestimated him.

That could make him an asset.

Mallory with Flint shadowing her made her way across the room toward a table on the far side. She was taking a perimeter position. It was a tactic I was using as well, putting myself in place to monitor those in attendance.

She was here to see, not be seen. Clever. I approved.

Then Agent Brewster appeared. He strode into the room wearing authority as carefully as his navy suit. Crisp white shirt. Dark burgundy tie. Shoes polished to a mirror finish. Nothing about him seemed even remotely accidental. He cultivated his appearance like armor and wielded it like a weapon.

For a man who rarely seemed to leave anything to chance, he didn't scan the exits first. He zeroed in on Mallory.

Tactical mistake?