Page 42 of Chameleon Killer

I wandered then, drifting through the conversations, the whispers, the hushed truths, and even saltier lies. I didn’t linger with any one group for any time.

“...federal investigation…”

“...those files…”

“...before the last audit…”

“...delete…”

“...Reardon insisted…”

Pieces. So many pieces, but like any puzzle, you needed to identify the edges before you filled in the center.

Near the bar, two executives stood shoulder to shoulder. Neither noticed me. One accepted a fresh bourbon.

The other loosened his tie. “...thank God Reardon never woke up.”

The bourbon stopped halfway to the second man's mouth.

They stared at each other for the space of two heartbeats. They didn’t laugh or correct the statement. But their relief—not grief—was palpable.

I needed more information so I memorized their faces and the first name of one of them. I’d find out the rest.

As the evening continued, Mallory and Flint drifted through the room. They were following a different path. Like me, they spent brief spurts of time with each group exchanging a few words before moving on.

Mallory was a known quantity. Some wanted to talk to her, be seen with her, let some of that glory she’d earned through her work be rubbed off on them. Others made excuses and slipped away, perhaps worried what she might discover.

More than once, Brewster made as if to intercept but Flint blocked like a pro football player. He didn’t let him get near her. The byplay intrigued me because Mallory knew the agent was there, but she wasn’t paying attention to him.

I gave myself another thirty minutes. Long enough to be remembered as present, but not so long that I would leave a lasting impression if any.

The evening had already paid dividends. Faces. Names. Reactions. Half-finished conversations people believed had disappeared into the noise. They hadn't.

My work here was complete.

“Excuse me.”

Mallory's voice carried just enough to reach me as she slipped around a woman balancing a champagne flute and an untouched dessert plate. I shifted aside as though she'd been addressing me, offered the faint, apologetic smile strangers exchanged a hundred times a day, then turned toward a nearby knot of executives as if I belonged among them instead.

No one questioned it. No one ever did.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Brewster finally manage to intercept Mallory and Flint before they reached the doors.

“Mallory...”

She stopped. Barely. “Agent Brewster.” The frost in her voice could have preserved evidence.

“Do you have a moment?”

“No.” She didn't apologize, soften, or invent an excuse or pretend to be in a hurry. She simply walked around him.

Flint followed without hesitation.

The interaction confirmed what I'd suspected all evening. One man wanted to control her. The other trusted her. The distinction mattered.

I allowed myself the smallest hint of satisfaction before turning away. Smiling would have drawn attention, and attention was an extravagance I rarely indulged.

The dead could tell me nothing more. The living were only beginning.