Page 47 of Chameleon Killer

Corporate politics annoyed me.

He leaned against the counter as he took a bite of his eggs. “Which means?”

“Could mean the phrase caught them off guard.” I brainstormed.

“Could mean they hate the interim guy.” His counter had as much validity.

“Everyone hates the interim guy.” I grinned. That was the problem when you were interim. You were there long enough to be annoying but not so long you had to kiss anyone’s ass. There was a certain amount of freedom in that role.

“Then they’re in good company.”

I stared at my food as I took another bite of toast. Guy understood where the future of this company was heading.

An ordinary sentence. So why react to it? Were they unhappy with it? Or with him? Guy Reardon had never been my favorite, but he did know what he was talking about.

“What did you hear after?” Flint asked.

“Fragments. Federal investigation. Files. Something about an audit.” I made a face on the last sentence. That had snagged my attention but there had been no follow-up. Did they mean The Auditor? Or an actual audit? “And one man told another he was glad Guy never woke up.”

Flint’s posture changed. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure what I heard.”

“Who said it?” He’d gone from casual breakfast to the journalist he’d been long before he took over the news director job.

Head tilted back, I closed my eyes so I could review what I’d seen. “I didn’t know him. Mid-fifties. Gray suit. Red tie. Expensive watch. He was near the bar with another executive.”

“That describes half the room.”

“The watch was a Vacheron Constantin.” At his raised eyebrows, I shrugged. “I notice things.”

“Apparently.”

“He wore it on his right wrist. Wedding ring, left hand. Recent tan line where a second ring or bracelet used to be. He kept touching the empty spot.”

Flint studied me for a beat. “You take a picture?”

“No.” The angle had been wrong and the only way to snap one with my phone would have alerted the man in question.

“No one was wearing name badges.” He grimaced. “That leaves us with an expensive watch.”

“We have a face. I’ll know him when I see him again.”

He nodded. No skepticism. No demand that I justify my memory.

The memorial had produced reactions, names, and questions. It had confirmed that people in Meridian Media Group weren’t all that happy with Guy. He wasn’t the type to make friends.

It had not explained why he was dead. And it had not explained the phone call.

You’re closer than the FBI.

You finally stopped looking at the bodies.

I had replayed the words until they had become mantra instead of meaning.

Flint watched me as he took another long drink of his coffee. After, he said, “You’re doing it again.”

“Hmm?” I was moving the eggs around on the plate, eating them more because I needed the fuel than out of any desire.