Inside the office, nothing felt normal.
Brewster paused with one hand on the door. He had spent twenty-three minutes studying the copies of Guy Reardon’s hospital records and another six telling me why the gaps might not be gaps at all.
Administrative delay.
Third-party billing.
Protected psychiatric care. He never regained consciousness so would he need psychiatric care?
A transfer entered under a different provider number.
He’d given me possibilities faster than I could write them down.
Too fast.
“I’ll make some calls,” he offered.
“I already did.” He was a resource, of course. But he was not my only resource. Dropping that breadcrumb didn’t require a lot of effort.
His expression didn’t move. “To whom?”
“The hospital.”
“And?”
“They referred me to legal.” I gave a little shrug, because that was easy to call.
Clearly, Brewster agreed with me as he said, “That’s standard.”
Lips quirked, I folded my arms. “The insurance company referred me to fraud prevention.”
“That’s also standard.” Yes, he was pleased with those answers. Foreseeable or not.
Since he’d taken the bait, I took a swing. “Is everything standard when you don’t want to answer a question?”
His eyes held mine.
For one second, I saw Elliot rather than Agent Brewster. Tired. Frustrated. Too invested in what I thought of him.
Then he put the profiler back on. “Sometimes a bureaucratic failure is just a bureaucratic failure.”
“Hmm,” I commented noncomittally. “And sometimes it’s evidence.”
“Yes.” He opened the door. “Which is why you should let me handle it.”
There it was. Not us. Not even the Bureau. Me. As in him.
Yeah. I wasn’t willing to indulge that game any longer. If he wanted to treat me like a recalcitrant teen then he could live with the result. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
I didn’t need to be a profiler to recognize irritation.
“Mallory.”
“Elliot.”
Whatever he’d intended to say disappeared behind a slow, measured breath. “Don’t contact the hospital again until I’ve spoken with the case agent.”