Page 99 of Chameleon Killer

“The front desk?”

“Staffed until ten. After that, remote monitoring until Monday morning.”

“Company?”

“Contractor called Protek Urban Security.” He tapped a small decal he’d photographed before sipping his coffee.

I reached for a marker and wrote the name on the edge of the board.

“Employees?”

“Still working on it.”

“Any ties to Meridian Media Group?”

“None I found.”

“The FBI?”

“Nothing obvious.”

“The property owner?”

“Shell company.”

I grunted. Because, of course it was.

“Delaware registration. Managed through a commercial agent in Nevada. Taxes paid by a holding company registered in Wyoming.”

I blinked at him.

He shrugged. “You’re not the only one who knows how to follow paperwork.”

“I’ve never said you weren’t good.”

“I’m fairly certain you implied something along the lines of—I lost my mojo when I took a desk job for the suits.”

“That’s different.” I kept my voice prim.

A flicker of warmth crossed his expression and vanished. The careful distance between us remained. Less jagged but still there.

We stood side by side before the board, close enough that the sleeve of my shirt brushed his arm when I lifted the marker.

Neither of us moved away.

I pointed toward the access routes. “What do we think the card opens?”

“Could be anything. Elevator. Exterior door. Suite. It might not work until the appointment time. I didn’t go all the way in and you have the card still.”

Yes, I did. I’d slept with it. “Think we can clone it?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s what we should do first.”

“That would require taking it from your pocket.”

I instinctively touched the place where the card rested against my hip in my sleep shorts.