Chapter 11 #2
True, just not all of the truth.
“We needed a better question.” Mallory nodded once. Her wording choice settled somewhere uncomfortable in the back of my mind.
The Auditor liked to change the questions. As I studied Mallory’s expression I found no evidence of satisfaction or excitement. There was no gleam in her mis-matched eyes that promised she would get to the bottom of it.
Whatever this was, she was covering her tracks. Or was she?
The silence stretched just long enough to become deliberate.
Flint broke it first. “What brings you down here this early?” There wasn't a trace of hostility in his voice. No challenge or territorial posturing.
Just a perfectly reasonable question from a newsroom director who suddenly found an FBI profiler standing in his conference room before sunrise.
“I've been trying to reach Mallory.”
“I noticed.” Another measured answer from Flint, not Mallory.
Since we were just acknowledging the facts we had, I continued, “My calls weren’t returned.”
Flint glanced toward Mallory. “I imagine there was a reason.”
Amusingly, he wasn’t answering for her so much as reminding me that she didn’t require anyone’s permission whether she had to answer or not.
“I'd prefer to discuss it with her.” I met Flint’s gaze.
One corner of his mouth quirked upward into an almost, but not quite, mocking smile. “You are.”
Well played.
“No,” I said evenly. “I'd prefer to speak with her privately.”
“If that's what she wants,” he said with a hint of a shrug. That shrug tried to tell me he had no skin in the game, but the fact he painted himself in such a casual face told me the exact opposite.
Mallory folded her arms. “What did you need?” The huskiness underscoring the words served as a reminder that she was working and had been for hours.
“I'd rather not discuss an active federal investigation in the middle of your newsroom.”
She considered my objection, then nodded. “So we talk somewhere else.”
“Thank you,” I said, both to her acknowledgement and cooperation.
“I’ll make myself scarce.” Flint retrieved his coffee cup. Halfway to the door, he paused. “Unless Mallory would prefer I stay.”
Glancing from Flint to me, she didn't answer immediately. Until recently, I could have predicted her decision before she'd made it.
Journalists protected sources. Investigators protected information. Mallory had always occupied the narrow space between the two.
Not anymore.
The baseline I'd built over the past few weeks had begun to erode. That was the danger of behavioral analysis. While you might think a profiler could predict the future, they really can’t. They can only postulate on consistent behavior.
The moment a person’s priorities changed could reset the whole board. Had Mallory’s priorities shifted? Or was it mine that had?
The question lingered longer than I cared to admit.
“I think we should talk.” Mallory uncrossed her arms. Every unnecessary word she'd once used to soften conversations had vanished.
I found myself questioning whether she'd always spoken this economically or if I’d simply never noticed before.
“My office is empty.” Flint didn’t offer to solve the problem, he just removed an obstacle.
He wasn’t relinquishing or taking control. He simply refined the availability of options so that he could give Mallory the best of opportunities to choose from.
Oddly enough, Mallory seemed more willing to accept his help. Profiles became easier to build as choices narrowed. But now, Mallory’s choices were expanding, and that complicated my assessment.
I disliked uncertainty. Predators lived in uncertainty. So did people hunting them.
Mallory studied me for another beat, then glanced at Flint. “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”
Flint’s gaze remained on her for another second before he nodded. “I’ll be in the control room.”
Close enough to reach. Far enough not to intrude. The balance appeared effortless, which meant it probably wasn’t.
Mallory collected her phone from the conference table and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. She left the notebook where it was. No pen. No recorder.
Either she didn’t consider this an interview or she didn’t want me to know when it became one.
“After you,” she said.
Flint held the door as we stepped into the newsroom. His attention shifted to me only once. No warning in the look. No threat. Just assessment. He was establishing his own baseline. I wondered whether he realized he was doing it.
Probably.
Carter’s office was just around the corner and next door to the conference room. It was also elevated by two shallow steps and enclosed on three sides by glass. Unlike the conference room, none of it had been covered. Anyone outside could see us, but the closed door would prevent them from hearing.
Mallory’s choice, even if Flint had presented it.
She entered first and moved behind the desk, but didn’t sit in his chair. Instead, she leaned against the edge with her arms folded.
I closed the door.
Her eyes followed the movement.
Not the door.
My hand.
I released the handle and took the chair opposite her.
She remained standing. A height advantage. Control of distance. Access to the exit. All intentional. Or all habits she had developed without realizing it.
That was the problem with a degraded baseline. Every behavior could be interpreted two ways: instinct or adaptation.
“How secure is this office?” I asked.
“Secure enough for whatever brought you here.”
“Has it been swept?”
“By your people yesterday.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Then ask the one you came here to ask.”
There she was. The impatience was familiar. The surgical knife precision wasn’t. Or perhaps it had always been there beneath the layers she no longer bothered using with me.
I studied her for another moment. “When did he contact you?”
Without any traitorous tells, she merely tilted her head. “Who?”
Allowing the smile threatening to crease my lips, I met her gaze, “The Auditor.”
She didn’t look away. “What makes you think he did?”
Another question. Not He didn’t. Not You’re wrong. What makes you think he did?
“You aren’t an impulsive journalist, Mallory,” I told her something she already knew. “You are beyond patient, an expert level hunter ready to refine even the most minuscule of information into a fine resource. Yet, you appear to have abandoned a viable investigative path overnight.”
“We exhausted it.” She shrugged off my compliment without even acknowledging it.
“So Carter said.”
“He was right.”
“And this morning you’re rebuilding Reardon’s medical chronology around a question you weren’t asking yesterday.” Because the details on that timeline had everything to do with Reardon’s hospitalization.
“Investigations evolve.” She raised her eyebrows. “Something I believe you are very well aware of.”
“Yes, usually when new information is uncovered or evidence is found.” I wouldn’t be dismissed so easily.
She tapped a nail once against her elbow. A single movement, almost a twitch without involuntary fidgeting. Yet, it stood out because she’d been so still.
“You’re assuming I received new information.” Not a denial though. She really was parsing the language with absolute care and it confirmed everything.
“I’m observing that your behavior changed.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“No.” I leaned back slightly. “But you know that.”
She went utterly still once more. There were moments in an interview, when the witness or the subject surrendered their resistance to engage with the one asking the questions whether it was a reporter, an officer, or a prospective employer. Most people mistook that for cooperation.
Maybe one in five, it was, but for the majority, it was the moment that the subject had decided they could win the conversation they were in. Whatever shape “winning” took on for them.
“So you’re interviewing me.” Her attention had sharpened, but she wasn’t angry or upset. “Should I contact an attorney?”
Deciding to address the former comment rather than the latter question, I said, “this is a risk assessment, Mallory.”
Lips pursed, she narrowed her eyes. “Of me? Really, Agent Brewster?”
The use of my title and surname put more distance between us. But I wasn’t going to allow her that. “I know he’s reached out to you. He treasures his access to you.”
“And you determined he has access because I asked a different question?”
“I determined someone redirected your attention.”
“Maybe I’m good at my job.” She threw that challenge down like a glove tossed for a duel.
“You are.” I didn’t even hesitate. Mallory McBryan was a professional and brilliant.
Something flickered across her face. She had expected resistance.
“You are exceptionally good at your job,” I continued. “Which is why an unexplained pivot matters.”
“Unexplained according to you.”
“Yes.”
Her mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “That seems to be the real problem.”
I let the remark pass. She wanted me to defend my motives instead of examining hers. “Did he call you?”
She looked past me through the glass wall.
Flint had crossed the newsroom and disappeared toward the control room exactly as promised. Mallory watched the empty space he’d left behind for less than a second.
Then she returned her attention to me.
“What happens if I say yes?”
It wasn’t a confirmation. But close enough that every instinct I possessed zeroed in. “We determine when, how, and whether the contact can be traced.”
Unmoved, she raised her eyebrows. “And then?”
“We assess what information he gave you.”
“What makes you think he gave me any?” The lack of a flush didn’t betray her nor did the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
She’d betrayed herself earlier. So I told her how. “Because you’re protecting it.”
Her expression stilled. Too still. “You came here believing you already knew the answers.”
“I came here because you refused to take my calls.”
“No. You came here because you saw a change you couldn’t explain.”