Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
THE AUDITOR
They say to get in anywhere, look normal and walk with purpose. If you look like you know where you’re going, people rarely question you.
Uniforms helped, credentials did even more. But nothing opened doors faster than the quiet certainty of someone who already expected to be allowed through them.
I adjusted the visitor's badge clipped neatly to my jacket pocket as the revolving doors carried me into the Cartwright building.
The badge wasn't counterfeit. Neither was the company name printed beneath it.
A few years ago, I'd established a limited liability corporation specializing in forensic accounting and insurance loss assessment.
It maintained a modest website, a dedicated business telephone answered by an automated service, and enough state registrations to satisfy anyone inclined to verify my existence.
Most people weren't.
The receptionist glanced up. "Good morning."
"Morning."
She smiled. "You're here for the executive offices?"
"I am here to review several insurance documents for the network following Mr. Reardon's death."
Not a lie. No one had asked me. But the insurance documents certainly deserved another review.
"I'm sorry for the delay."
"Quite all right." She printed a temporary card that would serve as a credential for me to access the floors in question.
I signed a visitor log that already contained six names from delivery companies, two attorneys, an HVAC contractor, and a florist.
She didn’t ask for identification or confirm my appointment. Organizations relied on procedure until procedure became routine. Routine was where mistakes lived.
The visitor’s badge was a magic wand for bypassing bureaucracy. She pointed me to the elevators and I headed that way.
The elevator carried me toward the newsroom.
Large monitors lined the walls, each broadcasting a different network, every screen chasing the same stories with slightly different adjectives.
Producers hurried between editing bays. Assignment editors barked into headsets. Telephones rang. Steaming cups of coffee seemed to be going cold as they were ignored in favor of the work. Deadlines dictated everything.
Journalism reminded me of emergency medicine. Everyone appeared to be running. Very few people were actually moving. I walked among them unnoticed, my badge said I was no one important and I wasn’t here to interfere with their work.
I moved with the traffic instead of against it. That mattered. People noticed when you hesitated. They focused on someone who stood still too long particularly if they had to go around you. If you paused to stare—whether you were looking for signs or people—they noticed.
So I did none of those things.
The newsroom occupied two full floors connected by a wide central staircase and too much glass. Open offices had been designed to imply transparency, though the executive suites above proved the company still understood the value of doors.
At the assignment desk, a producer in red glasses argued with someone from legal about whether the phrase “person of interest” had been approved for air.
Near the weather wall, two assistants rolled a light kit past a man balancing three coffees and a laptop.
A field reporter in shirtsleeves adjusted his tie while reading copy off his phone.
No one looked at me twice.
Good.
I passed three security cameras before reaching the cluster of desks assigned to investigative.
Camera one covered the main walkway.
Camera two had a clean view of the staircase.
Camera three overlooked the far bullpen but lost the last row of desks behind a structural column someone had hidden with decorative plants.
It was a bad, albeit useful design. Mallory McBryan’s desk sat near the column. Not hidden. Never hidden. But when she sat there, she was protected from casual observation. Was that her call? Or the news director?
Or perhaps a coincidence?
The answer interested me.
I stopped beside the copier and opened the leather portfolio in my hands. The machine whirred. Paper slid into the top slot and more exited on the side.
People ignored me while I waited for the copier to finish and I studied her desk without touching it.
Mallory’s workspace looked chaotic at first glance.
Three legal pads. Two coffee cups. A stack of printed filings secured with binder clips. Colored tabs protruding from folders in a system that would look random to anyone who expected order.
It wasn’t, though. She marked names with red tabs, dates with blue ones, and money in yellow. The green indicated institutional connections. A small notebook sat open facedown beneath a pen. It was like she paused to go elsewhere in the middle of a thought.
She had three pens within reach.
Black.
Blue.
Red.
No highlighters.
She didn’t need them. Mallory annotated.
There was a difference.
A cracked ceramic mug held paperclips, two thumb drives, and a small lapel pin from a press freedom organization. Beside it rested a battered AP Stylebook with a broken spine and notes tucked between pages.
Her chair had been pushed in. I doubted she’d done that. She usually left it angled slightly, one wheel turned outward as though prepared for her to return because she was already onto that next thing when she left her desk.
Someone had straightened it in her absence. The trash can next to her desk was empty. The outbox was empty. There were fresh white lilies in a narrow glass vase. Those seemed a bit too funereal for her. There was no card visible, but the florist’s sleeve remained folded beneath the vase.
I looked toward the offices lining the far wall. Flint Carter’s door stood half open. His desk was visible through the glass, buried in notes, marked-up scripts, coffee cups, and two monitors showing surveillance stills from the network lobby.
Interesting.
Mallory had someone paying attention.
Good.
A woman carrying a stack of folders paused beside me.
“You need something?”
I looked up mildly.
“Copier jammed?” She glanced at the machine. It produced another page with a soft scrape. “Nope.”
“Then I’m in good shape for a change.”
She gave a tired little laugh and continued past me.
Humor, when deployed sparingly, made people complicit in ignoring you. I removed the copies the machine had produced and slid them into my portfolio.
The appearance of work was often sufficient.
A voice cut across the newsroom. “Flint?”
Mallory.
I didn’t turn immediately. That would have been horrifically amateur. I adjusted the next stack of papers in my hand and shifted half a step so the glass reflection of a dark monitor gave me a view.
She moved through the bullpen with a file tucked beneath one arm and a phone in her hand. Dark hair loose today, brushing the collar of her charcoal coat. No studio polish. No audience lighting.
Better. Seeing her on television was always a treat. But here in the newsroom? She was so much more real.
She stopped at her desk. Her gaze went first to the chair. Then the flowers. Then the tabs.
Flint appeared in his doorway before she called again. “What?”
“Someone moved my chair.”
The smallest possible smile touched my mouth. Excellent.
Flint crossed toward her immediately. His presence radiated control. “What else?”
He didn’t ask if she was sure.
Mallory looked around her desk without touching anything. “Flowers.”
“Those were here this morning.”
“Not like that.” She pointed to the vase. “They were closer to the phone.”
Flint’s attention sharpened. “Anything missing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Her voice remained even, but her shoulders had gone still.
I glanced toward the nearest camera. If she asked security to review footage, they would see me near the copier and not at her desk. I closed the portfolio.
Time to move. I walked past the investigative pod toward the executive elevators, keeping my pace unremarkable.
Behind me, Mallory said quietly, “Someone’s been at my desk.”
“Then we find out who.” Flint answered just as softly.
He was laser-focused. I approved.
The executive level required a second badge scan. My temporary credential opened the elevator without protest.
That was either incompetence or permission.
I suspected both.
When the doors parted, the atmosphere changed.
Newsrooms were in constant motion. Executive floors were insulated luxury.
Thicker carpet.
Softer lighting.
Closed doors.
The woman sitting at the executive reception desk glanced up at my arrival. I touched the badge with a light hand and she gave me a sad smile and nodded toward the hall.
“Thank you.”
She focused back at her work. The desire to not be up here kept her from glancing down the hall to where Guy Reardon’s office sat.
Guy Reardon’s office sat at the end of the corridor. The glass panel was in perfect condition and the open door clear of any crime scene tape or even suggestion of it.
The FBI had released the office and apparently corporate had cleaned it to pristine fashion.
I paused at the door and removed a slim folder from my portfolio. Anyone reviewing footage later would see a consultant checking notes.
Inside, the office smelled of fresh paint, cleaning solvent, and bland ambition.
Guy Reardon had favored dark wood, leather chairs, and framed success. Awards from business councils lined the wall. Photographs captured him beside politicians, advertisers, media executives, and donors.
I closed the door behind me and there was a quiet click as it locked. The room had been cleaned too well. That was the first problem.
Whatever signs of violence had been here couldn’t be erased totally. They could replace the carpet, repaint the walls, and even bring in new furniture. But what had been done here would have left a mark.
Folder in hand, I walked the perimeter first.
Window.
Desk.
Credenza.
Visitor chairs.
Bookshelf.
Liquor cabinet.
Camera angle from the hallway would catch entry and exit, assuming the camera functioned.
The same device which hadn’t worked for a specific, and quite convenient, eleven minutes.
A camera did not fail for eleven minutes unless someone had timed the failure or exploited an existing one.