Chapter 4 #2
I crouched beside the credenza.
Dust patterns remained faintly visible on the glossy surface. A square absence near the left corner. Something had been removed after the room was cleaned.
Framed photograph, perhaps.
Small award.
Decorative box.
I measured the space with my thumb and forefinger.
Four inches by six.
A photograph.
The bookshelf confirmed it.
Family photo.
Conference photo.
Golf photo.
Missing photo.
The arrangement looked balanced until you knew something had been taken.
Then it looked wrong.
I opened the top drawer of the desk.
Empty folders.
Pens.
Stationery.
A roll of antacids.
Second drawer.
Expense envelopes.
Old visitor badges.
A keycard from the Drake.
Third drawer seemed too shallow. I ran my fingers around the interior and found the lock mechanism at the back.
Interesting.
Executives locked drawers for three reasons: money, secrets, or sentiment. Guy Reardon did not strike me as sentimental.
The lock took no time at all to bypass. Inside sat a file box. The FBI hadn’t taken it in as evidence, so either they’d missed it or someone else had put it back after.
The latter seemed unlikely.
I removed the file box to the desktop and set my dummy folder next to it.
I lifted the lid.
Printouts.
Contracts.
Internal memos.
Draft language for restructuring agreements.
A handwritten note on network stationery.
Not Guy’s handwriting.
Too angular.
Too controlled.
I photographed each page with my phone.
Then I found the first useful contradiction.
A log printout for the day of the attack.
Guy had reportedly scheduled a meeting that he hadn’t informed his assistant about. The meetings on the log all meshed with his official calendar.
Agent Elliot Brewster was scrawled on a sticky note attached to the back of the log sheet. But it could have just become attached from anywhere else.
The FBI agent’s name and a phone number and the word “follow-up” beneath it. Follow-up. No date or time listed. Not enough to determine whether it was relevant or not.
I took a picture of it before I went to replace the file exactly as I found it but paused at the blank legal pad on the bottom. The light hitting it showed shallow impressions.
Removing the legal pad, I tilted it toward the light. A note had been written on the page above it, hard enough to leave pressure marks. No words, just numbers.
Nine digits broken into three groups. I made a copy of the number in my own folder then replaced all the material then restored the drawer.
As I straightened, a shadow crossed the frosted glass beside the door.
I stilled as the footsteps paused.
A keycard chirped against the reader. There was a beat of hesitation before the door opened and Flint Carter stepped inside.
He saw me immediately and his frown melted away leaving him expressionless.
“Insurance review,” I said, lifting my folder.
His assessing gaze moved from my visitor badge to the folder to my shoes. I didn’t doubt that he had to be asking himself, what didn’t fit.
“Corporate sent me up.” I offered a mild smile. Bland. Non-confrontational. Just a middle-manager doing my job.
“Hmm,” Carter said with more of a grunt than a sigh. “Corporate sends a lot of people up.”
“So I’m learning.”
He moved farther into the office but did not block the door.
An interesting choice. He seemed to communicate that he didn’t want me trapped. Was that more for him or for me? Did he want me to make a mistake? Or just get out of his way?
“Find anything?” he asked.
“Mostly exclusions.” I focused my attention back on my folder and jotted down a note.
“Those’ll kill you faster than the premiums.” A passable line, but delivered with sardonic wit.
I gave him the expected polite laugh. “Usually.”
His eyes narrowed by a fraction. He knew something was wrong.
From the hallway, Mallory’s voice cut cleanly through the room like a laser. “Flint?”
My attention betrayed me. Internally, not externally. I had far too much control over my basic reactions. Yet, the sound of her voice altered the room.
Flint’s expression changed, his eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, and jaw tightening. Protective. Possessive. Controlled.
I was a stranger, an unknown variable, and his attention focused on me as Mallory appeared in the doorway.
She glanced at Flint first, then me. Her gaze didn’t linger. That was far more impressive than if it had.
“Corporate sent someone?” she asked.
Flint didn’t answer immediately.
Neither did I.
For one brief second, the three of us stood in Guy Reardon’s cleaned office, each holding a different version of the same question.
Who are you?
That was my cue. I adjusted my portfolio. “Insurance documentation.”
Mallory’s eyes dropped to my badge. Then my hands. Then the file. Not my face.
So very smart. Faces lied even as mine and theirs were. But hands—hands revealed a lot. Mine weren’t rough, or scarred. They looked like the hands of a person who handled a lot of paperwork. White collar.
“Busy day for paperwork,” she commented.
“Death complicates claims.” I ticked off another box. The form in my folder was exactly what I claimed it to be. I was assessing the room for the insurance investigation.
“So does murder,” she replied almost drolly and folded her arms.
“Alleged murder,” I corrected gently, sparing her a glance.
Her eyes lifted then. Blue and hazel. Lake and earth. Sharp enough to cut.
Flint looked between us.
Mallory’s mouth curved slightly. “Careful language.”
“Always best.” I gave a shrug.
“Depends on what you’re trying not to say.”
There she was. For a long moment, I forgot the room, the file, the badge, and the risk. .
Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Truly beautiful. But she was also completely awake and aware. Even exhausted, guarded, and with the FBI breathing down her neck, she noticed the edge of a sentence and pressed her thumb against it until it bled.
I wanted to tell her. Not everything. No, she wouldn’t appreciate a full confession. Not yet. Not until she’d done her job and figured it all out herself.
But I did want to tell her she was looking in the right direction. She needed to audit the living, investigate the edits, identify not just the similarities but the differences.
Instead, I lowered my gaze respectfully and wrote down a comment in the last line about the items not present that had been on the inventory.
Once done, I closed the folder and clicked the pen closed before sliding it into the internal pocket of my suit. “I’ll leave you to your work.”
Flint stepped aside but Mallory didn’t. She remained near the doorway, forcing me to pass closer than necessary.
Testing me? Perhaps. Mallory had the sharpest instincts of any reporter I’d ever seen.
I appreciated that and respected them even more. As I moved past her, the scent of coffee and rain clung faintly to her. A perfume that hovered around her.
Her desk had smelled of paper, ink, and persistence.
This was worse, and so much more human.
I kept walking.
Behind me, Mallory said, “Flint.”
“Hmm?”
“That man wasn’t from corporate.”
I did not break stride. Nor did I hurry. The control I’d pressed in my pocket when I’d tucked away the pen had the elevator doors opening at the end of the corridor.
I stepped inside alone, pressing the button for a lower floor, and turned to face forward as the doors closed.
Mallory watched me from the down the hall. Her focus held no traces of fear. I was glad. I didn’t want her to be afraid of me.
The copycat had made a mistake when he used my work to hurt her. Brewster had made a mistake when he tried to silence her. And I had perhaps made one of my own by coming here.
But mistakes, properly audited, became information.
I tucked the folder into my briefcase and considered the badge number I had copied from Guy Reardon’s drawer.
Then at the floor indicator as the elevator began to descend. Mallory was asking the right questions. Now it was time to give her some answers.