Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
THE AUDITOR
Mallory seemed even more tired than usual during the past few evenings. There was something strained around her gorgeous eyes. I paused the program on a close-up to study her. They weren’t red-rimmed. The strain was still there.
Her extraordinary eyes were arresting anytime I had a chance to study them. The right eye was hazel, the left blue. The mixture of green and brown in her right made me think of a planet, while her left eye was the sea.
Worlds were housed within that stunning gaze. It was the application of smokier cosmetics that made me think something else had occurred. A new story? Problems at work? Problems in her personal life?
Hitting play, I switched my attention to her co-anchor, David Stratton. His bio indicated mixed race—African American and Asian. He was older than Mallory, by a good fifteen to sixteen years. Though their styles complemented each other well.
Salt-and-pepper hair, close-cropped with just a touch of curl.
Warm brown eyes framed by laugh lines that suggest he’d seen it all—but still believed in people.
One of the interesting anecdotes in his history detailed a childhood and coming of age split between two cultures and locales—Mississippi and Japan.
Education completed in the States with a bachelor’s degree from Morehouse College where he majored in journalism and then minored in international studies. A good combination. The man favored a tailored style and navy suits.
His more conservative dress also provided a rich contrast to Mallory’s edgier choices.
She also wore suits, though her jackets could just as easily be a velvet blazer, and layered with chunkier accessories.
On the desk she favored a flashier look to when she was in the field, where she managed to perfect the well-worn look, that was understated yet still bold.
Their byplay was open and friendly enough. He didn’t share the same strained edge to his countenance that she did. The relaxed manner eased some of my concern. Whatever was troubling her was not her co-anchor.
“Tonight, the small nation of Dvorus appears on the verge of collapse, as protests against the government’s harsh austerity measures have escalated into violent clashes.
Citizens in the capital, Velgrad, have taken to the streets for weeks, demanding President Turgenov step down after a series of economic reforms have left the country in disarray… ”
I tuned out Stratton and the story until Mallory took over.
“Protests within the country have turned into riots, with food and medicine in short supply. Refugees, many of them children, have swarmed over the border into Koselvia. The European Union is warning that the whole area could face a full-scale humanitarian disaster with the strain on their resources spilling over. Missy Vasquez is live in Velgrad with the latest…”
Images flashed across the screen and then they cut away to the on location coverage. Lifting a screwdriver, I divided my attention with the case I was currently disassembling and the screen.
A few more stories came and went with Mallory and David volleying the lead back and forth between them. As the newscast went on, she seemed—better. Still, there was something in her manner that niggled at me.
“Before we wrap for the evening, we have an update from Northbrook. The FBI has been called in with regard to a string of bodies—ruled suspicious deaths by the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office.
Agents with the Behavioral Analysis Unit will be working closely with local authorities to identify and establish the pattern of alleged homicides with regard to the now seven bodies that have been found alongside unpaved trails in the region… ”
She was talking about me. Lifting the cup of iced coffee, I took a long drink from it. The combination of sweet and bitter accompanied by the cold was just the brisk combination I needed.
Her beautiful eyes locked onto mine as she updated me.
“While no statements have been issued by either the FBI or the Northbrook police department, sources close to the story report that they believe these seven bodies are all connected to the same unknown subject or UnSub. Further investigation by this reporter has also identified four other bodies labeled suspicious deaths by the Medical Examiner’s Office and may be linked to these seven. ”
Good girl. I raised my drink to her. She was so much more clever than the FBI. They had their process and their procedure.
“Until then, I am Mallory McBryan…”
“…and I am David Stratton.”
“Stay safe, stay kind, and we’ll see you again at eleven.”
The network logo and production credits flickered across the screen as Mallory and David exchanged a few final words and the technicians cleared the set. Their microphones were dead, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying—but I didn’t need to.
I’d learned her rhythms. The way she shifted her weight when she was already thinking three moves ahead. The slight tilt of her head when she was done pretending to listen and ready to act.
She was telling me it would be time to move soon.
For the first time in—decades, really, which was… curious—I felt reluctant to do so.
I rose and turned off the screen, the sudden silence in the room almost intrusive, then crossed to the far wall of my workspace.
The map waited there, meticulous and familiar. Names. Addresses. Photographs. Threads of connection only I seemed to see. I had nine remaining in this cluster. Northbrook accounted for seven. Mallory had flagged four more on-air, though by my count there had been five.
Which meant one of them had likely fallen just outside Cook County.
Unfortunate, but not catastrophic. Sometimes blurred boundaries were useful. Confusion created space. Space created opportunity.
Twelve completed.
Chase Ashford.
Mark Varela.
They were nearly tied. A difference of only a few points—too close to call without another round of evaluation. The next candidate lagged far behind them. He would need time. Pressure. More data.
No. We couldn’t leave yet.
I liked being here.
Closer to her.
That she had taken the time—on-air, no less—to warn me about additional obstacles in the region was… considerate. Thoughtful, even.
I turned slightly, my gaze drifting to the framed photo on the worktable beneath the map.
Mallory, caught mid-smile. Studio lights in her eyes. A moment frozen that couldn’t quite capture the way she moved through a room, or how her voice shifted when she was uncovering something real.
Photographs were a poor substitute for presence.
But they helped.
Especially when she wasn’t on the air.
Was that what was bothering you?
Something had been. I’d seen it in the way she paused between sentences, the fraction of a second where her eyes lost the teleprompter and focused on something else entirely. Not her cohost. Not the story itself.
She hadn’t looked afraid.
She’d looked… distracted.
No, that wasn’t right either.
Preoccupied, maybe. As if something had slipped out of alignment and she couldn’t quite name it yet.
Whatever it was, I would find it. I didn’t like her worrying. Worry made people careless. It made them reach for the wrong conclusions.
I opened the drawer and selected one of the blank cards I kept for occasions like this. Thick paper. Neutral. No watermark. Nothing that could be traced back to a store if someone cared enough to look.
The pen felt familiar in my hand.
I hesitated.
Flowers crossed my mind. They were a simple solution—immediate, visible, impossible to misinterpret. They didn’t even need to go to the studio. I knew exactly where she lived. I ran past her building most mornings, timed my route so I could see the lights in her windows before she left for work.
I checked my watch.
Then looked back at the card.
I could do both.
Mallory,
I considered the next line carefully. We needed to communicate in layers. That was important. Meaning had to live between the words, not inside them. Sometimes it wasn’t about what you said—it was about proving you were listening.
There was a temptation toward long sentences. Toward explanation. Toward letting her see the full shape of my thoughts.
I resisted.
She preferred precision. Clarity. No wasted language.
So, I wrote something brief. Direct. Something she would understand.
I didn’t sign it.
The pen strokes were clean, confident. I’d trained my left hand for this—hours of repetition until the slant felt natural, until the letters stopped betraying the muscle memory of my right.
When I was finished, I sealed the envelope and wrote her address in careful block print. No return name. No flourish.
Just enough to arrive.
I checked the board once more. Ashford. Varela. Still too close to call, but Ashford was nearer.
If I left now, I could observe both and still have time to deliver the card before midnight.
I packed the kit and carried the backpack upstairs, locking the door behind me. The system armed with its usual soft chime—three failed attempts and it wiped itself. No one had gotten that close yet. They were still circling the wrong places.
Only Mallory had come near the truth.
And she’d kept it to herself.
Such restraint. Such discipline.
I should reward that.
In the car, I started the engine and entered the route. Ashford blinked onto the screen, a clean blue line guiding me forward.
Flowers could wait.
Tonight was for listening.