Page 39 of Chameleon Killer

“You're closer than the FBI.” A voice—flattened, distorted beyond recognition—said. “You finally stopped looking at the bodies.”

Then the line went dead.

Chapter

Seven

THE AUDITOR

Memorial services fascinated me. The dead rarely revealed anything new. The living almost always did.

Guy Reardon's funeral had taken place three days earlier. It had been private, allowing only family and old friends to attend. No cameras, no executives, and no speeches written by the communications department. That particular ceremony hadn’t truly interested me.

Today’s event, however, had my full attention. The invitation described it as A Celebration of Leadership. The peculiar talent corporate language possessed for laundering uncomfortable truths never failed to entertain.

No one wanted to admit they were attending a networking event built around a corpse. People mourned differently. Families grieved. Executives repositioned themselves.

Journalists, FBI agents, and investigators showed up to see who else was there.

The distinction mattered.

I adjusted the knot of my muted blue tie in the mirrored wall outside the ballroom.

Dark charcoal suit. Brown shoes polished but not recently. Reading glasses. A simple gold wedding band.

Hair parted farther to the left than usual and brushed flatter across the temples where discreet coloring had added enough gray to suggest a decade of additional experience.

My posture mattered more than any of it. Rounding my shoulders, I moved with a shortened stride and the slightest hesitation for my right foot. Not enough to be an actual limp, but more than enough that others unconsciously stepped out of the way.

The leather portfolio tucked beneath my arm completed the illusion. My role as corporate consultant was more than sufficient to give me access. Ordinary, but competent. Neat and tidy, but not splashy or expensive. I blended in with all the other corporate executives in attendance.

Just another suit.

I joined the line of arrivals passing through the open doors. Each guest had been issued a badge in lieu of invitation. The FBI agents were easy to spot. They were all wearing the same style of suit and sporting similar white ear buds to stay in contact.

The young woman at the door on my side took the badge and swiped it. I had no doubt, they were comparing images to badges.

“Thank you for coming,” she said with a kind of perfunctory smile but her attention had already moved on to the person behind me.

“As requested.” I kept the response pithy and detail-less. The two words implied I was expected by someone and at the same time suggested that I didn’t really want to be here.

She might not have processed my response or what it meant, but the FBI agent giving me the steady look heard it. But he’d already catalogued and dismissed me as he continued to survey the arrivals.

The smell of lilies greeted me as I stepped inside. There were standing sprays on either side of the door and every other entrance as well as more near the podium.

The tables around the room each sported centerpieces of more of the same white lilies. The perfumed air made my nose itch but the allergy meds I took before coming did their job.

Round tables circled a low stage where two oversized projection screens alternated between photographs of Guy Reardon smiling beside politicians, celebrities, advertisers, and network personalities.

Corporate Guy.

Award Guy.

Fundraising Guy.

Not one photograph predated his promotion to Vice President.

Nothing from college.