Page 41 of Chameleon Killer

I watched him continue watching her. Every few seconds, his gaze found her over and over. Each movement she made was something he tracked. He ignored the room. Mallory came to see what she could see, Brewster was here for her.

Fascinating.

Flint noticed Brewster’s arrival, likely because unlike the FBI agent, the newsman was aware of everyone in the room. Yet, he didn’t make eye contact or acknowledge him. Didn’t point him out to Mallory. Instead, he shifted his position by half a step which put him next to Mallory and effectively made himself an obstacle to approaching her.

Almost invisible, but elegant and protective. So much better. One of them protected her, the other wanted to own her.

I mimed a half sip of the bitter black brew. It tasted like they’d spent some money on the catering, so at least it wasn’t burnt.

The lights dimmed once, a subtle cue from the event planners that the program was about to begin. Conversations softened as guests drifted toward the rows of linen-covered tables, guided less by respect than choreography.

Not everyone complied.

Some, like me, remained standing.

Others lingered at the bar, reluctant to surrender perfectly acceptable whiskey for perfunctory speeches. Still others migrated toward the perimeter of the ballroom, close enough to be seen, closer still to the exits.

Pragmatists.

They had fulfilled their obligation. They'd shaken the appropriate hands, issued and accepted condolences they neither needed nor believed, and allowed themselves to be counted. Attendance was now a ticked box on the checklist. Their absence, when it came, would be forgiven.

Corporate memorials were merely another exercise in political theater, negotiations conducted beneath the umbrella of grief.

Politics and bereavement had always shared the same accounting principle.

Appear sincere.

Spend as little as possible.

The program began with a professionally produced tribute video scored with music designed to manufacture nostalgia. The polite applause at the end lacked any real sense of passion.

Waiters whisked quietly through the room delivering drinks and appetizers to the tables as the speeches began. Every executive seemed determined to invent a man none of them had actually known.

Guy believed in journalism.

No. Guy believed in quarterly growth.

Guy championed investigative reporting.

No. He championed profitable investigative reporting.

Guy never compromised his principles.

That one nearly made me laugh aloud.

Memory, like accounting, became remarkably flexible when you were allowed to get creative with the record.

The interim Vice President approached the podium. A practiced smile in place, he spoke confidently. “Guy understood where the future of this company was heading...”

It sounded rather bland and unremarkable except three board members looked toward one another. One of them—an attorney—stopped taking notes. The chief financial officer’s jaw tightened and his lips compressed.

Tiny reactions, they lasted a second or two at most. But long enough that I caught them and across the ballroom, Mallory had turned her head toward the same table.

She'd seen it too. Our eyes connected for a brief instant, but she wasn’t looking at me. She didn’t even notice me, she was scanning the room before resuming her observation.

Were the interim VP’s words a slip? It was a good question.

After nearly eighty-seven minutes, the speeches concluded. People migrated toward cocktails and hors d'oeuvres. I “finished” my coffee as the real memorial began. With care, I set the cup on one of the large trays near the exit. I made sure to wipe the handle down under the guise of wiping my hand off of some dribbled spill of the drink.