Page 27 of Chameleon Killer

I’d seen it before in suspects, in undercover operatives, and in men who made it a study of how to be unremarkable.

“Agent Brewster?”

I didn’t turn.

Special Agent Marla Sykes stood near the conference table with a stack of reports tucked beneath one arm. She’d been with the Bureau eighteen years, which meant she’d earned the right to sound unimpressed before breakfast.

“We have a briefing in five,” she said, she spoke with flat As that were a bit on the nasal side. Would have made me think she was from somewhere in New England, even if I didn’t already know that.

I kept my attention on the screen. “We’re in one.” Power play? Perhaps. I didn’t like the new teams rolling in to take over my case.

“We’re supposed to be reviewing the full victimology.” The schoolteacher primness in that statement irked.

“I am.” But I kept my tone civil even as I waited for Flores to find the answers I wanted.

“No, you’re reviewing Mallory McBryan’s office traffic.”

I finally looked at her. “She’s part of the victimology.”

Sykes didn’t blink. “Convenient.”

I let the comment pass because reacting would give her more power than she deserved. On the screen, the consultant exited the elevator on the executive floor.

“Track him,” I told Flores.

Sykes stepped closer.

“Elliot.”

There were three ways people said my name.

Superiors used it when they wanted my attention and my compliance. Immediately.

Colleagues used it when they thought I was overlooking something. Or when they suspected I'd started trusting my instincts more than Bureau procedure.

Mallory used it when she wanted to remind me I wasn't in charge of her.

She never raised her voice. She didn't have to. She clipped each syllable with just enough irritation to remind me she considered my authority situational at best.

She was wrong.

Everyone else called me Agent Brewster.

"What?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

Sykes had abandoned the conference table and closed the distance between us. Close enough that anyone else might have mistaken it for discretion. Flores wouldn't miss a word.

"You need to be careful."

"I am careful."

She held my gaze without flinching. Square jaw. Brown eyes behind practical glasses. Hair pulled into the kind of severe braid that suggested she believed casual was a character flaw. She'd built an entire career on caution.

"With the case," she clarified.

As though I'd somehow forgotten how to do my job. “I am.” I hated to repeat myself.

“With her.”