Page 84 of Chameleon Killer

I held up my hand. “I get it, but I like order.”

“Yeah, you’d have liked to throw something more.” Humor kissed the words as he circled his desk to review what few answers Brewster provided.

“I wasn’t going to throw anything.” Okay, that might have come out a bit snottier than I intended it too but I wasn’t prone to temper tantrums.

“Of course not,” he said without glancing at me. “Not in my office.” His mouth shifted at one corner, but the expression didn’t become a smile.

I stared at him. He ignored me.

Well, he ignored it until he set the papers down on the center of his blotter then glanced at me all business again. “What did he say?”

“That missing records aren’t necessarily missing.” I couldn’t even repeat the comment without rolling my eyes.

“Pithy.” Flint snorted. “Did he explain why ‘missing’ records aren’t necessarily missing?” He air-quoted the first missing and delivered the second in a snark-filled tone.

Yeah. Flint got it.

Blowing out a breath, I folded my arms. “He gave me six possible explanations.”

The corners of his mouth twitched again as he shook his head. One finger pressing down on the stack of papers, he met my gaze. “How many did you ask for?”

“None.”

Flint nodded once. The response was so slight I almost missed it.

“What?”

“He came prepared.” Flint focused on the stack of papers, flipping through them again.

“No,” I disagreed. “He thinks quickly.”

“You realize that both can be true,” it came out more of an idle observation than a real question. But I could feel the weight of his regard whether he looked at me or not.

I looked at the records again. Brewster had identified every plausible explanation before I’d finished describing the gaps. That didn’t make him guilty of anything except competence in doing his job.

The idea of using his competence against him was absurd. It was evidence. His discomfort and subtle irritation with me pushing him away wasn’t either.

“He offered to make calls,” I said, testing the statement’s veracity against my own observations.

“Helpful.” Flint wasn’t looking at the papers anymore.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” It was more of a rheotorical question. Flint didn’t believe him. I didn’t even have to ask him. It was clear in his approach and the way he was using softball questions to test me. “And it would be, if I believed he intended to tell me everything he learned.”

Or anything for that matter. Brewster was extremely frugal in the way he measured out the information he was willing to share.

One fruitless grain after another.

Circling the desk, Flint came to stand on this side of it so he could lean back against the desk. He was closer to me, but he’d left more than enough space between us.

Lately he had become very good at giving me space. Speaking of that, I’d become too aware of what he did when he did too.

“What happened before you got to the records?” he asked.

“Meaning?”

“You were in here longer than it takes to discuss a half-dozen missing pages.” It wasn’t an accusation. So why did it feel like one?

“Fourteen.”