It was not so difficult for Max to school his microexpressions once he banked his initial surprise. Easy, in fact, to reproduce the body language Peter Graves would expect from someone such as him, a perfect stranger in an authoritative and potentially antagonistic role. Max’s official demeanor had not changed in twenty years, thoroughly fooling everyone around him. Gruff, a step ahead, highly intolerant of incompetence – very much like Jack Crawford, in fact, if a bit more affable and less pompous on the days when cases progressed the way Max wanted them to. A more complacent man might have let his mask slip from time to time, in such comfortable camouflage as this. A wolf in bloodhound’s clothing.
No one could accuse any version of Max, either the ones he presented or the truth behind the veil, of complacency. Even so, he knew to proceed with caution. Peter Graves might see more with his darting eyes than Max wished to reveal.
How quickly the evidence mounted in Peter’s favor in the few short moments since his arrival. Taken separately, what Max knew about the writer before and what he was seeing (and smelling) now were hardly concrete. Together, though, they were damning. Peter’s behavior, uncomfortable and guarded and all too familiar. The stink of fear, rising through the synthetic aftershave – his body, perhaps, sensing something in this meticulously orchestrated environment that his mind could not yet comprehend. His eyes, trying to take in only what was necessary, all the same seeing too much.
A surge of dark satisfaction shot through Max before Peter finally tore his eyes away from the object that held them the longest, giving Max a much-desired glimpse through the cracks. The family portrait. A younger Max, when he was still just Max, standing behind Jenny, radiating warmth even through the unflattering mall photography, and Violet, baring her missing front teeth with childish pride. The patriarch’s hands upon wife and daughter’s shoulders. When he’d hung it upon his promotion, it was just another brick in the facade Max built for the FBI. A discomfiting reminder to anyone who walked into his office of what they assumed to be his purpose. How delightful. He never imagined the portrait could also be a lure.
He saw no pity in Peter’s eyes as he absorbed the sight of Max’s family, frozen in time before widowed and murdered and motherless would define them. He saw hunger.
Max’s lips thinned into something very close to a smile.
“You were right to expect trouble,” Max said casually as he took the seat across from Peter, directly under the portrait, “but wrong to expect it from my office. Whenever possible, I prefer not to act by proxy.” He paused to cross his legs and fold his hands neatly across his lap, then tilted his head slightly in a minor challenge. “In this particular case, I’m sure you can understand why.”