A simple conversation. Max allowed a twitch at the corner of his lips, knowing how easily amusement could be mistaken for repressed anger. Perhaps it was a risk to indulge in such an obvious slip. The reward was worth it, though. An easy calculation. Either his drop of blood in the water would draw out the sharks, or it wouldn’t. Both scenarios would give him something he wanted, one way or another.
Peter’s attempt to shepherd the conversation into less contentious territory was admirable. Smooth but direct, obviously well-practiced. A skill he’d undoubtedly honed through his dealings with victims and murderers both. The insult, too, had provoked no reaction from him – did that mean a well-controlled temper, or tacit agreement with an outsider’s perception of himself? A bit of both, Max suspected, with the former potentially outweighing the latter. An interesting division, possibly more Graves than Graham. Then again, immediate, visible irritation would have been something of a disappointment. The total lack of it was fascinating. No, even better – promising. The variables of this whole were not quite the same, the paths to be taken more uncharted than familiar. That promised challenge.
It had been so long since a worthy contender had graced Max’s presence.
The ripening potential made this much more than just a simple conversation – but, of course, Peter didn’t know that yet. This conversation and the ones that followed would remain simple until the precise moment he decided simplicity was no longer useful. This was Max’s design.
For now, Max’s interest was primarily focused on Peter’s survival instincts. This conversation, less simple than people generally preferred, was not life or death, but it still required a skillset more akin to survival than merely shooting the breeze. Max knew that well; so, apparently, did Peter. His nimble slide from the presumably fraught topic of Max’s wife to the more straightforward one of her murderer was precisely the line Max would’ve taken if their roles were reversed. It was an elegant solution to heading off a potentially volatile shutdown and continuing the conversation in one fell swoop. It kept him alive, for a moment longer.
But there was more. The impetus beneath the skill would have been lost on most people, but to Max it was perfectly clear. Peter’s quick turn to prioritize his interviewee’s comfort with a non-threatening compromise betrayed his true and much more mercenary goal: the uncovering of forbidden knowledge. Peter wasn’t here about Max’s wife, not really. He was here for Brackett.
There was no question in Max’s mind. Casual curiosity was not enough to bring Peter to Max’s door. This need to know Brackett was well-veiled, but even so: it was desperate.
A hook waiting to be baited. Very Graham-like indeed.
Max could work with that.
“That’s the trouble, Mr. Graves.” Max’s tone remained casual, though he lined it with the brittleness others expected of a law enforcement officer who had lost a loved one to the very criminal he’d been hunting. “We were never going to talk about my wife. And I don’t foresee a situation where we could just talk about Mark Andrew Brackett. Though not, I think, for the reasons you suspect.”
Max’s eyes purposefully left Peter’s for a moment, and he rolled his neck, as if preparing to admit something he’d rather not say. “This probably goes without saying, but someone in my line of work doesn’t become the director of Behavioral Sciences without the ability to separate the personal from the professional. I’ve never met anyone better at it than I am. That is an objective fact, not a boast.” His eyes slid back to Peter, something harder in them than before. “And so, professionally speaking, I have to tell you: I don’t want to discuss Mark Andrew Brackett for one reason, and one reason only. I simply don’t find him that interesting.”