going to have to talk to me first." He hesitated, so she pointed at the kitchen bar and ordered him curtly, "I need a drink of water. Then talk. And don't give me any bullshit."
His eyes narrowed, but he went to the sink and filled a tumbler for her. She drank it greedily. Afterward, they stared at each other across the bar.
"I don't know what to think, Uncle Bert. I mean, I don't have much experience in forensics or criminology, but it just . . . I don't know. Did you talk to your lieutenant about this?"
"No. Because I know what he'd say. 'Bertie, you're hanging up your hat in three months. Why go looking for problems? At some point we all gotta hand off the baton.' Or he'd say I was reaching, the whole thing was thin. But how many times have I heard that over the years? Brass, they're thinking about budgets, case loads, processing rates. They forget about the victims, the survivors, the perpetrators. The reality!"
He came around to Cree's side of the bar and perched on one of the stools, arms folded across the barrel of his body, waiting for her response.
"So you called me here to help you chase down this supposed murderer? Because you want to go out with a bang, but you know your lieutenant won't give you any support resources, and you need someone to help with legwork? You misled me?"
"No! Jesus, what do you think I am? When I called you, all I had was the bones!"
"You said you got the first e-mail message ten days ago. You called me, what, eight days ago."
Bert's eyes slipped away, came back angry and defensive. "Like you said, at first I figured maybe it's somebody pulling my leg. I didn't put the whole thing together in my mind until like two days ago, you were already on your way. So help me. Christ, one reason I showed you this stuff is I figured you should have fair warning, it could get strange around here, maybe you want to stay out of it."
"If it doesn't tie in with the bones, how am I involved anyway? You said there was no connection."
"Maybe there is a connection. This guy, he's got to be someone I talked to back then, somebody I looked at or got close to without knowing it. Maybe he knows about the bones, too, maybe he's got some inside access. How the hell do I know?"
She studied him. Clearly, Bert wasn't used to being interrogated; he was used to being on the other side. She felt bad for him, perched on his chair, caught out like a schoolboy.
"Hey, Uncle Bert," she said, as gently as she could manage. "We're family, right? Almost, anyway. How about you just tell me what's on your mind. Let's sort it out from there."
He tried to keep his hackles up, but he looked relieved. He checked her face, checked his watch, checked the floor. "No way am I going to put you in harm's way. I just wanted to warn you—the bones, maybe it's not as simple as it looked at first. And as long as you're here, maybe you could keep your eye open for the connection. If there is one."
She studied him and decided he was probably telling the truth. If there was some connection between the bones and the e-mails, he was certainly right to bring it up.
"Here's the deal. I don't want you to bullshit me ever again. No beating around the bush." She paused, astonished at the Brooklynese in her voice, as if she'd absorbed it from the air in Bert's house. "Just tell me what's on your mind, let me sort it out myself, my way."
"Okay."
"And I have to be honest with you. One, I'm not a criminal investigator, I don't know anything about police work, I'm not going to be any good to you. I can't, and I won't, it's just not something I can do. Okay? Two, I'm not buying your theory one hundred percent. About your e-mails connecting to these old cases. About the cases being linked or the animal attacks being homicides. I'm sorry, but that's how I see it."
He nodded and stood up. "Good. Fine. Hey, I'd like nothing more than being proved wrong, believe me. Now we gotta go or we're both gonna be late."
He seemed more relaxed as he locked
His eyes narrowed, but he went to the sink and filled a tumbler for her. She drank it greedily. Afterward, they stared at each other across the bar.
"I don't know what to think, Uncle Bert. I mean, I don't have much experience in forensics or criminology, but it just . . . I don't know. Did you talk to your lieutenant about this?"
"No. Because I know what he'd say. 'Bertie, you're hanging up your hat in three months. Why go looking for problems? At some point we all gotta hand off the baton.' Or he'd say I was reaching, the whole thing was thin. But how many times have I heard that over the years? Brass, they're thinking about budgets, case loads, processing rates. They forget about the victims, the survivors, the perpetrators. The reality!"
He came around to Cree's side of the bar and perched on one of the stools, arms folded across the barrel of his body, waiting for her response.
"So you called me here to help you chase down this supposed murderer? Because you want to go out with a bang, but you know your lieutenant won't give you any support resources, and you need someone to help with legwork? You misled me?"
"No! Jesus, what do you think I am? When I called you, all I had was the bones!"
"You said you got the first e-mail message ten days ago. You called me, what, eight days ago."
Bert's eyes slipped away, came back angry and defensive. "Like you said, at first I figured maybe it's somebody pulling my leg. I didn't put the whole thing together in my mind until like two days ago, you were already on your way. So help me. Christ, one reason I showed you this stuff is I figured you should have fair warning, it could get strange around here, maybe you want to stay out of it."
"If it doesn't tie in with the bones, how am I involved anyway? You said there was no connection."
"Maybe there is a connection. This guy, he's got to be someone I talked to back then, somebody I looked at or got close to without knowing it. Maybe he knows about the bones, too, maybe he's got some inside access. How the hell do I know?"
She studied him. Clearly, Bert wasn't used to being interrogated; he was used to being on the other side. She felt bad for him, perched on his chair, caught out like a schoolboy.
"Hey, Uncle Bert," she said, as gently as she could manage. "We're family, right? Almost, anyway. How about you just tell me what's on your mind. Let's sort it out from there."
He tried to keep his hackles up, but he looked relieved. He checked her face, checked his watch, checked the floor. "No way am I going to put you in harm's way. I just wanted to warn you—the bones, maybe it's not as simple as it looked at first. And as long as you're here, maybe you could keep your eye open for the connection. If there is one."
She studied him and decided he was probably telling the truth. If there was some connection between the bones and the e-mails, he was certainly right to bring it up.
"Here's the deal. I don't want you to bullshit me ever again. No beating around the bush." She paused, astonished at the Brooklynese in her voice, as if she'd absorbed it from the air in Bert's house. "Just tell me what's on your mind, let me sort it out myself, my way."
"Okay."
"And I have to be honest with you. One, I'm not a criminal investigator, I don't know anything about police work, I'm not going to be any good to you. I can't, and I won't, it's just not something I can do. Okay? Two, I'm not buying your theory one hundred percent. About your e-mails connecting to these old cases. About the cases being linked or the animal attacks being homicides. I'm sorry, but that's how I see it."
He nodded and stood up. "Good. Fine. Hey, I'd like nothing more than being proved wrong, believe me. Now we gotta go or we're both gonna be late."
He seemed more relaxed as he locked
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