“Depends on his victims, though, doesn’t it?”
He stopped and turned to her. “Meaning?”
She stopped, too. “Meaning that if his victims are very young men and older men, you don’t really have a neat cross section of missing persons. And if he’s hunting in a segment of the population that doesn’t always get full service from law enforcement—”
“Hey, I treat everybody equally.”
“That’s probably true of most law enforcement these days,” she agreed, “but think how homophobic the Chicago police would’ve been when this character started out.”
He did think about that, then started walking again, quickly.
Catching up, she said, “Even now, gay people at least feel like they never get a fair shake from law enforcement.”
Though he was less than happy, Booth said, “Granted.”
“How accurate do you suppose missing persons records are, really?”
He didn’t respond.
“Pete goes missing, for instance — who would ever know?”
Booth continued to walk in silence.
“What about young boys running away?”
Nothing.
“Face it, Booth, if this guy’s smart… and his reconstruction of those remains tells me he is… my question isn’t why hasn’t he been caught by now — it’s how do you ever expect to catch him?”
He stopped and faced her again. “Simple.”
“Yeah? How, then?”
He twitched a smile. “Why — with your help.”
They walked on.
5
Seeley Booth could hardly believe how pleasant walking with Brennan seemed.
She’d annoyed him with her generalization about law enforcement treating gays unfairly; but she’d clarified that well enough.
And now he felt he’d just been too touchy about the subject. Hell, he’d been too touchy about everything lately….
Now, with her here, at his side, the two of them strolling along anonymously on this big city street, the evening cool, the nightlife just starting to hop, he felt… fine.
“What’s bothering you?” she asked.
Wasn’t that wonderful — here he was, feeling great, and she thought he looked like something was bothering him.
“Nothing.” He glanced sideways at her. “What makes you think something’s bothering me?”
She chuckled, which was a warm, surprising sound: he didn’t think he’d ever heard her laugh before, at least not in that way.
He found himself smiling a little, and asked, “Oh, so now you’re laughing at me?”
Smiling a little herself, she said, “I seem to be.”
“Why?”
“It’s just that… that’s such a universal male response.” She lowered her voice and aped his reaction. “Nothin’.”
He did not respond, instead working at ignoring the tickle at the corners of his mouth.
She shook her head, but the smile remained. “Why is it so hard for men to admit something is wrong? Why so defensive?”
“I was not defensive.”
“Well — you were brooding, then.”
“I was not brooding! Anyway, men are wired to fix what’s wrong, not bitch about it.”
“Talking isn’t ‘bitching,’ ” Brennan said, the smile a bit condescending now.
“…Hey, I didn’t mean ‘bitch’ in any kinda, you know, way that’d—”
“Get you in trouble.”
Booth nodded, then shrugged. “If I really talked about what’s on my mind, you’d call it bitching.”
“Hey. Go ahead and bitch.”
He waited till they got past a blues club, from which funky music emanated, then said, “I’m supposed to focus on this Skel deal, but my head is still on that damn Musetti.”
Her forehead creased sympathetically. “He’s part of an important case — your case.”
“Right, and I was responsible for his safety. Musetti may not be part of either of our skeletons, but he’s almost surely dead. Snatched out from under—”
“You weren’t even there,” Brennan said.
“Right! Right. And maybe I should have been.”
“…How’s it working out for you?”
“How’s what working out for me?”
“This whole… omniscience thing. Where you’re Superman?”
He stopped and grinned at her. “Was that a joke, Bones? I didn’t think you did jokes. And a pop cultural reference yet!”
He couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a frown she was suppressing as she said, “I don’t spend all my time in the lab.”
He just stared at her, raising one eyebrow.
Her chin crinkled in near laughter; so it had been a smile, after all….
“All right,” she admitted. “I didn’t used to spend all my time in the lab. I had a childhood, for instance. An actual life. I do know some things.”
He began to walk again and she fell in at his side.
“I wasn’t brooding — if you don’t mind me saying, I was finding it kind of pleasant, walking along, not arguing with you.”
Another chuckle. “Well, that didn’t last long.”
“You’re not all wrong, though — I am frustrated, having to spend all my time on this Skel serial deal…. No offense…”
Brennan said, “None taken.”
“…and after months on that one case? Right now I feel like the Gianellis are slipping through my damn fingers and there’s not a frickin’ thing I can do to stop it.”
She said, “You have my permission to say ‘fucking’ in front of me, Booth. I won’t wither and die like a frail, fragile flower.”
That got a genuine laugh out of him. “You know, Bones — you’re just the right medicine for me tonight. You up for a Starbucks?”
She was.
After they somehow negotiated their way into two no-nonsense black coffees — which seemed to confuse the barista, who’d apparently never filled such an outlandish order — they sat in the cafe’s plush chairs and talked some more.
She said, “I certainly get why this Musetti matter is still on your mind. Where were you on the investigation, when our serial killer so rudely interrupted?”
He shook his head. “Nowhere with the Gianellis, really — several of us interviewed them, but they’re not giving up word one.”
Her clear blue eyes were thoughtful yet alert. “What about the agents you said were guarding Musetti?”
“We went over everything with them — sounds from when they were traveling, voices they might have heard, smells, everything. Bupkus.”
“What other avenues are there?”
Booth sipped his coffee. “Still haven’t found the escape vehicle.”
“Prints at that house, where your witness was grabbed?”
“None… none but those of the guys guarding him and Musetti himself, anyway.”
She said nothing.
Booth grunted a sort of laugh. “A print woulda been a miracle at that crime scene. Hell, there was no evidence at all — like ghosts grabbed him.”
She frowned. “You don’t have any other ways to track your witness down? I mean, it’s not my field, forgive my ignorance; but you FBI agents do have resources.”
Booth shook his head again. “We’re working on it, but things are moving slowly. We talked to Musetti’s girlfriend three or four times.”
“There’s a girlfriend?”
“Lisa Vitto. Works at a restaurant called Siracusa in Oak Brook. Owned by the Gianellis, by the way.”
“Not real conducive for getting her to talk, huh?”
“Not really. But we didn’t talk to her at the restaurant — we’re not entirely stupid. We did our questioning at her apartment. Still, nada.”