Chapter 11: THE INVITATION
Baltimore welcomed me back with grey skies and the promise of rain. I'd spent the flight from Minnesota reviewing case documentation, but my thoughts kept circling back to Will Graham standing in that hospital corridor, waiting for a girl who might or might not recognize him when she woke.
He'd looked smaller somehow. Diminished by what he'd done even though what he'd done was save a life.
The FBI Baltimore field office hummed with post-case energy—that particular mix of exhaustion and satisfaction that came with closing a major investigation. Agents exchanged congratulations, processed paperwork, performed the administrative rituals that transformed field success into institutional record.
I found my temporary desk buried under new case files. Someone had left a sticky note: Welcome back. See me when you're settled. — B. Katz
The forensics lab occupied the building's third floor, a maze of equipment and workstations staffed by people who found corpses more reliable than conversation. I'd met the team briefly before Minnesota—formal introductions, handshakes, forgettable exchanges. Now, with fieldwork behind us, there was time for actual interaction.
Beverly Katz stood at a microscope station, dark hair pulled back, lab coat hanging open over practical clothes. She looked up as I approached, and something in her expression shifted from professional neutrality to genuine interest.
"Mikaelson. Heard you had an exciting trip."
"Exciting is one word for it."
She set down the slide she'd been examining and turned to face me fully. Her eyes were sharp, assessing—the kind of gaze that missed nothing and forgave very little. I'd read her personnel file on the plane. Excellent marks in forensic analysis, noted for independent thinking, occasional friction with supervisory authority. Someone who valued competence over politics.
"Your preliminary scene report was solid," she said. "Blood spatter timing analysis especially. Most consultants don't bother with that level of detail."
"Details matter."
"They do." She extended her hand. "I'm Beverly. We did the formal thing before, but formal doesn't mean much around here. You want to survive this team, you learn to be direct."
I shook her hand. Her grip was firm, confident, without any of the competitive pressure some professionals used to establish dominance. "Adam. And I appreciate direct."
"Good. Then directly: I've read your papers. The blood spatter work on the Delgado case was solid. The victim reconstruction methodology article had some questionable assumptions in the third section, but the core approach was innovative." She smiled slightly. "I sent you an email about it three months ago. You never responded."
The email would be buried somewhere in Adam Mikaelson's inbox, sent during the three weeks I was technically in a coma. "Car accident. I was offline for a while."
"I heard about that too. You look recovered."
"Mostly."
"Mostly is good enough for this job." She grabbed her lab coat from the back of a chair. "Come on. I'll introduce you to the team properly. Price is tolerable, Zeller is competitive but competent, and I'm the one you want on your side when evidence disputes arise."
The tour was efficient and informative. Jimmy Price demonstrated the cheerful gallows humor of someone who'd spent decades cataloging the dead, showing me trace evidence archives while making jokes about decomposition rates. Brian Zeller was younger, sharper-edged, clearly viewing me as potential competition until I deferred to his expertise on fiber analysis with genuine respect.
"He's not bad," Zeller admitted to Beverly when he thought I couldn't hear. "For a consultant."
"High praise," I said, not turning around. "I'll have it engraved on something."
Beverly's laugh caught me off guard—bright and unguarded, cutting through the fluorescent institutional atmosphere. For a moment, she looked like someone who enjoyed life outside these walls, someone with interests and relationships and normal human concerns.
Someone I could genuinely like, if I let myself.
"Coffee break," she announced. "The stuff inside is toxic. There's a cart on the corner that imports beans from somewhere that doesn't want to kill you."
We walked through security checkpoints and out into October air that smelled like impending rain. The coffee cart was run by a middle-aged woman who knew Beverly by name and drink preference. I ordered black, strong, and followed Beverly to a bench overlooking the parking lot.
"So," she said. "Minnesota. How bad was it really?"
I considered the question. Professional inquiry or personal interest? Both, probably. Beverly struck me as someone who didn't separate the two cleanly.
"The house was bad. Hobbs killed his wife on the porch. Almost killed his daughter in the kitchen. Will Graham shot him nine times." I sipped my coffee—good, she was right about the cart—and watched birds chase each other across the pavement. "The girl survived surgery. Graham's in rough shape but functional. Crawford is already planning the next case."
"Crawford always plans the next case." Beverly's voice carried a note of something. Not criticism exactly. Observation. "He's good at what he does. Just not always good at the collateral damage calculation."
"You worry about Graham?"
"I worry about everyone Crawford puts through the wringer. Graham's just the most visible example." She turned to look at me directly. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I'm trying to figure out where I fit in this ecosystem. Who to trust. Who to watch."
Her eyebrows rose slightly. "That's surprisingly honest."
"You said you valued direct."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I did, didn't I."
My phone buzzed. Unknown number, Baltimore area code. I answered reflexively.
"Mr. Mikaelson." The voice was warm, cultured, carrying the faint musical quality of a European accent carefully modulated. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
Hannibal Lecter.
My Danger Awareness prickled at my skin, even through the phone. "Dr. Lecter. Not at all."
Beverly's expression flickered with recognition at the name, but she stayed quiet.
"I wanted to extend an invitation," Hannibal continued. "A small dinner, this Thursday. I find the forensic perspective fascinating, and Jack speaks highly of your insights. I thought it might be pleasant to discuss methodology over good food."
The trap was beautifully constructed. Professional courtesy, intellectual flattery, social expectation. Refusing would be awkward at best, suspicious at worst. He wanted to study me closer—to understand what I was and whether I posed a threat.
"That sounds excellent," I said, making my voice appropriately pleased. "What time?"
He gave me an address and time. "I cook myself. I hope you enjoy lamb."
"I'm sure I will."
The line went dead. I stared at my phone for a long moment, then slipped it back into my pocket.
"Dinner with Hannibal Lecter?" Beverly's voice was carefully neutral. "That's an interesting social commitment."
"Do you know him?"
"By reputation. He's Jack's consultant on psychological profiling. Does some work with Will Graham specifically." She paused, seeming to choose her next words carefully. "He makes excellent food by all accounts. Very cultured. Very polished."
"But?"
"No but. Just an observation that polished things usually have something underneath that needed polishing." She stood, coffee finished. "I should get back. Evidence doesn't analyze itself."
"Beverly." She paused, looking back. "Thanks for the tour. And the coffee recommendation."
"Anytime. We outsiders need to stick together." She walked away, lab coat flapping in the rising wind.
I sat on the bench a while longer, thinking about dinner invitations and the monster who had extended one. Thursday. Three days to prepare for sitting across from Hannibal Lecter and pretending I didn't know what he was.
I wrote it on my mental calendar: Dinner with Hannibal. Poison Resistance test.
I didn't add a question mark. I'd need every ability I had just to survive the appetizers.
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