“So,” I said to the team of trainees, “knowing that these other two guys were killed a couple days after your agent—and knowing that all of them were brought out here and buried together . . .”—I paused, giving them time to think and rethink before offering the final hint—“what does that tell you about your confidential informant?”
“It tells us he’s a lying sack of shit,” Kimball blurted. His face was flushed and his tone was angry, as if the corpse really was a murdered FBI agent, rather than a married insurance agent who’d had a heart attack during a tryst with his mistress. “It tells us the C.I.’s whole story is bullshit,” Kimball fumed, smacking a fist into an open palm. “Hell, maybe he even set up our guy—ratted him out to the traffickers.”
I nodded. “Maybe so. So be careful who you trust. Bad guys lie through their teeth. But bugs?” I pointed to the bloated face and the telltale maggots. “You can always believe them. Whatever they tell you, it’s the truth.”
THE FAMILIAR ARC OF A RIB CAGE FILLED MY FIELD of vision as I leaned down and peered through the smoke. On the rack of my charcoal grill, two slabs of baby back ribs sizzled, the meat crusting a lovely reddish brown. Ribs were a rare treat these days—Kathleen, invoking her Ph.D. in nutrition, had drastically cut our meat consumption when my cholesterol hit 220—but she was willing to bend the dietary rules on special occasions. And surely this, our thirtieth wedding anniversary, counted as a special occasion.
As soon as the FBI training at the Body Farm had ended, I’d headed for home, stopping by the Fresh Market, an upscale grocery, to procure the makings of a feast, southern style: ribs, potato salad, baked beans, and coleslaw.
As I fitted the lid back onto the smoker, I heard a car pull into the driveway, followed by the opening and slamming of four doors and the clamor of four voices. A moment later the backyard gate opened, and Jeff, my son, came in. Leaning into the column of smoke roiling upward, he drew a deep, happy breath. “Smells great. Almost done?”
“Hope so. The guest of honor should be home any minute. She’s been dropping hints all week about celebrating at the Orangery.” The Orangery was Knoxville’s fanciest restaurant. “Way I see it, only way to dodge that bullet is to have dinner on the table when she gets here.”
“You know,” he said, “it wouldn’t kill you to take Mom someplace with cloth napkins and real silverware once every thirty years.”
I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise. “You got something against the plastic spork? Anyhow, I thought it’d be nicer to celebrate here.”
The wooden gate swung open again—burst open, whapping against the fence—and Tyler came tearing into the backyard, with all the exuberance of a five-year-old who’d just been liberated from a car seat. “Grandpa Bill, Grandpa Bill, I could eat a horse,” he announced, wrapping himself around my left leg.
A few steps behind came his younger brother, Walker, age three, grabbing my right leg and crowing, “I can eat a elephant!”
Jeff’s wife, Jenny—a pretty, willowy blonde, who carried herself with the easy grace of an athlete—came up the steps after them, closing the gate. “Stay away from the grill, boys,” she called. “It’s hot. Very, very hot.” She leaned over the boys to give me a peck on the cheek. “I don’t know about the ribs, but you smell thoroughly smoked,” she said. “Are you sure you want us horning in on your anniversary dinner?”
“Absolutely. What better way to celebrate thirty years of marriage?”
“Hmm,” Jeff grunted. “Hey, how ’bout you and Mom celebrate with the boys while Jenny and I eat at the Orangery?”
“Listen to Casanova,” scoffed Jenny. “For our anniversary, he took me to the UT-Vanderbilt game. Superromantic.” She shook her head good-naturedly. Then, with characteristic helpfulness, she asked, “What needs doing?”
“If you could set the table, that’d be great. Oh, and maybe put the slaw and potato salad and beans in something better looking than those plastic tubs?”
She nodded. “Hey, kiddos, who wants to be Mommy’s helper?”
“I do, I do,” they both shouted, abandoning me to follow her through the sliding glass door and into the kitchen.
“What on earth did you do to deserve her?” I asked Jeff as the door slid shut.
“I think she likes me for the foil effect,” he said. “I make her look so good by comparison. Same reason Mom keeps you around.”
At that moment I heard the quick toot of a car horn in the driveway, followed by the clatter of the garage door opening. Kathleen was home.
Soon after, delighted squeals—“Grandmommy! Grandmommy!”—announced her arrival in the kitchen.
The slider rasped open and she emerged, the strap of her leather briefcase still slung over her shoulder. “Bill Brockton, you sneak. You didn’t tell me you were cooking.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“I wanted to surprise you, too,” she said. “I made us a seven o’clock reservation at the Orangery.”