The Breaking Point: A Body Farm Novel by Jefferson Bass Page B

only ate one bite. It was a big bite—my mouth was too full to say anything when I heard you behind me—but I’m not sure it’s gonna tide me over till breakfast.” I looked at him more frankly now, embarrassed to have been caught, but relieved not to be keeping secrets. “You knew I was there the whole time?”
    “Just about.”
    “How? I didn’t think you guys could me see over the back of the booth.”
    “Couldn’t,” he said. “I noticed your reflection in the window. Hickock never did.”
    “Hickock’s the pissed-off guy?”
    “You might say that. Wild Bill. He was in the middle of his tirade when I spotted you. If I’d cut him off—if he’d known we had an audience—he’d’ve gone ballistic. At me and you both.” He shook his head. “No point in that.”
    I nodded. “Well, thanks. Sorry I was sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn’t mean to put you in an awkward spot.”
    “You didn’t. From what I hear, you’re one of the goodguys. Besides, Hickock and I should both know better. Talking business in public? I oughta rip myself a new one for that.”
    I remembered old national-security posters I’d seen from the early 1940s. “Loose lips sink ships?”
    “Sounds corny, but basically, yeah.” He nodded across the parking lot, to the black Suburban under a streetlight, its back window thick with dust. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”
    “Thanks, but I’d kinda like to walk.”
    He frowned. “You carrying?”
    “Carrying? You mean a gun?” He nodded, and I shook my head. “Heavens no. I’ve never owned one.”
    “Let me give you a ride, then. This ain’t exactly the tourist district, Doc. You might get robbed; you might get mistaken for a robber. Either way, you wander around here after dark, you’re liable to get shot. Or stabbed. Or worse. Not good for either of us.”
    “Since you put it that way,” I said, “thanks.”
    In the privacy of the Suburban, I figured he’d tell me at least a bit about the raspy-voiced man, and about their argument, but he didn’t. Instead, during the brief drive, he asked about my research at the Body Farm, then quizzed me about a couple of prior cases I’d helped the Bureau with. It was obvious that he was redirecting the conversation away from the confrontation I had stumbled into. It was also, perhaps, a reminder that he had done his research, had read the Bureau’s file on me. It might even have been a subtle caution: If I wanted to keep working with the FBI, I should keep quiet about what I’d overheard tonight. As I thanked him for the lift and headed toward my room, I parsed the conversation—the things he’d said and the ones he hadn’t. Loose lips sink ships, I reminded myself. And maybe crash careers.

THE TROUBLE WITH GRADUATE ASSISTANTS, I’D noticed—well, one of the troubles—was their tendency to go gallivanting off every summer: for gainful employment, for adventurous travel, or for romance. My current assistant, Marty, was helping direct a student dig in Tuscany for three months, and judging by the letter and photos he’d sent in early June, he was getting both well paid and well laid. Not that I was envious.
    What I was, though, was inconvenienced. I had a question that needed researching, but no time or tools to research it myself—and no helpful minion at my beck and call. So instead, despite the late hour, I called Kathleen.
    It was only 8:45 in San Diego, but it was nearly midnight in Knoxville, and that meant Kathleen had probably been asleep for at least an hour. To my surprise, she answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded thick, but not sleepy.
    “Hey,” I said, “is something wrong? Are you crying?”
    “Oh, I am,” she sniffled, “but it’s just a movie I’m watching.” In the background, I heard voices and music. “Hang on, honey, let me pause it.” She laid the phone down with a rustle,then the background noise quieted. “You know I don’t sleep worth a hoot when