Kira Gregory saw Supervisor Dexter Brady of the DEA the minute she came through the vestibule and into the red and white over-the-top cheerfulness of the T.G.I. Friday’s restaurant nearest campus. It was late morning, and the not-quite-lunchtime crowd provided enough chatter to cover up the forthcoming conversation. The chirpy hostess walked her up the steps past the bar, giving Kira a quick glance of Brady, who was sitting alone in a booth and had his skull-trimmed head bent low over the thick menu. Though she’d been prepared not to make eye contact with him, it didn’t matter because he idly flipped a page as she passed, yawning as though he hoped to crack his jaw clear through to the base of his neck. On the table in front of him was a half-full glass of something that looked suspiciously like pink lemonade. The hostess kept going and headed straight for one of the freestanding tables at the far side of the bar, but Kira stopped her. “Excuse me.” She pointed over her shoulder to a booth.
