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Preston chuckled. He was excited about the work he did. He felt people had to learn that there were consequences for their actions—that they had to be kept in check, made aware of such things. It’s my job to teach them.
    Ten minutes later, an old pickup truck with lawn equipment in the back squealed to a stop at the corner of E. Jefferson and Strafford. The gardener was done for the day. Preston knew he had two hours before the man of the house would return from work. He started his engine and drove to the two-story brick house with white trim at the end of Strafford. Tall hedges surrounded the property to keep the neighbors at bay, with the exception of the side of the house that faced the lake.
    Preston pulled his SUV into the driveway; the gate was on the fritz and therefore wide open. Of course, he had known that. A few seconds later, he rang the doorbell and waited.
    The door creaked open, enough for a woman in her early fifties to peek out. She didn’t seem worried that a stranger had entered the property and stood outside her door. Preston was a good-looking man with a full head of hair. He stood six feet with proportionate weight. His attire was conservatively wealthy, and most importantly, he had a charming smile.
    “May I help you?” the woman said.
    “Sorry to bother you. Mrs. Walters… It is Mrs. Walters, correct?”
    “Yes, that’s right. Do I know you?”
    Preston let out a friendly chuckle and teetered back on his heels. “No, unfortunately we haven’t met. I know your husband, Dennis.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Preston Carter. Pleased to meet you.”
    Mrs. Walters smiled, her guard completely down, as she opened the door all the way. Preston breathed in deeply. Lilac. How refreshing .
    She wore a knee-length cream linen dress, and a single strand of pearls draped her thin neck. Her blond locks were pulled back neatly into a bun and held in place by a jeweled pin. She seemed extremely composed, though he did detect a hint of highbrow in her demeanor.
    “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, too, Preston. Call me Irene,” she said as she extended her hand. A few seconds later, she wished she hadn’t.

 
     
    13
     
     
    The Macomb Correctional Facility was a thirty-minute drive north east of Detroit. We didn’t bother to check in with Lieutenant White, preferring to take our own chances with visitation. Just as I thought, a flash of our badges got us an appointment to see Michael Garrison. It’s good to be FBI .
    After we checked our sidearms in with the officer behind the counter, we were told to have a seat. Ten minutes of kicking at the floor and reading Time magazines passed before a pudgy guy in a uniform approached us.
    “I’m Gary Walczak, the senior corrections officer on duty. I understand you two are FBI agents and want to see inmate #04291144, Michael Garrison.”
    “That’s correct,” I said. “Will that be a problem?”
    “Nah, but I need to inform you that, because of the nature of his crimes, he’s kept separate from general pop. Too many guys want a crack at him for what he did. He’s not even allowed in the visitor’s room. We have a place where you can meet with him privately.”
    “That’ll be fine,” I said.
    “Just a warning, if you hadn’t already been told, he’s got a quick mouth. He likes to instigate and get under your skin. It’s all a game with him.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    A few minutes later we were led into a twelve-by-ten room containing a metal table and two stools, all bolted to the floor. Before we could settle in, Michael Garrison shuffled into the room, handcuffed and chained at the ankles.
    To be honest, he wasn’t what I expected. For one, I thought he would be taller and not so skinny-jean thin. His hair was a greasy mess and he had a spotty beard. The officer sat him down and chained his handcuffs to the table.
    “You guys okay?” Walczak asked.
    We both nodded and then waited until the door clanked shut before