“Why on earth would you bother him about that with everything else going on?” I can’t believe it.

“There are new developments you’re unaware of. Some old developments have resurfaced too. It’s important or I wouldn’t bother you.” Yet as she says this I have my doubts.

There’s something Lucy isn’t telling me. I can see it in her face. I can feel it. Benton is involved, and I ask her again if he’s okay. She says he’s really busy, and I reply that all of us are. Then she proceeds to explain that Tailend Charlie’s latest audio clip was sent at the usual time, twelve minutes past six P.M. More than three hours ago, and my frustration boils over. I don’t see why this merits our undivided attention in the middle of a death investigation.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I say to her. “But that’s not new information, Lucy. Every one of his crank communications is sent at six-twelve P.M. As you continue to point out, it’s intentional, and let me guess? The new recording is cookie-cutter identical to the others except for the content of the message. In other words the recording is canned and precisely twenty-two-point-four seconds long.”

“And two-twenty-four was the street address of your house when you and Mom were growing up in Miami.” Lucy isn’t going to back down from what she’s decided without the benefit of real evidence.

“Two-twenty-four and twenty-two-point-four aren’t the same thing at all.”

“Symbolically they are.”

“I’m not sure we should be so quick to assume intentional symbolism.” I pick my words carefully so she doesn’t get defensive. “The time stamp of six-twelve, the length of two minutes and twenty-four seconds, could be nothing more than meaningless remnants of programming code.”

“And six-twelve also is the exact time the bullshit nine-one-one call was made to the Cambridge police,” Lucy reminds me as if she didn’t hear what I just said.

“That’s true. But all of it could be coincidental …” I don’t finish because I know it probably isn’t.

I check my phone again. Nothing from Rusty and Harold, and I send Marino a text:

How are we doing?

“Listen, Aunt Kay,” Lucy says to me as I look down at my phone, waiting for an answer from Marino. “I don’t like to admit that I was at a disadvantage because of multiple things happening at once.”

She pats down the pockets of her flight suit, sliding out a small tin of her favorite cinnamon mints. They rattle softly as she opens the lid, offering them to me, and I think about her choice of words. Multiple, as in many. There’s something she’s not going to tell me, and I take a mint. The fiery-sweet flavor rushes up my nostrils, making my eyes water.