“I’m not the one who called you,” Lucy says to her as she looks at me.

“Don’t go,” I say to Donoghue as she gathers her belongings and gets up from her chair.

“YOU NEED TO STAY,” I say to her. “You’re representing me too.”

“I worried this might not work.” Donoghue picks up her pocketbook.

“Lucy, please.” I give my niece a warning look, and she shrugs.

“You should stay.” The way Lucy says it isn’t very convincing but it’s enough.

“Okay then.” Donoghue sits down, and Desi is looking back and forth at whoever is talking.

He’s a wise old soul, small for his age with a mop of pale brown hair and huge blue eyes. He shows no distress or angst but he shouldn’t be sitting here listening to this, and Marino can tell what I’m thinking.

“I’ll take him outside for a walk,” he offers, clawing at mosquito bites that are angry wheals on his legs.

“That sounds fun doesn’t it, Desi?” Lucy moves chairs from a small table off the kitchenette, arranges them near the couch.

I’ve been standing all this time because I’ve gotten stubborn about being the first one to sit. People assume I need to because of my leg so I stand longer than I should even if I’m miserable.

“How about a walk with Marino?” Lucy encourages Desi.

“No. I don’t want to.” He shakes his head, and Janet puts her arm around him, hugs him close.

“Yeah you do.” Marino picks up a tube of After Bite from the kitchen counter.

“Tell me about the mini-recorder.” Donoghue directs this at me. “Give me any details you can.”

But it’s Lucy who answers her. She explains that U.S. Congressman Bob Rosado was shot to death June 14 two months ago while diving off his yacht in South Florida. His scuba tank and part of his skull weren’t found, and since it’s a federal case and I have federal jurisdiction through my military affiliation, I decided to meet Benton’s tactical team in Fort Lauderdale. I showed up the next day, June 15, to help with their search and recovery efforts.

“Is it routine for you to attach a mini-recorder to your dive mask whenever you’re doing an underwater recovery?” Donoghue asks me.

“I wouldn’t put it that way because the camera is permanently mounted.” I smell ammonia and tea tree oil as Marino slathers gel over his mosquito bites.

“But you turn the camera on and off. You do that manually and deliberately.” She slowly turns her coffee mug on the armrest of her chair as if to imply we’re talking in circles.