“Is there interest in my Cambridge case from this morning? Because unless I was looking at the wrong helicopter, you were in the area while we were there.” I go ahead and say that much and instantly I sense he won’t answer, and he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry. You’re breaking up,” Benton says instead.

I’m probably not. But next I pose the same information as a statement, summarizing, “You’re interested in my Cambridge case, the house on Brattle Street.” I avoid mentioning the suspected name of the dead woman or any other details.

“I agree it’s interesting.”

“I’m not aware that it’s a federal concern.”

“It makes sense that you’re not aware of it,” he says in a pleasant voice.

“I don’t have answers yet. A lot of questions but no answers yet,” I repeat.

“I see. For example?”

“Suffice it to say there are a number of things, and I’m concerned about confidentiality, Benton.” What I mean is I don’t have privacy.

He doesn’t ask me to elaborate.

I do anyway but I’m appropriately understated. “I haven’t autopsied her and I need to do a second walk-through of the scene as soon as I’m done here. I was interrupted earlier.”

“I understand.”

But he can’t really understand, and then it enters my mind again. Does he know about the Depraved Heart videos? I continue to wonder if Carrie Grethen has sent them to anyone else including the FBI.

“Will I see you tonight?” I ask.

“I’ll call you later,” he says and then he’s gone, and I study an angry sky that looks punishing.

Lucy and I have reached her open gate. Parked in front of it are two white SUVs, engines idling as their FBI drivers wait for us. I recognize one of them as the agent I had words with earlier, and I don’t smile or nod. He glares at me, his polo shirt sweat stained, his angry face shiny, and I unlock my truck and climb inside.

I crank the engine and it rumbles loudly to life as I call my forensic radiologist Anne. I want to know if anything unusual has turned up on Chanel Gilbert’s CT scan because now I’m suspicious. The FBI is interested in her and I want to figure out why, and I can’t be overheard inside my truck with its rolled-up windows and loud engine. I can talk freely.

“I need to make this quick,” I say to Anne as I check my mirrors. “In a few minutes we’re heading back to the Gilbert house. Is there anything I should know?”

“It’s not up to me to decide the manner of death,” she says. “But I’m voting for homicide.”