“Yeah you don’t understand because obviously there’s no cell tower at this location. It doesn’t exist.” Marino raises his voice in frustration. “In other words Hyde’s call connected to a fake tower, probably one of these cell site simulators, a phone tracker, something like a stingray. They’re so compact these days you can carry one in your car, in a briefcase, or maybe there’s one hidden inside this house somewhere.”

“Bad people use equipment like that.” I think about Lucy and how much I wish I could talk to her.

She would know about such surveillance devices. She probably could tell me exactly what’s been happening on this property and who’s spying or intercepting communications and why.

“But law enforcement uses it too,” I’m saying to Marino. “There’s been a lot of controversy about cops relying on such devices to capture content, to track people or in some instances to jam radio signals.”

“That’s right. It works both ways. Spying and counterspying,” Marino says. “You can track someone and intercept content or use the same device to prevent yourself from being tracked. Benton would know if the FBI’s been spying on this property.”

“If you say so.”

“But he’s not going to tell you my guess is.”

“He probably wouldn’t.” I hand Marino a dry set of clothing, size double X. “Get changed.” I toss him a pair of blue Tyvek shoe covers.

Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

I POLITELY AVERT MY GAZE AS HE DROPS SOPPING wet garments to the floor in a pile near mine, and I’m again reminded of how uncharitable crime scenes are. We can’t help ourselves to privacy, a drink of water or a toilet. I can’t borrow the clothes dryer, a bath towel or even sit in a chair.

“May as well get started while we wait.” Marino zips up his borrowed black tactical pants and they fit him just fine.

“I don’t think that’s wise.” I roll up my cuffs so I don’t trip on them. “Surprising SWAT is a good way to get shot. I suggest we stay put until they say otherwise.”

“We’re fine as long as we restrict ourselves to rooms they already cleared. We don’t go upstairs yet or in the basement.” Marino hops on one foot then the other, tugging the blue booties over his wet sneakers. “Not until they’ve been there first.”

He clips his holstered Glock to his waistband and tucks his radio into one back pocket, his phone in the other and picks up a scene case. We walk out of the foyer, past the stairs, into a living room crowded with formidable antiques and silk rugs in bright patterns on the heart of pine floors, and something rolls through me like a seismic tremor.