I’m on notice for baby raccoons that waddle out of the woods and lounge in the middle of the sun-warmed road, as innocent and sweet as cartoons. The other day after a hard rain I encouraged an army of green frogs to abandon their post. They seemed to grumble as I prodded them. There wasn’t the slightest gesture of gratitude for saving their lives. But then my patients don’t thank me, either.

I rumble over asphalt cracked and crumbling at the edges like a stale brownie, avoiding potholes deep enough to blow out tires and damage wheels, and I envision the low-slung supercars Lucy drives. I marvel just as I always do over how she manages Ferraris and Aston Martins in conditions like this. But she’s as nimble as a quarterback, streaking around anything that might hurt her or get in her way. Slaloming, fast cutting, my Artful Dodger stealthy niece.

Except something got her this time. I can see that instantly as a tight curve brings us to the entrance of her fifty-acre estate. The tall black iron gates are frozen open, and blocking her driveway is an unmarked white Ford SUV.

“Shit,” Marino says. “Here we go.”

I ease to a stop as an FBI agent in khaki pants and a dark polo shirt steps out of the SUV and approaches us. I don’t know him. He doesn’t look familiar. I reach inside my shoulder bag, my fingers brushing against the hard shape of my Rohrbaugh 9 mm in its pocket holster. I find the thin black leather wallet that holds my brass shield and credentials. I roll down my window and hear the loud thudding of the helicopter, a big one, probably the same twin engine I’ve been hearing only now it’s lower and slower. It’s much closer.

The agent is late twenties, early thirties, muscle-bound and poker-faced with veins roping his forearms and hands. He’s possibly Hispanic and definitely not from around here. New England natives in general have a certain way about them that’s typically low-key but observant. When they figure out you’re not the enemy they try to be helpful. This man isn’t going to be nice or accommodating, and he knows damn well who I am even if I don’t know him.

I have no doubt he’s aware that I’m married to Benton Wesley. My husband works out of the Boston Division. Probably this agent does too. The two of them probably are acquainted and may be friendly with each other. I’m supposed to think that none of it matters to the tough guy guarding my niece’s property. But the message he sends is exactly the opposite of what he intends. Disrespect is a symptom of weakness, of smallness, of an existential problem. By acting rude to me he’s showing me what he really thinks of himself.