I don’t give him the chance to make the first move. I open my wallet and display what’s inside. Kay Scarpetta, M.D., J.D. I’m duly appointed to the positions of chief medical examiner of Massachusetts and director of the Cambridge Forensic Center. I’m charged with the duty of investigating the cause of death pursuant to Chapter 38 of the General Laws of Massachusetts and in accordance with the Department of Defense Instruction 5154.30.

He doesn’t bother to read all that. He barely glances at my creds before returning my wallet as he stares past me at Marino. Then he stares at me, not directly in my eyes but between them. The trick isn’t original. I do the same thing in court when I’m faced with a hostile defense attorney. I’m quite skilled at looking at people without looking at them. This agent’s not so good at it.

“Ma’am, you need to turn around,” he says in a voice as flat as the expression on his face.

“I’m here to see my niece Lucy Farinelli,” I reply calmly, pleasantly.

“This property is under the control of the FBI.”

“The entire property?”

“You need to leave, ma’am.”

“The entire property?” I repeat. “That’s rather remarkable.”

“Ma’am, you need to leave right now.”

The more he says “ma’am” the more stubborn I get, and when he said “right now” he pushed me too far. There’s no going back. But I won’t show it and I avoid Marino’s eyes. I feel his aggression and refuse to look at him. If I do he’ll catapult out of the truck and get in the agent’s face.

“Do you have a warrant to access this entire property and search it?” I ask. “If the answer’s no and you don’t have a warrant for the entire property, then you need to move your vehicle and let me through. If you refuse, I’m going to call the Attorney General and I don’t mean of Massachusetts.”

“We have a search warrant,” he says with nothing in his tone, but his jaw muscles are flexing.

“A search warrant for fifty acres including the driveway, the woods, the shoreline, the dock and the water around it?” I know the FBI doesn’t have any such thing.

He says nothing, and I call Lucy’s ICE line again. I almost expect Carrie to answer but she doesn’t, thank God, and I can’t abide another possibility that is worse. What if Lucy sent the video to me? What on earth would that mean?

“You’re here,” Lucy surprises me by answering, and I’m reminded my techno wizard niece has surveillance cameras all over the place.

“Yes we’re at your gate,” I reply. “I’ve been trying you for the past hour. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lucy says and it’s definitely her voice.