“No. Nothing was there and yet something was. Plus someone’s in my computer. That’s been going on for about a week. Well I shouldn’t say someone. I think we can figure out who it is.”

“Let me guess. Considering who’s dropped by for an unexpected visit.” Marino doesn’t disguise how much he hates the FBI.

“Programs opening and closing on their own and taking too long to load,” she says. “The cursor moving when I’m not touching it. Plus my computer was running slow and the other day it crashed. No big deal. Everything is backed up. Everything vital is encrypted. It must be them. They’re not particularly subtle.”

“Anything leaked or corrupted?” I ask. “Anything at all?”

“There doesn’t appear to be. An unauthorized user account was created by someone pretty savvy but no genius, and I’m on top of all that, monitoring unusual log-ins, all e-mails sent, trying to figure out what the hacker or hackers want. It’s not a sophisticated attack or we wouldn’t know about it until it’s too late.”

“But it’s the FBI for sure?” Marino asks. “I mean it would make sense since here they just showed up with a warrant.”

“I can’t say with certainty who’s rooting me. But it’s probably them or related to them. The FBI often uses outside servers when they’re investigating cybercrime. And alleged cybercrime is their excuse for snooping. You know for example if they have reason to suspect I’m laundering money or surfing kiddy porn sites, shit like that. So if it’s them, they’ll say they were investigating me for something totally trumped-up just so they can spy.”

“What about my office?” I ask about the most problematic scenario. “Is it safe? Is there any chance our computers have been breached?”

Lucy is the systems manager and I.T. administrator for the CFC computer network. She does all the programming. She forensically examines all electronic and data storage devices turned in as evidence. While she may be the firewall that surrounds the most sensitive information associated with any death, she’s also the biggest vulnerability.

Should the wrong person get past her, it would be catastrophic. Cases could be compromised before they ever reach court. Charges could be dropped. Verdicts could be overturned. Thousands of murderers, rapists, drug dealers and thieves could be released from prison in Massachusetts and elsewhere.

“Why all of a sudden?” I ask her. “Why the interest right now, assuming it’s the FBI?”

“It started when I got back from Bermuda,” she says.

“What the fuck did you do?” Marino demands with his usual tact.

“Nothing,” she says. “But they’re determined to fabricate a case that sticks.”

“What case?”