The landline rang as she was setting the muffins out on the little nook table. She rushed into the hallway to answer, hoping everything was all right with her parents. Only their mulishness about calling on it had prevented her from getting rid of the phone and its monthly charges ages ago.

“Hello?”

“Hello, I’m Tom Basile, Internet Security and Law Enforcement. Clara Hughes, please.”

“Speaking.” She cradled the phone against her shoulder and scooted back into the kitchen. “I’m kind of busy right now, so excuse my jostling around while I talk.”

“No problem. This won’t take long,” he said. “I just need to verify your name and contact information for Evidence Control. Based on a new ticket.”

Clara reached to get a couple of dishes out of the overhead cabinet. Her knocking around aside, the guy’s thick New York accent didn’t make him any easier to understand.

“Sorry to keep making you repeat yourself...but did you say ‘Evidence Control’?”

“Yes, Ms. Hughes.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m surprised. Agent Musil really didn’t take anything from the house.”

“That’s Mr. Gelfland’s residence? In Teaneck? I’m reading off the agent’s notes.”

“Yes, right. My cousin’s place.”

“Ms. Hughes, how it works is that items taken during an investigation go directly to Storage. My office has no way of knowing what they are initially. But every contact generates a reference code. So personal property can be tracked and returned. I’m guessing the agent did collect something from there.”

She set the dishes on the table. “Well, he asked for a photo of my cousin, which I texted him. And he took a cash register receipt out of Steve’s car. But I wouldn’t think either counts.”

“Actually, Ms. Hughes, everything is logged. I’ll give you the reference code now, if you want to jot it down. Also, is this your best contact number?”

“Better if you use my cell,” she said and gave it to him. “With two girls in middle school, I’m usually trying to be everywhere at once. Can’t you tell?”

He laughed. “And you’re at the East Stroudsburg address?”

“Right.” She looked around, found a pen on the counter, scribbled on a napkin. “OK, I’m ready for that code.”

Basile rattled the digits off to her, then repeated them in his Yankee Stadium bleacher-creature accent.

“Feel free to call if you have any problems,” he said.

Grigor clicked off the line with Clara Hughes and in doing so wiped Basile and the disposable VPN phone number he’d used out of existence.