“Except Massachusetts is where her body was found.” I get back up.

“She could have been abducted in Florida, in Illinois, who knows where.” She poses it as a hypothetical, and I don’t buy that’s what she thinks.

“You’re right. We don’t have all the facts,” I reply. “But her body ended up here. That’s beyond dispute.”

“Even so, we just don’t know where she vanished from.” If nothing else, Burke is reminding me why the FBI is involved, reminding me of the Bureau’s jurisdiction when crimes cross state lines, reminding me why it’s justified for me to feel intruded upon and confronted. “She might have left town of her own volition, been in and out, ended up in the area. Maybe she was with someone and died of natural causes and the priority became to dispose of the body for some reason.”

“Nothing indicates she died of natural causes,” I assert.

“And nothing indicates otherwise,” she pushes back.

“Someone likely held her hostage and kept her body in cold storage for months. And then tethered it in such a way that it would be pulled apart when we tried to recover her from the bay. I’d say that’s an indication she didn’t die of natural causes,” I remark.

“But you don’t know what killed her, as I understand it?” She lets that same question hang in the air.

“At this time I don’t.”

“You don’t have a guess.”

“I don’t guess.”

“Then you don’t know.”

“I don’t know for a fact at this point.”

“Isn’t that unusual, when the body is in relatively good shape?” Burke hasn’t taken her eyes off me, and it occurs to me she might think I’m lying.

“Yes,” I answer. “I find this case extremely complicated and unusual. It’s probably going to be a tox case or asphyxia. It may take a while to sort through it.”

“Then we’ll look for anything in here that could point in the direction of an overdose, a poisoning, or asphyxia,” she says. “Drugs, meds, something like a plastic dry-cleaning bag that could have been used to smother her.”

“Then what?” I remind her. “Someone carried her body out of here without anybody seeing it and dumped her into the bay?”

“I’m hoping you’ll tell me. Cold storage or heat?” Her questions are beginning to feel like an interrogation, as Benton looks around and doesn’t look at us.

“Where she was kept was cold,” I reply. “Very cold and dry.”

“We just don’t have the facts,” Burke says dismissively, as my boot covers make plastic sounds on heart pine flooring.

“Are you allergic to cats?” I ask.

“As a matter of fact, horribly. And I thought Benton was the psychic.”

“The plastic ring on the floor.” I indicate what’s behind the umbrella stand. “A cat toy.”