I need to focus on my hunch. So of course I call my mom. This time, however, it’s for info related to this case. “Mom, I don’t have time to waste. Remember that story you told me the other day about the man a few years ago who wanted you to help him get a few babies?”

“Well, yes. I do remember. He was a handsome fellow. He had a very nice suit jacket with—”

“Mom, I’m in a real hurry here. Did he say that he needed the babies for people in Harrison, New Jersey, or Harrison, New York?”

I don’t get a sense of true certainty when she answers. “Well, I’m pretty sure he said it was New Jersey. But those states are all one big blur to me.”

Okay. I’ve got to go with a “pretty sure.” I say good-bye and disconnect.

I drop two phone chargers and an iPad charger into my purse. I fill my water bottle and then grab two Diet Cokes for Troy. I check the face of my cell phone every ten seconds—as if I might possibly miss the call from Troy telling me where to meet him.

A nervous mind is a crazy mind. At least it is in my mind. I envy the likes of Blumenthal and Sarkar—people who can sort and file their thoughts. Compartmentalize? Move on with one project at a time? That’s just not me. My brain works on the crashing roller-coaster blueprint—fast-moving, out-of-control cars that almost collide but, with a little bit of luck, never fall off the track. The problem is this: I really believe that life assigns you only a limited amount of luck—your fair amount. And you don’t want to use it up too fast and too soon.

The images of the important cast members of the case—Nina, Orlov, Blumenthal, the cemetery, Tracy Anne—are exploding in my brain. My mind is flipping through the possible rats who are aiding and abetting Orlov and Nina. And then it hits me. I know exactly who the guilty party is. It’s everyone. Of course it’s The Constitution according to Lucy Ryuan: everyone’s guilty until proven innocent. Everyone, that is, because the loony old Irish skeptic in me is totally unable to eliminate anyone.

Tracy Anne has already been identified as Judas. Bobby Cilia seems to have shown up out of nowhere. Troy seems to be our informant, but he was also Tracy Anne’s confidant. Our scum-bucket CEO, Dr. Katz, is certainly not above crime. Then there’s this Barbara Holt woman. Sarkar weaves way too smoothly in and out of everything. And why does Blumenthal make me keep my distance from the center of the investigation? Could Blumenthal actually be…? Nah. Well…why not? Of course not. Of course. Yes. No. Maybe. Yes.