“Blumenthal has got it wrong. Maybe Tracy Anne’s boyfriend has got it wrong. My gut tells me that the people we want are in Harrison, New Jersey, the place that shares a name with the green lawns and country clubs of Harrison, New York. This GIH place, I’m gonna bet, is harvesting our newborns for something other than selling them to rich parents.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Troy asks.

“It’s probably what you can guess.” I pause, to let Troy try to guess. Then I tell him what I think this operation may entail. “I think they’re getting healthy newborns into a lab to do experiments on them. They call it ‘human research.’”

Troy actually looks away from me in shock and horror.

“As my mom would say, it’s the devil’s work. They start with white mice. They move on to rabbits. Then they need to get into the real world.”

Troy looks at me with a combination of amazement and sadness.

I glance down at my phone’s screen and begin reading aloud a travel blurb about the town:

Harrison is experiencing a residential renewal, particularly along the Passaic River. The new Red Bull Arena is New Jersey’s premier soccer stadium. Hotels and restaurants are being built to rival Manhattan’s…

I stop reading when Troy says, “Look at this place. It’s pretty much a dead old mess.”

Troy is correct. We are driving through downtown Harrison, New Jersey, just across the river from Newark. Its main street is composed of a few abandoned stores, along with a small hardware store, a Popeye’s chicken place, and three deli-type bodegas.

“Turn right on Passaic Avenue,” the GPS announces. As soon as we make the turn, the voice says, “In five hundred yards you will arrive at your destination.”

“I’ve got a suggestion,” says Troy as he flicks off the ambulance’s lights and slows to the speed limit. “And you’ve got to listen to me.”

“Hmm,” I say. “I love you like a brother, Troy. But maybe your best move would be to keep your suggestion to yourself.”

He ignores my advice, as I knew he would. He simply says what he wants to say. “I think we should call Blumenthal right now, tell him where we are and what we’re doing.” There’s a touch of anger and fear in Troy’s voice.

He’s right, and he’s serious, and I’m not going to do it. “I don’t think so. Blumenthal and his pals are way up in the hills of Westchester County. They’ve got their lead. And we’ve got ours.”

“You’re wrong, Lucy. Very, very wrong,” Troy says. “This is no time for battling teams.”

“Yes, it is, if one of the teams is dead wrong and being stupid,” I say.