I dialed my parents’ house, and my mother answered.

“I need you to do something for me,” I said. “I need the photo and the envelope I threw away when I was in the kitchen this morning. I tossed it in the trash.”

“Your grandmother emptied the trash right after you left. Today was garbage pickup. I can look out back, but I think it’s gone.”

So it appeared I was out of the FBI evidence supply business.

Fine by me. I had better, more important things to do, like taking a nap. I kicked my shoes off and flopped onto my bed. I’d barely closed my eyes and the doorbell bonged. I heaved myself out of bed, padded to my door, and looked out the peephole. Two more men in cheap gray suits.

I cracked the door, leaving the security chain in place, and looked out. “Now what?” I said.

The guy standing closest to the door badged me. “FBI. We’d like to talk to you.”

“Names?”

“Bill Berger, and my partner, Chuck Gooley.”

Bill Berger was slim, average height, and in his early fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair cut short. Bloodshot brown eyes. Probably, his contacts were killing him. Chuck was my age. Not fat but a chunky body. An inch or two shorter than Berger. His suit pants had a lot of crotch wrinkles, and he was wearing ratty running shoes.

“And you’d like to talk to me about what?” I said.

“Can we come in?”

“No.”

Berger went hands to hips, exposing the gun clipped to his belt. Hard to tell if it was an unconscious gesture or if he was trying to intimidate me. Either way, I wasn’t opening my door any wider.

“We have reason to believe you are in possession of a photograph that’s part of a crime investigation.”

My phone rang, and I excused myself to answer it.

“You’ve been home less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already in some kind of a mess,” Morelli said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”