“The FBI isn’t a private DNA testing service. And we can’t disclose confidential investigation materials,” Keller said.

Judy frowned. “Look, our lawyer says you don’t have jurisdiction and we have no obligation to give you the sample. And we can hire DNA experts and genealogists and have them run it through public and consumer DNA databases. But let’s save us both some time, help one another out here.”

Keller wasn’t so sure that the Adlers’ lawyer was correct. Federal racketeering statutes gave the US jurisdiction over murders committed abroad if the crimes facilitated a domestic criminal enterprise, and the Marconi case gave her a hook. Still, a good lawyer could tie things up for months or even years.

“What is it exactly that you want?” Keller asked.

“Simple. Run the sample through CODIS, and let us know the results.” CODIS was a series of databases that stored millions of DNA profiles collected by federal, state, and local law enforcement. If the sample came from someone who’d been convicted or arrested—or had a family member who’d been convicted or arrested—CODIS would likely get a hit. And if the Feds didn’t get a hit in CODIS, they had relationships with private ancestry companies people used to test and analyze their DNA.

Judy added, “That’s all we need. And if you get a hit, we’ll commit not to disclose anything without your prior approval. If it turns out to be nothing—Evan Pine’s blood or an animal’s or whatever—then we’ll know.”

Keller thought about the photos of the family, thought about the pain in Matt Pine’s eyes that morning. Keller wasn’t sure she would get authorization to disclose information to the Adlers, but there was no way she was letting them walk out of there with the evidence.

“Okay,” Keller said, “you’ve got a deal.”

CHAPTER 17

After the filmmakers ambled out of the field office, Keller arranged for the red droplet on the leaf to be analyzed and run through CODIS. She then turned back to her computer forensics file on the Pine family. She was having a hard time concentrating, questions firing through her head: Was the crime scene staged? If so, then who would want to kill the Pines? Was it an accident, Evan Pine inadvertently gassing his family while killing himself? Or was it an intruder? A third party making it look like a tragic accident. But who and why? Could it be related to her money-laundering investigation of Marconi? And if it was a third party, a contract killer, as the Adlers’ investigator speculated, how could the perp be so careful to wipe the scene clean but leave DNA behind? And why would the perp be bleeding? Did Evan and the intruder have an altercation, and the killer was injured?

She needed to stop, slow down. She wasn’t making a movie, like the Adlers. She needed to take things slowly, methodically, objectively. She would get the results from the DNA tests, she would have the bodies autopsied, she would conduct interviews. And until then, she’d review the digital forensics and documents.

She thumbed absently through pages of data until something caught her eye. Two days before the family left for Mexico, the teenage girl, Maggie, had deactivated all Danny Pine social media. Keller soon thought she knew why: the girl was being cyberbullied. At 2:00 A.M. there had been an onslaught of messages—hurtful, vile messages. Teenage girls were the worst kind of mean. But what had precipitated them? Keller examined the feed on the Free Danny Pine Facebook page. The last post was a video that Maggie called “tip.”

Keller was about to watch the clip when her office phone buzzed. She glanced at the display on the old desk phone. It was her boss, Stan Webb.

“Special Agent Keller,” she said in her official voice. Stan was a formal man, so as a rule Keller kept things formal.

“I need you to come with me to D.C.,” Stan said, without pleasantries. Stan had never asked her to accompany him to headquarters, so this was unusual.

“Sure. When do you—”

“Right away,” Stan said, like it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

“Today?” Keller felt a sinking in her gut. Being beckoned to HQ—with the boss—couldn’t be good. And it was more time away from Bob and the twins. “Is everything okay?”

“You know how they are. The field offices don’t exist until a reporter calls asking about one of our cases.”

“It’s about the Pines?”

“Appears so. I could kill Fisher for getting us involved.” Fisher was Stan’s boss in Washington, a politico who looked over the East Coast field offices and who’d wormed them into the Pine case. “You’ll need to be prepared to brief the deputy director on the status. And on the Marconi investigation.”

“Of course. When do we need to leave?”

“Ten minutes ago. We’re taking the jet. Wheels lift at fourteen hundred hours.”

Stan always spoke in military time and Keller had to do the conversion in her head: 2:00 P.M. She looked at her watch. She had an hour to get things in order. She wouldn’t have time to go home, but she kept a travel bag at the office. She traveled some for her job, but she’d never flown on a Bureau jet. Someone was taking the Pine situation seriously.

And that was without knowing the family could’ve been murdered.

* * *

At just before two, Keller mounted the narrow stairs of the Gulfstream. She was embarrassed that she was excited for the flight, her first ever on a private plane. Working for the Bureau wasn’t like those television shows—Criminal Minds or CSI—where agents jetted around hunting serial killers. In Financial Crimes she was largely a desk jockey, analyzing documents, writing reports, occasionally meeting with financial institutions to wrench bank records out of their grubby hands. She looked around the cabin. It didn’t live up to expectations. The jet was better than flying commercial for sure. No waiting in lines or middle seat hell. She had a single seat and her own worktable. But it was hardly glamorous. The plane had the feel of an aging Greyhound bus: dated decor and worn plastic. The flight attendant was a plump woman in a polyester uniform.

Stan sat in his own single seat, a comfortable distance across the cabin. He wore a stiff suit and a sharp part in his hair and glasses with no frames. If you didn’t know he was a Fed, you’d think he was a tech executive or a German banker.

They weren’t exactly what you would call friends. It was something better, in Keller’s estimation: a boss who valued results, not face time. One who didn’t steal credit, didn’t play favorites, and didn’t mi cromanage. He was direct and played it straight. If you fucked up, he’d tell you. But you knew he’d always have your back. His only vice, if you’d call it that, was his fear of Fisher and HQ. No, it wasn’t fear. It was self-preservation. In her time at the Bureau, Keller had observed that the Washington types wouldn’t just throw you under the bus if it suited their needs. They’d get behind the wheel, run you down, then slam the bus in reverse and make sure the job was done. It helped to jump when they called, to show the politicos the respect they thought they were due.

After the plane took off—a steep and bumpy climb—Keller briefed Stan on what she knew about the death of the Pines. He seemed surprised about the fuss over the case.

“You haven’t seen the documentary?” Keller asked.

He shook his head. Not a surprise. She suspected that Stan was one of those people who didn’t own a TV.

“I read the piece in the Times this morning,” he said. “The deputy director said the president has taken an interest because his daughter is obsessed with the case.”

Keller contemplated her boss, unclear if Stan was kidding. He had a dry sense of humor.

“Have you heard from the kid yet?” Stan asked.

“He texted and said the consular officer who was supposed to pick him up from the airport didn’t show, so he’s just heading to the police station on his own.”

“Keystone fucking Cops. We need those bodies. An accident is spectacle enough, but if autopsies show they were murdered…”

“I had only one call with the consular officer assigned to the case. He called me sweetheart and told me I didn’t understand how things worked down there, and that he’d take care of everything. I’ve texted him to see what the hell is going on.”

Stan shook his head. “Fucking bureaucrats. And that’s coming from a career bureaucrat. Hopefully the kid handles it. If the locals give him trouble, I’ll call the embassy and see if our people in Mexico City can help.”