An hour later Keller was in the back of a cab crammed next to her boss, gazing out the window. Unlike gloomy Manhattan, it was a beautiful spring day in D.C., the marble government buildings gleaming, the Washington Monument jutting into the blue sky. The cabdriver groused about the traffic, explaining that it was peak cherry blossom season. “I’ll never understand all the excitement over some damn pink flowers,” he said, laying on the horn as they inched along Twelfth Street.

Keller thought about her family. They should take the train down to D.C. soon. The twins loved the museums, walking along the gravel perimeter of the National Mall, getting ice cream and riding the carousel. That was about all that Keller knew or wanted to know about the District of Columbia.

They finally arrived at the FBI building, a brutalist structure that had seen better days. They’d been talking about moving HQ for years, but politics (what else?) always got in the way. The cab dropped them on Ninth and Keller paid the driver. It was Bureau etiquette: the junior agent, no matter his or her rank, paid for cabs. She imagined Stan, a G-man to his core, traveling with Fisher and suffering the same indignity.

Several layers of security later—multiple ID checks, mantraps, key card swipes—and they were in the office waiting area for Deputy Director DeMartini. The puffy-faced man burst from the back offices. He gave Stan and Keller a curt nod and said, “Walk with me.”

It was hard to keep stride. The deputy director was a tall man, at least six two, which seemed to be a prerequisite to making it to the top in testosterone-laden federal law enforcement.

“I’ve got to brief the director on the dead family in seven minutes. What do we know?”

Stan started, his report as precise as a Swiss watch. “It was a spring break trip for their younger kids. The tickets were booked at the last minute, just a day before they left. They likely died on the third day, Wednesday. Phone and social media activity went dark then. They missed their flight home a few days later, and the property management company’s maid found them when she came to clean up the place for the next guests. The Mexicans say it was an accident.”

DeMartini shook his head. “Your email said something about foul play?”

“I’ll let Agent Keller brief you.”

Keller tried to steady her breath from the brisk walk. She gave the report in clipped cop-speak, mimicking Stan. Just the facts, ma’am.

“Initial reports are that cause of death was a gas leak. But the locals have been uncooperative. We don’t have the bodies yet, but there are photos suggesting the scene was staged.”

DeMartini stopped, narrowed his eyes, waiting for her to elaborate.

Keller told him about the visit from the Adlers, described the photo of the mother’s paperback upside down, the marks on the girl’s wrists, the father’s bloody remains. The unusually clean crime scene. But most important, the drop of blood.

“Why don’t we have our own forensics—or the bodies, for that matter?” DeMartini said, his question plainly rhetorical, but his tone indicating that he didn’t like the Federal Bureau of Investigation getting bested by filmmakers, of all people.

“The locals. They wouldn’t talk to our Legats and won’t release the remains without a family member claiming them in person. We sent the surviving son there today.”

“Couldn’t our people at State cut through the bullshit?”

“I’m not sure how hard they’ve tried,” Keller said.

Stan gave her a look: perhaps she shouldn’t have said it.

“Fuck that,” DeMartini said. He fished out his phone, clicking on it with his big thumbs. “Get me Brian Cook at State,” he said into the device. “I know. Tell him it’s important.” He waited a long moment. “B.C., how the fuck are ya?” The deputy director started walking again, and Keller and Stan trailed after him. “Look, I’m sending over two agents who need your help with something. Any chance you can fit them in? Yeah, within the hour.”

He listened for a moment, barked a laugh at something, then said, “I owe you one. Let’s hit some balls at Chevy soon. I’ll have Nadine get you on my calendar.” DeMartini pocketed the phone. He stopped again, this time in front of the director’s office suite. “Fisher said something about the father having a connection to an ongoing case?”

“The father worked at Marconi LLP. He was fired a couple weeks before the family left for Mexico,” Stan said.

DeMartini shook his head like he hadn’t the foggiest.

“Marconi’s been a target for two years. Money laundering and the usual. The firm’s the Sinaloa Cartel’s bank.”

“You rousted them yet?”

Keller was about to speak—to note that approaching Marconi would jeopardize two years’ work—but Stan beat her to it.

“Tomorrow morning, first thing.”

“Keep me posted. The administration”—DeMartini said the word with an exasperated sigh—“is very interested in this case. I do not want to get my updates from the Post.”

“Understood,” Stan said.

“Cook at State should be able to get you what you need in Mexico. Go to the C Street lobby. And send me a report after you shake the tree at Marconi.”

Stan and Keller nodded, and DeMartini turned and pushed through the mahogany door of the director’s suite without saying goodbye.

Keller looked at Stan. “Two hundred miles for six minutes.”

“You wanted a long meeting?” Stan replied.

They took the elevator to the ground floor.

“I was surprised about Marconi,” Keller said. “I mean, we haven’t done any prep and it could mess up a lot of work. If they think we’re onto them, they’ll start destroying documents. And it could all be for nothing. We don’t have one shred of evidence that the Pine deaths are related to Marconi or the cartel.”

Stan looked at Keller and in that droll way of his said, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint the president’s daughter, would you?”

CHAPTER 18

MATT PINE

Matt approached the front desk of the small station house. The place had all the charm of Danny’s prison in upstate New York—a dilapidated single-story structure with low ceilings and mangy carpeting.

“Hello,” Matt said to the woman at the counter.

She flicked him a glance. She was middle-aged and wore glasses pinched to her nose.

“I’m here to see Se?or Gutierrez,” Matt said, looking at the paper Agent Keller had given him with the investigator’s name.

The woman responded rapidly in Spanish. Matt didn’t catch a word of it, but she seemed to be scolding him.

“I’m Matt Pine,” he said loudly and slowly, as if that would help. He showed the receptionist his passport, but she just gave him a bewildered expression.

From his duffel, he pulled out the newspaper Keller had given him. He laid it flat on the counter. He pointed to the photo. “My family,” he said.

The woman looked at the newspaper and lifted her eyes, peering over her glasses. She started back with the fast-talking Spanish. If it all wasn’t so morbid, it would be almost comical. A scene from Lost in Translation.

Matt said the only phrase he remembered from high school Spanish. “No hablo espa?ol.”

The woman stopped. Let out an exasperated breath. She pondered Matt at length, and finally pointed to the detective’s name on the sheet of paper. Then she gestured out the door.

“Ah. Se?or Gutierrez is out.” Matt paused. “When will he—” Matt stopped again. He pointed to a clock on the wall behind the woman. It was one of those old-fashioned clocks you’d see in elementary schools, round with a white face and black numbers.

“What time will Se?or Gutierrez return?” Matt pointed to the officer’s name then the clock again.

The woman seemed to get it. She stood and pointed to the 9 on the clock. He’d be there at nine tonight. No, the woman made a gesture like she was sleeping, then made a circular motion around the clock past the nine and around once until she stopped at the nine again. Tomorrow morning: 9:00 A.M. So much for getting out of there tonight. He considered asking to speak to another officer, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else at the station house.

Outside, the sun was disappearing on the horizon. Matt started walking toward the main road ahead in the distance. He passed a run-down auto repair shop, a convenience store with no windows, and a chicken place, by the looks of the hand-painted rooster on the sign. He felt as he did in certain parts of New York—safe enough, but on alert.

A scruffy dog ran up to him. “Hey there, buddy.” Matt risked giving the stray a rub behind the ears. His fur was matted, and he had scars, but he was friendly. His face looked like he was smiling. Matt couldn’t help but smile back at him. The dog made a sound like he was trying to talk.

“You hungry?”

The dog looked up at him. Matt unzipped his duffel and found a bag of pretzels, the snack from the airplane. The dog started dancing in circles.

“Not the healthiest, but here you go.” Matt emptied the bag on the ground. “See you later, Smiley.”