“Just scheduling the meeting may spook them,” Keller said. “And then they’ll start destroying evidence.”

“Not if you make it about Evan Pine. A routine interview about the death of one of their former employees who died abroad. And don’t tell them you’re coming—just show up.”

That all sounded right.

“And I thought you said we already had the goods on Marconi?” Stan added.

“We do, but—”

“But what? We can’t afford to get analysis paralysis on this one.” It was another Stan-ism. Analysis paralysis, the problem of agents not wanting to make an arrest until every single conceivable piece of evidence—the records, the wiretaps, the witnesses—were tied up in a neat bow. Was she being too timid? Too cautious? She had Marconi dead to rights on the records. But money-laundering prosecutions were complicated. The targets hired expensive defense lawyers who hired fancy financial experts who either explained everything away or made it so damn complex that a jury couldn’t possibly understand the case. These prosecutions had no CSI or DNA evidence, which juries had come to expect from watching television. It all typically came down to a terabyte of bloodless records. In Keller’s experience, you needed a live person—an employee or another insider—to convey the story to the jury. She had the records, but no flesh-and-blood witness.

“Tell you what,” Stan said. “I’ll ask the Chicago office to back you up. If things go south, you can give them the signal and they’ll grab up all the computers and servers. I know the SAC, Cal Buchanan. He’s a BSD, but effective.” BSD was Bureau shorthand for the most aggressive agents, the ones who didn’t hesitate to put the government’s heavy foot on someone’s neck. The charming acronym stood for Big Swinging Dick.

Keller nodded. There was no point in debating it.

Cook finally returned to the office. “The bodies will be released today. They’re at a funeral home in Tulum that has experience with expedited shipping of HR. The HR and personal effects will be sent to a funeral home in Nebraska, and the Bureau can decide how it wants to take things from there.”

HR, Keller thought. Human remains. What an impersonal way to refer to someone’s family.

“You have a new contact,” Cook continued. “Carlita Escobar.” Cook said her name with the hint of a Spanish accent. “I’m told she’s no relation to Pablo Escobar—she’ll apparently tell you that every time you talk to her. But Pablo used to have a compound in Tulum, so, just sayin’. Anyway, she’s well connected and takes no shit, so you shouldn’t have any more problems.”

“I hope she wasn’t too hard on Mr. Foster,” Keller said facetiously.

“I think he’ll enjoy his new post in Acapulco,” Cook said. “We have an advisory against US travel there, so it should be pretty, ah, exciting for him. Best of luck with your case.”

CHAPTER 24

“I’m really sorry,” Keller said into the phone.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop apologizing?” Bob said. “Didn’t you read that article I sent you?”

Keller could picture the smirk on his face. He’d sent her one of those top ten lists for professional women that make the rounds on Facebook. Career advice written by world-weary twenty-two-year-olds.

“Don’t Apologize was tip number one,” Bob said.

“I’m traveling so much lately. You’re taking on more than your share.”

“Um, though my modeling career is about to take off, I think you’re forgetting how we have food.” Bob paused a beat. “And besides, I like being a kept man. No, a Stepford Husband.”

She felt her heart rate slowing, her blood pressure leveling. She could swear she actually felt it. Bob always had that effect on her.

“Whose phone are you on?” he asked, changing the subject. “The caller ID was blank and the reception is terrible.”

“I’m on the plane.”

“Whaaat? And you’re just now telling me that?” he said. “You’re like Clarice Starling. Or is it more like The Wolf of Wall Street? Tell me Stan’s there coked out of his mind with a bunch of hookers.”

“Stop it,” she said, smiling in spite of herself, the image of her buttoned-up boss getting wild with prostitutes unfortunately shooting through her mind. “Stan had to get back to the office.”

Her boss had left her to handle the meeting at the Marconi accounting firm on her own. Given the interest HQ had taken in the Pine case, Keller didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. Stan either had great confidence in her or was distancing himself from a potential shit show. Stan was a stand-up guy, so Keller decided to believe the former.

“So what’s in Chicago?” Bob asked.

“Probably blowing up two years of work on my cartel case.” Keller had the Marconi file spread out on the worktable in front of her.

“Wow, they really want to know what happened to the Pines,” Bob said. “The power of television, I guess.”

“And the president’s daughter, a law student and fangirl of ‘A Violent Nature.’”

“I hope you’re kidding.”

Keller didn’t reply.

“When do you think you’ll be home?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to hit the accounting firm in the morning and, if I have time, try to talk to some of the girl’s classmates. I doubt it will go anywhere, but might as well while I’m there.” She hesitated, then added, “I won’t be surprised if they want me to go to Nebraska. That’s where they’re sending the bodies.” She’d tried calling Matt Pine, but it went right to voicemail. She’d texted him as well, but he’d ignored her. Or his phone was dead.

There was a beat of silence on the line. She almost apologized again, but then Bob said, “I’m proud of you, you know?”

Tears welled in Keller’s eyes. “I love you,” she said.

“Right back at you, G-woman. Give ’em hell tomorrow,” he said. And in an exaggerated tone of urgency he added, “And eat some deep dish. It’s Chicago, for Christ’s sake.”

CHAPTER 25

MATT PINE

Matt watched from the cover of the woods as a car jerked to a stop in front of Hank’s Toyota. A car door slammed and a figure stalked to Hank’s driver’s side. In the darkness, all Matt could make out was the form of a man. He must’ve worn heavy shoes, boots perhaps, because they crunched loudly in the gravel shoulder of the country road.

The man stopped, said something Matt couldn’t make out, then did something that caused Matt’s heart to free-fall. He started sprinting toward the precise spot where Matt was hiding.

Instincts took over, and Matt turned and hauled ass. He darted through the brush, branches lashing his face, thorny bushes snagging his shirt. A light, the beam from a powerful flashlight, locked on to Matt’s back, a long shadow before him. Matt hurdled over a downed tree, then cut sharply to the right, then left, then right again, trying to evade the spotlight.

He lunged behind some thick brush, the flashlight beam disap pearing for a moment. Matt darted deeper into the woods, not looking back. He kept going, his lungs on fire. When he found pitch blackness again, he stopped behind a large tree to catch his breath. He took in the humid air, trying not to make a sound. His heart was beating so hard, it felt like an alien trying to rip through his chest.

He thought he’d lost whoever was chasing him, but the forest grew suddenly quiet. The flashlight beam reappeared. It swept through the mist, like a searchlight from prison movies, back and forth across the grid. The light grew brighter and Matt stayed deathly still. Then the light went out. Darkness, the only sound blood whirling in his ears.

Matt stood ramrod straight, his back against the rough tree bark. Listening for the man’s footsteps. He should call for help, but who? Did Mexico even use 9-1-1? And what did it matter? He had no idea where he was. And even if his phone pinged his coordinates, it would be too late. But shouldn’t he try? He quietly pulled the phone from his pocket. It was dead. Of course it was. His mind tripped back to Hank shoving it in his hand. Who was she? What did they want from him? There were much easier ways to roll someone. And surely there were more promising targets than a college kid with a cracked iPhone and a few hundred bucks. His mind jumped to the man with the cleft lip scar patting him down in the middle of the street.

A small eternity passed, but the quiet finally gave way to the hum of the jungle. Night creatures. Leaves rustling in the treetops. Wild dogs barking in the distance.

At long last, when he thought his pursuer had moved on, Matt took a step. The snap of twigs under his foot seemed to echo in the night. Or was that only in his head? He took another step, half expecting his stalker to materialize from the darkness.