by Alex Finlay
The driver was leaning against the vehicle smoking a cigarette. He sported an impressive mustache.
“I understand you have room for one more to Tulum,” Matt said, looking back toward the man with the clipboard.
The driver crushed out his cigarette on the sidewalk. Without saying a word, he led Matt to the back of the van. Matt could see the outline of travelers through the tinted windows. The shuttle looked packed. The driver then opened the back hatch and gestured for Matt’s duffel bag.
Matt threw it inside, and the driver started rearranging the other bags. He was piling them to one side in a very particular way.
“Oh,” Matt said, realizing that the man was making room for him. He climbed inside and sat in the cramped space surrounded by luggage. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. At least he could stretch out his legs. That was more than he could say for the Spirit Airlines flight.
“Are you okay back there?” a woman said from the main compartment. She had a sweet Southern accent.
Matt pulled himself up on the seat back so he could see into the crowded cabin.
“It’s great. Thank you for letting me hitch a ride.”
“You let us know if you need anything, hon.” Her voice held a motherly hint of concern.
Matt spent the next two hours bouncing around in the back, watching out the rear window as they cruised south on Highway 307. It could’ve been any nondescript road in the US, except maybe there was more litter. Or maybe that was just Matt's current mindset, focusing only on the gloom. These weren't exactly the ideal circumstances under which to visit Mexico for the first time.
It was nearly five o’clock. They’d arrive soon. He’d have just enough time to get to the police station, sign the papers, and make it back to the Cancún airport for his nine o’clock return flight to New York. Agent Keller said they could extend the stay if needed. But he had no interest in seeing the beaches, ruins, or other sites. In and out.
The seat back blocked Matt’s view of the cabin, but he could make out some of the travelers up front in the reflection of the van’s window. He spied three kids, under ten by the looks of them, draped all over their parents. Even in the distorted reflection, the mom and dad looked bone tired. He thought of his family in a van like this one: Tommy with his face pressed to the window; Dad lost in his thoughts, pondering some Danny conspiracy; Maggie making an agenda for the trip; Mom with her nose in a book.
Matt pulled up that last text Maggie had sent him, the one Keller had taken an interest in. It was a photo of Matt’s father. It was zoomed in on his face, with a road behind him and what looked like the entrance to a business—a nightclub, maybe. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Scratch that. It was slightly unusual that Maggie would send Matt a shot of their father, given tensions of late.
In a sociology class at NYU, Matt had read about a study finding that by the time kids are eighteen, they’ve had an average of 4,200 arguments with their parents. Matt and his father had probably shattered that mean. It hadn’t always been like that. Before Danny’s arrest, Dad had been the one to encourage Matt’s interest in filmmaking, buying him moviemaking software, researching old Super 8 cameras, setting up screening parties for Matt’s short films. It wasn’t football, but Dad—and Mom, too—seemed genuinely impressed with his work. By the time he’d won his first film contest senior year, it barely went noticed in the Pine home. Dad had Danny, Maggie had Dad, Mom had Tommy.
Matt stared at the photo of his father, stomach acid crawling up his throat at the thought of their last words:
“It would be great if you could appear with us on the show.”
“I’m not going on the Today show, Dad.”
“The lawyers say public attention on the case could make a difference at the Supreme Court. The justices don’t accept many cases, so anything we can do to—”
“What part of no don’t you get?”
“You’re being selfish.”
“Oh, that’s just rich, coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to— Never mind. Fine. Do nothing, go back to school, and enjoy your carefree college life while your brother sits in a filthy prison cell.”
Matt stomped to the front door, grabbed his coat, yanked it on. “I will. You know why, Dad?” Matt paused a beat. “Because that’s where Danny fucking belongs.”
He had charged outside into the cold night, snowflakes floating peacefully in the sky, the strange quiet of a recent snow. He recalled how alone he’d felt that night. How alone he’d felt carrying around the truth about his brother, watching his father and sister spin their wheels trying to prove Danny’s innocence. But it was nothing compared to what he was feeling right now.
The shuttle finally jerked to a stop in front of a blocky cement building. No one would know it was a police station save for the black-and-white Dodge Charger fitted with sirens parked out front. The van’s back door swung open and Matt pulled himself out, tipped the driver, and raised a hand to the kids waving at him until the van disappeared down the road. He took a deep breath. It was time to claim the remains of his family.
One bite at a time, Matty. One bite at a time.
CHAPTER 16
SARAH KELLER
After her trip to the airport, Keller sat in her small windowless office in the FBI’s New York field office, poring over a report. It was the initial data set analyzing the Pine family’s digital footprint. Without their laptop computers or smartphones, the report was lighter than usual—limited to internet searches, social media posts, GPS locations—but the file was still three inches thick. There was no known crime, the word so far was freak accident, but something was gnawing at her.
Many agents scoffed at the notion of cop intuition, arguing that it was the kind of magical thinking that led to tunnel vision and convicting innocents. But Keller always followed her gut. And here it told her two words: foul play. So under the pretext of her money-laundering investigation of Marconi LLP, she’d had the IT nerds work their relationships with the internet companies and get the data. Once Mexico delivered the phones and laptops, she’d have a more complete picture.
Keller flipped through the stack, brushing through the pages and pages of unintelligible code until she found the search engine report. It contained every search made through the family’s internet service in the past three months. Searches about takeout food (“menu for Thai Garden”), the weather (“is it going to rain today”), education (“best MIT dorms”), leisure (“what’s on TV tonight”), health (“why can’t I sleep”), arts and crafts (“how to make slime”), and the other infinite queries of an ordinary American family.
In the Financial Crimes Section, where agents had to analyze mountains of data, she’d learned to separate the wheat from the chaff. For search engine reports, Keller’s go-to trick was to jump to what users had purposefully deleted from their search history. Typically, it was what you’d expect: lots and lots of pornography.
But the Pine deleted searches included no porn-related inquiries. Someone, however, had erased some troubling searches from the history:
Does life insurance pay if you kill yourself
How to make sure insurance pays if suicide
How many Zoloft needed to overdose
Effects of parent suicide on kids
The sound of Keller’s office phone interrupted her. She plucked the receiver from its cradle. “Keller,” she said, in her official voice.
“Judy and Ira Adler are here to see you,” the receptionist said.
“Who?” Keller clicked on her calendar to see if she’d forgotten an appointment. “I don’t see anyone on my schedule.”
“They say they’re here about the Pine investigation.”
Keller thought about this. Officially, there was no investigation. And certainly not one anyone would associate with Keller. She was effectively a babysitter, assigned because of Bureau politics and the strained connection to the Marconi case. While the receptionist waited with an annoyed bre
ath through the receiver, Keller tapped “Judy Adler” into her computer’s search engine. A Wikipedia page appeared: “Judy Adler is an Emmy Award–winning filmmaker and producer. She rose to prominence with her documentary series ‘A Violent Nature,’ which she codirected with her husband, Ira.”
Keller released her own annoyed breath. “I’ll be right out.” She made her way down the hallway. Through the glass security doors she got a look at her visitors.
Judy Adler was probably in her late fifties. She wore black, and had dark hair with severe bangs. With her was a man of a similar age, who wore slightly tinted eyeglasses and had disorderly gray hair.
In the reception area, Judy approached with a confident stride, sticking out her hand.
“Special Agent Keller, thanks for meeting with us. I’m Judy Adler. This is my husband, Ira.”
Keller was tempted to say that she knew who they were, but just shook both their hands, nodded politely. “What can I do for you?”
“We hoped we could talk”—Judy looked around the empty reception area as if to confirm no one was listening—“about the Pine investigation.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Judy Adler gave Keller a knowing smile. “There’re photos of you with Matthew Pine all over the internet. It took our people about five minutes to identify you.…”
The damn paparazzi from the dorm.
Before Keller responded, Judy Adler said, “We’re filmmakers. We made a documentary about the Pines. Maybe you’ve seen it—‘A Violent Nature’?”
“Some of it,” Keller said, not offering a compliment. She actually thought it was well done—the Adlers were good storytellers. The old family photos of the Pines, the eerie string music, the interviews and news clips expertly interspersed for dramatic effect. Keller realized that Judy Adler was the interviewer, the faceless voice off-screen who’d probed subjects about Charlotte’s death.
“We had our investigator go down to Mexico,” Judy said. “He found something, and our lawyer said we should talk to the FBI.”
She had Keller’s attention now. By the look on Judy Adler’s face, she knew it.
“Why don’t you come back to my office.”
The Adlers signed in and secured guest badges, then followed Keller to her office. Keller gestured to the visitor chairs and took her seat behind the desk. She subtly closed the computer research file on the Pine family.
Keller said, “Just so we’re clear, whatever we discuss is off the record.”
Judy frowned but gave a resigned nod. Her husband still hadn’t said anything. They struck Keller as one of those couples where the husband needed to be the strong, silent type.
“You sent an investigator to Mexico?” Keller asked.
“We stuck him on the first plane out after we heard. We’re making a sequel to the documentary. And obviously, what happened is relevant to the story.”
“What’s the sequel about?” Keller asked.
“Today?” Ira Adler said, speaking for the first time. He had a husky, breathy voice, friendly, nonthreatening. “We started off focusing on Danny’s appeal,” Ira said. “There were some famous appellate lawyers working the case, and we had lots of public support.”
Judy spoke now. “But it turns out famous appellate lawyers”—she put the word in air quotes—“are about as interesting as Nebraska. Do you know the state’s official slogan?”
Keller shook her head.
“I swear I’m not making this up.” Judy raised her hand like she was taking an oath. “Nebraska’s slogan is ‘Honestly, it’s not for everyone.’” She coughed out a laugh, then said, “I’ve spent months there and they aren’t lying. We’re going back tonight.”
Keller suppressed a grin.
“Anyway,” Judy continued, “our big climax—the Supreme Court’s decision—went to shit when those nine idiots denied Danny’s appeal, so we almost scrapped the whole project.”
“But then we decided to focus on the girl,” Ira said. They had the rhythm of a couple who had been married a long time.
“You mean Charlotte?” Keller said.
“Right,” Judy continued. “I mean, one of the criticisms we got over ‘A Violent Nature’—and it wasn’t totally unfair—was that Charlotte seemed to get lost in it all. We were so focused on that awful interrogation of Danny Pine and the Unknown Partygoer and Bobby Ray Hayes that we never really gave the victim her due.”
“So what does the accident in Mexico have to do with Charlotte?” Keller asked.
“Well, what if it wasn’t an accident?” Judy said, holding Keller’s gaze.
Keller felt a flutter in her chest. Always trust your gut. “The Mexican authorities haven’t said anything about foul play,” Keller said.
Judy said, “Maybe our guy knows how to ask a little more persuasively.”
“By paying someone off,” Keller replied.
Judy didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t call it that. And I can assure you, we broke no Mexican laws.” She snapped her fingers while simultaneously pointing at her oversize handbag, which was just out of reach. Ira passed her the bag, and Judy fished out a tablet. “But things work differently down there.” Judy swiped at the tablet. “They’re more free with investigative materials.…”
“You have their investigation file?” Keller asked. This was important because Keller had received diddly-squat from the Mexican authorities. The local cops in Tulum had snubbed the FBI’s Mexico legal attaché, and the consular officer had been astonishingly unhelpful.
“If you can call it that,” Judy said. “They’re just a small-town force. I doubt they get training about much of anything, let alone how to manage a crime scene or investigate homicide.”
Homicide.
“So what’s in the file?”
“Photos of the scene—they at least did that much.”
Keller swallowed. The Adlers had postmortem photographs of the Pine family. Keller didn’t want to look at them, but she had to. She eyed the tablet and nodded for Judy to pull them up.
A few swipes later and Keller’s breath was stripped from her lungs. Mrs. Pine, even more beautiful than in the photos Keller had seen, was lying on the couch, a book resting on her chest. She looked like she was taking a nap.
“I don’t see any signs of foul play,” Keller said. “It looks consistent with a gas leak.”
“Look again,” Judy said.
Keller moved her face closer to the tablet, studying the screen. Olivia Pine’s face was peaceful. Her long legs—she was a runner, by the looks of them—stretched out on the sofa. There was no blood or obvious signs of trauma. Next to the sofa was an end table. On it, a lamp and coaster. Nothing seemed disturbed or as if there’d been a struggle.
Keller could feel Judy staring at her, waiting for her to see. Then she did.
“The book,” Keller said, touching the novel on Olivia Pine’s chest with her finger. “It’s upside down.”
Judy gave an exaggerated nod.
Keller thought it over. If Olivia Pine had passed out from the gas while she was reading, the book would have fallen in place. It wouldn’t be upside down.
“It’s staged,” Keller said.
More nodding from Judy.
“That doesn’t mean she was murdered,” Keller said. “The cops could’ve bungled the scene and put the book back on her chest to cover themselves.”
Judy didn’t respond. Instead she reached for the tablet, swiped, and handed it back to Keller.
Keller’s heart sank at the sight of the girl, Margaret. Matt called her Maggie. She was on her stomach on top of the bed.
This time Judy didn’t wait for Keller to see it. She pointed her index finger at the screen. On Maggie’s wrists there were tiny bruises, like fingerprints, as if she’d been held down.
“What about the father and little boy?” Keller asked.
“No signs of struggle with the boy. But the father, his body was found outside on the back porch. I’ve gotta warn you,
” Judy said, swiping the tablet, “the photos aren’t for the faint of heart.”
Keller tried not to gasp. Evan Pine was little more than a bloody stump. An image fit for a horror movie. “What the hell…”
“Wild dogs, apparently,” Ira Adler chimed in.
Dear God. Keller needed to warn Matt in case the Mexicans required him to personally ID the bodies. Keller looked away from the image, thinking. That Evan Pine was outside supported the Adlers’ foul play theory. He confronted someone trying to get in from the back of the property, they killed him, and the dogs got to the body. The intruder then subdued the rest of the family and cut the gas line. At the same time, Evan could’ve realized there was a gas leak and stumbled outside before succumbing to the toxic air. But there was an alternative theory. Keller’s mind jumped back to the suicide searches on the family’s computer. Was this a botched suicide? Or worse, a murder-suicide? She kept those thoughts to herself.
“I’m going to need copies of the photos,” Keller said.
“Our lawyer says we don’t have to give them to you, not without a warrant anyway,” Judy said.
Keller let her stare show her displeasure.
“But maybe we can help one another,” Judy said.
“How so?” Keller asked, after a long moment.
“Our investigator found something the local cops overlooked.” Judy reached into her handbag again. She retrieved an overnight delivery envelope. Slipping her hand inside the cardboard sleeve, she carefully removed a small Ziploc bag.
“What’s that?” Keller asked. Inside the bag was a leaf or part of a plant.
“The police let our guy view the crime scene.”
Keller opened her mouth to say something, to castigate them for potentially contaminating the scene, but Judy waved her quiet.
“I know, I know,” Judy said. She was a hand talker. “But they’d already closed the case, designated the deaths accidental.”
“What did he find?” Keller asked, deciding a lecture on crime scene protocol wouldn’t get her anywhere. And she wanted to know what was in the bag sitting on her desk.
“The scene was immaculate,” Judy said. “Wiped down from top to bottom, the kitchen and bathroom trash cans all empty, even though there was nothing in the cans outside.”
