by Alex Finlay
It was suspicious. Unusual. But there were plausible explanations. “Maybe the local police let the maid clean the place,” Keller said. “Or maybe the Pines cleaned up before…”
Judy offered a resigned nod. “The Tulum cops certainly didn’t think there was anything to it. But our investigator said it had the earmarks of a professional. And when he examined the scene outside—where they found Evan Pine’s body—he found this.” Judy handed Keller the plastic bag. “The patio of the rental is surrounded by a tall fence, which is why no one saw the body sooner. The gate was unlatched. Our investigator spotted this near the gate.”
Holding the bag at eye level with her thumb and index finger, Keller saw it. A drop of red, about a millimeter in diameter, staining the green leaf.
“Couldn’t it just be Evan Pine’s blood?” Keller said.
“Maybe. But he was pretty far away from the gate and the plant was at shoulder height, higher than you’d expect if it was cross-contamination from the dogs tearing out of there. But that’s what we hoped you could tell us.”
Keller narrowed her eyes.
“You could run the DNA, see if you get any hits,” Judy continued.
“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 micromanage. 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.”
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 Señor 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 español.”
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. Señor 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 Señor 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.
