by Alex Finlay
“What consulate office is Tulum?” Cook said, more to himself than to Keller and Stan. Still sitting, he wheeled his chair to his desk and tapped on his computer. He squinted at the monitor. “It’s in Mérida. That’s a pretty cush gig. Cancún, Cozumel, Playa del Carmen, Tulum. What’s the consular officer’s name?”
“Gilbert Foster,” Keller said, feeling almost guilty—almost—that Mr. Foster was about to have a very bad day.
“Let me make some calls. This shouldn’t be a problem.”
“You need us to step out?” Stan said, gesturing to the door.
“No need. I’ll be right back.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Keller and Stan talked about Keller’s meeting tomorrow morning with Marconi LLP. She wasn’t thrilled about making the first approach without adequate prep. Strong investigations and interrogations required planning. It was not a seat-of-the-pants endeavor.
Stan listened patiently, nodded sympathetically, and said, “I get it. But it is what it is,” one of his favorite expressions.
“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 dis
appearing 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.
The monster never appeared. But Matt took no chances. He walked slowly, stealthily, one soft foot after the other, navigating through the thicket of trees. It went on like this for a long while until he saw another light. Not the flashlight, thankfully. Headlamps of a car winking through the trees. He wouldn’t be lost in the jungle all night, at least. It was a road, however desolate.
When he made it to the tree line, he had a difficult decision to make: risk walking along the roadside, or travel in the shadows until he reached civilization. The road had the obvious benefit that someone might take pity on him and give him a ride. But that someone could end up being the person who was hunting him. Also, who in their right mind would pick up a stranger at this hour? He decided to use caution. Stalk in the shadows and assess each vehicle as it approached.
So he walked. About an hour passed and only two vehicles appeared. The first, a dump truck that barreled by before Matt could even try to wave it down. The second, a motorcycle, its driver fueled by testosterone and Red Bull given the speed of it.
Fatigue was setting in. He was tempted to find some soft ground and cover and get some sleep. But he feared what might lurk in the jungle. Coyotes or dogs or who knew what else. And the bugs. His mind wandered as he kicked along. He actually thought about the movie The Road, inevitable given his predicament. A father and son traveling a postapocalyptic highway, exhausted and in search of shelter and food. Matt didn’t care much for the film, but his dad, in a clumsy effort to bond, had invited him to see it. Evan Pine wasn’t a movie guy, but he was a reader, and the film was based on one of his favorite novels. Matt remembered Dad trying to conceal the tear that rolled down his cheek at the pivotal scene, the dying father’s words to his son. You have my whole heart. You always did. Sitting in that dark theater, Matt knew that his father was thinking of Danny.
Headlights burned behind him. Matt turned, and down the long stretch of road he saw what looked like a pickup truck. He considered hiding in the brush, but he was so damn tired. The truck drew closer, the sound of its rattling muffler filling the air. He fast-walked to the side of the road, stretched out his arm, and stuck out his thumb. Is that how you hitchhiked in Mexico? As the truck puttered by, Matt met eyes with a kid, about ten or so, who watched him out the passenger window. Matt dropped his arm, defeated. But then red taillights lit up the night, and the truck pulled to a stop.
Matt jogged over. He peered inside the cabin. Next to the boy was an old man, the kid’s dad—no, grandfather probably. The gray-haired man looked warily at Matt.
Where should he have them take him? “Ah, hotel,” Matt said, too slowly and too loudly, as if that would break through the language barrier.
The old man looked to the kid, and the boy said something to the man in Spanish. The only words Matt could make out were zona hotelera. The old man replied to the kid in Spanish.
The kid then turned back to Matt, nodded, and gestured for Matt to get in the back.
“Gracias,” Matt said, and climbed into the bed of the pickup. It was empty except for a rucksack and piles of rakes with what looked like seaweed strung through their teeth.
Matt felt the cool metal on his back as he stared up at the sky. The truck accelerated and wind whooshed overhead. The white noise, staring at the incandescent stars and the treetops blurring by, was hypnotic.
Matt decided to close his eyes for just a moment. The next time they opened, the sky was purple, the boy standing at the back of the truck. Matt sat up quickly. They were parked at a beachside lot. The old man and kid removed the rakes and the rucksack.
Matt jumped out of the truck bed. “Thank you,” he said.
The boy examined Matt for a moment, then dug through the rucksack, retrieved a bottle of water, and handed it to Matt.
“Hotel,” the boy said, his arm extended, index finger pointed down the beach. There were torches burning and hut-like structures. The boy and the old man walked in the other direction, headed toward a group of figures forking rakes at small mountains of seaweed.
Matt walked toward the lights, his sneakers sinking and filling with sand. He passed a group of huts and a wooden platform that had a tiki bar on top of it. A sign read MI AMOR. He pushed along, passing fenced-in cottages and villas. He came upon a cluster of beach chairs and tables. A path led to a hotel, which was dark and quiet. No one would be there until sunrise.
He sat on the canvas chair, gazing out at the ocean. He suddenly felt the sting of the scrapes on his arms and face, the grime of his travels. Looking around at the deserted beach, he stood, stretched his back, then stripped down to his boxers. He ran toward the ocean and dove in, surprised that he didn’t feel the usual jolt from the cold. It was like a warm bath. And there he floated, lost in the sound of the waves, numb from the crushing grief, until a thin line of orange appeared at the horizon. Today, he hoped, would be a better day. And really, could it possibly get worse? He’d go to the police station, meet with Señor Gutierrez, sign the papers, and be on his way. What a shit show. He thought of Hank, the fear in her pretty face. He felt hollowed out, his thoughts fuzzy, like the whole thing was just a bad dream.
A very bad dream.
CHAPTER 26
MAGGIE PINE
BEFORE
Maggie awoke to a feeling of dread and a loud thunk. She swung her legs out of her bed and went to investigate the noise. In the hallway she found two suitcases strewn haphazardly on the floor. Another fell from the hole in the ceiling.
Then her father’s feet appeared on the folding ladder attached to the attic door. Her dad’s eyes flashed when he saw her as he descended.
“Morning, Magpie,” he said. “Hope I didn’t wake you. I’m just getting the bags for our trip.”
“I can see that,” Maggie said. This was really happening. A good night’s sleep hadn’t made him think more clearly. Cooler heads hadn’t prevailed. Maggie should call her mom. She was the best at talking her father down.
“Dad, you’re not serious about Mexico? I don’t think—”
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
“It’s just kind of, I don’t know, sudden.”
“It’s your senior year, you’re leaving us soon, and you deserve a trip. Besides, my doctor said a vacation would be good for me. While we’re there, we’ll check
things out from the call.”
He said it so casually that it all almost started to make sense. But Maggie knew better.
“I think you need to consider that it was a prank. I mean, putting aside that, like, Charlotte is, um, dead, why would her cell phone have the name of the nightclub? It’s weird, and it’s super easy to spoof a caller ID.”
“Well, that’s why I have you, sweetie.”
Maggie furrowed her brow.
“You’re gonna trace the call, see if it really came from the club.”
Maggie let out a cough of a laugh. “I am, am I? And how will I be doing that?”
Her father clutched the handle of one of the suitcases.
“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
With that, he grabbed the other suitcase and directed his chin to the third that had skittered down the hall to the landing of the stairwell.
“Pack beach clothes,” he said. “And I’ll need your help packing stuff for Mom.” His eyes flared again and he disappeared into his bedroom.
Maggie lugged the suitcase to her room, then plopped down on the bed. She was definitely calling Mom. At the same time, she liked the idea of sitting on a beach in Mexico. Away from her computer and her phone and her problems. Time to clear her head. And if she was honest, she liked the confidence her father had in her. He really believed she could track an anonymous call made from Mexico. Not a doubt in his mind. Still, she needed to get Mom involved. She tapped out a text:
You might want to call Dad and ask him about Mexico.…
She considered telling her mom to call her, that they needed to talk about something important, but she tossed her phone on the bed. She reached for the laptop on the nightstand. She didn’t want to look, but she needed to. She pulled up the Danny Pine site. More cruel comments. She read a few of them, then slammed the laptop shut. She felt the tears coming again.
No, she decided, screw them. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d done nothing wrong. She wouldn’t be intimidated. Eric was a piece of garbage, and she wouldn’t let last night define her. She opened the laptop and started tapping out responses to the vitriol. But she stopped suddenly—trolls fed on hate and drama and engagement. Instead she’d simply take away their platform. She clicked on the keys until the Danny Pine sites were all deactivated, temporarily anyway. Her brother had enough problems without her drama. She’d give things time to calm down. Her classmates’ attention span was limited. Things blew over quickly.
