Every Last Fear(29)
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 mi cromanage. 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.”