Every Last Fear(38)

“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.”