“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.”