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.