After checking in, Keller and Stan were whisked up to the fifth floor. Unlike the modern glass-and-steel lobby, it had the feel of an old-time country club. Lots of portraits, heavy rugs, dark wood. Before they entered the back offices, a woman at yet another reception desk gave them a small key with a plastic fob engraved with a number. The receptionist directed them to a wooden cabinet that had tiny numbered drawers with keyholes. “Please store your phones in there,” the receptionist said. They didn’t need to check their firearms. Just the real security threat: their cell phones.

Brian Cook was another tall man. Sweet mother, Keller thought. But unlike the beefy FBI deputy director, Cook was thin and athletic, with a Midwesterner’s affability.

Following quick introductions, Stan said, “Thanks for fitting us in on short notice.”

“No worries,” Cook said, directing them to a worktable. His office was small for someone so high up at the State Department, Keller thought.

“DeMartini says you need help with one of our consulates?”

Keller briefed him on the death of the Pines.

“I haven’t watched the documentary,” Cook said, “but I saw the piece in the Times. What a tragedy. Such a handsome family. I understand our people aren’t giving you what you need?”

“I’m sure they have heavy caseloads, but we’re having issues with the consulate assigned to that area,” Keller said, charitably. “Matt Pine, the surviving son, is in Mexico. A consular officer was supposed to meet him at the airport to take him to Tulum to get the bodies released, but the consulate rep never showed. And he’s not returning my messages.”

“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.”