Sound of a Furious Sky: FBI Agent Domini Walker Book 1

by HN Wake

  “Was Hettie ever interested in pursuing your line of work?”

  He scowled. “No. Never. I wish she had been.”

  Dom turned to Yvette. “What types of things do you and Hettie discuss?”

  “We talk about her work. At the American Museum of Natural History. I’m on the board there. It’s a very prestigious board. We oversee all things about the museum. It’s very demanding, but I consider it a service to my country—”

  “Hettie works there.” Claude shook his head. “Hettie is an Ornithologist. Birds. That sort of thing. Yvette arranged that.”

  “How so?”

  “The way a proper family arranges a position for their child.” He shrugged.

  In sum, Hettie was an obedient girl with a quiet career as a bird scientist, an overbearing father, and a polished and subdued mother. Hettie was dating someone who caused a great deal of anxiety for a super wealthy family who thought he was a gold digger. Yup, a Richie Rich runaway case. Hettie and this disliked boyfriend were probably holed up on some beach drinking lime margaritas with their cell phones turned off.

  But the key at the early stage of an investigation was to be open to all possibilities, to not race down one rabbit hole in case it dead-ended. “Is there anything else I should know about? Is there anyone you imagine would have an issue with Hettie? Someone from work, or college?”

  Claude squinted. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “What about any incidents in the last, say, few weeks that—for any reason—stand out?”

  “No, nothing that stands out, or we would have told you,” he said.

  “Any unusual conversations?”

  “No.”

  “Did she mention getting in touch with anyone from her past?”

  “No.”

  “Did she mention any fights she had?”

  “No.”

  “Any unusual meetings?”

  “No.” He barked.

  Dom turned to Yvette. “Your husband thinks your daughter has gone off on a holiday. That she has gone away with this Micah and did not want you to know that?”

  Yvette squinted. “My husband and I do disagree at times.”

  Lots of family dynamics. “Your husband’s theory that she’s off somewhere on a secret vacation, that doesn’t sit well with you? You feel something is amiss with Hettie?”

  Yvette’s eyes moistened. “Yes. I feel it.”

  “You’ve tried calling her?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve been calling her since Monday morning, but her voicemail picks up. I went around there last night, but when I went in, her apartment was dark. She wasn’t home.”

  “You have a key?”

  Claude said, “We pay the rent.”

  “Mr. Van Buren, have you tried to call your daughter?”

  “Yes. When I found out last night that Yvette had been looking for her, I did try to call her. She never picked up.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Well then, trust me when I say that Hettie is the number one priority for the Bureau.”

  He wagged his finger in the air. “When you find her, tell her the FBI has spent good resources chasing a goose.”

  “I will update you regularly—"

  “I’m sure she’ll call in today,” he grumbled.

  “You let me know immediately if you hear from her. Can I get her number?”

  He relayed the number from memory.

  Dom stood, and the Van Burens rose from the sofa. “Is there someone at the museum I can speak to? I’ll want to check in with her colleagues.”

  Yvette smoothed her hair. “The Executive Director, Mr. Blaulicht. I know him well,”

  “I’d like your permission to enter Hettie’s apartment.”

  “Of course.” Claude yelled at a far door. “Maria, can you bring Hettie’s apartment key?”

  The maid in the white dress scurried across the living room and handed Dom a key.

  Time to go find the runaway rich kid. But keep the possibilities open. “One more thing. If you hear from anyone, anyone you’re unfamiliar with, please call me first—"

  “What do you mean?” Yvette blinked rapidly.

  It was a common physical expression of confusion, a forced delay that allowed the brain to digest new information. “Just in the off chance—"

  “A ransom note.” Claude placed his hand on Yvette’s arm. “You mean if we get some kind of ransom note or call?”

  Dom nodded.

  Yvette petted her neck. Claude cleared his throat and was finally silent.

  As they walked to the door, Dom said, “Let’s assume that Hettie is just fine. Let’s not jump to any conclusions. You should know I have a 90 percent clearance rate. I am the lead specialist on missing persons for the FBI in New York. I’m the right agent to find Hettie.”

  Spoken out loud, the last line actually sounded convincing. But still, Special Agent Domini Walker tugged down on her navy jacket.

  2

  In the heart of Greenwich Village, Hettie Van Buren’s building sat on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Waverly Place overlooking Washington Square Park. Dom pulled the red antique Lancia Fulvia Coupé into the circular drive and turned off the ignition. In the silenced interior, the thick smell of oil and gasoline buffeted the loose an overly saturated memory of her father. Stewart Walker had smiled from behind the same wheel with a huge grin while speeding them along in a car rally. To win the race, my Dom, you have to push past the fear. Despite everything that had happened fifteen years ago, despite everything that he had done, she welcomed the flashbacks. They were all she had left of him.

  A scowling doorman with wiry Albert Einstein hair approached from the lobby door wagging his finger. Hettie had traded in her parents’ Central Park luxury for a similarly elite building in a swank downtown neighborhood.

  Dom stood from the race car and flashed her badge. “I’m going up to Hettie Van Buren’s apartment.”

  He paused. “Ah. Okay. 10E.”

  “Were you on duty on Sunday?” she asked as they walked up the drive.

  “Yes, sure. Why?”

  “Do you remember seeing Hettie?”

  “Yes. Is everything okay?”

  “We’re not sure. What do you remember?”

  “Well, her mother, Mrs. Van Buren, came by in the afternoon, then she and Hettie went out. They came back with shopping bags and went upstairs. A little while later, Mrs. Van Buren left. Alone. I remember the mother leaving because she insists on parking that boat of a Cadillac in the drive. Insists on it. So, I am aware when she comes and goes. It’s kinda front and center.”

  “Normally people don’t park in the drive?”

  “Oh, they park there.” He rolled his eyes. “They just don’t leave their car there for hours. There’s a fifteen-minute loading and unloading rule.”

  She smiled. “That doesn’t apply to Mrs. Van Buren?”

  He winked at her. “Correct.”

  “You have security cameras?”

  “Nope. Afraid not.”

  “You on duty all day Sunday?”

  He opened the door for her. “Yup. I left around eight pm.”

  She stepped into the lobby. “And Monday all day?”

  “Yup. That’s me.”

  “Did you see Hettie on Monday?”

  He frowned. “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Who was on night duty on Sunday?”

  “Carl.”

  “Can you have him call me at this number?” She handed him her card.

  The lobby was a study in gold. Shiny golden wallpaper, gleaming gold lights, and tall, oriental vases decorated with gilt lace. Greenwich Village wasn’t Central Park, but it was still cultured. The paneled elevator smelled of cedar and the bronze carpeted hallway of the tenth floor was hushed. Gold sconces lit the way to the corner apartment. The door was secure—no scratches, no marks, no sign of forced entry.

  After unlocking the door, she pushed int
o a bright and airy apartment with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the park. “Hettie Van Buren? This is the FBI. I’m coming in.”

  There was only silence. Through the window, a flock of pigeons drifted over the monument like a school of fish on a current.

  Softly she shut the door. “Hettie, are you here?”

  Dom wanted this case could be a simple misunderstanding. Hettie was on a long romantic weekend in a private villa on a beach with palm trees with the disputed boyfriend. Or maybe they were partying with friends in a Vegas penthouse. The wealthy had lots of insulated ways to entertain themselves. In the best-case scenario, Dom would find the missing young woman and everyone could go back to their sheltered lives. Lord knew, Dom needed an easy first case back from leave. Fontaine had taken a risk giving this to her and she didn’t want to let him down. What if her skill set had atrophied over the preceding three months? Fake it till you make it, my Dom, her father whispered in her ear. Stewart Walker had been corny.

  She focused on the details in the room as she pulled plastic gloves from her jacket and snapped them on. The space smelled of a pungent flower. On the far end of a large white-and-gray marble counter that divided the open-plan kitchen from the living area, a vase was filled with tall lilies. Bright green stems held taupe blossoms. Who buys tan flowers? The water in the vase had evaporated to nearly empty. How long does it take water to evaporate?

  The room was a wash of white except for a huge blue and yellow print on the far wall. Pale wood floors had a glossy polish. Centered around a plush white carpet, a white sectional sofa faced the far wall. Magazines were stacked neatly on a coffee table. Plumped cushions on the white couch sat under a neatly folded fur blanket. Books stood like a picket fence, alternating tall and short, on the shelves of a white bookshelf. Who arranges books like that? A designer, maybe. Interspersed on the shelves were twenty framed photos.

  All in all, the apartment reminded Dom of the parents’ ascetic—monochromatic, modern, and spotless. It was too stylized for a woman as young as twenty-five and the bright painting felt forced, almost like faked happiness.

  In the kitchen, the counter had been cleaned recently. Organic kitchen disinfectants stood sentry, like soldiers in a row, along the back of the sink. A fully stocked cupboard displayed soda cans, spices, oils and vinegars, and a box of trash bags. Inside the refrigerator, sausages were wrapped in cling wrap, the drawers were full of crisp vegetables, and a large bottle of fresh juice sat in the door shelf. Opening the dishwasher, she was hit with the smell of mildew. Three dirty plates and eight glasses were spiked along the upper and lower drawers. This wasn’t the refrigerator or the dishwasher of someone planning an out-of-town vacation.

  Dom stepped to the bookshelf and examined the photos. Three smiling friends appeared over the years. Up close, Hettie’s blue eyes were piercing, and her thin blond hair framed a round face with chunky cheekbones. The daughter was nowhere near as exceptional looking as her mother—not ugly, more plain—and the comparisons would not have been kind.

  As she snapped photos of the crowded book shelf, her cell phone rang. It was Carl, the night doorman.

  Dom moved down a silent hallway. “Did you work Sunday and Monday nights?”

  “Yes, both nights.”

  A white guest room was dominated by splashes of yellow. Yellow pillows were arranged on jaunty angles on a white bed, and a huge photograph of snow-covered mountain peaks rose over an aquamarine lake. “Do you remember Hettie Van Buren coming or going?”

  “No. That’s definitely a no. She didn’t come or go while I was on duty. In fact, her mother came by last night and asked the same thing.”

  That confirmed what Yvette had said earlier.

  Carl asked, “Is Hettie okay?”

  “I’m not sure yet. We’re just making sure.”

  “She’s a lovely young lady. I hope she’s okay.”

  “Thanks.” They clicked off.

  A polished wood floor led further down the hallway toward a master bedroom. Five photos, enlarged and framed, hung on the wall near the open door. In each, Hettie stood with a strikingly good-looking young Latino man with tousled dark hair, sparkling eyes, and a large white smile. His shoulders were broad and athletic. In one of the shots, the two lovebirds were dressed in sweaty khakis in the middle of a green jungle, their eyes laughing at the camera. Hettie had found happiness with a man her parents disliked. Instead of putting that love on display in the living room, she hung it down this private hall. Was she ashamed or avoiding conflict?

  Hettie’s bedroom was singularly white and stark. White walls, white carpet, and a white plump bed. A huge photo of the same peaked mountains and lake at sunset dominated the far wall. Everything was neat and tidy.

  Except it wasn’t.

  By the bathroom door, a framed photo on the wall was canted at a jarring angle, its glass smashed as if a shoulder had careened into it. A colorful china bowl lay on the carpet alongside scattered coins and jewelry. Someone had been on their way into the bathroom when they stumbled. Or had been pushed.

  Dom’s heart rate spiked. Nobody had seen Hettie in two days, the flowers were dying, the dishwasher was dirty, there was fresh food in the refrigerator, and now there were signs of a struggle.

  Dom’s chest tightened. It was the familiar twinge at the start of the hunt. Stewart Walker grinned. You ready for this, my Dom?

  She turned and strode to the hallway. In one of the photos of Micah and Hettie, the smiling boyfriend’s arms was around Hettie’s shoulders, pulling her close by her neck. The gesture could be interpreted as dominating. What do we know about you, Mr. I’m-Super-Hot-And-Have-A-Seductive-Smile Boyfriend?

  It was time to answer both those questions.

  3

  Mila Pascale liked routine. Upon waking, she mentally forecasted the day’s events: the protein shake thoroughly blended, the backpack correctly packed—the cell phone, laptop, cords, and pens in the proper pockets with zippers flushed—the ride to the museum uneventful, the tasks from the museum librarian completed, the lunch eaten, and the home route determined. Only when the day had been properly projected, did she get out of bed. Order reduced surprises, and most importantly, it meant she never left anything behind.

  That morning’s routine had been perfectly predictable. She had pumped hard up Seventh Avenue and passed Times Square with the city noises thumping her chest, the cars brushing near her thigh, and the taxis blaring warnings. At Columbus Circle the traffic thinned, and she pedaled into the curve to hit the sidewalk entrance of Central Park at top speed.

  The last five minutes of the morning commute through the park were the most exhilarating. Today the green hills smelled of cut grass. A dog owner’s whistle pierced the sky. The sun beamed down on rolling fields. It was only until the 77th Street Stone Arch that her regular groove was interrupted. Something metallic glinted from spiked grass. Hands clamped on brakes and skidding tires threw clumps of dirt into the air. She circled back, leaned down, and picked up a shiny new penny. All day long you’ll have good luck. She slipped it in her pocket.

  Just after lunch, Mila’s orderly day was interrupted for a second time. Through the jarringly loud throngs circling the rearing dinosaur skeleton in the immense Roosevelt Rotunda of the American Museum of Natural History, Mila noticed the dark navy of an FBI jacket. The memory of a young boy’s blue eyes and rabbit grin sucked the air from her chest. Her feet fused to the floor. Had the FBI found Jimmy? Mila’s hand slipped into the front pocket of her jeans to clasp the solitary penny.

  The navy jacket was worn by a tall slender woman speaking to the museum’s Executive Director Harold Blaulicht, aka The Bootlicker. A testy type on a good day, Bootlicker jiggled his fingers in the air like a distressed pastry chef. When a high-pitched squeal from a group of elementary schoolers rattled off stone walls, Bootlicker’s lips twitched and his eyes bulged. The FBI agent, cool as a cucumber, touched his shoulder and asked him a direct question. As if by magic, Bootlicker calmed.

/>   A chunky cigarette-smelling guy from Mammalogy passed by Mila. “Some girl down in ornithology is missing. Blaulicht’s freaking out.”

  The air conditioning chilled Mila’s face. The odds of the FBI being in the museum about anything other than Jimmy were mathematically enormous but not impossible.

  “Hey,” she shouted after Cigarette-Smelling Guy. “Who down in ornithology?”

  “Some girl named Hettie.”

  Mila knew Hettie Van Buren. They had chatted once in the coffee line and walked together through the museum. Hettie was nice, smart, shy, and everybody knew her mom was on the board. Mila had never had any reason to do research for her because the museum scientists did far more advanced work than anything a summer intern would assist. But Hettie had been very friendly to her.

  Miss Timid Hettie was missing? The odds were inconceivable. But not impossible.

  Mila watched as Bootlicker summoned a stout museum guide and spoke quickly at him. Agent Cool Cucumber shook goodbye to Bootlicker and accompanied the guide into the Hall of African Mammals. Mila followed as they made their way through the crowds toward the broad staircase in the back of the building. Under the navy jacket with the bright yellow letters, the agent had on slim dark jeans and a white cotton button-down shirt. Her face was pretty without makeup and her dark hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that swung between her shoulder blades. At five eight-ish, her long legs took the stairs in an easy athletic gait, arms rocking freely. Such a self-assured woman was probably at home in any situation and in control in the most social anxiety inducing and unpredictable environments. Agent Cool Cucumber with the observant eyes was probably a kidnapping specialist who read gory forensics reports over breakfast. They would have assigned a kidnapping specialist to a missing person case, especially when it was Hettie Van Buren that was missing. Nobody messed with Miss Timid Hettie.

  Mila wanted to run up, introduce herself, and ask questions. How had the agent gotten into the FBI? Was it a tough screening process? What types of people did they look for?

  Instead, feeling like a sneak, she followed the woman at a distance into the darkened Hall of African Mammals where mothers holding infants gazed at exhibits and high-octane children laughed and screeched. They passed under the eight charging elephants and banked down a small corridor into the long Hall of African Peoples. Lighted dioramas displayed ancient masks, tribal clothes, and pounded metal trinkets. They progressed to the Hall of Birds where king penguins, Andean condors, and a Secretary Bird stared blankly from behind glass. A teenage mother texted on a phone while her baby whimpered from a stroller. Just past the Hall of Birds, the stout guide pulled open the door leading to the east wing’s staff section and Agent Cool Cucumber disappeared.