by HN Wake
“Baldwin?” Dom asked.
“Yes, yes, you don’t know Baldwin?”
“No.”
“It’s one of the best girls schools in the nation.”
Apparently pride survived even in despair. “Ah.”
“Hettie excelled. She loved her teachers. Her tennis game improved there. I thought it was the best place for her, without the distraction of boys. She was never that interested in boys…” She stared into the distance.
“Did she not like boys?”
“No. It wasn’t that. As the other girls blossomed into teens, their figures filled out, and they learned about makeup, what have you. Hettie was at a loss then.”
“How so?”
“She was uncomfortable around boys. She would cry about it to me, often. It broke my heart. I kept telling her to bide her time. She did eventually mature and get the right curves during that awkward blossoming. I got her appointments with the best hair dressers. And we went to makeup artists. But I don’t think she ever quite recovered from being the one no one wanted. Hasn’t ever really had a boyfriend. Until recently.”
“You two are close?”
“People used to remark that we behaved more like friends, not mother and daughter.” She turned the page. “And here she is graduating from Bryn Mawr.” Hettie wore the formal black cap and gown in front of a crowd of similar graduates. Her smile was soft but proud. “You do know Bryn Mawr, Agent Walker?”
She did, thank you very much. Dom simply nodded.
“Another excellent school. Hettie did just fine there. We wished she had studied literature. It’s a much better foundation. The classics. Woolf, Bronte, Shelley. That would have suited her disposition much better. And of course Bryn Mawr is exceptional in the arts. But Hettie did a combined degree with Cal Tech. All this science was difficult for her. But she was determined.” Yvette’s hand flattened gently on the photo with fine manicured nails. “Hettie fought hard for those grades. She studied so diligently. Whenever we spoke she was forever studying. I’m not sure how she ever found time for her friends.”
Slowly, Yvette closed the photo album and waited for Dom to lift it off her lap.
Dom placed it on the coffee table and resumed her seat in the armchair.
Yvette clasped her hands in her lap and her body stilled. “I understand Claude has spoken with the FBI.”
“Yes. He spoke to our Assistant Director in Charge.”
“This boss said Hettie’s boyfriend has been found. Killed in his apartment.”
“Yes.”
Yvette swallowed. “Did you find him?”
“Yes.”
“Shot?”
“Yes.”
Yvette shook her head, touched her neck. Her face wrinkled in pain. Without the dominating presence of her husband, Yvette was more expressive. “And my Hettie?”
“I believe the two are related.”
“Someone has taken her?”
“Yes. That is the assumption we’re making.”
Yvette closed her eyes. The glow from the lamp painted her skin golden. “Killers have my daughter?” When she eventually opened her eyes, they were clear, focused, as if she had found an untapped reservoir of fortitude. “Is the boyfriend a criminal?”
“We don’t have proof of that, no.”
“What are you doing to find my daughter?”
After the wasted hours of the failed Kelvin Pena pursuit, the question stung. Dom swallowed. “We are pursuing all lines of inquiry.”
“You don’t sound confident in your investigation.”
“I am confident I will find your daughter, Mrs. Van Buren. In fact, I’d like to reach out to her friends to get more background on Hettie’s recent interests and activities.”
“Madeline Abbott. That’s her dear friend.” Yvette looked up a number on her phone, picked up a gold pen off a side table and wrote out a number on a pad of paper before handing the sheet to Dom.
The paper was thick and expensive, and Dom folded it into quarters and slipped it in the pocket of her jeans. “Thank you.”
“You will call me when you find something?”
“You and your husband will be the first to know.”
“You will call me, Agent Walker?”
Interesting. It was another hint of the couple’s discord. “I will.”
“Thank you for coming,” Yvette said softly as she folded her hands and the bewilderment returned to her eyes.
In the elevator, Dom slid out the quartered linen paper from her jeans pocket and unfolded it. She rang Madeline Abbott and was transferred to voicemail. “Madeline. My name is Domini Walker. I’m a special agent with the FBI. Mrs. Van Buren gave me your number. I would like to speak with you about Hettie. Call when you get this.” She left her number.
She lost a day chasing down Kelvin Pena. It was time to regroup. There were a few bona fide facts in this case. One, Micah Zapata had been killed, most likely by a professional. Two, Hettie Van Buren had been kidnapped from her apartment. There were also some assumptions. One, Micah Zapata, despite drug use and dodgy friends during his teens, appeared to be a good kid. Two, the two crimes were related. On the face of it, the first day of the investigation hadn’t turned up much. When a case hit a dead end, the solution was to march down a different road.
Reaching the ground floor, the elevator doors opened to the expanse of opulent marble. Dom had spent too much time focusing on Micah Zapata. Through the lobby door, the setting sun cast the sky in a bright pink. It was time to dig into Hettie Van Buren. And whatever secrets she was keeping.
20
The streets circling Washington Square Park were dark, as if the wealthy didn’t need the safety of streetlights. Dom parked at the curb by Hettie’s building. It was coming up on midnight, and despite a dose of Advil and eye drops, her toes were throbbing and her eyes felt gritty. In the rearview mirror, a pair of phantom hurricane lanterns glided toward her against an inky night. Rotating tires whining on smooth asphalt went silent as the car came to rest, it’s high beams lighting up the interior of the Lancia stage lights. She squinted. What the crap is this?
She stretched out of the sports car and walked back toward the lights on a sleek black Mercedes S600. Inside, the dashboard’s dim glow illuminated a sweep of gray hair and the face of Claude. Crap. Dom flared a flashlight beam across his face as he lowered the window.
She leaned down. “Mr. Van Buren, can you turn on your overhead cabin light?”
He fumbled for the switch and the interior brightened. His face was hard and angry.
She clicked off her flashlight beam. “Sir, what are you doing here?”
“Last I checked, Agent Walker, this was a free country.”
“Sir, you should be home.”
“I spoke to your boss, Fontaine.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“I told him we needed a more senior agent.”
Dom’s father’s voice whispered, Don’t let ’em rumble you, my Dom. You’re just as good as them. “He told me.”
“My Hettie needs a more senior agent on this. A male agent.”
“Sir, you are speaking to an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation with over ten years of experience. I’m advising you to show some respect.”
He scowled. “You met with my wife. Alone, without me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You don’t need to do that. She’s suffering enough.”
“Sir, this is an FBI investigation that involves a homicide and what I believe to be the kidnapping of your daughter. You want me to pursue every lead and to learn as much as I can from those who are close to Hettie. There will be plenty of interviews, I assure you. This is how an investigation is done.”
Glaring, he said, “I’m glad he’s dead.”
She shifted on her feet.
“Do you think the murderers have my daughter?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But that’s the assumption.”
“What do you know?�
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“I know that Hettie’s disappearance is related to the murder of Micah Zapata.” She tugged the navy jacket down against her shoulders. “I do not know the exact relationship or the motive yet, but I will discover both.”
His sneered. “I will crush his family. I will crush them. I will send those dirty brown people back to the third world hell of Honduras that they crawled out from.”
Interesting. Earlier he hadn’t known the Zapata's home country. He must have been doing some homework. “Go home, Mr. Van Buren. You’re not doing Hettie any good here. And your wife needs you.” She waited until he turned the key in the ignition and the finely built engine purred back into life.
Stepping into the lobby’s light, she flashed her badge at Carl the night security guy. He nodded knowingly.
Outside apartment 10E, she glanced to the end of the silent hallway where a red EXIT sign glowed. If Hettie had been kidnapped, the perp might have forced her down the back stairs, away from the prying eyes of a security guard. She strode to the EXIT door and pushed into a cold, gloomy emergency stairwell. Inside the impenetrable cement walls was a tomblike silence and the sharp smell of industrial paint. She peered down and around the top of the stairs. Had the perp pointed a gun at Hettie’s head?
She cornered at the stair’s elbow and descended to the ninth floor. The slap of soft soles echoed above and below, and an elongated shadow preceded her. Had Hettie protested, maybe screamed?
Eighth floor.
A film of sweat formed on her neck. Had Hettie cried or pleaded?
Fifth floor.
The steel handrail was cold. Had Hettie been barefoot? Had she felt the cold?
Second floor.
Had they told Hettie that Micah was dead? Had she been crying?
First floor.
On the landing there were two doors. One read Lobby, the other EXIT. She pushed into the lobby and the brightness caused her to blink. She nodded to Carl. “Is that rear door alarmed?”
“No. It’s only self-locking.”
She retreated into the silent landing and pushed the outside door. Fresh air tickled damp skin. The night was loud with city noises: a dump truck wheezed in the distance, a horn honked on a neighboring street, and a breeze rustled leaves. An L-shaped loading platform, ready to receive trucks, faced a short dark driveway.
Hettie had been taken from here. Dom could feel it.
The lights from Washington Square Park beamed across Hettie’s white living room like Batman’s beacon shining over a sleeping Gotham City. Throughout her years with the Bureau, she had taken advantage of the night. The vacant rooms and shrouded corners allowed her to detach from the logic of an investigation. Alone in silence, her internal dialog ran rampant. Dom moved to the center of the room, closed her eyes, and let the environment permeate her senses. The pungent smell of rotting flowers filled the space.
While her mind looped indiscriminately through disparate thoughts, the smell from the flowers reminded her of burned sugar. I hope Beecher fed the dog. What would happen when the water evaporated from the vase? Was Claude’s anger appropriate? What had Hettie and Micah gotten themselves into? How poor do you have to be to buy black market laundry detergent at discounted rates? Did the Honduran soccer shirt mean anything?
She moved slowly down the hallway. In the master bedroom a splash of light from the street on the ceiling resembled the wings of an angel. How long did it take Micah to slide down the wall after being shot? Had Micah had a girlfriend in high school? Years ago, Dom had overheard a conversation in her high school. “Did you know Domini Walker’s dad was that cop who killed himself?”
Her flashlight beam circled the bedroom. Lord, my foot is killing me. ERT had taken the overturned dish, its contents, and the smashed photo. Why had Hettie stumbled against the wall? Was it her shoulder that hit the glass? Dom searched each dresser drawer, rifling through underwear, T-shirts, bras, and socks. How much more expensive is nicer underwear? Did Hettie know the abductors?
She glanced at the bottom of the bed. Parents told their kids there weren’t monsters under beds, that sharp, dirty fingernails were not grasping for warm bare skin. But parents were wrong. There were monsters. A memory of a cold basement pressed into her mind. She had sliced the ropes from Darlin’s ankles, wrapped her in the navy windbreaker with the yellow letters, and pulled her close. “I’m the police. I’m taking you out of here.” Would evil’s appetite ever be satiated? Of course not. Fidelity, bravery, and integrity. Was Meat Lover’s pizza the best?
She knelt and shone the beam across an empty space under the bed. I should get rid of those old sleeping bags under my bed. Why was Hettie’s apartment so clean?
She stood and lifted the mattress. Nothing. Had a car pulled up to the dark loading dock?
The shaft of the flashlight drifted over the closet. Clothes hung neatly on hangers. Purses filled the shelf overhead. Dom rarely used a purse. In the corner was a small roller bag. Had Hettie traveled recently? Clasping the flashlight between her chin and shoulder, Dom lifted the roller bag. It was empty. She set the bag in the closet and took a step back. Neither the Van Burens nor the Zapatas had known of any travel.
An imaginary ping, like a distant chime of an elevator car opening on a lower floor, silenced the mental chatter. Had those ten blank days in Hettie's calendar indicated a trip? Was this the project Roberto had mentioned and, when pushed, got angry about? Had Hettie and Micah gone somewhere secretly? What’s a good hiding place for travel documents?
She cast the beam across the room, landing it on the top of the single bedside table. Pulling the drawer, she felt it stick. She yanked harder, and reluctantly it slid open. Inside were only a box of tissues and a pair of sunglasses. She bit the flashlight between her lips, pulled the drawer out and off its racks, and peeked into the space. Hidden inside was a thin leather portfolio the size of an envelope. Ping. The imaginary elevator car ascended closer.
She opened the portfolio. Inside were boarding passes, a passport for Hettie Van Buren, and a passport for Micah Zapata. Underneath the passports were eight boarding passes that showed a trip three weeks ago from Newark via Dallas-Fort Worth to Tegucigalpa, Honduras. The stay was five days long.
Ping. The elevator had arrived. Hettie and Micah had taken a secret trip to Honduras. Dom’s mind slowed. A mysterious trip wasn’t a coincidence, it was a possible motive. Dom’s back straightened. The killing of Micah Zapata and the kidnapping of Hettie Van Buren had become a lot more complicated.
She dropped the leather portfolio into a Ziploc bag and sealed it. Back in the living room, a pale and forlorn moonbeam painted the floor. Dom leaned close to one of the photos in the bookshelf and stared into Hettie’s pale gray-blue eyes. They looked wise, smart, and reserved. Don’t worry, Hettie. I’m not gonna let the monsters keep you for long. I’m coming.
The pace of every investigation was different. Some started quickly and braked on a dime. Others simmered before exploding. A wealthy girl and her boyfriend taking a trip to Honduras three weeks before a homicide and a kidnapping hinted of big complicated entanglements. This case would require a very cautious cadence, much like stepping on a frozen lake whose icy surface was unreliable and whose murky depths hid foreboding secrets.
Don’t worry, Hettie, dark secrets don’t scare me. They’re part of my history. I’m coming for you. The monsters don’t get to keep you.
WEDNESDAY
An occasional sight record stirs the faint hope that some linger on, but even if a few birds are still alive the species seems doomed.
—Thomas Foster, “Circling to Doom”
21
Tegucigalpa, Honduras
Outside the Super El Rey, the big-city nephew had taken Maria Cardona’s hand and guided her through the throngs, down a long block lined with hawker stalls, to a second bus terminal where they found a crowded minivan taxi, paid their fare, and climbed aboard. An hour later, the driver yelled their exit.
They found the office on a dusty
side street away from the honking taxis. The two rooms had shiny white tiles on the floor and bright pink paint on the walls. An imperious woman in a starched collared shirt brought them two bottles of chilled water. Maria and the nephew carefully cracked the seals and let the cold water wash the city dust from their throats. Where does the dust go? Maria’s stomach growled. She had not eaten since breakfast ten hours ago. She had some money, but she didn’t risk spending it. Not yet. They had promised her money for transport and food, but she would wait until it was in hand before she ate. She may be from the village, but she wasn’t gullible.
The sour woman stared at them from behind thick-framed glasses. Maria smoothed down the course dress over her thighs and wondered if glasses made items larger or smaller? A man called out from the back room. The disagreeable woman stood, beckoned Maria to follow, and indicated to the nephew to wait. He smiled broadly in his torn T-shirt and ratty flip-flops, proud to be sitting in an air-conditioned office with a chilled bottle of water. At least his face was clean.
Inside the back office, a large man with a fat neck and greasy hair nodded at a chair. He spoke in Spanish. “You understand what you need to do?”
She understood. She understood a lot of things. She understood the sun would rise regularly over her offspring’s offspring far into the future. She understood the rains were coming less and the crops were suffering. She understood some people were more valued than others. And she knew she would get on a flying aluminum can and rush through the clouds. A mother will do many things for a daughter.
Her stomach growled. She would like to get some fruit. Maybe some cheese.
He was asking about her baggage. She had only the one bag that she pointed to on the floor.