by HN Wake
Beecher’s sniff broke her train of thought.
She pushed the phone tighter against her ear. “Sorry, how are you?”
He cleared his throat.
The familiar noise grabbed her attention. “What?”
He hesitated. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing, you’re in the middle of a case. It can wait.”
“Don’t do that. What is it?”
“Dom, it’s nothing.”
“Do. Not. Do. That.”
“We got a letter. From Florida.”
Their mother. Dom’s jaw locked, as if ice had grazed an exposed nerve.
“I haven’t opened it,” he said.
Esther. A chill slithered into Dom’s chest and frost crept into her lungs.
“I haven’t opened it.”
Their disappearing mother. A cold snaked through Dom’s hairline. “Don’t open it.”
“Okay.”
“She’s not allowed to just come back. All these years later.”
“Dom, I agree. You know we’re in this together.”
“She’s not allowed. Not now. Not ever.”
“I heard you.”
She snapped, “Throw it out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Throw it out.”
29
Yvette waited for Dom on the couch, luminous pools of gold cast by table lamps gleamed on the wood at her feet. Reading glasses were pushed into sleek hair, and her eyes were worried as she held out her hand. “Special Agent Walker. We’ve heard nothing. There has been no phone call. Nothing.” Her clutch was desperately strong.
“Yes, I understand that.” From the eleventh floor perspective, Central Park had been transformed into a grim fairy-tale forest complete with lighted pathways twisting through shadows.
Yvette did not release Dom’s hand. “There has been no request for payment.”
Claude stormed in. “Agent Walker, what have you found?”
Breaking loose from Yvette, Dom turned. “Mr. Van Buren, how are you holding up?”
“I’d be a lot fucking better if I had my daughter.”
“Yes, sir. I understand how you feel.”
“Do you?” His face twisted in anger. “Do you know what it’s like to be in this situation?”
“Please, Mr. Van Buren, Mrs. Van Buren, let’s sit and I’ll give you the latest.”
He bellowed, “I’m not happy about the progress of this investigation. Apparently you have very few leads. Have we been assigned FBI bush league here or what? I’ve complained loudly to your Director Fontaine.”
In her ear, Stewart Walker whispered, To be successful, you don’t always have to know the answers, my Dom. Believe in yourself. “Yes, Mr. Van Buren, I understand your anger. This is a terrible situation. Why don’t we sit, and I’ll bring you up to speed?”
Claude grunted and stomped to the couch. Yvette moved to a position a few feet from her husband, her back stiff against the cushions.
Dom sat across from them. “This is what we know. It appears the assailant entered Micah’s apartment sometime around midnight on Sunday, and Micah died shortly thereafter. We believe the assailant proceeded to Hettie’s. At Hettie’s apartment there was no forced entry, so it appears Hettie opened the door—”
“Goddamn it!” Claude growled. “They have doormen at her building. What the hell was she doing opening up the door in the middle of the night?”
Yvette’s hands clasped tightly on her lap.
Dom remained calm. “I believe there was a struggle in Hettie’s bedroom. I believe the assailant forced her down the back stairwell and into a getaway car.”
Yvette stifled a gasp.
Claude glared.
“I think in both locations the strikes were premeditated. The assailant moved quickly, there are few witnesses, and nothing was stolen. He had clear intent, murder and kidnapping.”
Both sets of eyes were glued to Dom.
“There is nothing to indicate that either Micah or your daughter were fearful leading up to the assaults, so I do not think either of them saw this coming. Your daughter had meetings and dinner dates planned.” She pressed her lips together. “We have a possible sighting of a foreign suspect entering Micah’s house.
“Goddamn it!” he exploded. “I knew it was those goddamned Spics from that god-damned third world fucking country.”
“We are now digging into motive.” She let the idea hang in the air.
Claude clamped his mouth shut.
Yvette clasped hands tighter in her lap as she blinked rapidly.
“I’ve come across some new information.” Dom took a deep breath and focused on their body and facial movements. “Are either of you aware that Micah and Hettie traveled to Honduras three weeks ago?”
Claude’s face froze. Yvette Van stared directly at Dom. Claude stood and marched from the room.
It was a shocking action, and Dom eyed Yvette curiously.
Yvette sat like a statue.
“Mrs. Van Buren, I take it you and your husband didn’t approve of the Honduras trip?”
Yvette stared at her mutely.
“Did you know about the trip?”
Yvette shook her head slowly.
“Did your husband know about the trip?”
Yvette whispered, “I don’t know.”
Dom raised one eyebrow at her.
“We have not been on good terms with Hettie the last few months. I’m sure there are things that our daughter did not tell either of us. Perhaps important things.”
“Can you explain that for me, the not-good terms?”
Yvette’s knuckles turned white. “We do not always see eye to eye. As a family, we do not always communicate frequently.”
“Mrs. Van Buren, when you and I first spoke, you mentioned that you had not spoken to Hettie on Monday as you had expected. Can you explain that to me?”
Yvette’s eyes narrowed. She never anticipated that Dom would remember exact words. “I had seen her Sunday. We agreed to speak the next day. We agreed to speak on Monday.”
“Before Sunday, when was the last time you saw her?”
Yvette touched her neck. “Four months before that.”
A distant ping chimed in Dom’s ear. Three months ago, Hettie had changed her research destination from Panama to Honduras. “What happened four months ago?”
“We had a fight.”
“About what?”
“Her research.”
Here it comes. “What about it?”
“We did not want her going to developing countries anymore.”
“And?”
“We threatened to cut her off if she continued to travel to dangerous places.”
Claude returned and sat heavily on the sofa with a puffed chest.
“Mrs. Van Buren, I can imagine that threatening to cut her off didn’t go over well with Hettie?”
“As you can imagine, no.”
“I imagine that was an extreme threat for your daughter.”
“She was endangering herself inappropriately. We decided, as her parents, we needed to step in.”
The doorbell rang. Who the crap was this? Dom turned to the entrance. All eyes followed the maid scurrying to the front door.
The door opened to a huge bear of a man. He bounded in, hand raised in salutation, salt-and-pepper hair swept back from a jowly face and thick black-framed glasses over buggy eyes. “Yes, hi, hi. Yvette. Claude. Yes, yes,” He strode across the room.
Who the crap is this?
“Well, hello, Special Agent.” He approached with an outstretched enormous hand. “You are Special Agent Walker?” The blue suit looked expensive, and the perfectly worn leather shoes had been recently polished.
“I am.”
“My name is Oslo Bockel,” he said with a bobbing head. He flashed a big toothy smile at full wattage. “As in the city in Norway. My parents went there on honeymoon.” He nodded to the Van Burens. “I represent the family.”
Crap wrapped in a lawyer’s envelope. The family was closing ranks. How did he get here so quickly? Ah, right. Claude’s odd exit. “I was just briefing the Van Burens.”
“Yes, yes, well don’t let me intrude, please go ahead.” He fell into a big armchair.
Dom wasn’t afraid of lawyers. They worked for the paycheck too, but they had never been on a freezing overnight Quantico training course or fired a live round at monsters. Further, Claude called the lawyer for a reason. It indicated something about the investigation hit close to home. That’s right, Dom, Stewart Walker whispered. Lawyers are a sign you’re near the mark.
Dom sat and turned her gaze to Claude. “I was just asking Mr. Van Buren if he could give me some background on a disagreement Hettie had with her parents about four months ago. As I understand, the family has not been in much communication since that time.”
Claude glowered. “We disagreed on her travel.”
“Yes, what travel in particular?”
“Her fucking travel to banana republics chasing fucking birds. It was dangerous. We have had enough of the worry, the anxiety.”
“You told her no more travel or you’d cut her off?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t. She left.”
“As in she walked out of the room?
“Yes,” he said through tight lips.
“Mr. Van Buren, when we met yesterday, you said Hettie had come to your office last week.”
Both Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren frowned. Dom’s memory was surprising.
He nodded slowly.
“Was that the first time you had seen her in four months since the disagreement?
He nodded again.
“What did you discuss last week when she came to your office?”
“She started to tell me about some fucking bird. I told her that I didn’t have time.”
“You hadn’t seen your daughter in four months and when she shows up at your office, you don’t have time for her?”
Yvette scowled at her husband.
His chest swelled and his chin retracted. “It was a hectic day at work. I told her that I would speak with her outside the office. Hettie knew better than to come to our office in the middle of the day.”
Was this case about money? Dom spoke slowly and deliberately, “Hettie came to your office, at Rittenhouse Equity?”
Claude watched her cautiously. “Yes.”
“Rittenhouse Equity. Over on Park Avenue, north of Grand Central?”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about finance. Can you explain what Rittenhouse Equity does?”
“What does this have to do with Hettie?” he asked tightly.
“Most likely nothing. Can you explain what you do?”
Oslo Bockel straightened. “I’m sure there is no relation between Hettie and Rittenhouse Equity, Special Agent Walker.”
“That may be absolutely true, but it would be helpful for me to understand what Mr. Van Buren does.”
Claude’s voice was curt. “We invest in companies where we see potential.”
It sounded like a brochure. “What kind of things do you invest in?”
“I’m afraid that information isn’t publicly available.”
“I’m not the public.”
Yvette, still as a rock, trained her eyes on her husband.
Claude said, “Our portfolio is strictly private, Agent.”
Here we go. Fontaine was going to be pissed. Like really pissed. “Any chance, Mr. Van Buren, that Rittenhouse Equity has invested in companies based in Honduras?”
All three froze.
Claude blinked first. “How dare you.”
Ping.
Oslo Bockel jumped to his feet.
Claude pointed at Dom. “How dare you!”
Ping.
Oslo Bockel was standing over Dom. “Special Agent Walker, I think it’s best if we leave now. Return to it tomorrow. Let the family to get some rest.”
Claude rose and wagged his finger at Dom. “How dare you! How dare you imply in any way—”
Dom stood. “I am following leads to find your daughter—”
“How dare you!” He bellowed.
Yvette’s eyes were wide and fearful.
Oslo Bockel cupped Dom’s elbow and held up a calming hand to Claude. “Just calm down, Claude. The agent here is doing her job.” Oslo Bockel turned Dom toward the elevator. “We’ll give this a rest for tonight.”
Claude yelled, “How dare you!”
“All horrible stuff, poor Hettie, now the FBI—” Oslo Bockel said over his shoulder to Claude as he led Dom to the elevator. “She’s just doing her law enforcement job here, Claude. Truly horrible. Let’s reconvene tomorrow, shall we?”
Claude roared, “That’s my daughter we’re talking about!”
The sinister frozen lake had gotten deeper.
As the gold elevator doors chimed shut on the eleventh floor, Oslo Bockel smiled. “My, my. Well that was something.”
“Mr. Bockel,” Dom asked softly. “Which part of the Van Buren family do you represent?”
He maintained the smile. “I represent the family, Special Agent.”
“Yes, but which side—Mr. Van Buren or Mrs. Van Buren?”
“I’m not sure that’s relevant.”
“Yes, well, many things are relevant when the FBI is investigating a missing persons case.”
His nodded. “Yes, I can see that. I can see that.”
“So, which is it? Mr. Van Buren or Mrs. Van Buren?”
“I have been with the Lowrance family most of my career.”
So Yvette paid his bills. “When push comes to shove, you represent Mrs. Van Buren?”
“Push has never come to shove, Agent.”
“Any thoughts on what may have happened to Hettie?”
He faked a look of alarm. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
“I’m sure you must have some thoughts, even if they are immaterial.”
His body stilled, giving the appearance of calm. Good lawyers were careful with body language. Oslo Bockel struck her as a good lawyer. “Well, you’re right there, Special Agent. I have thought about it.”
The elevator slid smoothly down. She waited.
“As a lawyer, I often suspect the worst. I suspect she may have gotten involved with the wrong people.”
“Is that right?” She cocked her head. “But it’s odd timing.”
“How’s that?”
“The family had a disagreement four months ago, and a month later Hettie revised her research plans. Instead of going to Panama as planned, she redirected that research to Honduras.”
“Is that right? Perhaps it’s just a coincidence?”
“Maybe.”
“Your questions upstairs implied you think this may have something to do with Rittenhouse Equity.”
“Just a line of questioning. One of many.”
“Well, as an FBI agent I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” he said soberly.
The seriousness of his tone piqued her interest. “Do you support my line of questioning into Rittenhouse’s involvement, Mr. Bockel?”
His eyes widened dramatically. “I’m sure I have no opinion one way or the other.”
But he did. His chin had moved toward her, and his head had tilted. Had the wife’s lawyer just thrown the husband under the bus?
“Do you think there is a connection with Rittenhouse Equity?”
A big paw hand covered his mouth. “I certainly did not say that.”
“But you are not disavowing me of the idea that somehow Hettie could have gotten caught up in a conflict with Rittenhouse?”
“I certainly didn’t want to give that impression.”
But he had. Everything about his body language—his lawyerly trained, intentional body language—told Dom to pursue the connection between the Honduras trip and Rittenhouse Equity. The ping in her ear was deafe
ning.
The elevator reached the ground floor and Oslo Bockel stepped out while handing his card to her. “Please, please, I’m here to help.” He retreated across the lobby’s polished marble, his shiny shoes tapping.
Conclusions scrolled through Dom’s mind like film credits. First, whatever instigated the disagreement four months ago had changed the course of Hettie’s research and set off the malevolent chain of events surrounding the Honduras trip. Second, Claude was extremely touchy about a connection between the Honduras trip and his firm. Third, Yvette’s lawyer had just encouraged Dom to probe that connection.
The icy surface of the lake lurched beneath her feet.
THURSDAY
He knew this new curlew was smaller and slightly browner, like himself, than the others had been. But these thoughts were fleeting, barely formed. It was a combination of voice, posture, the movements of the other bird, and not her appearance, which signaled instantly that the mate had come.
—Fred Bodsworth, “Last of the Curlews”
30
Tegucigalpa, Honduras
Earlier in the morning, she had arrived at the office to find the disagreeable woman, pink pumps clean of the city grime, waiting for her. They traveled by taxi to the government building and followed the sweeping stone stairs into a huge hall. Down a long hallway they found the passport department and the disagreeable woman instructed Maria to sit and to wait her turn before the disagreeable woman left.
The queue was long. Maria calculated four hours before her name would be called. She gazed out the window at the bustling street below. It was the first time she had been on a second floor, but the view was less exciting than she had imagined. It was just a day in a big city. The roiling river of humanity—all colors, shapes, and sizes—was neither intimidating or exhilarating. Funny what you get used to.
Inside the thick walls of the government building no one would even hear the sound of rain. There had been a thunderstorm a month ago in the village. A dark bank of clouds had rolled in over the lake, slowly blanking out the sky and the clouds. Night had fallen as the dark clouds reached the shore. Inside the hut, Maria had counted the time between the lightning flashes and the thunder cracks. In time, thick rain pelted the tin roof. Blasts crashed and the wind wheezed through the window frames. The waves on the lake rumbled against the shore.