by HN Wake
From her bed, Ines had whimpered, “Mama?”
Maria had soothed her with a whispered response. She did not go to comfort to her daughter with a hug. She wanted Ines to be brave. There were plenty of real dangers to be afraid of.
Later, Maria and the disagreeable woman stood outside the airport. The sour woman asked, “Do you know what an airplane is?”
Maria shrugged. Of course she did. There were televisions in the village. For the previous month the villagers talked of almost nothing other than Maria’s trip, scaring each other with talk of aluminum cans falling from the sky. Two days ago, they said a prayer for her.
“Just follow the crowd,” said the sour woman. “Stand in line with your ticket, and then follow the crowd. Give your ticket to the ladies in uniform. They will show you to your seat. Then you sit. Then at the end, you will come out again. You will get in a line and wait, then you will hand the official your passport. Someone will be waiting for you at the other side. Don’t look around, don’t look scared. Just act like you know what you’re doing. Understand?”
Maria nodded.
“You have the money for food?”
She nodded. Of course she had the money.
“Any questions?”
Sometimes there were too many questions. Maria shook her head no.
She stepped into the chilled air of the Toncontín International Airport. The entrance queue was long. Like all poor people, she waited patiently. Finally, the security officer in the blue uniform with the gun on his hip waved her to approach. She handed him her bag, and he rummaged through it. He was satisfied and pushed the bag past the beeping archway. She walked through. There were no beeps. The next security officer waved her on.
She stopped at a Kentucky Fried Chicken stand and stared at the menu. She ordered a chicken sandwich with a water, and the young man in the restaurant uniform handed her a bag. Following the gate number on her ticket, she sat by a window and watched as the lights of planes landed on the huge runways with the deep rumbling like a thunderstorm. She slowly unwrapped the sandwich. It was the first fast food she had ever eaten, and she wondered if she should find some fruit to balance her meal. She would need strength for this journey.
She had learned about balanced meals from the aid workers that had come to the village. They had shown them charts and pictures. A plate divided into four, they explained with gentle smiles. Your child must have all these groups balanced on their plate. Protein, grains, vegetables, and fruit. Do you understand, they asked with their gentle smiles while standing under the tree in their clean shoes.
Of course, we said. We understand. We are not dumb, we are just poor. We understand that our children misbehave because their stomachs hurt as they squeeze in on emptiness. Our problem is not that we don’t know what it takes to feed a child properly. Our ancestors were very good at providing their families with chickens and pigs and cows and maize and greens. We used to grow fruit here too. But the dry season is lasting longer, and there is not enough water. The government workers come and tell us that our boundaries are changing, that our fields are smaller. They do this without asking us. Now we have less land to grow food on. Now we must buy our foodstuffs in the market where fruit and vegetables are more expensive. We buy less. We go hungry for our children, but they are still hungry.
She chewed on the sandwich dully. She would have liked to save it for Ines. Ines had never had a Kentucky Fried Chicken sandwich either.
In the darkness above the runways, the city’s halo of light stretched into the sky. In the village, the night sky was truly black and close enough to graze your skin. Over the roar and lights of the planes, the Tegucigalpa sky seemed terribly distant, as if it had been shoved away by humans.
31
It was four am when Dom shuffled across the analysts floor of the Javitz building with two Starbucks coffees in a cardboard tray and a crinkled white bakery bag. She set the offerings on the corner of Lea Peck’s desk, shrugged out of her windbreaker, hung it on the back of the side chair, and sat. Her toes ached, her eyes stung, and her stomach growled.
Lea’s fingers danced with gleeful energy. “The savior returns.”
Did young people never get tired?
Lea had tacked two photos on the side of her screen. The first was the bright selfie of Hettie and Micah outside the Toncontín International Airport, the sun glimmering on their cheeks. Hettie had the radiant smile of a young woman intoxicated with adventure and love. The second image was a grainy black-and-white newspaper photo of the Van Buren family at a black-tie affair. The photograph had captured Yvette’s tight face and Hettie’s enigmatic pained expression. What a trio. A brash father with dominating tendencies, a distant mother with gentile polish, and a quiet daughter with a defiant love. Discord, like cold currents, swirled around this family.
Lea rummaged in the bag. “Oooh, paninis. Nice work, Miss Domini. And they’re hot!”
“We’re gonna need sustenance and caffeine.” The coffee’s tang soothed her throat as she looked over the coffee lid at Lea. Fontaine was gonna be helluva pissed. “What we’re about to do is off-the-record.”
Lea’s eyebrows rose as she munched. “I’m liking the sound of this.”
“As in, on the down low.”
“I’m with you.”
“We’ve got some research to do…into the financial industry.”
Lea’s eyebrows shot skyward and she whispered, “Are we looking into the Van Burens?”
Dom nodded once. “We are.”
“And we’re not supposed to be.”
“And we’re not supposed to be. Because somebody doesn’t want us looking into the parents.”
Lea slowly mouthed the word, Fontaine?
Boy was Fontaine gonna be pissed. Dom nodded.
Lea grinned wickedly. “Takin’ on the big folks. Aiming for their ankles. Me like it.”
For the first time since this investigation started, Dom felt lighter. She and Lea were a small, but powerful, team built on a history on trust.
Lea took a huge bite and mumbled, “Already feeling stronger.” Setting the sandwich aside, she placed her fingers on the keyboard.
“Okay.” Dom sipped on her coffee. “Let’s start with Señor Claude.”
Lea typed into a search bar Claude Van Buren. Articles filled the screen. They both leaned in.
Forbes, 2012 — Claude Van Buren takes a hit on his investment in Argentina.
New Yorker, 2013 — Claude Van Buren’s wife, the Lowrance heir, joins American Museum of Natural History Board.
CNBC, 2014 — New York Attorney General looking into Claude Van Buren’s stakes in Brazil.
Bloomberg, 2015 — Claude Van Buren narrowly cleared, despite losing big this year.
Bloomberg, 2015 — Claude Van Buren finally sees a turn around.
Vanity Fair, 2016 — Claude Van Buren is riding high after troubled times.
New York Times, 2016 — Claude Van Buren is making himself a name as a smart crusader.
“Hmm … ” Dom said. “Seems our man Van Buren wasn’t always so successful. That can’t feel good for a guy whose wife was born with a silver spoon. That probably weighs heavily on him. Failure can’t be fun.”
“And only recently turned his fortunes around.”
“Okay, let’s check out Rittenhouse Equity.”
Lea pulled up a black homepage with small, clean font in silver that read Rittenhouse Equity. Her mouse clicked on the site, but there was only one hot link that read Shareholders Login. Her voice took on a German accent. “So sleek and fancy. And secretive.” She clicked over to an internet search and typed in Rittenhouse Equity. The search delivered only the link back to the home page. The German accent returned. “So super sneaky.” She turned to Dom and spoke normally. “They must hire someone to scrub the internet. I hate that. A bit of a stymie in our research.”
Dom whistled a little tune.
“What?” Lea cocked her head. “You got some insider intel?”
“I may have pulled in a favor.”
“With who?”
“I know a certain someone who used to work in banking. He still has friends there. He’s a good guy. People like him.”
Lea grinned widely. “That Beecher is a righteous temptation.”
Dom rubbed the crumbs from her lips as she pulled up her phone and with a clean pinky, opened the email program, and forwarded an email to Lea. “Delete that when we’re done.”
“It will be lost like Moses’ tablets from the Mount Sinai.”
Wait, what? “Moses lost the tablets?”
“Well, technically they were supposed to have been shattered. And are now in the Ark of the Covenant. You know, like Indiana Jones…” Lea pulled up the email and opened the attachment, an Excel spreadsheet. “Don’t worry about it—leave it to us Bible thumpers. Now what have we here?”
“Those are positions Rittenhouse has exited in the past seven years. It’s everything they’ve sold off. You and I are gonna try to figure out what they invest in. What is their business strategy? It may give us some clues.”
Lea grinned.
“Print this all out, I’ll take half, you take half.”
Lea’s grin broadened. This was right up her alley.
An hour later, Dom set down her pen. “What did you find?”
“Lots of mining.” Lea stretched her back.
“Yeah, me too. Looks like they are heavily slanted to the extractives. Overseas mining companies. Mining, drilling, quarries, pits. Supply companies that provide to bigger extractive companies.”
“Yup. Exactly the same on my list. Yvette Van Buren’s family made their wealth in oil. She would have encouraged her husband to invest in extractives to carry on the family tradition, blah, blah, blah.”
Dom stood on throbbing toes and walked slowly to the dark window. Hettie was a well-trained, highly specialized environmentalist to whom extractives would surely be objectionable. “They’re on opposite sides.”
The air conditioning unit thrummed.
She turned and drifted back to the desk. “The father and the daughter are on opposite sides. She wants to find this extinct bird and protect the land. He wants to get rich digging up the land.”
The florescent lights above the desks blinked brighter.
Lea said, “I mean, the conflict has to be over land in Honduras, am I right?”
“Yes. It’s gotta be Honduras.” She pointed to the list of Rittenhouse investments. “Did you see anything in Honduras?”
Lea shook her head. “Nope.”
“Me neither.”
The fan in the desk top whined.
“But wait.” Lea pointed at the papers. “These lists are the investments they exited in the last seven years, right?”
“Yes.” Dom smiled. “And if they’re still invested in Honduras it wouldn’t be in those lists.”
“They could have current investments in Honduras.” Lea reached for the keyboard.
Dom pulled out her cellphone, opened the map of Honduras. “The brother said Hettie and Micah went up to the northwest, to a province called Copán.”
Lea skimmed a list of sites registered with the Honduran Government. “There’s only one extractive company with activity in Copán. A company named Phalanx.” She clicked to a second window and opened the Phalanx site. “It’s a listed company. Registered in Tegucigalpa in 1995. Holds exploration concessions for over 10,500 hectares. Mostly extracts zinc deposits. Five sites are operational.” She turned to Dom. “It’s gotta be Phalanx. Rittenhouse has got to be invested in Phalanx.”
“I think you may be right. Okay, let’s review. We know four months ago something significant happened. The provocation event. Let’s assume Hettie finds out her father is invested in Phalanx. As a result of this, three months ago she plans a trip to Honduras. Her parents forbid the travel—they threaten to cut her off. She defies them, and three weeks ago she and Micah go to Copán to go the Phalanx site to try to spot an Eskimo curlew. When she returns, she confronts her father with the discovery of her beloved Eskimo curlew and threatens to shut down the Phalanx operation.”
Outside on the street a car honked.
Lea whispered, “If that theory is correct, we’re saying Claude Van Buren may be involved in these crimes.”
Across the office space, the air conditioner cranked up a notch.
“Dom, did we just find the motive?”
Dom whistled. “Does this boil down to simple greed as the motive? Is that even possible? That Phalanx site has to be worth a ton to have instigated this whole thing and be the motive.”
Lea clicked through the Phalanx website, slid over a calculator, and entered numbers. “For the sake of estimating, let’s divide Phalanx’s total production across their five sites evenly…which puts…a return from one site…at 23,000 tons of zinc a year.” She looked up the price of zinc online. “Looks like zinc is $1.50 per pound which means…they make $76 million from one site in a year.” She sat back and said, “$76 million. A year.”
It was a significant amount. Was it a big enough amount to have caused these crimes? Dom turned and trudged back to the window.
From the desk, Lea asked, “Is $76 million a year enough of a motive to kill Micah and kidnap his own daughter?”
The frozen lake was suddenly much darker and infinitely more sinister. Dom blew warm breath against the chilled glass and whispered, “I better go find out.”
32
The Rittenhouse Equity offices were in a towering, glass-and-steel building north of Grand Central Station and nestled among opulent buildings where deferential wealth managers silently transferred millions for high-end clients. The early morning traffic on Park Avenue was hushed and well-mannered. Dom sat in the Lancia sipping a coffee and watching bankers in blue pin-striped suits cross the glass enclosed lobby. Her eyes felt gritty from the sleepless night, as if someone had pried open the lids and salted the pupils.
Money was a textbook motive. In this case, it had become—by a mile—her most compelling lead. But was a $76 million per year loss from the Phalanx site enough to trigger the chain of events that led to the murder of Micah Zapata and the kidnapping of Hettie Van Buren?
She took another sip. Through the early morning hours, she considered calling Fontaine. His instructions two days ago had been explicit. If this case gets anywhere near the family, you clear any actions with me first. Is that English plain enough, Walker? Eventually she had decided against calling him. She needed the spontaneous, authentic reactions of the principles of Rittenhouse Equity when confronted, and she didn’t trust Fontaine to not warn Claude Van Buren.
She took the last hit of caffeine and unwound from the car. Later, she would take the lumps from Fontaine. Now she needed to find Hettie.
The lobby on the twenty-fifth floor was an artful palette of ivory marble, glass, and stainless steel. A brushed silver plaque on the glass door read, Rittenhouse Equity. Dom pushed through. Two colossal steel pots held white and pink orchids on either side of a glass reception desk where a pretty chestnut-haired receptionist smiled.
Dom flashed her badge. “I’m with the FBI. Special Agent Domini Walker. I would like to speak with Claude Van Buren.”
To her credit, the smile didn’t falter. “Of course. Just a moment.” She whispered into her headset before saying, “His assistant will be right up.”
A second young woman in a smart suit, heels clacking on marble, led Dom down a hallway of sparkling glass walls and rows of stark modern offices. Young men in shirts and ties stared at screens or spoke on phones. They probably drove expensive leased cars and lived on the Upper East Side. Their parents probably paid their Ivy League tuitions up front. Dom tugged on the navy windbreaker. Fidelity, bravery, and integrity.
The assistant led her to a conference room with a long glass table flanked by twenty white-leather roller chairs. A wall of windows opened to the city below.
“Coffee, water?” the assistant asked.
“No, I�
��m fine thank you.”
“Mr. Van Buren will be right with you.”
Outside, cotton clouds, still and lonely, hovered against a blue sky while the contrail of a departed plane cleaved the vista like a suspended stain of modernity. In the far distance, the horizon was tinted gray as if a legion of dark clouds was assembling.
The rat-a-tat-tat of footfalls grew stronger as a small troop of people pounded down a hallway.
In her ear, Stewart Walker whispered, You are enough, my Dom. Don’t ever doubt yourself.
Claude was the first to enter. He led with a puffed chest and a dark anger. “Agent Walker, after your antics last night, I’m surprised you’re here.”
Adrenaline rippled under her skin and her shoulder blades tightened. “Yes, cases move quickly and we can’t always give proper notice.”
He scowled at her as three people filed into the room behind him. The first was a gaunt man of medium height with the tightly grooved face of a runner. He was followed by a tall horsey woman with shiny black hair. Pulling up the rear was a heavyset jowly white man with a 1980s mustache. Claude made quick introductions: the runner was Roger Atkins, Head of Security; the horsey woman was Patricia Coll, General Counsel; and the mustache was Chase Craig, Partner.
“Well, let’s get to it, Agent,” Claude said with a tight voice, indicating the table. “Please sit.”
Dom waved a dismissal. “I am better when I stand, actually.”
Heavy silence hung in the air as the four hesitated before turning, circling the table, taking positions, and squinting into the sun. They sat stiffly, poised for an offensive.
She wondered if they already knew they were suspects. “Mr. Van Buren, are you comfortable with me sharing information about Hettie’s case with your colleagues?”
He shot her an annoyed look. “Yes, of course. That’s why they are here, Agent.”