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

by HN Wake

  She turned to the window, her back to the foursome. The contrail lingered against deep blue. “I was going to tell you about the forensic evidence we’ve compiled. How Micah Zapata was shot at point-blank range. How he would have slammed against the wall, then how he would have slid down, slowly, onto his haunches. I could tell you that the initial impact would have felt like a sledgehammer, swung against his chest, just over his heart. I could tell you, that as the blood rushed in a torrent from the wound, it would have felt as if a blowtorch was fanning his chest.” She turned to face them with steely eyes.

  Claude glanced at the glass table, his face ashen. The images Dom described were new to him. He had not witnessed them himself.

  The three other sets of eyes were frozen wide.

  “I can tell you this, because I’m FBI, and we deal in violent crime every day. We know how it goes. We know Micah would have felt the heat pouring down over his torso and legs.”

  In disgust, Horsey pulled her chin, a white-glove lawyer shocked by death’s dirty details. Again, the micro expressions represented shock. Dom doubted Horsey had witnessed Micah’s death either.

  “For fifteen minutes, Micah would have sat against his bedroom wall, surrounded by his belongings, feeling his heartbeat weakening and his breathing diminishing.”

  Mustache the partner sat like a wide-eyed statue, stunned into stillness. The concept of death was new to him also.

  “He would have felt numbness climb up his limbs to the core of his body.”

  Dom turned to watch Runner. He was eyeing her unflinchingly. Death didn’t shock this one. He must have served somewhere, maybe Afghanistan, maybe all over. Interesting.

  “Micah would have watched the killer walk back down the hallway. He would have sat alone in the silence of his bedroom. When that numbness reached his chest, he may have known he had only moments left on earth.

  Runner watched her. He gave away no expression of having witnessed Micah Zapata’s death.

  “We’ll never know what he thought about in those last moments of his life. Maybe he thought of Hettie.”

  Dom made a rapid assessment. None of these four had witnessed the killing. The sun beamed around her as she walked to the conference table, closing in on them. But had they ordered it?

  “I won’t go into more details of the killing of Micah Zapata because they don’t speak to motive.”

  As one, all four faces blanked. Mentally, they were readying for the assault.

  “I’m here this morning to speak to motive. Because if I can identify a motive… ” Dom placed her fingertips on the glass table like a prosecutor in a courtroom. “I can find Hettie.”

  Four sets of eyes widened.

  “Which leads me to a story about your daughter, Mr. Van Buren. You see, Hettie has been chasing a very elusive bird. It’s called the Eskimo curlew. Every year it migrates across a path from Alaska to the southern tip of South America. She’s been trying to spot this particular bird along this path for the last four years. She started in Patagonia, moved on to Costa Rica, and then Nicaragua. This year she was planning research in Panama, then she changed her mind. Instead of Panama, she decided to chase this bird—this likely extinct bird—in Honduras.”

  Was it possible that four blank faces became blanker? This was not news to them.

  “The extinct part is a key issue because if Hettie can confirm a sighting of this bird in Honduras, she can get land declared protected.”

  Four frozen statues.

  You are enough, my Dom. Never doubt that. “It turns out that three weeks ago she and Micah traveled to the northwest province of Honduras.”

  None of them blinked. None of their eyes moved. The trip to Honduras was not news to them.

  Fontaine was gonna be super pissed. “Does Rittenhouse Equity own shares in a Honduran mining company named Phalanx Incorporated?”

  Across the frozen surface of the lake, hairline fractures shot out like a spider’s web. Horsey jumped from her seat. Mustache vigorously wobbled his head. Runner rose smoothly. Claude hissed, “We had nothing to do with this!”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  Runner closed his arms across his chest like a soldier in a squad.

  Claude snarled, “We had nothing to do with this. How dare you—”

  Horsey placed a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “That’s enough, Agent Walker. I believe we are done here.”

  Claude growled, “How dare you suggest we had something to do with this!”

  Horsey repeated, “We’re done here, Agent.”

  “Are we done? Because we’re talking about saving Hettie. Mr. Van Buren, we’re talking about saving your daughter.”

  Horsey’s voice was strong. “This interview is over. We are instructing you to leave now, Agent.”

  The three men clamped mouths shut.

  “I’ll put these here.” Dom placed four business cards on the table. “When one of you remembers your investments in Phalanx, please use that number to get in touch. In the meantime, I’ll be looking for Hettie.”

  The four watched as she strode from the room.

  The new cracks across the lake’s frozen surface had held fast, but Dom wasn’t worried. This was only the first incursion.

  33

  In Midtown East, Dom parked the Lancia on Lexington Avenue near the MetLife Building. The morning traffic had picked up, bringing with it the intermittent blasts of taxi horns and the thundering grumbles of bus airbrakes. Her eyes stung, and her toes throbbed. She dialed Lea Peck. “It’s Dom.”

  “How’d the meeting go?”

  “Claude got fired up. They kicked me out.”

  “What?”

  A pedestrian passed by the windshield. “Their reactions were inappropriate. They should have been focused on finding Hettie. They should have heard me out.”

  “I’ll never understand rich people.”

  Dom described the meeting at Rittenhouse. “They are a tight-knit group. They held together. Nobody broke.”

  “And Claude?”

  “He may have been the angriest.”

  Lea snorted. “Guilty like Jephthat offering up his virgin daughter so he could be king. Unbelievable. So, which ones do you think are involved?”

  “I don’t know. They all have motive, because they all stand to lose money. We need one of them to turn. We need someone to rat the others out.” Dom squeezed the steering wheel. “What have you got?”

  “I’m watching all of Claude’s calls. Nothing yet. On the others—Roger Atkins, Patricia Coll, and Chase Craig—I am scouring their call logs for unusual patterns.” Distant fingers tapped a keyboard. “I’ve put in requests for ongoing surveillance on all three.”

  “Chase the surveillance requests. We need that up and running. They’re gonna break today. And when Fontaine hears about this he’s gonna come at me.” Find Hettie now, take the lumps later. “I give him two hours.”

  “Roger that. Also, I’m working up phone taps on Roberto Zapata and that lawyer Oslo Bockel. By the way, who names their kid Oslo?”

  “Apparently he was conceived there.”

  Silence. “I will seriously never understand rich people. Thank the Blessed Mary that my mother, who is from Pole Cat Hollow, West Virginia, wasn’t rich or I’d be named Tajikistan.” A keyboard clacked again. “What next?”

  “I’m going to try a pincer move on the other half.” Across the street, a plaque on the wall of a small building read Skatten Hammersol, Lawyers. “I’m gonna see if the mother’s side will break. I’m going to see her lawyer.”

  Lea chuckled. “Inception in Norway!”

  Oslo Bockel stepped into the hushed wood-paneled lobby of the family law firm with the smile of a long-lost friend. “Special Agent Walker, how nice to see you. I did not expect to see you so soon after last night’s meeting.” The bear paw handshake was energetic. “Despite the circumstances, it’s very nice to see you. Please, please do come in.”

  It took a clever man to use amiability to di
sarm.

  He led her to a small library with mahogany leather seats, framed oil paintings of sailboats, and shelves of antique books. The room smelled of chamomile tea and cologne. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Black.” The leather chair was cold against her jeans.

  Handing her a cup of swirling black liquid, his face was full of compassion. “I bet that isn’t your first of the day, now is it, Agent?”

  Yup, Oslo Bockel was smart. And confident. “You are correct, Oslo.”

  “And how does our coffee stand up?”

  The caffeine hit her veins immediately. “It’s good.”

  “I am always telling our office manager that our coffee is tops, just tops. I can’t replicate it at home. I have one of those machines that foams and sprays and whistles. There’s just no telling the whims of physics. Or why the coffee maker in a law firm would choose on its own accord to make some of the best coffee in New York City. Odd that. But then, things are odd often.” He raised eyebrows in a contemplative look. “So, Special Agent Walker, to what do I owe this visit?”

  After his innuendos last night of a possible connection between the trip, the crimes, and Rittenhouse Equity, Dom needed to know what else Yvette had instructed him to reveal. “I have some questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please, proceed.” He leaned back with hands clasped across the top of his belly.

  Start slow, go easy, let the subject feel they have control of the interview. “I’m trying to fill in some pretty straightforward blanks I still have. What can you tell me about Hettie? What type of person is she?” Oslo Bockel wasn’t the only smart one in the room.

  “Well, let’s see. She’s quiet. Very studious. Certainly not your typical socialite from a wealthy family.”

  “Reserved?”

  “Yes, I’d say that. Quite a world view, what with her environmental work, bird research, whatnot. She’s always concerned with some cause. She would often ask me to donate to this fundraiser or that.”

  “Mostly environmental?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else about Hettie?”

  “She was very competent. She didn’t rely too much on her parents from what I understand. Never too much trouble. I never had to bail her out of jail or write a note to a newspaper. Very contained. She had friends, of course.”

  Dom sipped encouragingly.

  “She had her work, that boyfriend, a life of a young professional in the city. She was happy.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing overly remarkable, no.”

  Now let’s get to the meaty stuff. What has Yvette instructed him to say? “And the Van Burens? Anything remarkable there?”

  “No, not really.” He shrugged. “A wealthy couple, social, philanthropists. Yvette’s work, at the museum and with other charities, is very well regarded. I understand they attend events quite often. I do keep an eye on their press. Nothing too bad on a personal level.”

  “Have they always lived on Central Park?”

  “No, no. Yvette is from Philadelphia, from a very wealthy family. They only moved up to the city after they were married.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “It was through friends at a Princeton party. They were both in their early twenties. She married him despite her parents’ misgivings."

  A soft ping sounded in her ear. “What misgivings?”

  “Well, that he wasn’t exactly from the right family. You know how it is with these old families. It’s all about pedigree and appearances. Yvette Lowrance would have been quite a prize for someone like Claude Van Buren.”

  Was he purposefully demeaning Claude Van Buren? “And?”

  “After they married, as expected, Claude went into business with Yvette’s father. Oil. Quite lucrative. I think he was fine there. Not promoted as much as he should have been. Remained a director when he should have been vice president. Sat around as a vice president when he should have been executive vice president. I think Claude wasn’t really up to it. He’s not as ambitious as folks would have preferred. When old Mr. Lowrance passed, Claude took over. He lasted a few years but couldn’t really make the company run well. He sold the company and moved the family to New York.”

  The second ping was louder. Yvette’s lawyer was definitely trash-talking Claude. “And then?”

  “Claude got set up over at Rittenhouse.”

  Ping. Yvette’s lawyer had turned the focus to Rittenhouse Equity. “What should I know about Rittenhouse?”

  “Funny you ask that. These private equity firms can be so secretive. In fact, despite the fact that Yvette has put in capital, she has no control whatsoever over what Rittenhouse does. We’ve tried to look into their investments, but they are literally a black box.” Oslo threw up his hands helplessly.

  In Dom’s mind, the elevator arrived with a loud ping. As a good lawyer, Oslo had smoothly demeaned Claude, turned the conversation toward Rittenhouse, and distanced Yvette from both. “Do you think Claude is related to the crimes?”

  “Good Lord, Agent Walker. Is Claude a suspect?” He rose with a dramatic grab at his lapels. “I’m sure it’s no longer appropriate to have this discussion.”

  “Yes, I do believe I understand.” Dom rose.

  She understood very well. Out of fear for her daughter, Yvette had sent a message through her lawyer. Claude and Rittenhouse Equity were involved in the crimes.

  The cracks on the frozen lake were weakening.

  Outside the sun was shining. Dom’s phone pinged with a message from Fontaine. Meet me at Hong Kong Garden. Now!

  Time to take the lumps. The confrontation with her boss had arrived sooner than expected.

  34

  In the tiny intern alcove in the museum library, Mila enlarged a photo of the Van Buren family in a New Yorker article. In the center, Yvette Van Buren, in a cream silk gown, smiled prettily for the camera. To her right, a black-clad Claude Van Buren glared at the photographer. Dressed in a pale pink gown, Miss Timid Hettie stood at a distance from mother with an expression that was hard to read. Mila enlarged the focus on Hettie’s face. Was that a look of resignation or sadness? What a mysterious young woman. Despite being born into great wealth and elite society, Hettie had chosen a quiet research career and wrote anonymously of sadness, self-consciousness, and displacement. What secrets did this young woman keep?

  Resizing the image, Mila realized the photo had been taken in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life. She quickly toggled to the museum’s home page and typed events in the search tab. She found an image of Yvette Van Buren in the pale dress in the gallery of photos from a gala that had taken place three months ago. There were no other pictures of the Van Buren family at that event. Grabbing the rotary phone, she dialed the main number.

  A peppy female voice answered the line. “American Museum of Natural History.”

  “Museum Events, please.”

  “Just one moment.”

  A scratchy voice answered, “Museum Events, Val speaking.”

  Mila had met Val, a heavyset woman who rarely smiled. “Hey, Val. It’s Mila.”

  “What’s up, Mila?”

  “Did you work the gala three months ago? The one in February?”

  “Yup. Why? What’s up?”

  “Was there video?”

  “Yup.”

  “Can I see the footage?”

  “Why?”

  Mila glanced at Hettie’s sad face. “No reason, just curious.”

  “Sure. It was a good party. Decent food. They had those Cajun crab balls. The band wasn’t great. And that protest was weird.”

  Mila pressed the receiver against her ear. “Protest?”

  “Yeah. There were protestors outside.”

  “What?”

  “Some crazy guys protested on the red carpet. Everybody was already in the party.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that.”

  “The board talked about it for a week. But I didn’t see it. Nobody really saw it
. Anyway, I’ve got all the party footage on a hard drive down here if you want to come borrow it.”

  Mila stood. “Thanks, Val. I’m on my way.”

  Back in the alcove, Mila locked the door, pulled up Val’s hard drive, and plunged into the first of six video files. On the screen, the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life was ablaze with candelabras and chandeliers. Tall magenta flower arrangements and shimmering crystal glasses dotted white tables. Screening the first video, she spotted Claude Van Buren talking to a crowd of men and later getting a drink from a bar. In one sequence, Yvette Van Buren laughed with similarly gowned and bejeweled women. Hettie had not been captured in the first video. How much of the party had she attended?

  The next footage was of a wide-angle view from the top of the red carpeted grand stairs. It was late in the day, and cars passed cautiously on icy Central Park West. In the park, barren tree branches were whitened with snow. Tiny snowflakes wafted like winter fairies past the camera lens.

  The first ten minutes of the video showed only the slow traffic. At the eleven-minute timestamp, a black SUV pulled to the valet stand. Two men stepped out and made their way up the stairs. Four minutes later, three taxis dropped off six guests. Soon a line of cars snaked along the curb. Valets ran to open doors, accept keys, and slip into driver seats. As the sky darkened, the golden beam of a spotlight blazed across the scene, glittering across diamond earrings and catching ethereal snowflakes dancing on invisible currents.

  Cars and taxis arrived faster, and the line for the valet reached twenty deep. The shaft of headlights flickered across the lower right corner of the screen where the dark forms of three people appeared. Mila leaned closer to the screen. Bundled in unremarkable parkas, the three made their way to the shadows near the bottom of the stairs and crossed their arms. Had anyone noticed these ominous onlookers at the time? It didn’t appear so. Women in furs and men in black overcoats laughed their way up the stairs, valets ran to open car doors, and hundreds made their to the brightly lit museum entrance.

  Fifty minutes later, the line of cars had become a trickle as late guests hurried up the stairs. Central Park resembled a dark forest hiding wolves and witches. A wet snowflake landed on the camera lens, and a gloved finger wiped it. In the dark shadows, the three figures stood as motionless as statues.