by HN Wake
The headlights of a large sedan pulled to the curb. As a valet ran to the driver side of the black Mercedes, one of the figures nodded. A second protestor reached into a backpack, pulled out a tall cylinder that resembled a thermos, and held it with a crooked arm.
Mila leaned even closer to the screen.
On the passenger side, a second valet opened the door, and Yvette Van Buren emerged in a long pale fur coat. Claude Van Buren made his way around the car, offered his arm to her, and they began a slow, careful walk past the shadows.
The small protestor slashed his arm. Had he just thrown something? Mila’s hand slapped the keyboard to pause the video. She rewound the footage. In slow motion, a long ghost-like cloud moved through the air and splattered across Yvette Van Buren’s fur. Oh shit, he had thrown something. Some kind of liquid.
Yvette Van Buren dropped her hand from her husband’s arm and turned abruptly to the shadows. Claude Van Buren, unaware, continued to the stairs. Yvette Van Buren peered into the darkness. The statues stood their ground. Realizing his wife wasn’t at his side, Claude Van Buren turned, hurried back, and followed his wife’s gaze. He raised his hand and yelled. For two minutes, there was a standoff.
Claude Van Buren gently took his wife’s elbow, turned her, and led her up to the top of the stairs where he stopped to inspect a long brown stain that ran the length of her fur coat. With a tight hold, Yvette Van Buren’s yanked the coat from his grasp and they exchanged heated words.
Miss Timid Hettie emerged at the entrance, her blond hair angelic in the back light. Yvette Van Buren brushed past her daughter and strode into the party. Eyes wide, Hettie said something to her father, but he shook her off and escorted her into the brightness.
Mila released a breath. What was that all about? She grabbed the rotary phone and rang the main number. “Tours, please.”
A male voice picked up. “Museum Tours.”
“Ralph?” Ralph did all the tours for the elementary schools.
“Yes?”
“It’s Mila from the library.”
“Hi, Mila. What can I do for you?”
“Does anyone on your team read lips?”
“Sure. Mike Hampton does.”
“Is he there?”
“He’s on a tour.”
“When’s he back?”
“Not till late. Seven pm.”
Seven pm was well past Mila’s regularly scheduled departure. Only a few select things were worth an impromptu change of plans to one’s daily schedule. The hunt for Miss Timid Hettie was definitely one those things. “Can you tell him I’ll meet him then?”
35
“What the ever-loving fuck are you doing?” roared Yves Fontaine in the quiet Hong Kong Garden restaurant. He was camped out in a private booth in the back amid the potent aroma of greasy fried meat, sweet soy sauce, and clammy boiled rice.
She slid into the booth’s opposite seat.
He growled, “What about ‘check with me first’ did you not hear? Last night Van Buren tells me you were at their apartment dropping bombs about the daughter traveling.”
“I can explain.”
“I’m not ready for your fucking explanation yet, Walker,” he snarled. “Then this morning I get a call from Claude Van Buren’s corporate lawyer, chewing out my ear, honking on about you up in their office with guns blazing.” Two hands slammed the table. “What. The. Fuck. Are you doing?”
Behind them, the kitchen door clattered.
I’m coming, Hettie. No matter what, no matter the lumps, I’m coming to get you. She said, “My job.”
“Do not give me that bullshit about doing your job! I’ve heard that a million times before.” He pointed at her nose. “Your job was to check in with me before going half-cocked on the family.”
She sat straighter. “Sir, I was overtaken by events.”
“No, you fucking weren’t,” he roared. “You created events.”
In the kitchen, a Chinese chef snapped orders.
She blinked.
“You decided on your own to sweat this family. Goddamn it, Walker. I told you to notify me.”
“Sir, we got a new lead. In the middle of last night.”
“This had better be fucking solid.” He sat back.
“We discovered it at four am. I think Hettie’s research may have threatened one of Rittenhouse Equity’s investments. I think Hettie, as an environmentalist, discovered Rittenhouse is involved in a mining site on land of a protected bird—”
“Jesus H Christ, Walker!”
I’m coming Hettie. She held up a hand. “I know it sounds crazy, but if this bird was seen on this site in Honduras, it would shut down the mine. That would cost Rittenhouse a lot of money.”
He laid both hands on the laminate table and breathed through his nose.
“I think the Rittenhouse investment in the site may be worth $76 million.”
His eyes narrowed.
“A year. $76 million a year,”
His right hand signaled for her to continue.
I’m coming Hettie. I’m putting the pieces together and I’m coming to find you. “Micah and Hettie took a trip to Honduras three weeks ago. She did not tell her parents. Last night at the Van Buren residence, I explained these facts, and Mr. Van Buren exploded.”
Fontaine glared.
“He didn’t want us near this topic. Why was the topic of Hettie and Honduras so upsetting? Of course, his resistance sent us digging. We dug into Rittenhouse’s finances.”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“At four am, we discovered that Rittenhouse Equity may have a financial investment in a Honduran mining company. If Hettie can prove this bird is there, the land will be protected. I went to Rittenhouse this morning and confronted them with this theory. Their response was very off. Overly defensive. In fact, they kicked me out. Then an hour ago, Yvette Van Buren’s lawyer threw Claude Van Buren and Rittenhouse under the bus. The wife is distancing herself from the husband and Rittenhouse. I think she knows something.”
He spoke with a softer voice. “You think this is all about money?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t you notify me this morning of your plans?”
“Plausible deniability.”
His lips tightened. “I did not instruct you to protect me.”
Find Hettie now, take the lumps later. She sat mutely.
“I’ll tell you what I think.” He squinted at her. “I think you didn’t trust me not to call them. To warn them.”
“You’re right.”
The stark honesty succeeded in replacing Fountain’s anger with fatigue. He rubbed his eyes and blew out his lips. “You think someone at Rittenhouse teed up these two crimes? To protect $76 million?”
“A year. $76 million a year.”
“You think someone at Rittenhouse set up these crimes—got rid of the boyfriend and kidnapped Hettie—over money?”
He was right to question the motive. It was a niggling question. “It’s our most compelling lead. But no, I’m not a hundred percent sure. It’s still a working theory.”
“Okay. Who? Who do you think did it?”
“I’m not sure yet. There are four principles in Rittenhouse Equity. I think it may be one of them or a combination of them.”
“You went in this morning with guns blazing to try to divide them?”
“Yes. We’re watching their phones now.”
Silence descended between them. In the kitchen, a waiter barked. Out on the street, a car honked.
Fontaine rubbed his face. “The call from the lawyer wasn’t the only one I got about your investigation this morning.”
This was news. Who else would be interested so quickly? “Who’s coming at you?”
“The Mayor and the AG.”
This was big news. Two of the most powerful men in town were showing an interest in the case.
“Claude is throwing his weight around,” Fontaine said. “They want you off the case.”
/> “What did you say?”
“I told them that I had a good agent on the case. I told them that I had a rock-solid agent on the case. Because I do.”
She glanced at the table. “I’m sorry.” She looked up. “I should have trusted you.”
“Yes, you should have.”
She shifted in the booth.
Fontaine rubbed his lips. “A private equity fund is essentially other people’s money. There are heavy, heavy hitters in this town who have a lot of money tied up in Rittenhouse Equity. You start sniffing around Rittenhouse and they get squirrelly. They get really squirrelly.”
“Crap on a duck.”
“Yeah. And I’m the duck.” He shut his eyes, dropped his chin, and asked gingerly. “You truly think Rittenhouse is involved?
“I’m saying it’s my prime lead right now. The money is just too strong a motive. Their reactions are not right.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s gonna crack it today.”
He snorted.
“Hettie’s been gone three days. Everybody knows that. The Rittenhouse guys are in a pressure cooker, and I just turned the heat up a notch.” She pushed her shoulders back. “One of them is gonna break today.”
He nodded slowly. “Well, get on with it.”
Bravo, Boss. Hettie, I’m still coming! She slid to the edge of the booth. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
He nodded again, but the lines in his face had softened and his eyes had turned gentle. “If you solve this soon, that would be good. I mean, not just because you’ll get the girl back.”
She paused halfway across the booth. “Why? What do you mean?”
“Walker, Office of Professional Responsibility is ready to interview you.”
It had been six months since the OPR investigation into St. Chris had begun. They must be reaching the end of the inquiry. Her heartbeat spiked. “When?”
“Monday.”
That was three days away. For a kidnapping case it was a lifetime. She had plenty of time to worry about OPR later. Now, she had to find Hettie. She nodded and resumed sliding from the booth.
“You’re going to be fine.” He clasped both hands and placed them on the table.
She stood and shrugged. “I did what I did.”
“For very good reason.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“You’re also not the first agent to break. We all see shit, sleep shit, live shit, breath shit. You see enough shit, it gets to you. It has to come out sideways.” He watched her. “I saw the notes from Darlin’s interview.”
Her heartbeat spiked higher. She wouldn’t allow him to distract her. Hettie, I’m coming. Later, she would deal with OPR. She turned to go.
Fontaine leaned back, unclasped his hands and laid them flat on the table like a professor speaking to a student. “That little girl didn’t give you up. That’s one tough cookie. She told them all about what happened to her. Her story … in black and white … it breaks you a little.” He shook his head. “But that little girl didn’t give you up. They asked her point-blank if she saw you do anything. Anything. And that little girl just said no each time. They asked her five times and five times she said no.”
Dom didn’t have time for this. Hettie, I’m coming. She took a step to the front of the restaurant.
“Walker, do not give yourself up to OPR.”
He had been telling her the same thing for months: Don’t admit anything. Her phone rang. It was an unregistered number. “Special Agent Walker.”
“Agent Walker, this is Yvette Van Buren.” Yvette’s voice cracked.
Dom’s eyes flashed to Fontaine. “Yes, Mrs. Van Buren, how are you?”
Fontaine’s eyes widened.
Yvette said softly, “I was wondering if perhaps you could give me an update. About my daughter. Perhaps just you and me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Van Buren. Of course, I’d be happy to come meet with you.”
Fontaine hooked a thumb to the door.
Hettie, I’m coming. Nothing is going to stop me. Not OPR, not the Mayor, not the AG, not Rittenhouse, not your father. I’m coming to get you back from the monsters. She strode to the front of the restaurant, the phone pressed to her ear. “Mrs. Van Buren, I’m on my way.”
36
Deceit
@LastCurlew
the years of deceit materialize out of dusty drifts
like howls of banshees trapped in secrecy—
culprits—of my own tribe—caught, entangled, enmeshed,
images pierce virtuous skin like acetic darts
and shoot inward at kidney, liver, heart lancing
serene domestic memories created in happier times—
liars—declaring, announcing to all the admirers
of a gentile world, claiming a fortune of honor,
please continue you dissimulating perjurers, frauds,
because a reckoning is converging.
37
Despite the heavy beige curtains drawn against the windows on the eleventh Floor of Central Park West, a sliver of sun intruded and flickered across the polished floor. Yvette drifted into the room in an ivory cashmere sweater with matching ivory slacks, an oddly warm outfit for a summer day. Her gray hair had been pulled back into a sleek, tight knot above a thin neck. She appeared to have lost weight since yesterday. Light makeup couldn’t distract from the red rims around her eyes.
The maid in the white dress followed closely behind.
“Agent Walker,” Yvette said in a tremulous voice, “thank you for coming. Please, let’s take a seat.” She turned to the maid. “Patrice, will you make us two Manhattans please?” To no one in particular, she whispered, “Fortitude in the face of adversity.”
It wasn’t a good sign that Yvette was drinking at noon. But coping mechanisms came in all different hues. The two women sat.
“What news do you have of my daughter?” Yvette’s eyes appeared glassy.
Had she already been drinking this morning? “We are following a very compelling lead at the moment.”
“I see.”
“Mrs. Van Buren, have you spoken with your husband today?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
This was a bit of luck. “I was at his office this morning.”
“I see,” she whispered.
“He was, how shall I say … not terribly happy to see me.”
“What happened?”
The maid padded to the seating area, set down a silver tray with crystal glasses of dark cocktails, and disappeared again.
Dom said, “I was surprised to be honest, about your husband’s reaction.”
Leaning over to pick up a drink, Yvette squinted at the crystal glasses and frowned. She picked up a silver bell and gave it a quick shake that sent a peel through the apartment. The maid rushed through the door and scurried over.
Yvette said, “Patrice, please do match the glasses. It’s the least we can do for our guest.”
She grabbed the platter and disappeared quickly from the room.
Yvette turned to Dom. “I’m sorry for that. What was it you were saying about my husband?”
“He was quite angry this morning.”
“Was he?” she said flatly.
“Yes, quite. His temper flared. Quickly.”
“Let me choose my words carefully, Agent Walker, because I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.” Her hands clasped each other. “Claude’s manners sometimes are not what they should be.”
“So you know this temper?”
The maid returned with a new tray and retreated. Yvette grasped a glass and took a long thirsty slug.
It was not the first drink of the day.
“Yes, of course,” Yvette said. “Wives know their husbands. Mine runs testy.”
“Well, his anger got the better of him. He kicked me out before we discussed the details of the case and the search for your daughter. It was a highly unusual turn of events.”
“Pardon me?”
“Yes, before I could explain my latest findings, he kicked me out.”
Both hands held the glass. “Why? Did you, in some way, imply that he or his firm had something to do with my daughter’s disappearance?”
There. The theory was out in the open. Adrenaline hit Dom’s neck. Would Yvette implicate her husband? “Yes. I suggested that Hettie’s research may risk a Rittenhouse investment.” Would the cracks in the lake’s frozen surface finally give way?
Yvette pushed back against the sofa. “How … how … What is the connection?”
“A possible sighting of an endangered bird on the site of a mine. In Honduras. I believe your husband’s firm is invested in this mine.”
Yvette’s eyes blinked rapidly. “Honduras?”
“Yes.”
“You think there is something … nefarious … about the trip to Honduras?”
“Yes.”
“You think Hettie discovered this … a bird … at a mining site owned by my husband? That she informed … confronted Claude?”
“Yes.”
Yvette took a long sip, and her eyelids fluttered. “And that somehow…he…”
The alcohol was having an impact, and disquiet was descending around her like a fog. Dom didn’t have much time. “Is there something you want to tell me about your husband and Hettie?”
Yvette stared off into the distance.
“Mrs. Van Buren, is there something you can tell me?”
“Reputation is important in this town, Agent. It’s everything.”
“Excuse me? How do you mean, Mrs. Van Buren?”
“It keeps your friends close and your enemies at bay. It keeps the family moving into the future. It ensures progress. It takes lifetimes to build a reputation. A family name. Then one false move and it’s gone.”
She was rambling. “Did Mr. Van Buren ever bully you, Mrs. Van Buren?”
Yvette’s eyes focused on Dom. “Define bully, please, Agent.”