by HN Wake
“Used his power or strength to coerce or intimidate you … perhaps to do things you didn’t want to do? It often takes the form of aggression.”
“Yes.”
Dom’s adrenaline surged. “How?”
“Many ways. Small and large.”
“Regularly?”
“Yes.”
“Habitually?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“No.” Her brow furrowed. “The lies we tell.”
“Can you describe the ways your husband bullies you?”
She took another deep sip. “I think the topic that is far more pertinent—after your discovery this morning—is how this relates to Hettie.”
Dom’s heart spiked. “Does your husband bully Hettie?”
“Oh yes.”
“Regularly, small and large?”
“Oh yes. And my Hettie is very quiet—she’s not able to stand up to him.”
I’m coming, Hettie, I’m getting close. “Did he ever hurt either of you?”
“Physically? No. That’s not his style.” She finished the drink in a final gulp.
“Mrs. Van Buren, do you think your husband may be involved in Hettie’s disappearance?”
Yvette’s gray eyes glazed over. She set the empty glass on the silver tray and with a tiny voice whispered, “I’m sure I can’t answer that.”
“Mrs. Van Buren, if it would help find your daughter, I believe you must answer it.”
Yvette stared into the distance.
She was mentally shutting down. “Mrs. Van Buren, is there something you should be telling me?”
Yvette closed her eyes.
“Mrs. Van Buren, I can protect you. If you are afraid, I can protect you.”
Cloudy eyes looked past Dom. “Our world is different. You do not understand our world.” Then Yvette stood and, as if in a trance, crossed the huge living room and disappeared through a door.
Outside, Dom stared across Central Park. The blue sky was being pushed aside by a bank of gray. A storm was coming. The night was going to be long. There was much to do. She dialed Beecher.
“Yo,” he said.
“Listen, it’s going to be late again.”
“Don’t worry, I got Tinks.”
“Thanks. How’s your day?”
He cleared his throat.
It was never a good sign. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Seriously? What?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’m one hundred percent not doing this with you. Tell me.”
“Esther’s letter.”
A chill rose through her body. “What about it?”
“I read it.”
He read the letter without her. As if pushed from an air lock, Dom was suddenly unmoored, floating in dark space as a crushing weight pressed down on her chest.
“I read it.”
Esther had abandoned them. Esther hadn’t wanted them, hadn’t loved them. Dom and Beecher were unwanted, unlovable.
“Dom, I read the letter.”
With a huge breath she filled her lungs, trying to push against the pressure. “You agreed you would throw it out.”
“I know. But she wants to meet us.”
The pressure pushed back on her chest. “No.”
“She says there’s more to the story.”
In an instant, white hot anger surged. “Fuck that. We don’t need to know her side of the story. Fuck that. No way. Her side of the story can go fuck itself.”
“That’s not what she wrote. She said more to the story. Not her story. Maybe there’s more about Dad than we know.”
“Dad killed himself. Our mother left us. That’s the fucking story.”
He remained silent.
Anger tightened her voice. “We agreed you’d throw it out.”
“Yes, we did,” he said slowly. “But the situation has changed. I changed my mind.”
“You’re not allowed to do that.”
“Dom, it’s human nature. People change their minds.”
“No. No they don’t. Not about this.” Esther didn’t love them. Esther hadn’t wanted them.
“Dom, what can it hurt to talk to her?”
“You don’t know. You don’t know about her. You don’t know how it went down.”
“Dom, I do know. I was there. We both lived through it—”
“You were ten.”
“I was still a sentient being. Just because I was ten doesn’t mean I didn’t live through it just like you did.”
As if he had blown on a lit candle, the gust extinguished the anger. Gentle, soft, Beecher. He had feelings too.
“Just because you were older, and in charge, doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions on this.”
Beecher. His voice sounded so vulnerable.
“You can’t be in charge of everything,” he said.
“Throw it out,” was all she could muster.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Please throw it out.”
“Go back to your investigation. We’ll talk about it later.” He was gone.
38
Lea Peck glanced out the window where gray, angry clouds gathered in the distance and stretched her neck. A ping from the computer announced the arrival of an email with the results from match for the fingerprints on the gun. The email message had only one word: NON-IDENTIFICATION. Dammit. It meant the murderer’s prints did not match any in the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, known as IAFIS. It was unexpected that someone who had executed a clean shot into Micah Zapata’s chest did not match anyone in the national databases of over 70 million crime-related prints, 31 million civilian prints, or 73,000 known suspected terrorists. My pretty wants to hide from me.
She stood, strode to the far end of the room, and jacked her knees to her chest in two sets. Except for the three hours of sleep grabbed on a cot in the basement locker room, she had been going strong for thirty-six hours. The first few days of a kidnapping required it. She completed ten jumps onto the chair and felt the oxygen buzz her brain. She had tried to use IAFIS to narrow in on the killer. What if she reversed the search? You can’t hide from me, my pretty little killer.
She strode back to the desk and sat. She cracked her knuckles and scanned piles of documents on the desk. What if she started narrow, at the core of the crimes, and worked out? She mentally reviewed all the computer files on this case—the phone logs, the credit card charges, the photos. All of them were related. They all intersected. Micah Zapata. Bronx. Hettie Van Buren. Greenwich Village. Rittenhouse Equity. Honduras. Hiking. Dusty field. Mining. Phalanx. Her head snapped up. What if the killer had come Honduras to do the dirty deeds? My fury upon this place, and it is not quenched.
What was at the core of the crimes? She pulled up the five photos taken on vacation to trigger her brain to make connections. The selfie outside an airport. Micah driving a Jeep. The dusty field. On the mouse, her finger paused. She clicked back to the airport image. She hit the back button and stared at the two outside the airport. You can’t hide from me, my pretty little motherfucking international killer. She grinned and dialed a number.
A deep voice answered, “Detective Johns.”
“Detective Johns?”
“Yup. The one and only.”
“My name is Lea Peck. I provide support to Special Agent Domini Walker here at the FBI.”
“Mm-hmm. You find the missing girl?”
“Not yet.”
“Sorry to hear that. Girl’s been missing what, going on four days now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dang.” Law enforcement types never said too much about a case, no need to belabor the extraordinarily poor odds. “How’s Walker’s foot?”
“I’m sorry? What?” Lea asked.
“Uh, oh. Nothing,” he said. “What can I do for you, Ms. Peck?”
“Thank you for your assistance on the case, Detective.”
; “Of course.”
“I wondered if I could ask a large favor?”
“Hit me.”
“I have some unmatched prints from the throwaway gun left at the scene. I’m thinking the perp may be a foreigner, possibly from Central America, maybe even Honduras. I’m wondering if he came through any of the New York airports would his prints be in their systems?"
“Yup, indeed. If your shooter came through an airport, they would have printed him. We know some guys out at JFK and Newark. Send ’em my way.”
She shot a fist into the air. Not from me, my pretty little killer. You can’t hide from me. “Thank you, Detective Johns! I’m sending you the prints now.”
Five minutes later, she leaned back and toggled between the five photos. Had Hettie found her beloved Eskimo curlew in Copán province? On the screen was the dusty field, and in the far distance the pristine lake, a peaked mountain range, and a blue sky with white downy clouds. She straightened in her chair. Dom and Lea hadn’t been able to determine the exact location of the Phalanx site, but had Hettie? If Lea could prove Hettie’s photos were taken near the mining site, they would have one more piece of solid evidence.
Lea’s fingers flew across the keyboard, and her mouse worked magic across the internet. Soon she was staring at satellite photos taken of a wide square area in northwest Honduras. Twenty small towns dotted the map. When she tinted the coloring on the screen, three large swathes appeared. She cross-referenced the dark areas and determined they were national parks. Parque Nacional Celaque, Reserva de Vida Silvestre Erapuca, and Reserva Biológica Volcán Pacayita. Time to find this mountain range.
She settled in for the tedious work of comparing park photos against Hettie’s peaked mountain.
An hour later, Lea hit pay dirt. Hettie’s mountain range was located in Reserva Biológica Volcán Pacayita in Copán province. Hettie and Micah had been in Copán. Lea snapped her fingers. Getting closer. Now, was the mountain range in the Reserva Biológica Volcán Pacayita near the Phalanx site? On the map, she zoomed in tight to an area east of the park. There were four villages there: Cornet, San Marcos de Caiquin, Arcomon, and Rapoosa. One of them had to be the site of the Phalanx mine. Getting closer.
Lea pulled up the third image of Hettie and Micah standing in front of a white modern building, the walls stark and glossy with no stains or cracks. Behind the building, a jungle was thick with foliage, vines, and dark underbrush. Was this a hotel in one of the four villages? She snapped her fingers. Getting closer. She typed an internet search for hotels near Reserva Biológica Volcán Pacayita. Four websites were returned.
It was the third website that sent her heart racing. Villa Paradiso’s, a four-star hotel, had a professional home page with high-definition images of a pristine, modern white structure surrounded by jungle. It was the same glossy building in Hettie’s photos. The contacts listed on the hotel’s website were Rapoosa, Copán, Honduras. Lea shot out of her chair. Gotcha! One hundred bucks says the Phalanx mining site was near Rapoosa.
39
Against the gray sky peeking through the skyscrapers on Park Avenue, a dark bank of clouds roiled as if readying for a storm. In the driver’s seat of the Lancia, sleep deprivation—dry mouth, aching shoulders, and burning eyes—battled for attention against aching toes. Dom’s mind spun with a smoldering anger. That bastard bully Claude Van Buren and his soulless Rittenhouse Equity partners were going to pay for having Micah Zapata killed and Hettie kidnapped.
Lea rang on her cellphone. “I used Hettie’s photos to confirm where they went. We were right, they went up to the province of Copán. During the day they searched for the bird in an area east of a national park. At night they stayed at a hotel called the Villa Paradiso. It’s the only four-star place in the whole North West sector.”
This was good news. “Nice work.”
“It gets better. I called the hotel. They have records of Hettie and Micah staying there three weeks ago. Dom, it’s coming together.”
Traffic was picking up with the arrival of rush hour. A taxi at high speed narrowly missed the Lancia’s side-view mirror.
They were filling in the jigsaw puzzle, and their suspicions were correct. “Really good work, Lea.” These goddamned bastards were going to pay.
“Also, I’ve got the surveillance up and running on the Rittenhouse foursome. They haven’t called each other in the last two days. In fact, none of them—not Van Buren, Chase, Coll, or Atkins—have used their cell since your meeting this morning.”
The bastards were going dark. They were circling the wagons, trying to figure out their next play. “Keep me posted.”
“Copy that. Where are you?”
In the stark lobby of the office building, Chase Craig, aka Mustache and Rittenhouse Equity’s jowly partner, scurried across the marble on stubby legs. A blue tailored suit couldn’t hide a pear shape.
Red-hot anger shot through Dom’s veins. “I’m about to turn up the heat on the Rittenhouse foursome.”
“Fucking righteous warrior! You go, girl.”
Dom turned the ignition key and the Lancia growled.
Forty minutes later, Dom flashed her badge at the maitre d’ of an expensive Italian restaurant on Sullivan Street in Soho. The air was thick with garlic, herbs, and sirloin as she made her way past candles and small talk toward a table in the back. Mustache sniffed a cork offered by a sommelier and smiled greedily at a slender woman twenty years his junior but froze when he recognized Dom.
She stopped within a foot of the table. “Hello, Chase.”
“What do you want?” he asked flatly.
“Just a quick question.”
He blinked.
“How well do you know Claude Van Buren?”
He squinted.
“Do you know him well enough to go to jail for him?”
His eyes widened, and his lips clamped.
“Today I’m offering a deal.” She gently laid her card by his fork. “To one of you. Only one. I need to know about the crimes against Micah Zapata and Hettie Van Buren.” She leaned into his ear, catching the hint of briny sweat. “Chase, you don’t want one of your cronies taking my offer first.”
Out on the street, Dom’s phone rang.
It was Lea. “Your two NYPD detectives found a match on the prints out at JFK. The guy who killed Micah entered the States in Miami on early Sunday morning. His name is Jose Onofre. From Honduras. I’m chasing him down with help from the US Embassy in Honduras.”
The jigsaw puzzle was fitting together quickly now. “Nice work. Keep me posted.”
Thirty minutes later, Dom waited in the bright lobby of a residential building on the Upper East Side as suited professionals strode briskly across black and white tiles, briefcases and handbags swinging. Dom stood as the horsey Patricia Coll, General Counsel of Rittenhouse Equity, strode through the front door. “Ms. Coll.”
Startled, Horsey faltered. “What are you doing?”
“Have you got a minute?” Dom indicated the gray flannel couch she had been using.
Horsey shook her head. “No. As a matter of fact I don’t. This is highly unusual.”
“Actually, it’s not.”
“You can meet me in our offices.”
“Or here.”
Horsey checked for onlookers before sitting on the couch and placing her large satchel purse by an ankle.
Dom sat close. “You seem anxious.”
“I am.”
“Why is that?”
“My colleague’s daughter is missing, a man has been murdered, and an FBI agent is questioning me at my residence. It is stressful.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
Horsey stared ahead.
“So,” Dom said. “You know why I’m here.”
Horsey remained still.
“How well do you know Claude Van Buren?”
“Well enough. I’ve worked closely with him for ten years.”
“And what is your impression of Claude Van Buren?”
�
�Is he suspect?”
Dom grinned. “Yes.”
Horsey blinked, yanked her purse, and stood quickly. “I will require the presence of a lawyer to discuss this case any further with you. I’ll have the office send you my lawyer’s name.”
“Yeah.” Dom stood. “I thought you’d say that. But being a lawyer, you know how this goes.” She held out her card. “Today, I’m offering a deal for information about the crimes against Micah Zapata and Hettie Van Buren. I only need one of you to tell the story. The rest of you will be hung out to dry.”
Horsey gaped but a manicured hand snatched the card.
An hour later, dusk had settled, shadows had lengthened, and street lights had flickered on. The sports car was parked in the gloom across from a red brick townhouse in Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn. Double black doors topped an impressive front stair. The blood in Dom’s veins pumped forcefully from a mix of anger and caffeine. Five minutes earlier she had sunk eye drops into her scratchy eyes. It hadn’t helped.
The phone rang. “Nothing,” Lea said. “Total silence. Not a single one of the Rittenhouse four has made a call.”
Dom’s eyes were trained on the black doors. “It’s coming. It will happen tonight.”
“I’ve tracked down Jose Onofre. He has a record. A long sheet. Dom, you’re not going to believe this next bit. Onofre works for the one and only Phalanx.”
The blood in her veins clanged. “Goddamn it. Bastards.”
Their theory was proving accurate. The jigsaw puzzle was filling in. One, four months ago, the Van Burens forbade Hettie to travel to developing countries. Two, in an act of vindication, Hettie identified a Rittenhouse investment in Copán Province, Honduras that was a possible habitat of the beloved Eskimo curlew. Three, together Hettie and Micah had planned the trip, found a tour guide, traveled to Copán, and spotted the Eskimo curlew. Four, upon their return, Hettie informed Rittenhouse that the land was to be protected. Five, standing to lose $76 million, Rittenhouse called Phalanx. Six, Phalanx sent Onofre to get rid of the problem.
Dom hissed, “Goddamned bastards.”
“I mean what were they thinking to call in Phalanx?”