by HN Wake
“They didn’t expect us to connect them to the Honduras mining site.”
The photo of Hettie and Micah smiling outside the Honduran airport flashed in front of Dom’s burning eyes, and the anger in her veins turned to lava. These bastards were not going to get away with it. She wanted one of these four to break tonight. “Keep an eye on those phones.”
“Roger that.” Lea rang off.
The black doors of the townhouse opened, and Roger Atkins, aka Runner, appeared at the top of the stairs in a T-shirt and running tights. Dom set her coffee cup in the cup holder, reached for the door handle, and unwound from the car. Runner clocked her immediately. It was no surprise that the head of security of a billion-dollar private equity fund was smart and attentive. She leaned back against the car and slowly crossed her arms, resisting the urge to walk over and punch his smug face.
Runner jogged down the stairs and paused on the sidewalk. There was no fear behind the intense eyes. He was smart, attentive, and tough.
“I’m going to find Hettie,” she said. “We’re connecting the dots already. I’m going to bring her back.” She held out her card. “If you were involved in any way in these crimes, I will make it my lifelong mission to put you in jail for a very long time. But today, I’m offering one of you a deal.”
With a final cold stare, Runner turned and jogged down the street. Smart, attentive, tough and potentially dangerous.
But it didn’t matter. She was closing in. She and Lea were 90 percent there. I’m coming, Hettie. Hold on just a little bit longer.
Watching his figure move into the shadows, she lowered the business card.
40
A Charlatan King in Rapoosa
@LastCurlew
Five hours of stillness
and the roar of the plane’s engines.
There will be heat,
vapor and foreign tongues
awaiting their touch down.
Red soil greets tires
birthing dust clouds
that obscure hungry eyes
and empty stalls.
Hours later
the white Hotel of Paradise
inside a waterfall’s murmur
within a thundering jungle.
A candlelit terrace
with silent waiters
and white tablecloths.
Beyond the foliage,
radiates a blood red sky.
A charlatan king’s gleaming eyes.
A bright red sky!
Heralds tomorrow, Father crows,
to Rapoosa did Kubla Khan
send our quest.
The morning cracks the whip
as the squad prepares.
A mission beckons
with treasures of gold and silver
for corrupt men.
41
The tour office was located just off the museum’s Roosevelt Rotunda. Pushing through the swing door, Mila stepped into the swampy outer office. Framed photos of the various exhibits cluttered all four walls. A single phone was ringing in the back office. At the reception desk, a pimply high schooler in a blue uniform pushed pamphlets into plexiglass holders.
“Mike Hampton here?” Mila asked.
The teenager pointed at the back office.
Five minutes later, she and the bony Mike Hampton were watching the scene taking place outside the winter gala. Mila reached over and paused the image on the moment the Van Burens stepped into the light at the top of the stairs. “Here, just here. I want to know what they say to each other.”
Twerpy Mike whined, “That’s totally not okay, Mila.”
She said nothing.
“It’s an invasion of privacy,” he squeaked.
“It’s two minutes of dialog.”
“What are you after?”
Cold sweat pinged across her skin. She would have to lie. “Listen, totally off the record, these guys made a donation to the museum library, specifically to our library. I want to know why the protestors targeted them.” The delivery had been cumbersome. She held her breath.
“Mila, I know these are the Van Burens. You’re full of crap. This is about Hettie, isn’t it?”
Her heart rate spiked, and her face flushed. She had never been good on the social skills. Getting caught by Twerpy Mike was excruciating, and she cringed.
“Whatever.” Twerpy Mike shook his head. “I’ll do it, but I’ll deny it if anyone asks.”
“Deal. I was never here. We never spoke.”
“When I hold up my right hand, it’s Mr. Van Buren talking. When I hold up my left hand, it’s the wife talking.”
Mila nodded.
On the screen, Claude Van Buren inspected his wife’s stained coat before turning to the protestors and yelling.
On the screen, Yvette Van Buren’s face was tight with anger.
Claude Van Buren turned back to his wife and reached to touch her but she recoiled.
Twerpy Mike raised his hand as Claude Van Buren’s lips moved. “It’s fake blood. Those bastards.”
“They are here, in the city.” Yvette Van Buren was livid.
“Yes.”
“This is can, isn’t it?”
“Yes… ”
Twerpy Mike tapped the space bar to pause the video. “I think they said, ‘Can’ but I can’t be sure. My lip reading isn’t exact, and it’s complicated by the fact that they aren’t facing me. Lots of words look the same. You kinda have to know the context.”
“Can? As in C-A-N?” Mila asked.
“Yeah.”
Mila nodded.
Twerpy Mike hit play, and Claude Van Buren’s lips moved. “Yes... I think it probably is.”
“Damn you, Claude.” Yvette Van Buren appeared to hiss.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“My home, Claude. They’re attacking me here in my city, my home. Do something.”
Behind her parents, Miss Timid Hettie appeared in the light.
Yvette Van Buren brushed past both.
Hettie asked her father, “What’s that all about?”
“Nothing.” It was the only word Claude Van Buren spoke as he turned toward the party.
Mila raced back to the intern alcove and hurtled into the chair. Pulling up the internet, she searched for environmental groups in New York. The search returned fifteen names including the Climate Action Network, whose nickname was CAN and who had been mentioned in a recent article, NEW YORK CITY >> This Wednesday members from a local environmental group, the Climate Action Network (CAN), were arrested at 9 pm outside an event at the New York Fashion Week.
What were the odds that there was more than one organization that protested red carpet events and had a similar or same acronym as CAN? Infinitesimal. The odds were literally infinitesimal. Why was CAN throwing fake blood on Yvette Van Buren? Goosebumps puckered along Mila’s arms. How had the Van Buren’s known which organization it was? Boy, oh boy, this sure felt like some kind of mystery. Mila looked up the contact information for CAN. Their office was located on 2nd Avenue by Gramercy Park. That wasn’t far by bike. She would confirm CAN and call Agent Cool Cucumber.
Five minutes later, fresh air hit Mila’s face as she raced into the underground driveway. She clicked the bike helmet’s chin strap and adjusted the backpack. Reaching her bike, she clipped her pants legs, unlocked the Kryptonite claw, and slipped it in the holder. In the dark, a bus heading uptown chugged acrid exhaust. With one foot on a pedal, she pushed the bike out onto the sidewalk and threw her right leg over in an ingrained movement. For the millionth time she wondered if that action would build up her right butt muscles oddly, like the rollerbladers.
The quickest route was straight down 7th Avenue. It was a new route for her, and the thought of departure from the regular route caused her heart to thump. All in the name of Miss Timid Hettie. She sped out onto West Central Park drive, merged into the headlights of heavy traffic, hooked a left at West 84th Street, weaved through cars, and hooked a left southbound on Columbus Avenue.
Her feet spun as she shifted into a high gear. Streetlights rushed past.
Fifteen minutes later, she slowed on 2nd Avenue and stopped by a signpost. She dismounted and locked the bike. Slipping in earphones, she pulled out her cell phone and pretended to listen to music while she got her bearings. Across the street, CAN’s office was a tall townhouse with a large green door and a brass nameplate. A nearby streetlight threw down a white circle across tall stairs. With her cell phone, she snapped photos from various angles of the front door, just in case the FBI agent needed them. She moved up the street, turned and passed the green door again. Now what?
She had stopped by the entrance to a coffee shop with a large window on the street. It might be a good look out and place to regroup. Inside, the empty space was an homage to raw pale wood and hand-made chalk signs. The air smelled of sugar and tangy, burned-earth coffee.
Mila ordered a drip coffee at the counter from a diffident red-headed girl who didn’t smile much. By the front window, she poured in sugar and half-and-half into her cup.
She turned back to the counter and Diffident Girl. “Can I ask you a question?”
Diffident Girl nodded.
“You work here very long?”
Diffident Girl gave her a funny look. “Yeah, about a year.”
Mila glanced out the front windows at the CAN entrance. It was a long shot, but what the hell? She pulled out her phone, found a photo of Hettie, and handed it to Diffident Girl. “This woman ever come in here?”
“Yeah. Actually yeah. A few times.”
What were the odds that this was not related to the gala and the video? Infinitesimal. “Recently?”
“Yeah, like a few months ago, maybe?”
“You remember what she did?”
Diffident Girl shrugged. “She got coffee.”
Mila smiled awkwardly. Small talk was not in her wheelhouse.
“Yo, she sat by the window.”
Bingo. Hettie was casing CAN. “How many times she come in here?”
“I dunno.”
“But she sat by the window?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Thanks.” Mila chose a table by the window and stared at the green door of CAN. The coffee tasted sour. After a long moment, she pulled up the photo of the FBI card with Domini Walker’s phone number and slowly pressed the eleven numbers. Some things were worth spontaneity. Scratch that. Only a very few things were worth spontaneity. Helping to find Hettie was one of those rare things.
The agent answered on the second ring. “Walker.”
Mila cleared her throat. “My name is Mila Pascale.”
“Yes?”
Mila swallowed. “I think I may have something for you.”
“Okay?”
Across the street, the green of the CAN door stood out brightly against the streetlight.. The skin behind Mila’s ears tingled. “The odds just really speak for themselves. The odds are … uh … overwhelming.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s about Hettie Van Buren.”
“I’m definitely listening.”
“I’m friends with Hettie at work. I know you’re looking for her. I’ve done some snooping on her social media. I found out she writes. She writes on the side, under a pen name. She posts on Wattpad under the pen name @ LastCurlew.”
Silence.
“But that’s not as important as something else I’ve found.”
Silence.
Through the coffee shop window, the CAN green door was mesmerizing. “Four months ago an environmental group named CAN protested a museum gala. They threw fake blood on Hettie’s mom.”
Silence.
“CAN is located near Gramercy Park. There’s a coffee shop across the street. After the gala, Hettie came here, to the coffee shop. I think she came here, sat by the window, to stake out CAN.”
“Where are you now, Ms. Pascale?”
“At the coffee shop. By the window.”
“What’s the address of the coffee shop?”
Mila gave it to her.
“Don’t move, Ms. Pascale. I’m coming to you.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t move,” the agent insisted. “Stand like a statue.”
When things were unpredictable, when everything had been turned upside down, when life had kicked you out of safe routines, it was important to get the small things right. “I’m sitting.”
“Then stay seated, Miss Pascale. But by all things honorable and necessary, you stay right there.”
Agent Cool Cucumber was gone.
42
The offices of CAN were in a converted townhouse in Gramercy Park. The front reception area was covered in brightly colored posters displaying natural resources: a huge canopy of tropical trees reached towering heights, a crashing waterfall misted over rocks, and the gentle black eyes of an orangutan peered out from behind green leaves. Even at eight pm, open doors along the first floor released the ringing of phones and the peal of laughter. The overall vibe was of proud optimism.
Dom flashed her FBI shield at an unimpressed millennial receptionist. “I’d like to speak with your Executive Director. My name is Special Agent Domini Walker. Tell him—”
“It’s a woman,” she interrupted.
“Tell her that I’d just like ten minutes of her time please.”
The millennial picked up the phone and dialed three numbers, watching Dom with a fearless gaze, and said, “There is an FBI agent here who would like to meet with Eileen please.” She listened. “Yes, okay.” She hung up the phone. “Our Executive Director is not here, but our Deputy ED is.” She indicated a short hallway behind her desk. “He’ll meet you in the conference room down on the left.”
The conference room, painted a warm orange and covered in more posters, had one slim window with a view of brick wall.
A tall Asian man in his thirties with smooth skin and a confident air, strode in with an outstretched hand. His eyes were clear and gentle, as if he had no secrets. “George Gao. I’m the Deputy Executive Director of CAN.”
“FBI Special Agent Domini Walker,” she said as they shook hands. “I wonder if I can have a few moments of your time?”
“Of course.” He indicated the scarred conference table.
As they sat, Dom said, “I am investigating a case that I believe may have something to do with your organization.”
“Okay?”
“George, do you know Claude and Yvette Van Buren?”
He tensed. “Personally? No.”
“But you know of them?”
He squinted. “Of course.”
Mila Pascale, the odd little mouse of a museum researcher, had divulged some very interesting information. In fact, odd little Mila may have stumbled on the provocation event that triggered this whole saga. Time to put that theory to the test. “Three months ago the Van Buren’s attended a gala at the Natural History Museum. On their way in, I believe one of your colleagues threw fake blood on them.”
He straightened. “Yes.”
“You know about this?”
“Yes. We have paid the fines.”
“Why were the Van Burens targeted?”
“Because Claude Van Buren runs a private equity firm called Rittenhouse.” He chose his words slowly. “We at CAN are aware of him because he makes investments in extractive companies.”
“And that is relevant to CAN?”
“Agent Walker, we are an environmental activist group. We keep an eye on all things that damage our planet. I’m not sure how informed you are about climate change …”
“Enough.”
“Earth is on—currently—a trajectory with ruinous consequences. Overwhelming environmental disruption, massive economic instability. Man-made climate change is potentially catastrophic. We believe that unless this trajectory is changed, we are all in for a future we won’t recognize.” None of his micro tells indicated misrepresentation. His gaze was direct and sincere. “Not enough people are taking it seriously. Banke
rs in particular are not taking it seriously. Their interest is very much on the short term. Selfishly. Tragically. For the rest of us.”
“As in, they want to make short-term profits?”
“Yes. At the expense of the planet’s future. Their behavior is in fact, illogical if they have children, because the damage they are reaping will be left behind. But people behave irrationally often. Particularly when greed in involved.” He crossed his arms. “We keep a sharp, focused eye on those actors in the financial sector who negatively influence climate change.”
“Like Claude Van Buren?”
“Rittenhouse Equity enables extractive companies to flourish despite their tenuous economic shelf life.”
“So you monitor his firm?”
George shrugged. “As much as we can. Rittenhouse’s investments—most private equity firms—are not public, so we glean what we can. Much of the financial sector is opaque. Unfortunately for the humans and fauna of the planet.”
“Why protest Claude or Yvette Van Buren? That seems extreme.”
“To you, I’m sure it does. But there are very few opportunities we have as citizens to voice our concerns.”
“I’m not sure throwing fake blood made the point.”
“With respect, Agent, I’m not sure it didn’t.”
She leaned in. “George, Hettie Van Buren is missing.”
He froze. Eyes widened, pupils dilated, and nostrils flared.
This was news to him and it caused immediate stress. “Do you know Hettie Van Buren?”
He glanced left and nodded.
“Have you ever met Hettie Van Buren?”
His voice was soft. “She’s missing?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Late Sunday night, as far as we can tell.”
He blew out his cheeks. “She came here.”
“When?”
“After the protest at the gala. A few months back.”
Dom’s heart rate picked up a beat. “What were your impressions?”