Sound of a Furious Sky: FBI Agent Domini Walker Book 1
Page 1
Sound of a Furious Sky
FBI Agent Domini Walker Book One
HN Wake
Copyright © 2019 by HN Wake
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing done by Martha Hayes.
http://dedicatededitor.com/
Created with Vellum
For my friends near and dear who may happen to live far and wide. You are valued.
Contents
Prologue
Untitled
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Untitled
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Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Untitled
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Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Untitled
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Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Untitled
Untitled
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Untitled
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Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Untitled
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Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Acknowledgments
Twenty years ago
Five cardboard boxes from Mario’s Bakery sat at the base of a grimy wall in the barren apartment. Domini Walker watched her brother race into the first bedroom and hop between feet, blond hair fluttering and long arms flailing. Compared to the proper beds they had at home, the mattress on the floor resembled a campsite. He tap-danced inside the empty closet and closed the door like an excited Boy Scout.
Aunt Lucille’s voice was clipped. “Beecher seems to like it.”
“He’s ten.”
“Shall we sit, Dom?”
They sat on the prickly upholstery at opposite ends of the sun-seared brown sofa. Dom didn’t know much about Aunt Lucille, other than her husband always stank of beer and her two deranged boys threw rocks at cats, but she imagined the woman’s belongings would not fit into five boxes.
Beecher raced past them and into the second bedroom.
Aunt Lucille stared out the bare window. “This is just temporary. This way you can both remain in the same school. Keep some continuity. We will change the address on the school files when you start back up in the fall. No need to make a fuss.”
“She’s not coming back, is she?”
In the other room, Beecher stilled.
Aunt Lucille blinked. “Some time in Florida will do your mother good. We are all lucky that Esther may have found someone. What with everything that’s happened this year … with your father. Oh, my lord.”
“She’s not coming back, is she?”
Beecher’s small face appeared around the door frame.
Aunt Lucille stood quickly and smoothed a white shirt over a flat chest. “No. Your mother is not coming back.”
A coldness crept over Dom’s skin.
Beecher tiptoed into the room and placed his hands on the bristly sofa arm.
Aunt Lucille wrestled a folded envelope from her purse and dropped it on a cushion. “The utilities are paid. There’s a supermarket down the block. I’ll get you spending money every week.”
“I’m fifteen.”
The sofa cushion shifted as Beecher settled beside her.
“Esther wasn’t exactly a shining example of motherhood, Dom. You’ve been taking care of yourself and Beecher for years. It won’t be any different.” Aunt Lucille spun and marched to the door before clapping it shut in her wake.
As Beecher’s arm reached for her, Dom noticed the tiny blond hairs quivering as if his skin were ice cold. Six months ago, when Chief Hester from Precinct 9 had called the apartment above the bakery with a raspy “I’ve got some terrible news … ” Dom had fixated on the letter magnets on the refrigerator. It was only in that moment she had realized the bright primary colors had faded.
In the barren living room, she whispered, “It will be completely different.”
TUESDAY MORNING
When the passenger pigeon began to decline in this country during the latter decades of the nineteenth century, the market gunners turned their attention to the larger shore birds, such as the golden plovers and the Eskimo Curlews or “prairie pigeons,” as they were called by settlers in the prairie states. The curlews apparently knew no fear of man and had the touching habit of circling over their wounded companions, so that entire flocks were sometimes annihilated by hunters.
—Thomas Foster, “Circling to Doom”
1
It was a long-standing New York FBI tradition to assign the picnic cases to agents returning from a leave of absence. Early Tuesday morning, Assistant Director in Charge Yves Fontaine received a call about the twenty-five-year-old daughter of a wealthy family that had gone missing. Having been around the Agency for twenty-one years, rising through Criminal Division to head of the Bureau’s busiest field office, Fontaine knew what to do. He threw the assignment to Special Agent Domini Walker.
At noon, Dom flashed identification at the uniformed doorman outside 15 Central Park West, one of the city’s most extravagant addresses. White gloves yanked open the heavy brass door and ushered her into a softly lit lobby. In the rarefied silence, the spongy soles of her work shoes squished loudly against the opulent marble. From behind an enormous reception desk, a thin bespectacled man watched her progression. She tugged down on the lightweight navy jacket with the bright yellow FBI across the back. Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity.
After reaching the desk, she flashed her badge. “I’m here for the Van Burens.” Please do not give me a hard time, friend. It’s my first case back after three months, I’ve haven’t found my sea legs, and I’ve drawn the short straw on a Richie Rich runaway case.
“Of course, Agent.” White teeth gleamed from a broad smile as his right hand indicated an elevator lobby to the side. “I’ll let them know you are on the way. Eleventh floor.”
Look at that. Blue-collar stiffs sticking together. She gave him a smile.
The elevator door slid open on the eleventh floor to a maid in a pressed white dress and an expanse of
polished taupe-colored wood. A huge living room awash in beige swept to a wall of windows and a dazzling bird’s-eye view of the rolling green fields of Central Park. If she had been alone, Dom would have whistled a tribute to the extravagance.
The maid led Dom past a twenty-seat dining table with a huge unruly bouquet of cream flowers to an arrangement of pale leather sofas littered with tan pillows. The room’s only color was a massive oil painting of vibrant red blooms.
“I’ll get the Van Burens,” the maid said softly.
The Van Burens did not keep her waiting. Claude Van Buren’s long strides ate up the distance. Thick gray hair swept away from a high forehead, a round face, and a thick rugby player’s neck. “Thank you for coming.” His grip was vise-like.
“Special Agent Domini Walker, sir. I’ll be in charge if an investigation should prove necessary.”
“Exactly.” Deep grooves fanned gray scowling eyes. “If. There will be no need for any of this. When Hettie returns home from whatever adventure she’s cooked up, this will all be sorted.”
Optimism and bravado were good. “Let’s hope that’s true, sir.”
“How long you been with the FBI?” He examined her.
At thirty-five, Dom looked younger. It was decidedly not an advantage. “Ten years, sir.”
“Really? You don’t look old enough.”
Like a draft against a gauzy curtain, the upbeat voice of Dom’s late father, Stewart Walker, rippled her unconsciousness. Don’t be intimidated, my Dom. We’re all born the same way—naked and terrified. You are enough. She nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that before.”
From around Claude Van Buren’s shadow, his wife appeared. Dressed in a pale silk shirt over ivory slacks, Yvette Van Buren had exquisite features and silky shoulder-length blonde hair. She was beautiful enough to be either vapid or brilliant. Her handshake was soft but sure, and her voice was tender. “Please, let’s sit.”
“I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” Dom said.
Claude took up a large space at the end of the sofa. “Special Agent Walker. Let me start by saying there may not be circumstances to begin with. This will all turn out to be a big misunderstanding. It’s a shame to have involved law enforcement at all.”
Yvette sat four feet away with her back pressed against the sofa’s leather and her hands clasped together. There was a stillness about her and a hint of melancholy in her pale eyes. The distance from her husband was telling.
Dom softly cleared her throat. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“We’ve decided to err on the side of caution.” Yvette’s voice was mild and the accent was cultured. “I would rather us be overly protective than negligent. You see, Hettie did not arrive to work yesterday, and no one has heard from her.”
This poised beautiful woman didn’t sound stupid. “You think something untoward has happened?”
Claude squinted.
Yvette nodded. “Yes, I believe something has happened to her.”
“And you, Mr. Van Buren?”
“I think Hettie is a young woman who has forgotten to tell her mother that she is off on holiday somewhere.”
Yvette pressed lips in a practiced reflex.
That was interesting. “When was the last time you saw Hettie?”
“Last week, Wednesday.” Claude sighed. “She came by my office.”
“Two days ago. Sunday.” Yvette clasped her hands tighter. “We went shopping. We walked the bags up to her apartment together. I left around four pm.”
“Is she irresponsible? Could she have run away? Any reason to not tell you she’s gone on a trip?”
Claude stiffened. “No. Not at all.”
“No,” Yvette added softly. “She is quite responsible, and there is nothing she keeps from us.”
Kids keep lots of secrets. But let’s move on. “Is she thoughtful?”
“Yes,” Claude replied. “She’s a good kid. Listens. Follows the rules. Never really any problem.”
“Yes,” Yvette agreed. “She’s a lovely young woman.”
“Could you tell me more?”
“We had a very easy baby.” Claude nodded. “We doted on her as an only child. She was perfectly normal in elementary school. Neither head of the class nor a troublemaker. She always followed the teachers’ instructions. She played dolls as girls do.” He swayed as he spoke, unconsciously expanding his territory on the sofa. “She had lessons. Yvette saw to that. Horses, tennis, golf, swimming. Yvette raised a very fine daughter. No real significant problems growing up, I’d say.”
Everyone has tells—unconscious micro-movements of nonverbal communication. Tells can’t establish if a person is lying, but they can indicate anxiety. Dom watched for early baseline tells but there was very little anxiety from either of them on this topic. No ticks. No calming touches.
“Growing up, Hettie never lacked for anything,” Claude continued. “She did and had all the things a girl deserves. We visited family for the holidays, hosted New Year’s every year. Never any trouble. Hettie is a good girl. She got good grades because we got her tutors. She made it to Bryn Mawr, and we were happy with that. Studied botany and the sciences. I tried to talk her into something more professional, but she was quite determined at that point—” He shook his head as if it was inconsequential and rubbed one hand lightly on a thigh.
That thigh rub, was that a tell? “You didn’t like her choice of profession?”
“I would have preferred she go into something more … substantial.” Both hands rubbed thighs.
“You don’t think the sciences are substantial?”
His lips pursed. “Scientific research is tedious. Especially as a career.” He cracked his knuckles.
Hattie’s career was definitely an issue. “Would you have preferred if she had done something else?”
Yvette intervened. “Hettie has a job she loves and a good lifestyle in New York. She is happy.”
“Mrs. Van Buren, are you supportive of her job?”
“It’s a fine job. A fine career. It’s not as exciting as it could be, I agree with my husband on that score, but it works with Hettie’s quiet lifestyle.”
“Can you explain her lifestyle for me?”
“Hettie isn’t a social butterfly. She does not do the social scene—the gallery openings, the Met, the parties, the Hamptons in the summer. She has her close friends and stays fairly quiet.”
“She avoids the party scene?”
Yvette nodded. “Oh yes. That’s not her way.”
“Boyfriend?” Dom asked them both.
Claude stretched his back and smoothed his tie. Yvette squeezed her hand. Both stared at Dom silently.
Well, well, well. What have we here? “There is a boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Claude snapped. “She is seeing someone. He is someone neither her mother nor I approve of.”
“Can you explain that?”
“He’s a student over at NYC.”
Dom turned to Yvette. “You don’t approve?”
Yvette released a tired sigh. “My side, the Lowrances, have been a family of privilege ever since my great-grandfather discovered oil. We must protect our family.”
Dom waited.
“His family does not have money.”
Oh, my. They really didn’t like the gold-digging boyfriend. “What’s his name?”
“Micah something.” Claude huffed.
“You’ve not met him?”
Yvette touched her neck. “No.”
Claude cleared his throat. “No.”
Like really, really didn’t like him. “Did you fight with Hettie about seeing this Micah?”
“It happened, yes.” Yvette’s hand petted her neck. “I’m simply not happy Hettie is wrapped up with a man who may not have her best interests at heart.”
“Often? Did you fight often?”
Yvette returned her hands to a clasp and the knuckles whitened. “Hettie and I have fought, yes. But Hettie is a woman now. She
can certainly see whomever she wants to see. I have no control over that.”
“Did you try to dissuade your daughter from dating this boy?”
Yvette remained mute.
“Did you try to dissuade her?”
Yvette’s lips clenched. “In my way.”
“And what way is that?”
“Hettie is aware I do not approve of that boy. I’ve asked her not to speak of him to me.”
“Could Micah be the reason Hettie has not been in touch?”
Silence.
Well, well. Lots of family dynamics at play here. But let’s move on. “Mr. Van Buren, what do you and Hettie tend to chat about?”
“Everyday issues. Some politics.”
“Did you and Hettie share the same politics?”
“Mostly.”
Dom cocked her head. “What do you do, Mr. Van Buren?”
“I’m in private equity. I’m the Managing Partner of a private equity firm.”