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

by HN Wake

  Mila stood in the shadows staring at the closed PRIVATE - STAFF ONLY door. She should have pushed aside the stout guide and introduced herself. She could have offered to walk the agent to ornithology. She could have used that walk to ask all kinds of questions. What happened to cold cases of young smiling boys named Jimmy that had been snatched off the street in broad daylight? Would such a cold case ever be reassigned to a self-assured agent who just happened to be working the Hettie Van Buren case? What if the missing Miss Timid Hettie case provided a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a family member of the missing boy to get a cold case reopened?

  Mila’s routine day had just capsized.

  4

  One of Hettie’s colleagues, a young man named Jonathan, waited on the quiet side of the PRIVATE - STAFF ONLY door. He had a sharp nose over a thin goatee and was lethargic as he led her down a quiet hall to a wooden door with a frosted glass pane with stenciled Ornithology Department. They pushed into a brightly lit cavernous space with rows of black lab tables, clusters of cubicles, and towering shelves strewn with glass vials, white skeletons, chrome machines, and scientific books. Bird posters and colorful maps dominated the far wall.

  “Is Hettie okay?” Jonathan frowned.

  “Yes, as far as we know. I’m just checking in since we haven’t heard from her in a bit.” Misrepresenting was in every FBI job description.

  “Oh, God. I hope so.” He led her past a group of scientists in white lab coats huddled together, their hands fluttering over vials.

  “Do you know her well?”

  “Oh, my God,” he squeaked. “That sounds so ominous.”

  “I’m just ticking off the boxes. I’m sure she went on a holiday and turned her cell phone off.” Except for that overturned dish in the bedroom and that broken glass in the frame. “When did you last see her?

  “Friday. I haven’t seen her since the weekend.”

  The smell of chemicals hung in the room and stung the inside of her nostrils. “Do you know her well?”

  “Uh, well? No, not really. But we all work together, you know. Hettie is lovely.”

  It was the same mild description Hettie’s doorman had used—positive yet unimaginative, as if the person was uninteresting. “How would you describe her?”

  He wobbled his head back and forth. “She’s nice. She’s quiet. I would even say shy. She comes and works, and sometimes stays late. Just all around a nice gal.”

  The sounded a lot like uninteresting. “So not necessarily a strong personality?”

  “Strong? No, I wouldn’t say strong. Just nice.”

  They arrived at a tidy desk under a wall littered with dozens of stuffed exotic birds suspended in action. An outstretched white eagle swooped to the floor. A fat gray goose craned its neck. Not a single dirty New York City pigeon was stuck on the wall. Dom turned to Jonathan. “Does she have friends here at work?”

  “Uh, more coworkers.” He shrugged. “Like normal.”

  “She seem happy?”

  “Oh, yeah, fine. I know she has a boyfriend. I can hear her chatting on the phone with him sometimes. She smiles when she’s talking to him.”

  “Have you met her boyfriend?”

  “No. Hettie and I aren’t that close.”

  “Are there other colleagues that are closer to her?”

  He frowned. “Nah, she’s pretty solitary. But many of us are, to be fair. You know, scientists and all.” He gave her a self-depreciating smile.

  “No work-related happy hours?”

  “I mean … maybe … once a year?” His brow furrowed.

  “So Hettie doesn’t go to work parties?”

  “Not really, no. She’s not real into going out.”

  “She ever talk about her parents?”

  He reared back. “No, not to me.” There was a pregnant pause. “But we all know about them.”

  She leaned forward. “How’s that?”

  “Her mom is on the board here. Yvette Van Buren. They are big donors. They come to all the parties.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “Nobody would ever cross Hettie, not with that lineage. Blaulicht loves her.”

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  “She’s just a really nice person. Super into birds. But so are most of us here. I sure hope she’s okay.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. Thanks for your help, Jonathan.”

  Dom slid out the desk’s rolling chair and settled in. From overhead, beady glass eyes examined her with the critical gaze of guardians protecting a shy young woman with a domineering father, a passive mother, and an aversion to New York’s wealthy socialite scene. Give me a break here, would ya? I’ve only had this case for three hours. She took a deep breath to block out the noise of the lab and slowly examined the area.

  The desk was tidy. A few documents were piled in the upper right corner next to a small organizer that held pens, scissors, and tape measures in neat compartments. A travel coffee mug appeared to have been cleaned recently. Inside, the drawer was littered with office items—notepads, crumpled tissues, scattered pens, thumb tacks, a green music player with earphones—but no notes, no passwords scribbled on pieces of paper. Jiggling the mouse, Dom woke the computer. A lot of people didn’t turn off their computer after a work day. Hettie had not either. The home screen displayed the Outlook desktop with the email and calendar systems open. No need for a login password. It was a common mistake.

  She scanned the emails in Hettie’s inbox. Messages about birds, research, and notes from other ornithologists. There didn’t appear to be any emails from personal contacts. It looked like Hettie kept her private and professional lives separate. A quiet, studious woman who avoided the limelight. Dom pulled up the Outlook calendar to the current day’s view and the plans for the evening. Madeline. B day. Blue Hill. 8 pm. A friend’s birthday.

  On her cell phone, Dom looked up the number for Blue Hill over by Washington Square Park, called it, and confirmed there was still a reservation for Hettie Van Buren. A pit formed in her stomach. The mess at the apartment with the strewn china bowl and smashed picture frame, and now a missed birthday date. Two strikes. Not good. Where are you, Hettie?

  Dom scrolled the calendar back day by day. Hettie kept a full schedule with meetings, one-on-one dinners, and salon and gym appointments.

  Micah play Broadway. 8 pm

  Foundation proposal due.

  Dentist. 3 pm

  Boot camp work out. 5:30 pm

  Shopping w/ Whitney. 6 pm

  WRF mtg on migration patterns, LA. 2 pm

  Hair. 5 pm

  Dinner M&D Tea Room. 7 pm

  Scrolling back through the calendar, Dom’s finger paused on the period three weeks ago. Five days that were left blank. For five days there were no meetings, no dinners. Did Hettie take a vacation? Scrolling further through the remainder of the year, it appeared that those five days were the only blank ones in an otherwise fully scheduled life. Did her parents not know anything about those five days? Dom asked specifically if Hettie had any plans. Maybe they forgot?

  She found Jonathan at his desk. “Would you know if Hettie took a vacation a few weeks back?”

  His brow wrinkled. “I can’t remember.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Returning to the desk, Dom scrolled the calendar into the future. For the next month, the schedule was very busy. Hettie did not plan on being away. Strike three. And three strikes were no longer a coincidence.

  Dom needed to find the boyfriend. Quickly. In the best-case scenario, he would direct Dom to Hettie’s location. In the worst-case scenario, he was involved in her increasingly suspicious disappearance. In Hettie’s address book, she ran a search for Micah and was rewarded with Micah Zapata, 212 Bronxdale Ave, Bronx and a telephone number. She dialed the number. It went straight to voicemail. A call only went straight to voicemail when the mailbox was full or the phone was dead.

  From overhead, the flying battalion of exotic birds glared at her with sharp, demanding eyes. Oka
y, guys, I get, I get it. Something’s wrong with your Hettie. I’m on it.

  5

  Micah Zapata, Hettie’s boyfriend, lived in an upper apartment of a Bronx fourplex on a small, well-kept street with the remarkably unoriginal name of Bronxdale Avenue. Dom parked the Lancia by the curb and checked her phone. Her brother had texted. How’s the case going?

  Three months ago, when the Bureau put Dom on administrative leave, Beecher Walker moved back home. He had been going through a big life transition. A year earlier, and after much angst, Beecher decided that being an economist for a big investment bank was no longer professionally fulfilling. He quit his job. At which point, his young wife decided that Beecher was no longer personally fulfilling. The divorce settlement was still being vigorously contested. Dom’s forced leave of absence was the perfect excuse for him regroup from home. Beecher and Dom fell back into their familial ways. This morning he cooked a stack of blueberry pancakes to celebrate her official return to work. While his enthusiasm was endearing, it unnerved her. She didn’t like the idea of her younger brother trying to boost her confidence.

  She texted Still too early to say.

  But you feel solid?

  Sometimes Beecher was too smart for his own good. She typed Still too early to say.

  She slipped the phone in her jeans pocket, retrieved a pancake holster from the glove compartment, clipped it on her belt just over the kidney near the small of her back, and unfolded from the sports car. From the trunk’s safe, she pulled a Glock 17m, secured it in the holster, and shut the trunk. Jogging up the external stairs, she cornered onto the small landing of Micah’s apartment.

  The front door was ajar one inch.

  In her mind, alarm bells shrilled. Doors ajar were never a good thing. She unsheathed the Glock, held it right-handed pointed skyward, brushed her index finger against the passive safety lever on the trigger, and banged on the thin door. “FBI. We’re coming in!” Better for an intruder to think she wasn’t alone.

  Silence.

  Double gripping the Glock, she lunged back before leaning over and smashing her foot into the door. Better for an intruder to know she meant business. The flimsy door slammed against the interior wall with a rattling boom. She cornered into the apartment, swept the gun left to right, and settled in a fighting stance—torso square to the room, feet shoulder width apart, right foot behind left. A ratty orange sofa and a haggard coffee table sat on an ugly brown carpet. A flat-screen television stood upright on a forlorn console. Sweatshirts and baseball hats hung by the door. A small galley kitchen extended off the living room. There was nothing but an empty silence.

  “FBI, coming in!”

  She sighted the gun down the hallway to a closed bedroom door. It was a dangerous funnel to where a perp could be waiting. Adrenaline kicked up a notch. Her heartbeat spiked as she darted down the dim hall. Pausing in front of the closed door, she sucked in three sharp breaths. Leaning back like a kick boxer, she delivered a roundhouse kick into the door and dropped into a fighting stance with the Glock sweeping the room. A rancid, putrid stench bit her nostrils. Fuck.

  Her stomach flipped, and she gagged. “FBI!” But she knew there would be no response. With that smell, she knew what she would find.

  A silent and still Micah Zapata was stretched awkwardly across the floor and the far wall, legs splayed, head canted. A red bloom stretched across the center of his white shirt. The purple of rigor mortis had colored both arms. His eyes were open and staring blankly. Fuck.

  She crab-stepped to the closet door, yanked it open, and swept the gun across the empty space. She rushed into the bathroom, Glock ready. It was also empty. The apartment was clear.

  While striding down the hallway, she holstered the gun, snatched her phone, and punched in the numbers for HQ. After stopping by the front door, she breathed in the fresh air as the phone rang out on the other side.

  A woman answered the line. “Javitz Dispatch.”

  Dom pressed her shoulder against the phone and fumbled in her jacket pocket for plastic gloves. “This is Special Agent Domini Walker. I’ve got a homicide. Location, 212 Bronxdale Avenue, Apt 4. I need NYPD and ERT. On the double.” ERT stood for the Evidence Response Team.

  Her heart hammered in her chest as her fingers fumbled for the gloves.

  Dispatch confirmed the address and Dom clicked off the call.

  After snapping the gloves on trembling her fingers, she dialed Fontaine’s office.

  His secretary patched her through immediately.

  “Sir, it’s Walker. I’ve got a homicide. Hettie Van Buren’s boyfriend. Male, twenty- something, Latino. Gunshot wound to the chest. Possibly twenty-four hours.”

  “Jesus.” Fontaine’s voice was deep and gravely. “ERT?”

  “They’re on their way.” Her breathing was shallow, and her legs felt leaden.

  “NYPD?”

  She pushed her spine against the hardness of the wall, willing her fingers to still. “Dispatched.”

  All the proper initial steps had been taken. There was silence on the line.

  Dom had worked with Fontaine on her last operation, St. Christopher’s. Her actions in that case had attracted FBI’s internal affairs, the Office of Professional Responsibility, had triggered an internal investigation, and had grounded her for the last three months. Fontaine was working to get the internal investigation dropped, and she appreciated his efforts. But all assistant directors in charge of New York had been political beasts, and Fontaine was no exception. Rumors of his political connections swirled among the rank and file. She didn’t trust him. But to be fair, Domini Walker didn’t trust most people.

  His deep voice broke the silence. “You want this? I can take you off it.”

  This morning, the Van Buren case had appeared to be a simple rich-girl-gone-partying scenario—perfect for someone coming off leave. Within three, it became a homicide with a likely kidnapping. She closed her eyes. A flash of Stewart Walker’s smile blinked across the insides of her lids. In the memory, he was in the Brooklyn swimming pool surrounded by water with his wet hands stretched to his five-year-old daughter on the cement deck while nodding encouragement. Keep your eyes open when you jump, my Dom. You gotta live it.

  In her ear, Fontaine repeated, “I can take you off this case.”

  She popped her eyes open to the brightness in the apartment like a Polaroid snapping a meaningful instant. Her heartbeat settled into a manageable pounding and her fingers stilled. “No. I’ve got it.”

  “I can take you off this.”

  “No, I want it.” She pulled a Blistex from her jacket pocket and rubbed the menthol into each nostril.

  “Are you sure?”

  The pulse in her neck was stable. “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  It was time to come back in. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Okay. What have you found so far?”

  “The parents are touchy. The father is a big personality. They don’t like the boyfriend. They haven’t seen Hettie since Sunday. Signs of a struggle at Hettie’s apartment. Overturned dish. Smashed frame. Water in a vase drying. Fresh food in the fridge. Musty dishwasher. Two days. My sense is a kidnapping.”

  “Witnesses at her apartment?”

  “No. Not at Hettie’s apartment. She went in with her mother on Sunday, the mother left alone, Hettie never came out.” The menthol cleared her airways.

  “Okay.”

  “Hettie works at the Museum of Natural History. They don’t know anything. Haven’t seen her since last week. Boyfriend lives in this location. Bronx. Upper floor. Lower income. Cursory exam looks clean. No drug paraphernalia, no guns. Door was ajar. Victim in the bedroom, slid against the wall.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence. “Dom, do this by the book. There will be eyes on you.”

  The Van Burens were very prominent in the city. “Of course.”

  “You need a field partner on t
his one?”

  It was not always an FBI custom to assign partners. In some instances, the investigating agent worked alone. “I’m better on my own.” That was an understatement. She wasn’t good with partners.

  In the silence, she could sense his deliberations. On the one hand, he wouldn’t want to break her winning streak as a lone wolf. But an influential, politically connected family was now involved in a murder and kidnap investigation, and it would be high profile. Two agents on the case would be more people to share the blame if it went south.

  She bent at her waist and pushed the phone tighter against her ear. “Sir, I’ll close this. I’m better on my own.”

  “Okay. Agreed. For now.”

  “Can I choose my support?” On the St. Christopher operation, Dom had worked with a young staff operations specialist named Lea Peck. Lea was fresh out of a Southern college, all enthusiasm, brains, and sass, and she had provided thorough case support by deftly managing streams of raw data. “I want the SOS I worked with on the last operation.”

  “Done. I’ll call the Van Burens now and let them know about the boyfriend.”

  Kidnapping cases worked against a stopwatch and were high on tension. The strong-willed Claude would undoubtedly insert both himself and his powerful friends. When a ransom note was inevitably sent, conversations would get heated, tempers would rise, and blame would be meted out. The goal, in the face of this extra noise, was to stay focused on finding Hettie.