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

by HN Wake

  A secret research trip. San Jerónimo. Honduras. Investigatory leads were lighting up like coordinates on a GPS map.

  26

  The Ornithology Department, bright in the afternoon sun, smelled thickly of formaldehyde. Hands stilled with curiosity and the eyes of a dozen researchers watched as Dom passed lab tables, bookshelves, and purring machines.

  Jonathan’s shoulders sagged as she approached his desk. “I heard about Micah. I mean, he’s dead. I just don’t … I can’t even … and Hettie?”

  “Hi, Jonathan.”

  His lips quivered. “You’re gonna find her, right? She’s gonna be okay, right?”

  Monsters do exist. An image of red thumb tacks caused her chest to tighten. “Don’t worry. I’m going to find Hettie and I’m going to bring her home.”

  “You promise?”

  But you can defeat monsters. Fidelity, bravery, and integrity. “Yes. I’m going to bring her home.”

  “Okay.” Jonathan wiped his face with open hands.

  Settling into a nearby chair, the pressure on her toes eased. “We’ve gotten into Hettie’s desktop. On it we found a research proposal. It looks like a proposal for funding for a trip to Honduras. I need your help understanding it.”

  He nodded.

  “First, can you explain to me what Hettie does?”

  “She studies North American migratory birds. Mostly the Eskimo curlew.” He looked up at the wall and pointed to a brown seagull with a long, curved beak. “It looks a lot like that bird. The Eskimo curlew is the smallest of all the curlews in the Western Hemisphere. The original population was in the hundreds of thousands. In the winter, they flew from Alaska to South America—Southern Brazil, Uruguay and Chile, and maybe even to Patagonia. In the spring, they returned through Central America to Alaska to breed.” He frowned. “The Eskimo curlews’ story is sad. They were wiped out around the turn of the century. Man destroyed their natural habitats with fire and land conversion. Then the hunters … shot them all down … for the meat markets in the city. The Eskimo curlew had a very tragic species-typical behavior. When one of the flock was shot down, the Eskimo curlew circled overhead, keeping an eye on the fallen bird. The hunters would just pick them off.” He shook his head.

  “This Eskimo curlew is Hettie’s primary subject of research?”

  “Yes. It’s her obsession.”

  “They’re extinct?”

  “Assumed extinct. She’s been tracing their former paths.”

  “So. Let me get this straight. Hettie is chasing an extinct bird along it’s migratory path?”

  Jonathan held up a finger. “Assumed extinct.”

  “As in, there may be some out there?”

  He sat back. “If Hettie finds an Eskimo curlew there are a ton of implications. The Migratory Bird Treaty Act and the Endangered Species Act both protect the actual bird, so the Eskimo curlew would be protected. But more importantly—if she finds one—their grounds would also protected under the 1940 Convention on Nature Protection and Wildlife Preservation in the Western Hemisphere. It would protect the actual land they use. It would be an amazing coup for conservation.”

  Dom raised her eyebrows.

  “Human encroachment on protected lands is a global issue. Being able to declare some land protected, that would be a coup.”

  “Do you know anything about a trip Hettie took recently?”

  He rubbed his face. “I mean, not really. Four years ago she went to Patagonia, then three years ago she studied in Costa Rica. Then Nicaragua.” He shrugged. “I thought she was planning on Panama this year, but she decided against it. I don’t know why.”

  In Dom’s ear, the soft ping of an elevator sounded. This year, Hettie originally planned to go to Panama, but changed the destination to Honduras? Why the switch? She handed Jonathan the research proposal Lea had printed. “What can you tell me about this?”

  He scanned the pages. “It’s a research prospectus outlining her research.” He returned back to the first page. “Let’s see, background on the Eskimo curlew … by 1900 there were very few sightings … last photo was in Texas in 1962 … history of ornithology in Honduras … Mayans had sacred birds like the scarlet macaw.” He pointed to a hand drawn image of a colorful bird. “Osbert Salvin was the first naturalist in Honduras. Hettie is carrying on in his honor.” He flipped more pages and pointed at a map. It was the same area Roberto identified. “The best odds are up here, in this area, she thinks.” He looked up. “This is a standard proposal for funding for the trip.”

  On the wall, stuffed birds stared into space, trapped in time.

  “Okay. Let me get this straight. Hettie’s passionate about this bird. Every year, she is doing research along its migratory path and looking for one remaining bird?”

  “Yes, that’s Hettie.”

  “As far as you knew, she was planning on going to Panama this year, but changed her mind.”

  He frowned. “Yup.”

  In an investigation, dates often proved important—a pivotal moment a motive was hatched. “Do you remember when she changed her mind?”

  “No, but—” He flipped to the front page of the proposal. “Looks like she wrote this in three months ago.”

  “Do you know of anything of significance that happened three, or maybe even four, months ago?”

  He shook his head.

  “You sure?”

  “Sure.”

  Jonathan may not know of any significant event, but Dom was sure something—some sort of provocation event—had happened three months ago or earlier that set into motion the ill-fated Honduras trip.

  27

  At sunset, Mila coasted through Nolita on Mott Street, braked in front of a four-floor mid-century walk-up, and carried her bike up the front steps. The foyer smelled of garlic. Ignoring the scruffy mailboxes—she rarely got mail—she headed to the shared back closet and arranged the Kryptonite lock on the bike’s back wheel. She trailed her fingers on the thick ancient banister as she trudged up four floors and let herself into the back unit.

  She clicked on the dimmed overhead light, dropped keys on a small bookshelf while the other hand rummaged through a pocket, pulled out a shiny penny and dropped it in a mason jar full of pennies. This was her sanctuary, quiet and uncluttered. She moved along a stained laminate kitchen counter, pulled an apple from an ancient refrigerator, and settled into a weathered leather armchair by four tall slender windows.

  Outside, Elizabeth Street Park was shadowed in the setting sun. The size of a basketball court sandwiched between buildings, the park was a disheveled conglomeration of bushes, overgrown flower beds, patches of green lawn, and haphazard statues. Mila loved the park. It was one of the few unruly things she savored.

  Crunching into the cold green apple with the perfectly crisp skin, she slid her laptop from her bag, rested her feet on the windowsill, settled the laptop on her lap and lifted the lid. She logged into Wattpad, found @LastCurlew, and began slowly reading.

  Rapoosa

  @LastCurlew

  The fight in the distance

  is not to be won,

  images pulse,

  then everything’s gone.

  The generals from afar,

  safe in a glass tower,

  watch with dispassion

  as the pawns cower.

  The blood and the earth,

  have nothing but time,

  the body decays,

  it will never be fine.

  Silence is illicit,

  the voice of complicit.

  A door to release

  a peal of a mind’s bleat,

  set me free once more,

  when this war is complete.

  Wow, this poem sounded sinister. Mila crunched thoughtfully. If these poems were written by Hettie, maybe now was a good time to get in touch with that FBI agent.

  Mila set the apple core on the floor and opened a new search. Domini Walker. She clicked through on an image of a young teenage girl holding the hand of a
younger blond-haired brother. Both heads were turned down against a crowd of paparazzi as they descended wide courthouse steps. Trailing behind, a frail blonde woman stared over the crowd with a dazed looked. The caption read, “Domini Walker, Beecher Walker, and Esther Walker leaving the court house the day Stewart Walker, NYPD, is sentenced to ten years for police corruption in the Filthy Five case.”

  Oh, my. Agent Cool Cucumber had a personal history. Mila magnified the photo. The girl had a resemblance to the FBI agent from the museum lobby.

  Next, Mila typed in a search for Filthy Five. She clicked over to the Wikipedia page and skimmed the contents. In 1999, five NYPD officers from Precinct 9 were arrested on charges of corruption and illegal conduct. Based on a year of NYPD Internal Affairs surveillance, the five were arrested through a sting operation involving a fake crime scene and planted evidence—$2M in drugs and a duffel bag of $250,000 in rolled cash. The trial took place six months later. Three officers were exonerated—Robert Gessen, Art Dyson, and Mike Turner. Two officers, Stewart R. Walker and John Belafonte, were indicted on civil rights conspiracy, perjury, extortion, grand larceny, and the possession and distribution of narcotics. Stewart Walker was identified as the ring leader and was sentenced to ten years. A month into his sentence, Stewart Walker hung himself in his cell. In a newspaper photo taken the previous year, Stewart Walker was wearing a dark blue dress uniform with shiny brass buttons. His smile was broad under gentle hazel eyes that winked at the camera. He didn’t look crooked.

  This was a really poignant history. What happened to the three remaining Walker family members? Did they recover from the stigma of a corrupt father who committed suicide? Did the mom remarry? Did the son enter law enforcement like his older sister?

  Mila wondered about the three exonerated officers. She searched Robert Gessen. He continued at the NYPD, serving out of Precinct 59 in the Bronx. Interestingly, two years ago he was transferred back to the 9th Precinct. They brought him back to the scene of the original sin? She typed in Art Dyson. He too was transferred back to the 9th Precinct two years ago. Quickly, her fingers tapped, Mike Turner. He too was transferred back to the original precinct. Why was the gang was getting back together?

  Outside in the park, a cricket struck up a melancholy song. Mila’s mind spun rapidly.

  She next searched corrupt police NYPD. Hidden among the many search results was a link to the Center for Research in Crime and Justice of the New York University Law School’s Police Records Project. The project had recently won a Freedom of Information Act request and were the proud new owners of a database of all complaints filed against the NYPD since 2006. The project had its own website with login and access for NYU students. Bingo. She logged in.

  The project’s data was overwhelming and apparently not in any kind of order. Over 30,000 records listed incidents of NYPD misconduct: the officer’s name, the complainant’s name, the alleged misconduct—coerced false confession, false arrest, police perjury, witness tampering, police brutality—and the resulting internal investigation. She quickly sorted the data into neat categories and scanned the results. Of the roughly 34,000 NYPD police officers, only a small fraction—less than 10 percent—were repeat offenders. These 10 percent had received 34 percent of the complaints in the last five years. A few bad apples were responsible for a significant number of complaints. A few bad ones in a whole truck load of apples.

  She searched for Robert Gessen. Fifteen complaints returned. They all occurred since Gessen returned to Precinct 9 two years ago. Fifteen in just two years. Mila’s fingers flew on the keyboard. Art Dyson had a similar profile. Upon his return to Precinct 9, six complaints had been logged. Mike Turner’s record was similar. In fact, of the NYPD officers with the most complaints, Robert Gessen, Art Dyson, and Mike Turner were among the top ten.

  Outside the park was dark, and a dog barked in the distance.

  Did Special Agent Domini Walker know that her father’s coconspirators were returning to Precinct 9? Would she even care? Mila stared at her screen. Come to think of it, who should care that the few bad apples had all gotten back in the same basket?

  She googled Precinct 9, tracked down the name of the Chief and surmised his email. Surely this guy deserved to know. The hotmail account she opened five years ago used an anonymous name, anon204948@hotmail.com. She hit compose, entered the Chief’s email, and typed a brief message. Was researching in the Police Records Project at NYU Law School. Noticed three of the ten officers with the most complaints are back in your precinct and were part of the Filthy Five. She hit send.

  She smiled to herself with a smug nod. Mila Pascale was nothing if not civic-minded. Speaking of, tomorrow she would call the Agent Cool Cucumber and tell hear about @LastCurlew.

  28

  A breeze off Central Park kissed Dom’s face as she stared up at the Van Buren’s building, one of the most exclusive addresses in the city. When it opened in 2007, it reportedly cost $950 billion dollars to build. Celebrities and banking masters of the universe resided here. The tower loomed in front of colossal puffed clouds backlit by a bright moonlight. A question tickled her consciousness. Could this case be about money?

  Dom pulled her phone and dialed a familiar number. The building’s polished limestone appeared elegant and impenetrable.

  Beecher answered on the second ring. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a question for an economist that used to work at a bank.” A sleek gray awning extended from the lobby door to protect residents from bad weather as they caught curbside taxis.

  “Shoot.”

  “People who run private equity firms can be really rich, right?”

  “Oh yeah. Top of their game.”

  She raised her foot to ease the pain. “How does a private equity fund actually work?”

  “Right. Well, first off, there are a lot of regulations that govern traditional banks—the Goldmans and JPMorgans of the world. These regulations restrict the where they can invest. But there are investors—the wealthier individuals who are savvier—that want more flexibility with their investments. Into this gap stepped private equity firms. They are less regulated so can invest in a stuff the big banks can’t.”

  “Why aren’t private equity firms more regulated?”

  “Only the rich, the savvier, can get in.”

  She scratched her scalp. “So the government doesn’t care, since rich people are the ones losing money?”

  “Exactly.” He laughed. “In my opinion, the government looks out for fraud against the larger population—your average Joes. If the wealthy want to risk their money, the government lets them. Each private equity firm has its own investment strategy. Some invest in venture capital. Others only in growth capital, mezzanine financing, or leveraged or distressed buyouts. The KKRs, Blackstones, Carlyle Group, they all have their own strategies.”

  “I did not follow all of that, but keep going.”

  “The partners in the firm will raise funds. With this they will buy equity in companies. They often hold the ownership in a company for four to seven years, at which point they sell, hopefully for a profit. That’s why they’re called private equity firms.”

  A doorman held the door for an exiting nanny pushing a stroller. “How do they find companies to invest in?”

  “Their investment team will go looking. A lot of private equity firms try to get in early on deals. They like to find their own companies. Then, the management team will keep an eye on the overall portfolio of investments. Some like to get really involved in the companies they buy. Others are more passive.” He paused. “Most firms make a 2 percent annual fee plus 20 percent on gross profits when they sell the equity. The partners split the profit. For example, Blackstone’s annual revenue is in the billions. And profits are split among their management team—”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Billions a year?” It was staggering, almost unimaginable, number.

  “Yeah, I think Blackstone is like $300 billion assets under management now.�
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  “Holy crapsicle.”

  “Yup. If you give me the name of the private equity firm, I may be able to help you.”

  She couldn’t think of any harm in Beecher doing a search on Claude Van Buren’s firm. He knew nothing about the case. “Rittenhouse Equity.”

  The tapping of Beecher’s fingers on a keyboard resonated through the phone. “There’s one in New York, over on Park Avenue above Grand Central Station.”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  “Okay. Let’s see. According to some coverage in the financial news, looks like Rittenhouse requires a minimum of $500,000 from their investors. Their current assets under management—the pot of money they use to invest—is at $2 billion.”

  “With a B?” She whistled. Greed was the basest of human interests. Was it possible this case was about money?

  “Yup. Let me see here, I’m clicking over to their website. It’s private. They don’t list of what they invest in. That’s not unusual.”

  “So at a 2 percent straight management fee, the firm’s partners make money even if their investments lose for the client?”

  “Yup. 2 percent on 2 billion is $40 million. A year.”

  “How many ultra-high net worth individuals in the world?”

  “I think less than one percent.”

  Fontaine had used the 1 percent reference. Not only was Claude legitimately rich, he was the 1 percent rich. Was this case about money? It was a long shot, but a good investigator considered all possibilities. In fact, a good investigator would have thought of this before. She should have thought of this before. Damn it, why hadn’t she explored this angle before now? Her father whispered, Don’t do that, my Dom. Don’t beat yourself up.