Sound of a Furious Sky: FBI Agent Domini Walker Book 1 Page 5

  Rodriguez nodded back into the apartment. “The T-shirt in the living room. It’s a soccer jersey. For the Honduran soccer team.”

  Johns hummed.

  She nodded at Rodriguez. “Nice catch. What’s the situation with the Honduran gang in this neighborhood?”

  Johns said. “Mostly local crews. Crack, heroin. The big gangs don’t mess around too much over here. Not poor enough. The market isn’t big enough. About ten blocks away you’ve got some projects owned by the Cholos, but that’s really small-scale stuff. This hood over here … it ain’t their scene. We were surprised, to be honest, by the address.”

  Rodriguez nodded toward the living room. “But the apartment is really clean, so if your vic is gang, it’s gotta be on a higher order. Like maybe he was the accountant or in logistics.”

  The detectives shifted impatiently on their feet.

  Time to wrap this up. “Tell you what, I’ll take the lab work since it’s related to my other case, but do you mind taking the street on this? To rule out witnesses?” It was polite of her to ask. Technically, since a homicide was NYPD territory, it would default to their jurisdiction.

  They both shrugged. Homicide detectives in New York were used to taking orders even if they had a huge case backlog.

  Johns said, “Mm-hmm. Sure.”

  “I appreciate it. I’ve got our techs on the way.”

  They swapped cards and the two detectives shuffled down the stairs.

  Dom rang Lea. “I need some research on drugs coming out of Honduras.”

  “I can do you one better. I’ll get you a Border Control guy on the line. Give me five.”

  Ten minutes later Dom’s phone rang.

  “Special Agent Walker, this is Albert Castillo with the US Customs and Border Patrol in Miami. What can I do for you?” He had a pleasant voice.

  Dom stepped into the living room and glanced at the soccer jersey hanging on a hook. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I need a quick lesson on Honduras.”

  “Sure. It’s mostly drugs when we’re talking Honduras. It’s a major transit point for transnational drugs. We see Columbian cartels using it as a handover point to the Mexican cartels. It’s not the number one handover location, more like number four or five. It’s mostly cocaine. 140-300 tons a year, by our estimates. There are some very local groups in Honduras that are tied up with the political elites and businessmen. By all accounts, their police are one of the most corrupt in Latin America. We hear they may be cracking down. On the other hand, the military has upped its effort there, including coastal patrols. They are also using radar to track drug flights. But hey, it’s still all very dirty. Crooked with a capital C.” He paused. “Does that help?”

  She looked around the apartment. “So with all that comes violence?”

  “You betcha. Honduras is one of the poorest in Latin America. It’s plagued by violence and crime. I’ve heard of whole neighborhoods being butchered. Lots and lots of civilians getting killed. A real tragedy.”

  “We get people moving here?”

  “Oh, yeah. To avoid the violence. But remember these families are also moving to Mexico, Belize, other safe zones, too. Not just the US.”

  She stepped to the door and checked outside. Better to not get surprised again. “One last question, do you hear a lot about kidnapping?”

  “Not specifically, but those cartels and gangs are savages. I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

  “Okay, thanks Agent Castillo. I appreciate the quick response.”

  “Sure, any time.” He clicked off.

  Footfalls sounded from outside. She stepped out onto the cement landing to see two ERTs climbing the stairs. She had worked with Christopher Locke before. “Hey, Christopher. How you doing?”

  “Hi, Dom. All good.” He nodded over his shoulder to his partner as they passed into the living room. “This here is Becky Turnball.”

  The two women acknowledged each other with silent chin lifts, two women sticking together in the male-dominated Bureau. “The body is in the bedroom.”

  “We’ll look for telltales.” Locke meant hair, nails, fibers, and blood or anything left behind by the perp.

  “I’ve got Lea Peck on this.”

  “Got it.” He shook his head with a wide grin. “She’s a whippersnapper. Full of spit fire, that one.”

  Turnball closed her eyes a beat and gave a tiny shake of the head. Locke wouldn’t have used those phrases to describe a male colleague, and both women knew it. Dom liked her immediately.

  Dom held up Michah’s cell phone. “I’ll need Lea on this asap, too.”

  Turnball snapped on plastic gloves and zipped the phone inside an evidence bag. “I’ll get it to her pronto.”

  “This is related to a kidnapping. Rich girl over in Greenwich Village. Some disturbance in her bedroom.”

  “Sure,” Locke nodded. “We’ll head there next.”

  “And when you can fit it in, Lea will need you up at the Museum of Natural History to grab the rich girl’s work computer.”

  They both nodded.

  “Okay,” Dom said, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Time to start fitting the pieces together on Micah Zapata. The clock was running.

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  Now the flocks of swift-flying curlews that used to wing their way each fall from the Arctic tundra to Labrador and then out over 2,500 miles of the Atlantic to South America and back in the spring up through Texas and Mississippi Valley are gone.

  —Thomas Foster, “Circling to Doom”

  8

  Rural Honduras

  The sway of the bus rumbling along the highway made her sleepy. Despite the hot, gritty wind that rushed through the open windows, she didn’t close her eyes. She needed to stay vigilant.

  Maria Cardona had woken before sunrise and had listened to the morning noises—the whistle in Ines’ snores, the scratch of the rooster outside the door, the screech of a macaw in the distance. She needed to feed the chickens and make sure the water tank was full. If the chilis and tomatoes looked ripe in the garden, she would bring some to Aunt Alma’s as a gift. A four-year-old was a handful, especially for five days. The special semita sweet bread, purchased from the market yesterday, would be their breakfast. She needed to remember to also take the extra milk to Aunt Alma’s or it would go bad.

  From the hanger on the peg, she took down her best dress, washed earlier in the week, and slipped it over her head. Outside, the sun was rising over the mountains and the breeze was dry. There wouldn’t be rain while she was gone. Not in the dry season. It felt like it was always the dry season now. She had to be careful with the water in the outhouse. After, with the thin broom, she swept the hardened dirt by the door of the one-room house and tossed feed to the clucking chickens.

  Inside, she folded away their clothes from yesterday and made her bed. Only when the morning chores were finished did she wake Ines with a tight hug, clutching the small body to her chest and searing to memory the feel of her daughter against her heart. Anything could go wrong on this trip. Anything could always go wrong. She had learned that.

  After dropping Ines at Aunt Alma’s, she had walked the two hours to the market. The packed bag was small, but heavy, so when she arrived she sat on a bench and waited for the local bus. While there was a faster, more expensive bus, and they had said they would pay for transport and meals, but she hedged. What if they didn’t pay? No, she would take the local bus with the open windows.

  The grit on the wind scratched her eyes. Only five more hours to go.

  Her cousin was sending the nephew to the bus terminal on the outskirts of Tegucigalpa. It was arranged that he would wait by the Super El Rey across the street. It was safer for the twelve-year-old city boy to wait at the supermarket for a few hours then to have straight-from-the-village Maria lost at the terminal.

  The bus roared past a roadside stall. Over forlorn piles of corn, a young woman watched with a blank face, unimpressed with yet another passage of poor
people hurtling to the big city.

  Maria had never been on a cross-country bus. There had never been a need. But everyone knew what they looked like from the outside: crammed with dazed travelers, bags lashed on the roof, open windows yawning. Rumors warned that the men’s fingers could become slithering snakes, so Maria stood behind the driver for an hour until a seat next to a woman opened up.

  Maria Cardona may be from the village, but she was not naive.

  9

  At a second Bronx apartment not far from Micah Zapata’s, Dom knocked on the door. Telling a parent their child had been killed was a heartbreaking part of her job. It never got easier, and it never got normal.

  Opening the door, the older Mr. Zapata knew instantly that something was wrong. Fear shot through his gentle dark eyes. “What is it?” He had pleasant round face, a shock of black hair, and a crisp blue-collared shirt. His accent was thick.

  Dom flashed her badge. “Sir, I’m FBI. May I come in?”

  Mr. Zapata opened the door wide and ushered her into the small apartment with fluttery hands. From a galley kitchen, Mrs. Zapata appeared, a tiny woman behind heavy glasses with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wiped her hands on a red-and-white checkered apron.

  Dom took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’ve got some terrible news.”

  Their eyes widened to saucers.

  Say it twice, so the brain can prepare. “I have some terrible news.”

  Both parents blinked.

  “I’m afraid your son, Micah, has been the victim of a shooting. Micah is gone. Micah is dead.”

  Dom closed her eyes. Wait for it, wait for it. A banshee howl filled the room. Dom opened her eyes just as the older woman fell to her knees. The mother’s scream choked her up, and tears stung for the second time that day. Mr. Zapata moved quickly to grab his wife and get her to the couch. It was a good sign. At least as a united couple, they had each other. It would make things easier. There were few things that made this easier. Dom whispered, “I am so, so sorry,”

  “Oh, Dios mío, mi hijo, mi hijo,” wailed Mrs. Zapata. “Oh, my God, my boy, my boy.”

  Dom sat in a near chair. “We believe he passed Sunday or yesterday, but I’ll let you know when I have more details.”

  Mr. Zapata, blinking in shock and fear, put his arms around his wife who rocked between wails. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It looks like someone forced their way into his apartment.”

  “What? What do you mean? In his apartment?”

  “Yes. Someone forced their way in. Shot Micah.”

  “Oh, Dios mío, Oh, Dios mío, mi hijo!” wailed Mrs. Zapata.

  Tears streamed down Mr. Zapata’s cheeks. “In his apartment?”

  When a brain has received a shock, it skips like a scratched record. Sometimes it took a number of attempts to explain. “Yes, he was in his apartment.”

  “You mean my boy was alone?” Mr. Zapata's tears dripped faster.

  Dom swallowed against a thick throat. “Sir, I believe Micah died quickly. I believe he did not suffer.”

  “Who did this?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Mrs. Zapata wailed into balled fists. “Oh, Dios mío.”

  “Who do you think did this?” He swallowed.

  “I don’t know yet. I am in charge of the investigation. I am going to find the person that did this to Micah and I am going to put him in jail. That’s my promise to you.”

  Mrs. Zapata's howls descended into a guttural sob as her brain shut down in shock.

  Mr. Zapata wheezed, “How could this happen?”

  Dom touched Mr. Zapata’s knee. “Is there anyone that disliked your son?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Micah is a good boy.” Mr. Zapata shook his head, and his face contorted in confusion through the stream of tears. “We came from Honduras. It is bad there. Much violence. We came here for Roberto and Micah. When they were small. We came here to get away.”

  The wife’s sobs wracked at the irony.

  “Micah is a good boy. We came here and he is a good boy. Did good in high school. Even though he bad.”

  There it was. “When you say Micah was bad, what do you mean?”

  “The drugs. The smoking.”

  She had guessed it. It was the same tragic story across swathes of poor America, urban or rural. “Micah had gotten into drugs in high school?”

  He nodded. “But he never let grades go bad. He got good grades. He smart.”

  Many parents had rosier perceptions of their children than reality confirmed.

  “He accepted to NYU. They pay for him. Scholarship. Because we from Honduras they give him special scholarship. He get better. Clean up. Went to NYU. Once he was in college—"

  Mrs. Zapata shoulders heaved.

  “Once he got into college”—Mr. Zapata struggled to speak through the shock—“he was a new boy.”

  “Can you explain this change to me?”

  He waved his right hand frantically. “He leave those bad friends. He move into his apartment, he take scholarship money, he study. All the time. He leave those bad friends behind. We so proud of him. He a good kid. Good man.”

  “What was he studying?”

  “The environment. Climate. He plans on stopping the climate change.”

  It sounded like Micah had turned his life around, had chosen an academic path to an admirable career. Did he have any residual secrets? “Are you sure that he did not stay in touch with his old friends?”

  He waved his hand again. “Yes. Very sure. Micah tell us he want a good life. He see the other students at NYU, he want their life.”

  A more complex picture of Micah Zapata was forming. He was a young man from the wrong side of the tracks who had gotten an opportunity for a new life and had moved past his modest beginnings. “So, none of Micah’s friends from high school—none of them—are still around?”

  Mrs. Zapata sobbed.

  “No.” Mr. Zapata sat straight and squared his shoulders.

  Dom pulled up the photo from the year book, Micah with his arms around two friends. She gently handed the phone to Mr. Zapata. He sobbed when he saw his son. Mrs. Zapata leaned over his arm, caught the image of her son, and wailed, throwing her hands over her face.

  Dom asked quietly, “Mr. Zapata, are these the bad friends from high school?”

  Mr. Zapata nodded.

  “The ones that used drugs?”

  He nodded again.

  “Do you know their names?”

  “Only their nicknames.” He pointed to the one with a cheerful face wearing the baseball cap, “That Maynor. Yes, Maynor.” His finger moved slowly to the one with the harsh look and the clown tattoo. “That one bad. He named Toro.”

  “As in bull?”

  He nodded. “He no good.”

  She slid the phone back into her jacket pocket. “You think maybe one of his old friends is jealous of Micah’s success? His going to NYU? His new life?”

  “I don’t know. He never talk about anything like that.”

  “Any fights with anyone that you know of?”

  “No. No. He go to school. He do his homework. He study. No fights.”

  “So no one you can think of that would have a reason to hurt Micah?”

  “No. Micah is our pride and joy.”

  “You have another son? Older?”

  Mr. Zapata nodded through his tears.

  “And is he a good boy too?”

  They both shook their heads. Mrs. Zapata's wails softened. She hid her face in her hands. They both felt nervous about the other son. “Tell me about him.”

  “Roberto is a mechanic. At Jiffy Lube. He live in Harlem. He don’t make so much money. He no have a wife. He have one kid. We never see the baby.”

  Mrs. Zapata cried into her hands.

  “Would Roberto know about this Toro?”

  “Yes, maybe,” Mr. Zapata said.

  “Okay. And what about Micah’s girlfriend Hettie? Wha
t can you tell me about her? About their relationship. Did they fight?”

  Both the parents went quiet. Mr. Zapata said, “No, no. They are both good people. They no fight too much.”

  “How long were Hettie and Micah together as boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  “A year?” Mr. Zapata wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked gently.

  “They were in love?”

  “Yes. He say to me that he wanted to someday marry her.”

  Mrs. Zapata's crying started again.

  “Okay, is there anyone that didn’t like Micah being with Hettie?”

  He rocked harder. “No, no. We all very happy. They very happy,” he whispered. “Only her parents don’t like Micah.”

  “Have you met the Van Burens?”

  “No. No. Hettie’s parents no approve that we are from Honduras. Her parents no approve.”

  Mrs. Zapata began rocking.

  Dom reached out to touch Mr. Zapata's arm. “I’ll go see Roberto now. Is there anything I should know about him?”

  They both stared at the floor.

  Huh. Interesting. “Does Roberto have a history? With the police?”

  Mr. Zapata nodded.

  “Has he been to jail, Mr. Zapata?”

  Mr. Zapata nodded.

  “For what?”

  “Assault. Drugs.” He hung his head.

  “Okay, then let’s do it this way. Don’t call him. Let me go talk to him without warning.”

  Mr. Zapata understood the request. The FBI did not want Roberto to flee. He nodded.

  “Thank you, Mr. Zapata.” She took his hand. “I will be in touch soon. You will be able to see Micah soon, to prepare him.”

  Mr. Zapata's red-rimmed eyes bored into her as the rivers of tears carved into his cheeks. “You find them. Those that killed my son. You find them. I bring my family here to be safe. Now this. You promise you find them?”

  “I will find them.”

  Mr. Zapata dropped his face against his wife’s shoulder, and the two sobbed together.

  Out on the street, she leaned against her car and dialed Lea Peck. She didn’t wait for Lea to speak. “I need the rap sheet on one Roberto Zapata at the same address as the vic’s parents. He works at a Jiffy Lube in Harlem. I’m heading over there.”