by Jason Pinter
"I am a little hungry."
"Cool. Eat first, search later," I said.
We parked, walked in and scarfed down two slices and a Coke apiece in less than ten minutes. When we finished, we took two seats in front of a lonely computer in the back of the restaurant. The keyboard was dusty, and I imagined it didn't get much use. The counterman eyed us suspiciously, as though we were as likely to rip the computer from the wall as use it properly.
When I clicked the computer off sleep mode, I entered in my credit card number for access. Once we were in, I directed the browser to streeteasy. com.
"What is this?" Amanda asked.
"Streeteasy. com is a pretty useful tool. It's an online database that records any property transactions, along with the buyer, seller, asking price and brokerage firm who handled the deal. I have a log-in."
I plugged in my log-in information and entered the name
Robert Reed in the search field. Several listings came up, with records dating back to 1989, and in five different states.
"This can't be right," Amanda said. "How could he live in three different states at the same time?"
"It's probably not all the same Robert Reed. Hold on,
I'll narrow the search."
I narrowed the parameters to Hobbs County. The search came up empty. I tried it again, only this time plugging in
Elaine Reed instead. Again the search came up empty.
"Maybe someone else bought it for them? Or Elaine bought it under her maiden name?" Amanda asked.
"That's possible," I said. "We might have better luck searching for the exact house." We had enough information to narrow the search range.
According to Freddie at Toyz, the Reeds' son, Patrick, was currently somewhere between three and five years old.
Which meant the Reeds had probably moved into the house on Huntley within the past seven years, either when they decided to try to start a family or when Patrick was on the way and space was essential. I entered the date range in the past eight years just to be sure.
The list came back with two thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three hits.
"I think we can narrow it down more," Amanda said.
"We know there were at least three bedrooms in that house on Huntley. That should help, right?"
"Definitely, one sec."
I refined the search to only include houses that had a minimum of three bedrooms. The search came back with three hundred and sixty-seven hits. We were making progress.
"Now we just sift through these and look for anything on Huntley. Anything that looks familiar."
We scrolled through page after page of home sales and purchases through the past eight years. It was fascinating to see the range of prices at which houses had been bought, but it also gave an accurate overview of what the most expensive areas in the state were. Unsurprisingly, Hobbs
County homes were ridiculously cheap. Until a few years ago at least, when I noticed they began to trend upward by a large margin.
We'd been sitting at the computer for nearly two hours.
The computer had charged thirty-six bucks for the access.
I hoped Wallace wouldn't spent too much time scrutinizing my expense account.
Finally on the two hundred and twenty-fourth listing, we found it.
"There we go," I said. "Four-eighty-two Huntley Terrace."
"Bingo," Amanda added.
According to the database, the house had been pur-234
Jason Pinter chased in 2001 for three hundred and forty thousand dollars. There was a picture of the property on the Web site. I clicked to enlarge it.
The house was easily recognizable. As was the driveway and garage we'd seen the other night. We clicked through various photographs of the interior and exterior, looking for anything familiar. The rooms were different; obviously these shots had been taken before any renovations.
What was more surprising was that there was no sign of the metal gates, nor the brick wall surrounding the property. Whoever purchased the house in 2001 had built them custom-made.
"That's odd," I said, clicking onto the "buyer/seller" link. "According to this, the buyer wasn't Bob or Elaine
Reed, or anyone named Reed at all."
"Who was it, then?"
"Someone named Raymond Benjamin," I said. "Does that name sound familiar at all?" Amanda shook her head.
Then her eyes opened wide.
"Wait a minute," she said, pointing at the name on the screen. "When we were in that house, when you came into the room where I was held, didn't one of the guys call for a Ray?"
I thought hard, vaguely remembered hearing that, but between the cigarette burn and my state of panic I couldn't be sure. "You think this Raymond Benjamin might have been the same guy from the other night?"
"Be a heck of a coincidence, a guy who obviously knows the place well enough to set us up shares the same first name as the man on the property deed."
"Yes, that would be a mighty coincidence. It would also mean that Raymond Benjamin knows Dmitri Petrovsky." I tapped my fingers on the keyboard. "The guy who had me, he'd been in prison before. Attica. He was there during the riot, and that was in '71. If he was telling the truth, he'll have a criminal record."
"I think it's time to leave the pizza place," Amanda said.
"It sure is. Let's see what we can find out about
Raymond Benjamin. It's been at least twenty-four hours since I asked Curt Sheffield for a favor. Let's give him a ring."
30
The diner smelled of cooking grease and burned coffee.
A plate of eggs sat in front of him, untouched. Raymond
Benjamin rubbed his aching jaw, then took another smoke from his pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. It was all he could do to relax after the events of the past few days. Everything had been going just the way he'd planned, in that there were no disruptions, no mass hysterics. Everything cool, calm and quiet. And then all of a sudden the newshound
Parker shows up at Petrovsky's office and everything goes to shit.
He hadn't wanted to torch the house. Benjamin actually had some fond memories of that place. But once Parker decided to follow Petrovsky, it was only a matter of time before somebody came knocking. Burning it down was a necessary evil. There was too much inside for him and
Vince to get rid of in the little time they had, not to mention having to dispose of the doctor and that beat-up car Parker drove. Better to torch the whole thing and wipe their hands than risk one little thing turning up and screwing up the whole operation. Ray couldn't afford that. There was too much at stake.
Raymond Benjamin smoked his cigarette, eased back
into the booth and took out his wallet. He looked at the pictures inside. The first one was of a beautiful young couple. Ray barely remembered what life had been like back then. He'd been so impetuous, so violent. He was amazed a woman had actually had the temerity to marry him. The first photo had been a year or so before Ray Jr. was born. The boy had Ray's nose, but got the rest of his features from Ray's wife. Becca. Becca, who'd died while he was holed up in that shithole prison. Ray Jr., born in 1970, the year before the riots changed everything.
Every person was born with a specific skill set. Ray's son was born a technogeek, the kind of guy who could build computer systems out of thin air, could design corporate Web sites and security systems as easily as he buttered a bagel. The last Ray heard, his boy was making nearly a hundred grand a year. He was married with two kids. Ray hadn't seen them in a decade.
Ray himself was born with a different set of skills.
And in a cruel irony, it was that skill set that led Ray to spend the majority of his twenties shuffling from prison to prison. He was a born criminal. Burglar, fighter. Age had sapped much of his brawn. No way that Parker kid would have had the upper hand when Ray had his juices flowing, when his fists were like unstoppable pistons.
Now, in his late fifties, Ray was holding on to his fighting memories the way a jilted lover holds on to his,
afraid of what would become of him when he realized the man he used to be was slipping away. Lives like Ray's didn't have second acts.
He thought about his time in Attica. Somehow the worst and best years of his life. They'd made him what he had become, but he wasn't sure if the pain and sacrifice were
Jason Pinter worth it. He thought about that day back in '71, when his fellow prisoners had finally risen up against the guards, who'd tortured them for so long. Ray remembered watching Dog Day Afternoon as a young man, just a few years after he got loose. He remembered the feeling of pride in his gut when Pacino delivered that electrifying speech. It was simply incredible, like a candle being lit in his stomach, working its way through him until his whole body was warm. He'd seen that in person. He'd been there.
Everyone watched that flick and got that vicarious thrill of what it was like to make a stand. Ray had been there.
He'd made that stand.
When Vince came back from the bathroom, the red welt above his eye was shining like a Christmas bulb. The younger man slid into the booth across from Ray, went right back to work on his ham, eggs and sausage links. Ray watched Vince eat for a bit, the man shoveling food into his yawning mouth like it was Thanksgiving and he didn't have a care in the world.
"Eat enough of that, it'll kill you before a bullet does."
Vince smiled as he gnawed on a link. "Best to go out having fun," he said.
"You know, as dumb as we were," Ray said, "things could have gone worse the other night. Much worse."
"Sure could have," Vince said, a forkful of dripping egg sliding back onto his plate. "What d'you think would have happened if the cops had come before we'd taken care of the place?"
Vince stopped chewing. Put the fork down. "We would have been in a world of shit. Years wasted," Ray said.
Vince nodded as if he'd figured out the right answer on a multiple-choice test.
"Not really wasted. I mean, it's been fun, right? We've made money."
"You know we're not doing this for money, for our health," Ray said. "This isn't some two-bit scam we're pulling. There are lives at stake."
Vince laughed. "You mean like Petrovsky," he said with a goofy smile.
"No," Ray seethed. "Not fucking Petrovsky. Lives that matter. Petrovsky was a degenerate. He was a means to an end. And we have to protect that end, you hear me?"
"I hear you."
Ray lowered his voice. "I'll be talking to our friend later. We need to make sure everything is sealed up on our end. No doubt they'll find out that house was registered in my name. I'll play the 'woe is me' card, but let it end there. There isn't enough evidence in that house of anything. I gave it a once-through before we lit the match.
Now I'm not too worried about the Hobbs police. If anything they're doing a good job protecting what we've created. But that Parker reporter, we can't give him anything more to latch onto. The New York media gets hold of this, it goes national. Nobody gives two shits about a poor kid in a poor city."
"I hear you, Ray. Geez, it's not like I don't know this already."
"Fucking Parker," Ray said. "Never been so stupid in my life. Ten years ago, no way that kid gets the jump on me. Never used to underestimate folks. All of a sudden
Parker can ID me and probably you. His word against mine, and I've already spoken to our friend who's good with tools who'll claim I was working late that night. So here's what happens. If it even looks like this guy might throw a wrench into things, we don't wait for him to fall into our lap. We take him out. And the girl if necessary.
No more cigarettes, no more nicey-nice. Quick, simple, and they disappear."
"Like those kids we nabbed," Vince said, satisfied.
"No. Not like those kids. Parker and Davies have to stay gone."
31
Manhattan's 19th Precinct was located on Sixty-Seventh
Street between Lexington and Third Avenue. I'd only been there once, just a month or so after I'd arrived in New York.
It was to report a lost or possibly stolen cell phone. I'd filled out a form with my information, handed it to the cop behind the front desk, and that was the last I ever heard about it. Probably for the best. The NYPD has more important crimes to worry about than who took my Nokia.
Curt had worked at the 19th going on three years. I knew he was well respected within the department, one of those up-and-comers that are a rare breed in that they're both clean-cut enough to stick on a recruiting poster, but hardworking and intuitive enough to gain the respect of the rank and file.
It was this respect that I was counting on as Amanda and I entered the precinct. The majority of cops had no love lost for me, and despite being vindicated many still considered me responsible for the death of one of their own. The irony was that even though the department loved
Curt's image, he couldn't have cared less. That's the only reason he agreed to bring me into his precinct. It wouldn't win him any friends, but it would help uncover the truth.
The precinct was up a short flight of stairs. It had a red brick facade and an arched entryway, bracketed by two green lamps, above which hung a yellow banner that read
"Thank you for your support." The banner was bookended by two images: the American flag and the badge of the NYPD.
Curt led Amanda and me through the precinct, though not nearly as fast as I would have liked. I could feel eyeballs boring holes through me as we snaked through the corridors, and knew that many of these men had worked with, probably known, John Fredrickson. A few years back, I defended two people Fredrickson was beating to death, and in the struggle the man's gun went off, killing him. I didn't know he was a cop, and his death was the result of choices made long before I came along. Yet perception was reality, and the feeling was if I hadn't stuck my nose in, he'd still be alive.
"Just this way," Curt said. We followed him down the hall into a row of cubicles, each one set up with large, likely obsolete computers. We entered a larger cubicle which was set up in a U-shape, two computers at either end. The walls were covered with crime-scene photos, mug shots, business cards. Curt pulled up a pair of chairs, then sat in a larger one. He shifted around a few times, then leaned forward and scratched his ass.
"That's lovely," Amanda said.
"Hey, if you can convince Chief Carruthers to spend an extra nickel on chairs that don't make your ass feel like it's the wrong side of a Velcro strip, you'd be spared seeing illicit activities such as these."
"Is it really that bad?" I asked.
"Man, come around here during lunchtime when the detectives are all eating at their desks. You'd think a family
of porcupines must have made a nest in every seat. Like a messed-up orchestra, all scratching at the time same."
I said, "Think I'll file that under 'visual imagery I hope to file away and never see again.' So what is this here?"
"Here is where we find out about the criminal record for this guy Benjamin, the dude listed on the property deed on Huntley Terrace. You're sure this Ray Benjamin is the same cat who hung you out to dry in that tinderbox out on Huntley?"
"I can't be sure, but that's what we're here to find out."
"Now, you said this guy made a comment about serving time up at Attica, right?"
"That's right."
"Then our boy's damn sure got a record. Which means he's just a mouse click away from being ours."
Curt logged in to a database, then proceeded to enter first name "Raymond," last name "Benjamin," into the fields. He plugged the years 1968 and 1972 into another field marked "date range." He clicked a box marked "Caucasian" and pressed the search key. One of those helpful little hourglass icons appeared on the screen. On my computer, the sand fell through the hourglass at roughly the same speed as cars cruising Fifth Avenue during the
Puerto Rican Day parade.
A few minutes and ass scratches later, the hourglass disappeared and a file appeared on the screen. A mug shot appeared in the top-right corner of the page. I recognized the man in the
image at once.
"That's him," I said, pointing to the screen like I was picking him out of a lineup. "Holy shit, that's the guy."
"From the other night?" Curt said. "This is Raymond
Benjamin."
I nodded. "No doubt."
Despite the picture being at least twenty years old, it was easy to tell this was the same man. The man in this photo had a fuller head of hair, fewer lines cutting across his face, but the look in his eye was the same. Defiance. Anger.
"There's no scar," I said. "When I saw Benjamin that night, there was a faint scar on his right cheek. There's nothing like that in this picture."
"Let's see here," Curt said. He clicked a button, then the photo enlarged. Curt highlighted a line below the photo.
"Mug shot, dated 1969."
"Probably the last shot taken before he was sent to
Attica," I said.
Amanda traced her finger down the man's cheek on the screen. "So if this photo was taken before he went to prison, there's certainly a chance he either got that scar in jail or afterward."
"Yeah, the scar actually did zigzag a little bit, like it had been stitched up by someone who got their medical license at the local butcher shop." I looked at Curt. "This is the only photo on record for this guy?"
"Afraid so," he said. "So what I want to know is how a dude who got busted for armed robbery in the sixties ended up buying a house that got burned down over thirty years later?"
"After he almost barbecued my balls," I added. "And if the house is owned by a three-time loser, why did the inside look fit for the Huxtables?"
"Obviously the house was in his name, but that was to hide whoever actually lived there," Amanda said.
"What I think happened," I said, "is that this guy
Benjamin bought the house as a front. I'm not quite sure what the catalyst was, but a husband and wife named Robert and
Elaine Reed have actually been the ones living on Huntley."
"They weren't in the fire though," Amanda said.
"No, no bodies found. Not that Russian doctor or anyone else," Curt said.