The Stolen hp-3

by Jason Pinter

  "That's why I broke it off in the first place," I said. "I took the decision out of her hands. But she's been with me every step of the way on this. Relationship or not, she wants to be here. And it's not my place to tell her not to."

  "That's a selfish way to look at the world, especially if she might be in danger."

  "I'd kill myself if anything happened to her, Curt," I said. "But she's a hell of a strong woman, and I know that anything I can take, she can, too. Probably more so. She works with kids every day, and she's seen some of the most terrible cases of abuse you can imagine. She doesn't talk about it much, because, well, who wants to bring that kind of work home with her? But don't be fooled into thinking she's in this for me, or for the adrenaline. This is a cause for her. And I respect that."

  "So if it's a cause for her, and it's about my job for me, what's it about for you?"

  I thought about that for a moment, then said, "The truth, man. It's about the truth. That's my job."

  "So since we're both on the job," Curt said, "how the hell do we find the Reeds? They obviously jetted from

  Huntley before smokey the pyromaniac got his hands on the house. They're registered with Verizon, but the phone's going right to voice mail. No luck tracking it down just yet.

  There are no known family members for either Robert or

  Elaine Reed, and we're checking their phone records for friends and acquaintances."

  "They won't be at a friend's house," I said. "Benjamin got them into the house on Huntley so they could keep private. That place was like a fortress. You don't go through all that trouble only to have Elaine spill the beans to someone in her knitting group. You said they have a minivan, right?"

  "Yeah, a Windstar."

  "Nobody buys a minivan for one kid. I'm getting more and more sure that they've kidnapped another child.

  Anyway, I'm betting they're staying at a motel somewhere. A place where nobody knows them, and nobody knows where they are except for Benjamin and his crony."

  "There's a lot of motels in this country, man. You can't expect us to cover all of them."

  "No, but if you're a parent with two bawling kids in a minivan, do you really think you're driving ten, fifteen hours for the same kind of motel you can get within a few miles? My bet is they're still in the state. Say a four-hour drive, make it an even two hundred and forty miles, and that's your radius from Huntley Terrace. They'll stay away from major cities and metropolitan areas."

  "There's still a shitload of fleabag motels in that range, Henry."

  "Christ, Curt, you're a cop. Don't you guys do this all the time?"

  Curt smiled at me. "I'm on it. Go run some more of your magic. I'll give you a ring if we get any more info on the Reeds or other missing children."

  "Thanks, Curt, appreciate it. You want to sock me in the eye once, gain a little street cred among your fellow boys in blue?"

  "Tempting, but tell you what. Leave the building like I broke you down into tears, we'll call it even. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  I left the 19th Precinct with a sullen look on my face, as if Curt Sheffield had just ripped the head off my favorite teddy bear. Rounding the corner onto Lexington, I called the Gazette from my cell phone. I asked to be connected to Wallace Langston's office, and the editor-in-chief picked up immediately.

  "Wallace, it's Henry."

  "Henry, good to hear from you. What's the latest?"

  "I'm in the middle of tracking down a family that I'm ninety-nine percent sure is part of some sort of weird kidnapping ring that involves the Linwood and Oliveira children. There's a link between the Reed family and this psycho Benjamin who mistook me for an ashtray. I'm running down the link, and when I have that I'll let you know. How's Jack doing?"

  Wallace sighed. "They released him yesterday. He's got the rest of the week off for some R and R and detox.

  I've never seen the man like this before. It worries me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Jack has been with this newspaper since he was a young man, Henry, younger than you are now. He's worked himself to the bone for his profession. He's a legend in this field, and he's paid his dues to become that.

  But Jack's not a young man anymore. You can't go with that same kind of drive, that kind of passion at his age, without compensation. I wonder…God, I can't believe

  I'm saying this…but I wonder if his career isn't beginning to wind down."

  I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. But rather than a sensation of pain emanating from it, I felt anger. How could Wallace even begin to question the longevity of

  Jack's career? Things were looking bad now, but everyone was entitled to fall off the wagon once or twice. It was a divot in the road, not a full-blown earthquake. And it pissed me off to hear Wallace insinuate otherwise.

  "He'll be just fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Give it a week or two, he'll be tracking leads and breaking stories like he's a new man."

  "I sincerely hope you're right, Henry. But it worries and saddens me to think you may not be. Listen, my friend, keep pushing on this story. I've gotten three calls from

  Gray Talbot's office since your detainment up in Hobbs

  County. Our friend the senator is no doubt perturbed that we've ignored his requests. I expect a hate-o-gram to arrive any moment in the mail, but until you see me led away in handcuffs, keep pressing."

  "That's what I do," I said. "Talk to you later, Wallace."

  I hung up.

  It took a moment to register that my stomach was growling. I stopped at a deli and wolfed down a bagel with lox spread and a large coffee. When that was polished off,

  I had half a blueberry muffin for dessert. My natural reaction to that would be to run it off the next day, but my legs were beat. I hadn't put in for vacation time in ages. I didn't think Wallace would be all that surprised to see my paperwork cross his desk in the near future.

  When I finished the meal, I took a cab back home, sat down on the couch and waited. This was the worst part of the game, and as a reporter the most frustrating part of the job. The waiting.

  So much of my work was dependent on sources getting back to me, but every moment that phone didn't ring there was a fear that the story was slipping through my fingers.

  I worried that Curt's searches would turn up empty. That

  Amanda would discover Patrick Reed was born in Idaho and not Hobbs County like I suspected. Not to mention cigarette boy Benjamin wandering the streets somewhere, and I had a little more anxiety at that moment than I liked.

  I had to distract myself. Music, that would do it. Calm, soothing music.

  I turned my computer on, opened iTunes and started to play Dylan's "Not Dark Yet." The melody calmed me.

  I thought about Daniel Linwood, Michelle Oliveira.

  Two children with their lives once laid out in front of them, yet forevermore they would be outcasts. They would always live with that stigma, never fitting in. The beauty of a child, the pain from a life stolen away.

  And just while those lyrics had begun to burrow their way into my skull, my cell phone rang. If there was ever a time to be jostled out of morose thoughts.

  The caller ID read "Amanda cell." I answered it without hesitating.

  "Hey, wondering what happened to you."

  "Seriously? It's been, like, fifteen minutes. What the hell do you expect?"

  "Sorry, just a little antsy here. I feel like things are starting to become clearer."

  "Well, your feelings might be real. Turns out that

  Patrick Reed, son of Robert and Elaine Reed, was born on

  May 29 four and a half years ago at Yardley Medical

  Center in Hobbs County."

  "You're shitting me."

  "Nope. And I'll give you three guesses at to who signed the delivery certificate."

  "I'll take Dmitri Petrovsky for one thousand, Alex."

  "Ding ding ding. I'm actually out of cash, so I hope you'll take your winning either in an IOU or a Sw
eet'n

  Low packet I just dug out of my jeans pocket."

  "Amanda, you know what this means, right? The Reeds knew Petrovsky. Their son was born at the same hospital as Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. That's their link to Raymond Benjamin. Somehow he found out about these kids through Petrovsky."

  "Wait," Amanda said. "Patrick Reed wasn't kidnapped, he's the Reeds' biological son. What gives?"

  "Patrick isn't the issue, I just needed a connection so we could figure out how the Reeds came in contact with

  Benjamin. Petrovsky is the middleman. Benjamin the facilitator. The Reeds-I'm not quite sure what they are."

  "So we have three pieces to the puzzle, but the three pieces are blank right now."

  "Yeah, pretty much. We need to find the Reeds. Petrovsky is dead and Benjamin will kill us before he talks." I heard a beeping sound on my phone. I looked at the display. It read "Curt cell."

  "Amanda, Curt's on the other line. I need to take this."

  "Call me right back."

  "Will do." I hung up. My palms were sweating. This was all coming together. The bigger picture was still invisible, but it would come. Benjamin. Petrovsky. The

  Reeds. What the hell were they all involved in?

  "Hello?" I said, answering the call.

  "Hey, man, I got a ton of info for you." It was Curt. He was talking fast. "We might have found your girl. Two weeks ago, Caroline Twomey, age nine, was taken from her parents' home in Tarrytown. She was reported missing the next day, but the Tarrytown PD haven't turned up any leads. I did a background check on Caroline's parents, a

  Mr. and Mrs. Harold and Phyllis Twomey. Harold works construction but hasn't made more than thirty-five grand a year in his whole life. Phyllis is a part-time schoolteacher. And by part-time, I mean she hasn't worked in nearly five years."

  "Really? Why is that?"

  "Five years ago, Phyllis Twomey was arrested for shoplifting. The store decided to press charges, and

  Phyllis was fined five hundred bucks and sentenced to fifty hours of community service. She hasn't worked a day since."

  "What store did she rob?"

  "A Healthwise pharmacy just three miles from their house. They caught her on the security camera, cops met her at her house fifteen minutes after it was called in."

  "Curt," I said. "What did she steal?"

  "Says here she tried to steal two dozen vials of insulin."

  There it was. I knew the link. I knew why Benjamin had come to Petrovsky. I knew why Daniel Linwood, Michelle

  Oliveira and Caroline Twomey had been chosen.

  "Curt," I said. "Daniel Linwood is a diabetic. So is

  Caroline Twomey. When I spoke to Michelle Oliveira's violin teacher, Delilah Lancaster, she mentioned noticing needle marks on the girl's skin. She thought it might have been drugs, but it was because Michelle is a diabetic.

  They're all diabetic."

  "So Dmitri Petrovsky was feeding Raymond Benjamin information about diabetic children that were born in his pediatric ward. For what purpose?"

  "Diabetics are more susceptible to lower thiamine levels," I said. "If they don't get proper nutrition, it can result in both short-term and long-term brain damage. One of the side effects of short-term brain damage is Korsakoff syndrome, which prevents the brain from processing certain compounds, and prevents the brain from retaining long-term memory."

  "That would explain why Michelle and Dan Linwood had no recollection of their years missing."

  "Right," I said. "But whoever took Dan and Michelle, and now this Twomey girl, knew about their conditions.

  And they were prepared for it. They didn't want to kill these children, they just needed to get them away from their families for a period of time."

  "Why?" Curt asked.

  "I don't know yet," I said. "But I'm sure the Reeds can answer that question for us."

  "Well, that was my next piece of information. You owe me a steak dinner after all this, Henry."

  "Come on, cough it up."

  "You're lucky it's a slow day. I had a dozen cops calling every hotel and motel within a two-hundred-and-fiftymile radius of that house on Huntley Terrace. We got an affirmative for a Mr. Robert Reed at a Sheraton in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. About two hundred miles from

  Hobbs County."

  "Holy shit, Curt, you're a godsend." I checked my watch. It was six o'clock. With any luck I could be in Harrisburg by nine. "Listen, I need to call Amanda. I'm driving up there right now."

  "Like hell you are," Curt said. "You have no idea what's up there. Hell, that's not even my jurisdiction."

  "Lucky for me I don't have to worry about jurisdiction,"

  I said. "News is interstate. Sorry about that, bro."

  "You asshole," Curt said. "All right, screw it. I'm coming with you. You got a car, right?"

  "Sure do."

  "Then count me in. And I call shotgun."

  "Bitch, please. You think there's any chance in hell you're riding shotgun over the girl I'm still in love with?"

  Curt laughed. "No, guess not, but at least you finally admitted it."

  "What do you want, a cookie? Meet me here in half an hour." I hung up. Called Amanda. Set the meeting time.

  Wondered if somehow Robert and Elaine Reed expected some company.

  34

  "Hello, miss, are you still there?"

  "Yes, Mr. Benjamin, I'm processing your information as we speak."

  "Thanks a lot, dear. And just to be sure, you got that the car was loaned to a Mr. and Mrs. Robert Reed?"

  "Yes, sir, I heard you the first three times. Now, can you give me Mr. Reed's date of birth and social security number?"

  Raymond Benjamin repeated both numbers to the woman on the other line. He was standing at a pay phone at Eighty-First and Columbus in New York City. Vince was

  Uptown. He'd called frantically ten minutes ago, saying

  Parker, the girl and some black guy had gotten into the same car they'd been driving the other night and sped away. Vince said they looked like they were in a hurry. And that made Ray Benjamin nervous. He had a feeling somehow Parker had found the Reeds. And if he had,

  Benjamin would be in a world of trouble.

  No, there was still time. But it meant Ray had to get creative.

  The Ford Windstar had been bought in his name. He'd never used that stupid Pioneer system, since the last time he trusted a computer for direction he ended up somewhere with cows and silos. Not exactly what he was looking for.

  The one thing he did have to be thankful for was reading the damn machine's instruction book. Just in case. He remembered reading that, in case of an emergency, you could call a Pioneer technician and receive help in either starting or locating your car.

  When he signed the papers, he'd made sure to authorize Robert and Elaine Reed, as well. They'd be the ones driving it, and he didn't need them to be pulled over and have to explain their relationship. Thankfully he knew everything about Robert and Elaine Reed, from social security numbers to their son Patrick's birthday.

  "Mr. Benjamin, how did you say you lost the car again?"

  "Lost it?" Ray said. "Actually, we think our son took it out for a spin last night, got drunk and got a ride home from a friend. When he sobered up he couldn't remember where he left it. I'd really rather not get the police involved unless we have to. All I want is my car back."

  There was a moment, and then Raymond heard the woman say, "Mr. Benjamin, according to our tracking system your car has been located in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. On Lindle Road, right by the entrance to I-283

  North. It looks like it's right off of exit 2. Sir, you're sure you don't want us to contact the police? Our caller ID shows you're phoning in from NewYork City. That's quite a drive."

  "No worries," Raymond said. "I'm a fast driver."

  35

  The Harrisburg Sheraton was right off of the Interstate, about a hundred yards down Lindle Road and a few miles east of the Oberlin College campus. Th
ough the night sky had descended on the city, I could see that the trees were full, the grass lush. The town had a wonderful, oldAmerica feel. And we were less than ten miles from

  Hershey Park. Unfortunately, this wasn't the best time to check out the chocolatey goodness.

  Some terrible techno music was playing on the radio, but I hadn't been paying attention for the past hour. Every minute that passed we were closer to finding the Reed family and getting to the bottom of this bizarre triangle.

  Dmitri Petrovsky.

  Robert and Elaine Reed.

  Raymond Benjamin.

  Three groups of people that would never have any sort of interaction in a normal world, yet for some reason they'd become intimately involved in one another's lives and businesses. I hoped Curt's boys had done their homework at the precinct, and I hoped that, if this was the place, that the Reeds hadn't already packed up ship.

  My eyes were weary. A three-and-a-half-hour trip doesn't sound like much, but after a full day's work in addition to the other stresses involving Jack and this story, it was all I could do to keep focus. I had to keep telling myself what the opportunity was here, both the truth to be revealed and the benefits for the Gazette. Things would be tough with Jack out. I liked Wallace, and the man had been almost endlessly supportive, but he was hardly a mentor.

  I was on my own at work. Thankfully the two people in the car were my backup.

  The Harrisburg Sheraton was a fairly quaint hotel, the low-slung roof lined with hanging plants out front. Lamps in the grass lit up a trail that went from the parking lot to the entryway, and the guest rooms, about eight floors of them, were just a few yards beyond.

  I parked the car, turned off the ignition.

  "How you all feeling?" I said as we exited the car. Curt stretched, his long limbs raised into the sky. I noticed the gun by his hip. He'd come in plainclothes. There wouldn't be much love for an NYPD cop in PA. Amanda had on a nice purple blouse. She wrapped her arms around her chest, looked slightly worried.

  "I'm good," she said. "Could use a bathroom break."

  We walked into the hotel. The floors were covered in beige tiles, and half a dozen overstuffed chairs surrounded tables. A few hotel guests were seated, reading books and newspapers, sipping coffee.