The Stolen hp-3

by Jason Pinter

  I looked at her sandwich. She had one or two bites left.

  "What, you want me to leave because you have work to do?"

  "No. I was just wondering if you were going to finish that."

  She mocked throwing the last piece at me, then shoved it all in her mouth and swallowed.

  "I'll walk out with you," she said. "You heading to the office?"

  "Yeah. But I need to make a few calls and see if I can track down Raymond Benjamin's employment records. If the Reeds knew what was good for them, they'd be in

  Arizona by now."

  "What about Benjamin?"

  "If yesterday was any indication, he'll follow them into hell if he needs to. He was there to kill the Reed family.

  His gun was already drawn when he came into the hall at the hotel. If we don't find out what's going on, it won't just be another kidnapping to investigate, or having to deal with at least two people who have already been killed, but we'd have to live with the murder of an entire family."

  38

  Raymond Benjamin sat in the black Ford Escape and finished his third pack of the day. He rolled down the window and flicked the butt into the wind, where it landed among a pile of a dozen other butts that had come from the same vehicle.

  Ray's heart had been racing for nearly twenty-four hours straight. Vince was dead. And though he had no love lost for the bumbling idiot, there was a huge difference between thinking someone a dolt and wishing them dead. He still couldn't figure out how Parker, the girl and the black guy with the gun had found the Reed family. It should have been quick, easy and relatively painless. At least for him and Vince. They'd both loaded their guns with dumdum rounds-hollow-point bullets. There were four targets: Robert Reed, Elaine Reed, Patrick Reed and the girl. Caroline Twomey. They didn't want to take any chances that one or more of them might have gotten away or fought back. He'd met Robert Reed before, and the man had some athletic genes.

  The dumdum rounds were specially designed to expand upon impact, the bullets deforming when they entered the skin, causing a maximum of trauma. That way even if they didn't get off a kill shot, the wound would have been devastating enough to keep the target down. With four targets, you couldn't take chances.

  Now Vince was dead. He'd worked with the man for going on seven years, and while Raymond never would have asked him to be on his team for Trivial Pursuit, he had developed an odd affection for him, like an owner with a three-legged dog.

  When Parker began to investigate Petrovsky, Ray knew the plan had encountered serious problems. Reporters didn't just go away. If anything, resistance made them dig deeper. And especially after he looked into Parker, he realized that this guy would never quit, wouldn't back down, even when facing down the barrel of a gun. And to compound that, Bob and Elaine clearly left the house on

  Huntley in an effort to disappear, or at least hide out until they could figure out how to untangle themselves from the mess. Raymond had never fully trusted Elaine Reed. It took too long. Too much effort. When they ran away in that tin can of a minivan, to Raymond that's when the answer became clear. It wasn't something Raymond wanted to do, but it was necessary.

  He'd run it up the flagpole. Nothing happened without the say-so of his employer. And, like Ray, his employer wasn't thrilled with the option but realized there was no choice. The Reeds had to disappear, along with Caroline

  Twomey.

  As far as Ray knew, the Windstar was still in play. The

  Reeds were hardly versed in espionage. Hell, he'd be surprised if Elaine even knew how to use e-mail. Soon he'd have the car's location, and if the Reeds were there he would correct everything that had gone wrong.

  He raised the window and turned on the engine. He found a good jazz station with John Coltrane's quartet playing "Pursuance." He sat and listened to the entire song, felt the rhythm swim through his head. He reached into the glove compartment, closed his hand around the gun, and felt like everything would even out.

  This time had been a mistake. It was unfortunate for

  Caroline Twomey. The next time, though, they would make things right.

  39

  I left the apartment with Amanda. We said our goodbyes outside. She hailed a taxi. I watched it pull away, for a second hoping that her window might lower, her head drifting out like in an old movie, where the cab would pull over and all sorts of romance would ensue. 'Course, that didn't happen. The cab pulled up to the light, then turned out of sight when it became green.

  I trudged to the subway, feeling like the whole story had begun anew. We'd found the Reeds once, and that was almost out of blind luck. The next time, neither I, nor they, would be so lucky.

  The Harrisburg police believed every word I said, and were more than happy to step up their patrol and look for this man Benjamin. It was maddening that we were facing such resistance in Meriden and Hobbs County, the cities that preferred to keep their heads stuck in the sand.

  I got onto the subway, flipping through the Gazette to pass the time. As much as I was reading the paper for the articles, I also felt somewhat obligated to advertise our paper, make sure fellow straphangers were well aware of the newspaper of choice. Given the fact that I'd probably slept a total of five hours in the past two days and my eyes were totally bloodshot, they might have assumed the

  Gazette was a paper for strung-out junkies. Not exactly the target market for our reporting skills.

  I got to the office at a quarter past nine. When I stepped off the elevator, I was greeted by a sight that cheered me up immediately.

  Sitting at his usual desk was Jack O'Donnell. And he looked no worse for wear.

  Hardly able to contain my excitement, I half walked, half sprinted through the newsroom and perched myself by Jack's desk. He was wearing one of his patented suit jackets with patched elbows, and pants that looked like they'd survived a horrific gardening accident. He smelled like Old Spice, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He looked exactly like what you'd expect a seasoned reporter would look like. The old newsman turned to me, a weary smile spreading across his lips.

  "Hey there, if it isn't the boy who saved an old man's life."

  "Come on," I said, "stop it." I felt like a schoolgirl complimented by the starting quarterback.

  "Seriously, Henry, I owe you a great deal of gratitude.

  I've been on this earth for a long time-maybe I've outstayed my welcome considering some of the things I've done-but if not for you there's a good chance I wouldn't be here right now. So thank you."

  "You don't need to thank me, Jack," I said. "You'd have done the same for me."

  "Saved your life?" he said. "An old bag of bones like me can barely muster up the strength to get dressed in the morning, let alone go around saving lives. I appreciate the gesture, but you're the hero here."

  "If you remember," I said, "you saved my life a few years ago. You know, that whole thing where they thought I'd killed John Fredrickson? After Amanda, you were the only one that helped me. So get off this modesty kick, it doesn't suit you."

  Jack smiled smugly. "Okay, I'll take it. But I promise, that's the last time you'll have to go picking me up off a floor. Unless I'm break-dancing, but then all bets are off.

  Speaking of bets, Wallace tells me you're in the middle of a pretty tense story. What's the deal?"

  I recounted everything that had happened since I first interviewed Daniel Linwood. I told him about the discovery of Michelle Oliveira's disappearance, our attempt to follow Dmitri Petrovsky and the doctor's murder. About the Reeds and how I believed they'd kidnapped a girl named Caroline Twomey for reasons I still didn't know.

  And about Raymond Benjamin, the career thug who was somehow mixed up in all this.

  Jack sat there, resting his head on his hands, his eyes betraying a sense of worry. When I was finished he stayed seated for another moment, took a breath, closed his eyes, and said, "It's not supposed to be this difficult, Henry. You can't put your life in danger on every story."

  "That's not
fair, Jack. I didn't choose for this to happen.

  I was assigned to the Linwood story, and then-"

  "And then what? That should have been the end of it.

  Your piece on the Linwood boy was terrific. Case closed.

  So what happened?"

  "Life happened," I said, feeling my blood pressure rise. "I can't speak for you, Jack, but I can't just let things go. As soon as I knew there was more to the

  Linwood story, as soon as I realized there were people who didn't want me digging, it's like…it's like someone turned on a switch inside me. And I can't stop until I know everything."

  Jason Pinter

  "You know what they call someone who needs to know everything?" Jack asked.

  "A good reporter?" I replied.

  "Dead," Jack said. "Every trail leads somewhere. Very few stories simply end. And if you keep playing Indiana

  Jones, at some point your luck's going to run out, and some very bad people are going to shut you up."

  "Thanks for the pep talk," I said. "I'll take it under advisement." I stood up.

  "Where are you going?" he asked.

  "This story isn't finished," I said. "I have to go make some bad people upset at me."

  I walked back to my desk, happy that Jack seemed healthy and vibrant, but annoyed that he was still questioning me. He had to know I couldn't just give this up. I needed to know why Raymond Benjamin got involved with the Reeds. And if, somehow, through all this he was connected to Daniel Linwood.

  Rule number one in journalism: always start with the money.

  Specifically, where did Raymond Benjamin get it?

  I logged in to our LexisNexis terminal and ran a search for Raymond Benjamin. More than a thousand hits came up. I narrowed it down by adding search terms like

  "criminal," "jail" and several others. A few hits came up relating to the 1971 riots at Attica. Raymond Benjamin was named in several newspapers as one of the inmates involved, though none of them named him as having taken part in violence or murders. I scrolled down through several entries, and found one that piqued my interest.

  It was printed in the Buffalo News out of Buffalo, New

  York. It was an in-depth article, four pages long, and incredibly detailed. It went on record about the horrific abuses suffered by the prisoners in Attica, and how the shoddy treatment was the catalyst for the riots.

  One of the most damning pieces of evidence, the article stated, was the discovery by Dr. Michael Baden that all twenty-nine of the prisoners and all ten of their prisonguard hostages were killed by Attica guards themselves.

  This was a huge blow to the penal system, which for years had been spreading stories that the hostages had been killed by the prisoners, who had slit their throats. That the guards resorted to lethal measures so quickly and brutally was yet another blow to the system.

  According to the article, a prisoner by the name of

  Raymond Benjamin was treated for facial lacerations, as well as severe dehydration and malnutrition. When asked about his conditions inside the prison, Benjamin stated he'd eaten only one meal a day the week before the riot, hadn't showered more than three times a month the prior year, and had repeatedly been subjected to other forms of torture and brutality. Strangely, though, Benjamin refused to blame the prisoners or the guards for his wounds. Benjamin was quoted as saying, "I got nobody to look at besides myself, where I come from. Sometimes you make your own choices, sometimes where you come from makes 'em for you. Me, my fate was set long before I had any say in it."

  All of this seemed to jibe with what I remembered of

  Benjamin. He'd brought up Attica that night I was held in the basement on Huntley. And I distinctly remembered that long, thin scar running down his cheek.

  I went through every article I could find pertaining to

  Raymond Benjamin and the riots. Then, in a small item in the Journal News, a paper that served Westchester, Putnam and Rockland counties in New York, I found a short item in which Raymond Benjamin was named. It was accom-292

  Jason Pinter panied by a photograph, as well. I recognized Benjamin immediately.

  The photo was taken at a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the opening of a new shopping mall in Chappaqua, New

  York. Chappaqua was a pretty tony suburb, and I wondered what Ray was doing there. In the photo he was wearing a hard hat. And he was clapping. The caption read, "Workers from Powers Construction celebrate. Raymond Benjamin of Hobbs County among those proud of this state-of-theart development."

  Right there, two things leaped out at me. Raymond

  Benjamin was from Hobbs County. Just like Daniel

  Linwood and the Reed family. Not to mention Dmitri

  Petrovsky. No doubt that's how Ray met the good doctor.

  And second, according to the article, Benjamin was employed by a company called Powers Construction. I couldn't picture the man who pressed a lit cigarette to my skin working on a job site, holding a jackhammer under his gut. It didn't seem right. This was a guy whose job was to hurt, to kill, not to build.

  Unless it was a sham.

  I logged off the machine and went straight to Wallace's office. He was on the phone, but when he saw me enter he said, "I'll call you back," and hung up. He turned to me, pressed his palms on the desk.

  "Henry," he said. "How's your friend Sheffield?"

  "He'll pull through," I said. "A centimeter in another direction and it would have been a different story. He'll have a tough recovery, but he's a tough guy."

  "I'm glad to hear that. And you saw Jack out there- the place wasn't the same without him."

  "No, sure wasn't."

  "And how are you holding up?"

  "Can I use up my daily allotment of 'I've been better'?"

  "Consider it done."

  "Great," I said. "What do you know about an outfit called Powers Construction?"

  Wallace shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. Why do you ask?"

  "I've been doing some research on the man I think is behind these kidnappings, and he's named in a New York paper as working with this Powers Construction company.

  It just doesn't seem to make sense. The guy I saw seems to be more handy with a gun than a screwdriver."

  "I'm sorry, off the top of my head I don't know."

  "You think it could be a front? He's employed there for legal purposes, maybe does his wet work on the side? You know, waste-management consulting?"

  Wallace chuckled. "It's possible," he said. "But then why would Powers Construction employ the man if he's got a record-which he would have to disclose-and to top that off, he's hardly a model employee?"

  "Until now, he hasn't been in any trouble since the seventies. Something just feels off here."

  "Do some looking into this Powers Construction,"

  Wallace said. "Are they a legit outfit? And where are they based out of?"

  "Putnam County," I said. "They've done work all over the surrounding towns. Including Hobbs County, which as it turns out is the birthplace of our very own psychopath Benjamin."

  "You know, now that I think about it," Wallace said, "I remember reading somewhere that Powers Construction was responsible for some pretty major jobs. Not just commercial, but residential, too. If I remember correctly, a congressman who recently retired had a mansion built by Powers."

  "I'll check it out," I said. "But if you're right, it definitely seems like these might be some big-time players in real estate development."

  "Strange times for that market," Wallace said. "Millions of people's lives are being ruined by the subprime mortgage mess. Government's doing what it can to help, but it can't help everyone. You're going to have a lot of foreclosures over the next few years. And that means a lot of business for a company like Powers. People buy up those foreclosed homes, then either gut and renovate or simply tear them down and rebuild."

  "Strange," I said, thinking. I felt like a piece of the puzzle might have just become clearer. "I spent a lot of time in Meriden and Hobbs
County recently. And in both places it was obvious they'd seen more work than Joan

  Rivers. Each town was like a tale of two cities-one old and decrepit, one new and rebuilt."

  "I'm sure if part of the town was rebuilt, it's only a matter of time before the rest catches up."

  "Maybe," I said. "Even the Linwoods' house looked like it had been carved out of marble recently. When I read up on Daniel Linwood's kidnapping, the family received thousands of dollars in donations, public and anonymous.

  No idea if that went into their house, but I'll tell you, it wasn't the only one on the block that looked new. I'm wondering if Powers Construction has held the scalpel over

  Hobbs County. And if so, maybe they're tied into the mess somehow."

  "Even if you think it's not about the money," Wallace said, "it's about the money."

  Obviously there was a strong motive for Powers Construction to want to be a part of some major rebuilding projects in Hobbs County, as well as other towns and cities across the Northeast. I still felt like I was missing something. Follow the money, Wallace said. That's what I decided to do. I had to talk to Reggie Powers.

  40

  The home office of Powers Construction was located at Twenty-Third and Fifth in Manhattan. Before calling over, I decided to do a little research on the company.

  Their Web site had one of those incredibly flashy designs, and I could picture Reggie Powers grimacing as he handed over thousands of dollars to some tech geeks who'd likely never seen a working construction side. The company logo was an intersected P and C.

  Both letters looked like they were made out of curved steel, bolts and all.

  Powers was, according to the site, one of the leading commercial and residential contractors in the entire Northeast. Their projects ranged from billion-dollar properties, from several financial institutions, to smaller homes and houses. They were credited for having essentially rebuilt several small towns, and were even one of the contractors called in to evaluate the Gulf Coast after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Whatever the size of the project, it looked like Powers Construction was the bidder to beat.