age, being wherever he’s been the past five years.”
Amanda sat, listened intently. She felt the familiar rush
Henry got when he was excited about a story, the same
sense of pride she felt (used to feel) when she was proud
of her man.
“I did some digging,” he continued, “and it turns out a
girl named Michelle Oliveira went missing several years
before Danny. Similar circumstances, both children disappearing without a trace, then suddenly reappearing out
of nowhere, remembering nothing about their disappearance. No suspects ever arrested. Nobody ever found out
how or why she went missing.”
“I think I get where this is going.”
Henry nodded. “Michelle Oliveira’s records are sealed,”
he said. Henry waited, knowing she would respond.
“But you know I have access to them at the legal aid
society.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s why you called me.”
Henry stayed silent, looked at Amanda, his eyes full
of remorse. It was genuine. “I’ve been an asshole. I’m
not apologizing again, we both know that’s over and
done with. But this is important. It’s a boy’s life,
Amanda, and I didn’t know who else I could turn to or
trust. I still trust you.”
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“I don’t know if I trust you.”
“I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to help
me for the sake of someone else.”
Amanda was struck by the tone of his voice, the sense
of coldness. But she knew it wasn’t meant to hurt her. In
a way it was meant to protect her.
“I’m not asking you to take me back, or anything like
that. I know you don’t want to. I’m asking you to help
because you’re the only person I know who can do this, who
has access to those records. The only person who would do
this. Something is wrong with this story, and I need to know
what.” He added, “For Danny Linwood’s sake.”
Amanda sat for a moment. A cool breeze whipped
through the park. She watched a smiling couple holding
hands, eating sandwiches just a few feet from them, as
though their whole lives existed in this small world where
problems were as light as the leaves. She thought about
her life, what it was like before and after Henry. How
there didn’t seem to be enough of it lived.
“I can get you those records,” she said. “But that’s all
I’ll do. I’ll help you with whatever information you need
in regard to this Oliveira girl, but I’m not going to ask for
anything in return. And I don’t even want you to offer.”
“I won’t,” he said, though the words seemed hard for
him to say.
Amanda stood up. Smoothed out her skirt. Henry
stood as well.
“Michelle Oliveira?” Henry nodded. Amanda clutched
her purse, felt the sharp edges of her keys. “I’ll call you
later when I get the files. One thing, I’ll only give them to
you in person. I could get in deep doo-doo if my supervisor knows I’m doing this, so I’ll contact you discreetly.
Don’t send me any e-mails, don’t call or text message. I
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don’t even want to see a carrier pigeon. You might trust
me, but I sure as hell don’t trust Verizon.”
“That’s a deal.”
“Then I’ll call you,” she said. Amanda turned around
to leave.
“Hey, Amanda,” Henry said.
“Yeah?”
“It was good to see you.”
“I’ll call you,” she said, glad the smile on her face
couldn’t be seen as she walked away.
12
Sometimes all you can do is wait. That’s what I did back
at the office while waiting to hear from Amanda. I went
over the Daniel Linwood transcript half a dozen times,
word by word, line by line, to make sure I hadn’t missed
anything else. I listened to the tape, tried to hear the
cadences in his voice, catch a sense of apprehension, a
feeling that he was holding back. And though I strained
hard to hear it to the point where I tried to convince myself,
it simply wasn’t there. Daniel Linwood had laid it all out.
At least the way he remembered it. Or didn’t remember.
Those words stuck in my head. Brothers. Such a small
thing, Danny himself hadn’t even noticed it. When a
person misspeaks, they often correct themselves. If not,
they won’t make the mistake again. Not Danny Linwood.
At about five o’clock, when I was beginning to think it
wasn’t coming, that tomorrow would be a repeat of today,
I got an e-mail. The subject heading read “Marion Crane.”
Right away I knew who it was. It was tough to hold back
a smile.
When I’d been on the run for my life a few years ago,
Amanda and I had stopped at a hole-in-the-wall hotel to
plan our next move. She signed the ledger using the same
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name, Marion Crane. The Janet Leigh role from Hitchcock’s Psycho. Marion Crane, the girl who would have
done anything, including stealing thousands of dollars,
just for a better life.
The e-mail was brief.
Battery Park City. Starbucks. Bring money to buy me a
double latte and maybe a scone if I’m feeling adventurous.
I wondered why the hell she had to pick Battery Park
City of all places. Battery Park was at the southernmost tip
of NewYork City, but was barely in NewYork City. I’d been
there a few times, reporting on a new housing development
that was alleged to be one of the city’s first “green” buildings, but a little digging turned up that the solar panels
alleged to power thirty percent of the building’s generator
were nothing more than fancy aluminum, and the developer
had pocketed a few hundred grand from snookered tenants.
Since I wasn’t calling the shots, I hopped on the 4 train
and rode it to the Bowling Green stop. When I got off, I
immediately saw two Starbucks (or was it Starbuckses?
Starbucksi?) across the street from each other. I walked
into the first one, didn’t see Amanda, and sheepishly left.
Battery Park had a stunning view of the Hudson River,
the grand Statue of Liberty easily visible from the shore.
Because of its proximity to the ocean, the temperature in
Battery Park was ten to fifteen degrees cooler than the rest
of Manhattan, so in August it was still a brisk sixty-five.
I was glad I’d decided to wear a sport jacket.
The second Starbucks thankfully was the right one,
though if I came up empty I didn’t doubt there was another
one right around the corner, or even inside the restroom.
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Amanda was sitting by a back table reading a discarded
copy of the Dispatch. Next to her purse was a small tote bag.
Inside it I could see a thick folder with stark white printouts
spilling out. She saw me coming and put down the paper. I
pulled out the chair to sit down, but Amanda shook he
r head.
“Uh-uh.” I stood there, confused. “Double latte. One
sugar.”
“Scone?”
“Nope. Gotta watch my girlish figure.”
I wanted to tell her she needed to watch her figure like
Britney needed another mouth to feed, but decided
against it.
I nodded, bought the drink, fixed it to her specifications,
set it down on the table and sat down.
“The Dispatch? ” I said, gesturing to the discarded
paper. “Really?”
“It’s for show, stupid. I’m here incognito.”
“Right. So that’s it? The Oliveira file?” I said, gesturing to the tote bag. She sipped her drink, nodded.
“I feel like we’re investigating Watergate or something,”
she replied. “Passing folders under the table.”
“If that were the case, I could think of a few places a
little less conspicuous than Starbucks.”
“That why we’re in Battery Park. You think either of us
knows a soul down here? Besides, I thought you loved the
Woodward and Bernstein stuff.”
“I do, but Robert Redford is a little too old and leathery
to play me. And Dustin Hoffman’s too short for you.”
Amanda looked around exaggeratedly. She eyed the
barista, squinted her eyes. I had no idea what in the hell
she was doing. It was as if she was expecting a rogue team
of FBI agents to come out of nowhere and load her in the
back of a van. Sadly, it wasn’t even two years ago when
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two FBI agents did break into her house and shoot
someone in her bedroom.
Maybe that’s what made it funnier.
She pressed her foot up against the tote bag underneath
the table. Then she kicked it toward me. Then she gestured
at the bag before taking a long, slow sip of her latte.
“Oh, is that for me?”
She eyed me contemptuously. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,
open the damn thing.”
I picked up the tote and pulled out the folder. The top
sheet was Michelle Oliveira’s birth certificate. She was
born on November 15, 1991. That would make her sixteen
today. Michelle Oliveira’s parents were Carlos and
Jennifer Oliveira. At the time of the abduction, the family
resided in Meriden, Connecticut. According to tax records,
Carlos worked as a housepainter, and Jennifer had worked
in a variety of temp jobs over the years. Secretary to an
orthodontist. Court stenographer. Doctor’s office receptionist. Telemarketer.
Together, the Oliveiras’ income never exceeded thirtyfour-thousand dollars a year. They had two other children,
a boy, Juan, now fourteen, and a girl, Josephine, twelve.
Juan was a high school freshman, Josephine was just about
to begin the seventh grade. Their sister Michelle was kidnapped on March 23, 1997, not yet six years old. She
returned on February 16, 2001, nearly four years later.
According to the report, Michelle had spent that afternoon at the home of Patrick and Lynette Lowe. Michelle
was in grade school with their daughter Iris, and according to interviews with the Lowes, and confirmed by the
Oliveiras, Michelle often went to the Lowes’ home after
school to play. She would often stay at the Lowes’ from
approximately three-thirty to six, at which time she would
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come home to get ready for dinner. As the Lowes lived just
four houses down on the same block as the Oliveiras, the
families admitted she walked home on most occasions
unsupervised. On March 23 she left the Lowes’ home at
approximately a quarter to six. At six-fifteen Jennifer
Oliveira called Lynette Lowe to ask when Michelle would
be home. When Lynette Lowe informed Jennifer that
Michelle had left half an hour earlier, and Josephine could
not find Michelle on their block, she called the police.
The Meriden PD found no trace of Michelle Oliveira.
They compared tire tracks found on Warren Street to all
vehicles registered to inhabitants of the block. All vehicles
checked out. Nobody had seen Michelle after she left the
Lowes. No neighbor glimpsed the girl. Nobody came
forward. Michelle Oliveira had simply vanished.
The next page contained her social security number,
employment records, known addresses. And her parents’.
I looked at Amanda. She was absently sipping her
coffee while eyeing me.
“Did you read this already?” I asked. She nodded.
I continued reading. In 2003, two years after Michelle’s
reappearance, the Oliveiras moved from Meriden to
Westport. Westport, I knew, was a much more affluent
part of Connecticut. Records indicated that the Oliveiras
were able to sell their home in Meriden for nearly
$800,000, nearly triple what they’d paid for it ten years
earlier. That was quite a profit for a family who couldn’t
afford to do much refurbishing.
“What are you thinking?” Amanda asked.
“I’m thinking I’m throwing away money by renting
my apartment.”
“Seriously,” she said. “As soon as I can afford it, I’m
leaving Darcy and buying a studio.”
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“Good luck coming up with half a million dollars,” I
replied.
“No way.”
“You want three hundred and fifty square feet in Manhattan? Damn right you’ll need half a mil.” Amanda shook
her head, obviously realizing that living for free with
Darcy wasn’t so bad.
“One thing’s for sure,” I said. “The Oliveiras couldn’t
wait to get the heck out of Meriden after Michelle turned
up.”
“Can you really blame them? I mean, their daughter
disappears, do you really want to hang around and subject
her to those memories? Subject your other children to
that? I’d want to start my life over, that’s for sure.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said “God, that has to be every
parent’s worst nightmare come true.”
I thumbed through the papers and the rest of the police
reports, paying particular attention to the reports from the
day Michelle disappeared and the day she returned. The
police work had been thorough. More than thirty neighbors and friends had been interviewed, as well as all of
Michelle’s classmates, teachers and her private music
instructor, which the Oliveiras admitted cost nearly a
hundred dollars a session. In the report, Carlos and
Jennifer acknowledged the expense, stating their daughter
was a gifted violinist and they simply wanted to give her
the best chance to “make it.”
“Michelle’s currently enrolled at Juilliard,” Amanda
said. “Full scholarship.”
“You don’t say. I guess Michelle did make it. That’s
called beating the odds.”
I found an interview the police had conducted with
Michelle’s violin teacher, a Ms. Delilah Lancaster. Ms.
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Lancaster was scheduled for her weekly lesson with
Michelle the evening she disappe
ared. At eight o’clock she
showed up, unaware of the situation. According to the
report, Ms. Lancaster had seen the police, got spooked,
tried to run away, which led to her questioning and being
a part of the police report. Delilah had confirmed their relationship, mentioning that Michelle had recently begun
working through a book called Solo Pieces for the Inter-
mediate Violinist. They had just begun lessons on George
Frideric Handel’s “Air,” from the Water Music. She had
just completed works by Vivaldi and Mendelssohn.
Four years later, when Michelle returned, the first
person she asked to speak to was Delilah Lancaster. According to the Oliveiras, nobody was closer to Michelle
than Delilah Lancaster. The police ran a cursory investigation into the woman on the chance they’d find some sort
of impropriety. They uncovered dozens of e-mail correspondences between the two and many phone calls to and
from each other’s homes, but they seemed to be more of
the gifted student/dedicated teacher variety. Lancaster
taught Michelle Bach and Mozart and Vivaldi, fingerboards and upper bouts. She was clearly a gifted student,
but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Carlos Oliveira remarked to the Meriden Record-
Journal after Michelle’s reappearance that socially, his
daughter seemed to have withdrawn. She was unsure of
herself, timid.
“She spends hours, I mean, hours a day locked in that
room of hers, fiddling with the violin as if it’s all she’s got
in the world. We try to push her to go outside, play like a
normal girl, but all she cares about are those strings. She
used to have so many friends. She was such a popular girl.
At least she’s safe now, that’s what matters most.”
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“The music teacher,” I said. “I think I’ll give Ms.
Delilah a ring. It seems like she was the closest person to
Michelle Oliveira, and spoke to her the most after she
came back. All Michelle had left was her violin. If
anybody knows anything it might be the music teacher.”
I held up the folder. “Can I keep these?”
“Sure,” Amanda said. “But I swear, Henry, my career
is on the line.”
“No worries. I’ll take good care of this.”
She looked at me, as if debating whether I could be
trusted. Finally Amanda stood up. She downed the rest of her
coffee, flung it at the garbage. It rattled around and fell in.
“Keep me in the loop, will you? It sickens me to think
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