The Stolen (2008)

by Jason - Henry Parker 03 Pinter

  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.”

  The Stolen

  107

  “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

  108

  Jason Pinter

  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

  110

  Jason Pinter

  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.

  The Stolen

  111

  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

  112

  Jason Pinter

  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

  The Stolen

  113

  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.”

  114

  Jason Pinter

  “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.

  The Stolen

  115

  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.”

  116

  Jason Pinter

  “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