The Stolen Read online

  “We’re here to see Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky in Pediatrics,” I said.

  “Your names?”

  “Henry Parker and Amanda Davies.”

  “Do you have identification?”

  We both handed over our drivers licenses. I didn’t want to announce myself as a member of the press just yet. In case Petrovsky knew anything, I didn’t want to give him time to prepare.

  The woman looked at our IDs, then at us, then handed them back. She scribbled our names on two orange stickers, then signed each one before peeling them off and pressing them against our shirts.

  “Petrovsky, Pediatrics. Suite 1103.”

  We thanked her, showed the stickers to the guard and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. The elevator was jam-packed, and the ride took forever. Finally we got off on eleven and followed the signs to the correct suite.

  The eleventh-floor hallway was painted light blue. Very soothing. When we found 1103, a door marked Pediatrics, we paused for a moment, then entered.

  We found ourselves in a waiting room littered with toys and parenting magazines. Various brochures were available. There were about a dozen chairs, almost all of which were filled with mothers, fathers and their tykes. I counted three pregnant women. Some of the kids were playing, some sleeping, and at least two were bawling their eyes out. Amanda took a seat, picked up a copy of Parenting magazine, and nodded toward the secretary.

  “Would you mind signing us in, hon?”

  “My pleasure, hon.”

  I approached the secretary, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and a pair of red glasses perched on her nose. “Help you?” she said.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Petrovsky,” I said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I’m sorry, we don’t.”

  She swiveled to a computer, pressed a few keys, then swiveled back. “He can see you today, but not likely until eleven-thirty.” She handed me a clipboard with several forms on it. “If you and your wife would please fill these out and return it back to me.”

  I opened my mouth to explain the whole not wife thing, but didn’t think it was worth the time or explanation.

  I took the papers and a pen, sat down next to Amanda.

  “If anyone asks, you’re my wife.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  “Just go with it.”

  “Come on, Henry, these kind of matrimonial decisions should be made by both of us for Christ’s sake.”

  A lady holding her infant son glared at us.

  “Sorry,” I said, turning to Amanda. “Honey, there are children present.”

  Amanda gave me a look that could have melted steel. I concentrated on filling out the forms, being as vague as possible, while leaving most responses blank.

  When they were completed, I went back up to the receptionist. Handing them over, I said, “I left a lot of this blank. Frankly, there are some personal issues I’d rather discuss with Dr. Petrovsky first, if you don’t mind.”

  The woman rolled her eyes at me, said, “Suit yourself,” and took the papers. When I returned to Amanda, she was buried in a copy of Parenting magazine.

  “Wow,” Amanda said, eyebrows raised. “Did you know that the World Health Organization recommends breast-feeding your child until they’re at least two years old, and sometimes until they’re four?”

  “Why not?” I said. “Nothing brings a mother and her child closer than reading, writing and breast-feeding.”

  Amanda snorted a laugh, causing the other mothers to sneer at her in unison. She went back to reading the magazine. I did a cursory search through the reading material available. Since I had no aching desire to sift through a Learning Annex pamphlet or a four-month-old issue of Cosmopolitan, I just sat there and waited.

  Finally after a two-hour wait, the receptionist called, “Mr. and Mrs. Parker.”

  I looked at Amanda, her face suddenly nervous. We stood up and followed the receptionist down a wood-paneled hallway into an examination room.

  “Dr. Petrovsky will be with you in just a moment.”

  When she left, I turned to Amanda and said, “Here we go.”

  “You really think this guy knows anything about Danny and Michelle?”

  “That’s why we’re here,” I said. “I just want something to prove to Wallace this story deserves looking into, regardless of what some stuffed shirt says.”

  We sat there waiting for fifteen minutes. I looked around the room. Nothing out of place, and because we were in a simple examining room rather than Petrovsky’s office, it prevented me from snooping around his framed degrees.

  Then the door opened, and a fifty-something barrel-chested man walked in. He was about five-ten with a thick gray beard and a white coat that barely concealed his protruding midsection. Beneath the beard his cheeks were slightly red. He walked with a slight limp. I guessed he’d undergone a hip or knee replacement surgery recently.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Parker, I am Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky.” He spoke with a thick Russian accent. I took his extended hand, as did Amanda.

  “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice,” I said.

  “It is my pleasure. Now, if you will do me one more, please, have a seat.” Amanda sat down on a small metal chair. Petrovsky laughed. “No, not there. Here.”

  Petrovsky approached the examining table. He reached underneath, fiddled around for a few seconds, and then pulled up a pair up stirrups which he latched into place. He then slapped the green cushion and said, “Mrs. Parker, if you please.”

  He put his palms together and then opened them as if he were reading a book.

  Amanda’s eyes went wide. “Oh, hell no. Henry, this is where I get off the train. Good luck.”

  “Mrs. Parker?” Petrovsky said. He turned to me. “I do not understand. This is a routine part of a first examination.”

  Time to come clean. Or at least cleaner.

  “Dr. Petrovsky, my name is Henry Parker, and I’m a reporter with the New York Gazette. Now, first off, I want you to know that I’m here in the best interests of two children. All I want to do is ask you a few questions. We don’t want to make any trouble, I promise. And I would appreciate your complete candor. It’s vital in our investigation.”

  “Investigation?” Petrovsky’s eyes were frightened, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the surprise or something else. “Please, I do not understand. You lied to Maggie at reception?”

  “Not exactly, Doctor. I just needed to speak with you. If after we talk you think my motives aren’t genuine, you can do what you want. But please, just hear me out. I mean well.”

  Petrovsky folded his arms. I took that to mean he was listening.

  “I’m investigating the disappearance of Daniel Linwood,” I said. “The records show that Daniel Linwood was born in this hospital, and that you were the attending during the birth. In conjunction with Daniel Linwood, we’re investigating a similar disappearance, a girl named Michelle Oliveira. Michelle also was born here, under your supervision.

  “Daniel Linwood,” Petrovsky said, his eyes yielding a glimmer of recognition. “The name does sound familiar, yes. What has happened that you are investigating?”

  This surprised me a little. The Linwood disappearance was major news in Hobbs County. Petrovsky had worked here dating back years. Either his memory had slipped, or he was being obstinate for a reason.

  “A week ago, Daniel Linwood returned to his family after being kidnapped nearly five years ago. I’m looking into who kidnapped him and why.”

  “But you say Daniel was found, yes? He is with his family?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Then all should be happy, no?”

  “Not if you want a sense of justice. And I think Daniel’s disappearance is related in some way to Michelle Oliveira. You know both children were born at Yardley,” I said. “And they’re both from Hobbs County.”

  “I did not know this, and I do not know this Michelle person you speak of.”

  Petrovs
ky reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, mopping a few beads from his brow. He put it back in, laughed slightly, then held his hands to his stomach.

  “My wife,” he said. “Says I should lose about fifty pounds to stay healthy. Perhaps, she says, this is the reason I have a titanium knee. I think she may be right, but she cannot tell me how to lose that weight.”

  “Doctor,” I said, “Daniel Linwood has no recollection of his missing years. I need to know what could happen to a child that could do that to their brain, to their memory. If you know anything about Daniel, or what happened, that could explain it.”

  “Please, Mr. Parker, I am just here to do my job. I have delivered many hundreds of children in my career, and now you ask me to remember two as if they were delivered this morning? You have lied to me, and now you expect me to answer you like a man at a cocktail party who has medical questions? If you have medical questions, I would be happy to refer you to another physician in this clinic. Or if you prefer to continue down this path, I would be happy to refer you to hospital security, who will refer you to a good lawyer. That is all I have to say. Now I suggest you leave. Right away.”

  The look Petrovsky gave us confirmed that he was not bluffing. I had no intention of calling his bluff. I merely thanked him for his time, apologized again for the ruse, and we left.

  We exited Yardley in silence. When we got to the parking lot, Amanda said, “Goddamn, that guy knows something.”

  I nodded, picked up the pace and headed toward our Hyundai, hoping a strong wind hadn’t caused it to blow away.

  “I agree,” I said. “He’d heard the name Michelle Oliveira before. And I don’t buy that he didn’t know about Danny Linwood.” I stood in front of our car, thinking about what to do next.

  “Think we should head back?” Amanda asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m going to wait for him. Petrovsky. I’m going to follow him when he gets off work and see where he goes. If necessary, confront him off hospital grounds. Where there’s no security, nobody but us.”

  Amanda sighed.

  “The least you could have done was tell me that upstairs. I would have grabbed a magazine from the waiting room.”

  She smiled at me, and we both piled into the car, waiting for the good doctor to emerge.

  19

  The phone call was not unexpected, but it rattled Raymond Benjamin nonetheless. He’d been sitting in his loft, sipping a glass of pinot noir, from the Argyle wineries, 2005 vintage. There were few things that beat a glass of red and a cigarette at night. Perhaps a little Coltrane. Getting a phone call from this number ruined all of it.

  He recognized the area code and extension immediately, and as soon as they appeared in the caller-ID display, Benjamin knew there was a problem. Petrovsky was only supposed to call if there was an emergency. And Benjamin made it very clear about what constituted an emergency.

  He answered the phone. “Doctor,” Ray said. “There’d better be a fucking good reason for this.”

  Raymond Benjamin listened as Dmitri Petrovsky filled him in on what had occurred at the hospital that day. He ended the conversation by saying he’d watched the two people—Henry Parker and Amanda Davies—leave the hospital. Only, when they left, they didn’t drive away. In fact, they’d been sitting in their car for several hours. Petrovsky and Benjamin came to the same conclusion: they were planning to follow the doctor when he left work.

  When Ray Benjamin hung up the phone, he sat there for a moment, thinking. Then he got up, tossing the rest of his glass into the sink, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. He called Vince and told him to be at the garage in fifteen minutes. Ray had a lot of phone calls to make.

  First he called the house. The couple took it as well as he expected. He told them they’d prepared for a day like this. And if they kept up their end of the deal, it would all be worth it. And if they didn’t, he only needed to remind them of the photograph.

  When everything was in motion, and Petrovsky confirmed that Parker was still at Yardley, Ray Benjamin went to the garage. Vince was waiting for him. Vincent Cann was a tall, slender man of thirty-eight. His jet-black hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven as always. A pair of designer sunglasses sat on his face. He nodded when he saw Benjamin approaching.

  “Clusterfuck, ain’t it, boss?”

  Ray answered by not answering at all.

  They piled into the car. Ray opened his window a crack. The younger man was chewing gum, his jaws working overtime. Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh pack of Chesterfields. He depressed the electric lighter, unwrapped the pack, stuck the cig in his mouth and waited.

  Vince said, “Should we get going?”

  “Wait a second,” the older man said. The lighter wasn’t ready yet.

  When the metal knob popped out, Ray took the end, pressed it to the tip and inhaled deeply. There was nothing like a good Chesterfield. When the butt was half smoked, a long finger of ash hanging off the end, Ray flicked it out the window.

  “Clear your schedule for the next few days,” Ray said to Vince as he pulled into traffic. “We’re going to be busy cleaning this mess up, and there’s not a lot of time.”

  20

  Paulina arched her back, feeling the convulsions ripple through her body. She embraced the aches of pleasure, the slightest hint of pain as Myron Bennett raked his too-long nails down her stomach. She felt the final shudder of orgasm, the sweat dripping down her chest, waiting until everything was calm before finally becoming still. Paulina looked down. She was still wearing her bra, a slight puddle of moisture collecting in between the cups.

  Gathering herself, Paulina climbed off Myron, taking one more glimpse at his naked body, his erection like a flag of surrender. The boy had a beautiful body, that’s for sure, and though nobody would ever know of their tryst, it secretly thrilled her to know she’d just fucked a man thousands of women would ditch their husbands and 2.4 children for.

  She located her underwear, snagged the band on her shoe, kicked it into her hands and headed for the bathroom.

  “Hey,” Myron called out as Paulina groped her way to the bathroom door. “I didn’t come yet!”

  “Nobody’s watching if you want to finish yourself off,” she said, closing the bathroom door. Paulina looked at herself in the mirror. Her mascara was streaked. She ran the faucet and washed it off. She looked at her breasts, felt a twinge of sadness, noticed they were sagging slightly more than she remembered. For years Paulina had taken care of her body, spending countless hours at the gym, countless dollars on every treatment under the sun. But aging happened to everyone, even women who were born to fight everything. Push-up bras did wonders to enhance her natural cleavage, but nobody could fight Father Time, especially since he had gravity on his side. She thought about having them done, wondered if it was an outpatient procedure. The last thing she needed was to be out of work a day or two, then come with them enhanced. Boob jobs were only worth it if no one knew you’d had one.

  She could hear Myron moving about in the bedroom. She heard the sound of his zipper, laughed to herself that he was too frustrated to finish the job. Myron was a nice treat, and thankfully she’d never have to see him again. At least not in person.

  In Sunday’s edition of the Dispatch, Paulina would be running a lengthy article about Myron’s decade-long affair with Mitsy Russell Henshaw, wife of billionaire venture capitalist Richard Henshaw. Richard Henshaw had been a longtime critic of the Dispatch, specifically the paper’s editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. It was what Allen called a “have your cake and eat it, too” story. It was both a juicy bit of gossip that would sell papers, while accomplishing the goal of humiliating one of Ted’s most vocal enemies. Paulina figured it only fair that if she was going to report the piece, she deserved a piece of the cake, too.

  Though Myron was in his late thirties and no longer in the kind of shape that had secured him deals as an underwear model in the n
ineties—the abs a little softer, the arms not quite as sinewy—he was still a striking bachelor, the kind of man that would turn heads and make very wealthy women think very bad thoughts.

  She had interviewed him for three hours, at the end of which Paulina offered to buy him a drink. To make things a little more personal, she said, rinse off the professional. And when they were in the comfort of a pair of martinis, she let Myron know that as long as she was putting her keyboard out, he’d be putting out, too. And so here she was, room 1250 at the W Hotel, the beauty of her exorbitant expense account allowing her the beauty of Myron Bennett.

  Yet as much as she’d savored the night’s pleasures and would enjoy the media circus surrounding Myron’s affair, she’d be glad to get back to work on the real story that had kept her juiced the past few months. Underwear models came and went. It was a rare occasion that you could do something that mattered. And in just a matter of weeks, she’d be ready to bring Jack O’Donnell down like a house of cards. And with Jack, the veneer that was the Gazette would tumble as well. And that kind of satisfaction would last longer than any orgasm.

  Cinching up her robe as she left the bathroom, Paulina took her purse from her wallet and flipped a twenty at Myron. The crumpled bill landed sadly on the pillow. Myron stood there staring at it. He was topless in his jeans, searching around for his shirt. He looked at the money, confused, then looked up and down at Paulina as if she were hanging in a freezer.

  “You have the most beautiful tits,” he said, a sultry grin on his face that made Paulina feel like retching.

  “Please,” she said. “Save it for the women who give a shit.”

  “What, one party and you get all cold on me? It wasn’t good for you, beautiful?”

  “Ugh, don’t call me that. I’m sure Muffy or Tiffani or whatever rich bitch you’re going to bang tomorrow night will love that ooey-gooey shit. You’re a good lay, Myron. I appreciate it. But enough of the honeydoll, baby stuff. I’m a grown woman, you’re a grown man, now help me find my shirt.”