The Stolen Read online

  “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-fifty-mile 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 New York 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. Though the night sky had descended on the city, I could see that the trees were full, the grass lush. The town had a wonderful, old-America 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 b
een 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.

  Curt said, “They’re not just going to give us the room number. I thought about this. We need a way to find out what room the Reeds are in without alerting them to the fact that we’re here.”

  “Oh, man,” Amanda said, sighing. “You guys are seriously like troglodytes. Does everything have to depend on me?”

  She walked up to the reception desk as Curt and I watched, curious, scared and feeling a little emasculated. We trailed behind Amanda just enough that we could hear, but far enough behind in case her ruse specifically did not include us.

  “Hi,” Amanda said, sprawling her arms across the desk. “Lissen, I need to see my boh-friend. He’s staying in your ho-tel. I think he might be with his wife, so I guess this really is a ho-tel.”

  The receptionist, a guy with acne scars and a badge that read “Clark,” who looked like his first day on the job was tomorrow, said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, what can I help you with?”

  “My boh-friend,” she slurred. “Robert Reed. He’s in this ho-tel. I need to know what room he’s staying in.”

  “Ma’am, we’re not supposed to give out guests’ information. If you’ll just…”

  Amanda dug into her purse, then slapped something down on the desk. Clark’s eyes bugged open. Curt and I leaned in closer. When I saw what it was, I had the exact same reaction as Clark.

  “M-Ma’am,” Clark said, stammering now. “That’s a condom.”

  “You’re damn right. Robert promised me a good time tonight, so if you don’t tell me where I can find him, I’m jus’ gonna have to find someone else at this ho-tel to do what he can’t.” She looked around, a lascivious grin on her face. “Do you have a bar in this hotel?”

  Clark gulped, then ran some digits into his computer. He looked at Amanda as though to make sure she hadn’t started propositioning guests. She hadn’t, though she was licking her lips. I had to close my mouth, look away.

  “Mr. Reed is staying in room 602. Now, if you’ll please, just go find him. We don’t need anyone causing a scene.”

  “Much obliged,” she said, leaning over. “Clark.”

  Amanda headed for the elevators. We waited a moment before following her. When the doors closed, I said, “You sure you weren’t trained at Juilliard?”

  “God, you guys could use a set of balls sometimes. Come on.”

  The door dinged open. We followed the signs toward room 602. The halls were lined with seashell-shaped lights, and the carpet was a zigzagging pattern of red-and-black squares. A few pieces of standard hotel art hung on the walls. Men fishing off piers. A windmill across a bay. I had no eye for art. For all I knew these pieces could have secretly been worth millions.

  When we came to 602, we stopped in front of it. Curt and Amanda stood to either side of me.

  “I’ll do the talking,” I said. “Curt, if we need you…”

  “I have my badge on me, Henry.”

  As I got ready to knock, I heard the ding of another elevator opening onto the sixth floor.

  “Hold on a second,” I said. “Just make sure they’re going in another direction. Nobody needs to see three people hanging around the hallway.”

  They didn’t respond. The footsteps appeared to be heading our way. No big deal, I thought. Hotel guests going back to their hotel room. Even if they were heading this way, they’d enter their room and be done with it. We’d be talking to the Reeds before anyone had a chance to get suspicious.

  I leaned back against the wall, pretended to fiddle with my cell phone. When I saw a shadow appear at the other end of the hall, I turned to look at the guests that were coming.

  I nearly dropped the phone when they came into view. I recognized the first man immediately, and I dove for Amanda just as Raymond Benjamin pulled a gun from his coat and opened fire.

  I heard Amanda scream as bullets smashed into the wall above us. I thought we were safe, but then I heard another, deeper yell, turned to look, and saw Curt Sheffield on the ground, blood pouring from his leg.

  “Curt!” I screamed.

  I pushed Amanda toward the other end of the hall where an exit door was visible, and by that time Curt had taken the gun from his hip holster. Benjamin was reloading when Sheffield emptied three bullets into the hallway. Ray Benjamin managed to dive for cover, but two of the bullets struck his sidekick square in the chest. The younger man went toppling backward, his back smacking against the wall, where he slid down, leaving a bloody smear.

  Benjamin was gone. I heard footsteps running toward the elevators. He was getting away.

  I knelt down by Curt. His hand was pressing down on the wound, hard, but blood was still seeping through his fingers.

  “Benjamin,” Curt said, the pain evident in his voice. “Don’t let the fucker get away.”

  Amanda appeared beside us. She’d taken off her fleece, then rolled it up and tied it around Curt’s leg. He howled in pain as she pulled the loop together, trying to stem the flow of blood.

  I looked at them both. Amanda had taken her cell phone out. She said, “I called 911. Make sure he doesn’t hurt anybody else.”

  I nodded, then sprinted for the exit door. My pulse raced as I looked for the stairwell. A diagram of the floor plan was on the wall; the stairs were just to my left. I ran for them, banged the door open and hurtled down the stairs as fast as I could.

  By the time I got to the first floor I was out of breath. When I shoved open the stairwell door, I could hear panic in the lobby. Several people were screaming, a rolling cart was overturned and an elderly man looked to be unconscious. I ran toward the lobby exit, but then another thunderous gunshot exploded in the night, and I dove behind a marble wall for protection. I waited a minute, unsure of what to do, then took a few quick breaths and ran for the exit.

  As I ran into the warm evening air, I heard a car’s ignition turn on and a pair of brake lights come on at the other end of the parking lot. I ran for it, saw a dark BMW peeling backward. It backed up into a pool of light cast by a lamp, and I read the license plate numbers, punched them into my cell phone.

  I couldn’t chase Benjamin’s car. The fight was over. I had to see how my friends were.

  Just as I ran back into the lobby, the elevator door opened and out came Curt Sheffield, hobbling, leaning on Amanda for support. The fleece was soaked through with blood. I heard sirens approaching from outside. I ran to Curt.

  “Christ, man, how is it?”

  “I’ll live,” he said through gritted teeth. Then he took one hand from Amanda’s shoulder and grabbed my shirt. “The Reeds,” he said. “They’re gone.”

  “But we found this,” Amanda said. She pulled a man’s leather wallet from her pocket. “It was down at the other end of the hall, through a set of double doors. I thought I heard another noise, like several people running down the stairs. It’s Robert Reed’s. They must have been approaching the room. He was going for his room key, then dropped it when he heard the gunshots. The key is still inside.”

  “I saw them,” Curt said,
the pain evident on his face. “Damn it, if only I could run…”

  Amanda helped him sit, kept pressure on his wound.

  I took the wallet, opened it. The key card was nestled inside one of the slits inside. I went through the rest of it. Credit cards. Driver’s license. And a small slot for photos.

  I opened it up. There was a picture inside that looked awfully familiar.

  The shot was of a young boy. It was taken from behind, from a close distance. There was nothing special about the shot. The boy’s face was turned away and he was in mid-stride.

  I slipped the photo from the wallet and turned it over. On the back of the photo was written one word.

  Remember.

  36

  Curt had seen the Reeds approaching from the other end of the hallway. The family looked happy. Curt recognized Robert from his driver’s license photo. And when he saw that Robert was with a woman and two children, he knew for sure that this was the family we’d been searching for.

  I confirmed with the hotel restaurant that the Reeds had finished a late supper just a few minutes earlier. Then they’d gone upstairs. They must have seen Curt lying outside their room, blood everywhere. That’s when they’d run.

  On the way to the hospital, Curt said they’d likely seen the body at the other end of the hall, as well. If so, they probably recognized the dead man. If they knew Raymond Benjamin, chances were they’d met his flunky. And with all that death and blood, they must have known Ray Benjamin had come for them.

  We followed Curt to the Harrisburg hospital, the primary hub for all the medical centers in the Harrisburg area. They’d taken Curt right into surgery. Amanda and I sat in the waiting room as a doctor explained that the bullet had nicked his femoral artery. Luckily the bullet had missed severing the vessel by half a centimeter, otherwise, he said, we’d be having an entirely different conversation.

  I’d given the license plate number to the Harrisburg chief of police, a burly man named Hawley who had a look on his face that said as soon as they found Benjamin, the three of us would have hell to pay. An APB was put out on a dark BMW with New York plates, but an hour later the license plate was found abandoned in a gas station in Bethlehem. Raymond Benjamin was gone.