The Stolen Page 7

  “Could have been a prank. Could have been a drunk wandered off before they got there. The cops could have come for any number of reasons.”

  “Could be, sure. But don’t you think it’s a heck of a coincidence that the cops are called to a scene where just a few minutes ago, a kid who went missing for five years appears out of thin air?”

  Jack chewed on his lip, trying to figure out if there was a way to play it like this was no big deal. I felt a lump in my throat. This wasn’t the Jack O’Donnell I’d grown up idolizing, the kind who asked questions until there were no more to ask. Who dug until he hit a vein or a nerve. This Jack seemed tired, content to be apathetic, unwilling or unable to go that extra step.

  “I’m going to look into this,” I said. “Somebody knows who took Danny Linwood and why.” Jack didn’t say a word, just shrugged his shoulders, stood up and walked away. I debated following him, then decided it wasn’t worth it.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the Hobbs County Police Department switchboard. I asked to be connected to whoever was investigating the Linwood abduction. Then, surprisingly, the operator hesitated.

  “Hold on one moment, sir, I’m going to have to check on that.” It seemed odd that despite the fact that Daniel Linwood was likely Hobbs’s biggest story since, well, Danny’s original disappearance, they couldn’t connect me to the investigating officer right away. The operator hadn’t been asked many questions.

  “Sorry, sir, for the delay. Hold for Detective Lensicki.”

  A synthesized version of “Copacabana” came over the earpiece. It was all I could do not to slice my ears off. Finally a man answered with a curt “Yeah?”

  “Detective Lensicki, Henry Parker with the New York Gazette. I was wondering if I could have a minute of your time.”

  “I know who you are, Parker. I saw you yesterday at the Linwood house. Haven’t read your article in today’s paper. I’ll get right to it when my shift is up.” He didn’t sound very sincere.

  “Yeah, anyway, Detective, I had a question about something Daniel Linwood told me yesterday. He said when he woke up, he heard police sirens. Now, it might have been police, it might have been an ambulance, but I couldn’t find any record or report of an investigation at Doubleday Field. Could you comment on that?”

  “No problem, Sherlock. There was no investigation because there was no crime. There was no report because nothing happened.”

  “So who called 911?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I assume the police had a reason to show up at Doubleday Field with their sirens on.”

  “We do have routine patrols, Mr. Parker.”

  “Do you usually keep your sirens on during those routine patrols?” Lensicki stayed silent. “Listen, Officer, I’m not trying to break your balls. I just want to know why it seems like everything’s back to normal now that Daniel Linwood has turned up, yet nobody’s really turning over any rocks to find out where he went.”

  “Listen here, you little punk,” Lensicki said. “You go back to your typewriter and your fancy paper. The day you tell us how to do our jobs is the day you see us coming down to your office and sticking a Bic up your ass. You want a comment about Daniel Linwood? Here you go. The investigation is ongoing. If and when we have any news to report, don’t worry, we’ll make sure you and the rest of the respected media get all the info.”

  “So…can I quote you on that pen-in-ass comment?”

  “I got nothing else to say to you,” Lensicki said. “You have any more questions you direct them to our press secretary. She’s eighty-three years old and can’t see out of one eye and I’m sure she’ll be happy to help.”

  “Wow. You know, I watched Columbo, and always thought cops were helpful and jolly.”

  “Blow it out your ass, Parker.”

  “‘Detective has strange ass fetish.’ That’s my headline for tomorrow. What do you think?”

  Unsurprisingly, the line went dead. I felt good about myself, not just for pissing off a cop but because Lensicki’s standoffishness made it clear the Hobbs County PD wasn’t serving and protecting quite as strenuously as their job description called for. Somebody called 911 to alert the cops to Danny’s whereabouts when he woke up, and if Lensicki wasn’t interested in digging, I’d be happy to pick up his slack.

  I debated calling Curt Sheffield to get his take on it. Curt was a young African-American officer with the NYPD. We’d grown close over the past few years, mainly due to our unwanted celebrity, our respect for our jobs and our admiration for a good pint. He’d been a source on numerous stories, and I was happy to repay him with a few good shout-outs for his squad. That’s what was most important to Sheffield. That the job was given as much respect as possible. I was happy to help, because they needed all the help they could get.

  In the aftermath of 9/11, NYPD recruit applications had dropped more than twenty-five percent. And while the police force still had approximately fourteen applications for every spot they needed to fill, a drop in overall applications meant a drop in quality of applications. That’s why a cop like Curt—young, good-looking and ambitious—found himself on every recruiting poster between here and Hoboken.

  Many blamed lack of recruits on the NYPD’s staggeringly low starting salaries—just $25,100 during the first six months on the job, a salary that would make most janitors shake their heads. Having young men like Curt on the force showed those quality applicants that the best, the brightest and the most appealing citizens made up the NYPD. What pissed Curt off was that he was a damn good cop, yet on the street he was treated like Mickey Mouse. Kids and their parents recognized him from posters. He spent more time signing autographs than patrolling his route. I tried to get him to keep things in perspective, but unlike many cops, Curt’s celebrity didn’t go to his head. He wanted to stay behind the scenes. Just like a certain reporter who desired celebrity as much as he desired rickets.

  I called Curt’s desk, got a message saying that today was his day off. Which meant he was probably sitting on his couch watching SportsCenter and eating one of those meat-lovers pizzas that contained a little over eighteen thousand calories per slice. If I had Curt’s dietary habits I’d look like Norm from Cheers, but the guy had the metabolism of a Thoroughbred. He could eat a cow smothered in steak sauce and not gain an ounce. Sometimes life wasn’t fair.

  I tried his cell phone. Curt picked up on the third ring. There was a pause between “Curt” and “Sheffield.” I must have caught him in the middle of a burp.

  “Hey, man, it’s Henry.”

  “S’up, Parker?”

  “Let me guess. You’re on your fifth slice and third SportsCenter rerun of the day.”

  “Nope. Gloria’s got me on a health kick. She made me some spelt toast with peanut butter, mint jelly and honey. For lunch I got a bowl of plain oatmeal with some raisins and soy milk in the fridge.”

  “Sounds like a delicious colon-cleansing meal.”

  “Yeah, it’s, uh…it’s really tasty.” I tried to stifle a laugh. “Dude, if I don’t get, like, something that used to moo in my system soon, I’m gonna start pissing soy beans.”

  “I do owe you a meal or two, but I’ll own up later. I got a question for you. When you’re investigating a disturbance, what happens if it’s a false alarm? Like a burglary or break-in is reported, but when the boys in blue show up there’s no evidence of anything illegal?”

  “It’s investigated, man. Every one. Can’t say they spend a ton of time on it, but you gotta make sure it was a false alarm. God forbid it turns out you just missed a clue or someone really needed help and you left instead of lifting a finger.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What’s this about, bro?”

  “Not sure yet. I have a few questions about the Daniel Linwood disappearance that nobody’s in a rush to answer.”

  “Kid who got kidnapped then dropped out of the sky, right?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I feel for that
family, man. Nobody deserves to go through that. My mom used to hyperventilate if I came home half an hour late from school, let alone five years. Good luck, Henry. If anyone’s gonna get those answers it’s you, you tunnel-visioned asshole. And hey, don’t forget about your tab. Steak and a beer within the week.”

  “You can count on it.”

  I hung up and ordered a pizza to be delivered to Curt’s house. I just hoped he’d finish it before Gloria got home, otherwise he wouldn’t be around long enough for me to repay the rest of the tab.

  There had to be more to the Linwood story. Something I’d missed, perhaps. Something in Daniel’s voice, his word, his cadences.

  I took the tape recorder from my desk, rewound the tape and pushed Play. I listened to the whole tape again. And when it was finished, I was pretty sure I’d discovered one pretty big question. Not to mention an explanation as to why I was confused by certain aspects of Danny’s statements. One huge question had been asked by Danny Linwood himself. Only the boy didn’t even know he was asking it.

  8

  Paulina Cole forwarded three e-mails to her assistant, James Keach, then turned off her computer and put on her Burberry trenchcoat. James had asked several times if he could leave for the day, but each time Paulina answered him by not answering him—ignoring him was her favorite form of communication—and he soon slunk back to the cubicle zoo where the other peons sat and stewed. It had become somewhat of an amusing ritual. At the end of each day Paulina would send whatever hate mail she received to James, who would make copies for three departments: Human Resources, Public Relations and the Dispatch’s editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. Paulina had requested the Dispatch print her e-mail address at the end of every column. She invited readers to write in, and in fact went home depressed on the days where she got no hate mail. Pissed-off folks tended to be more vocal than satisfied ones, so the next day she would try even harder to kneel on the public’s pressure points.

  She sent the e-mails to HR because it was mandated by corporate. PR wanted it in case any public figures wrote in. Ted Allen demanded it because he liked nothing more than employing a reporter who so riled up readers that they took time out of their busy (or tragically not busy) day to pen her a missive so vile that they would tell all their friends to buy the paper to see what that bitch wrote.

  When the media reporter for the New York Gazette had questioned Paulina’s ethics in reporting on a congressman she’d allegedly had a romantic liaison with years back, Cole responded in her column questioning the reporter’s manhood. More specifically, she stated her doubt that his manhood was longer than his pencil’s eraser. Both she and Ted had gotten a kick out of it, and HR needed a new folder to house all the letters she received. Naturally, the paper sold 50,000 more copies that day than the previous one, and her story was linked to by dozens of influential media Web sites. Nobody was better at riling up the bourgeoisie than Paulina Cole, and in today’s America people paid good money to be pissed off.

  Paulina began her career in journalism nearly two decades ago working in the Style section at a New York alternative weekly paper. Boring easily of reporting on asinine trends and mindless models, Paulina took a job on the news desk at the New York Gazette. Widely considered one of the city’s most prestigious dailies, it was at the Gazette where Paulina first made a name for herself. And while her progress at the Gazette matched her drive, she quickly tired of the politics and backroom handshakes that were staples of the old boys’ club. Wallace Langston and Jack O’Donnell were dinosaurs, analogs in a digital world. The newsroom needed a swift stiletto in the ass, but they were too busy sniffing brandy to realize the world was passing them by. And when Wallace brought in Henry Parker, then stood by him when the weasel was accused of murder, it sickened Paulina more than anything in her career had before. And she was not a woman who sickened easily.

  Leaving the Gazette was the easiest decision she’d ever made. To her, that newspaper represented everything wrong with the current system. Old. Stale. Clueless about technology, and out of touch with the average reader. People wanted pizzazz, something to shock them, something to ignite their senses. They didn’t care about politics unless there was sleaze behind the suit. Didn’t care about crime unless it was a celebrity drunk behind the wheel. So Paulina was happy to dig and dish the dirt. She was happy to be hated by the highbrow, embraced by the lowbrow. But everyone had an opinion.

  Once safely nestled in the bosom of the New York Dispatch, Paulina had made it her goal to not only boost the paper’s circulation rates, but to do it at the expense of the Gazette. She would topple their leaders, set fire to the old guard and burn the paper to the ground. She’d laid the groundwork with her articles focusing on Henry, to the point where nearly half the city would answer “Henry Parker” when asked what was wrong with the current state of journalism.

  But Henry was young. Not yet thirty, his proverbial balls had not yet dropped. Going after him was like shooting a fish in a barrel, and its ripples wouldn’t travel far. To truly bring down the Gazette, she had to stop worrying about the epidermis, and instead dig down to its skeleton. The old guard. The reporter the paper staked its very reputation on.

  Jack O’Donnell.

  For years Jack O’Donnell had been the public face of the Gazette. He’d won countless awards, brought respectability, integrity and readership to Wallace Langston’s newspaper. Yet during her tenure there, Paulina had noticed the old man begin to slip. His reporting had been shoddy, numerous quotes and sources had to be spiked by the managing editor. Not to mention the unmistakable odor that wafted from his desk, strong enough to make you fail a sobriety test just by inhaling.

  It was only a matter of time before somebody took a sledgehammer to the pillar of the Gazette, and it was only fitting for it to be wielded by someone who’d seen the cracks up close.

  Paulina turned off her office light, took the umbrella from under her desk. Her office had a beautiful view of the Manhattan skyline, twinkling lights amid the dark hues of night. The skies had opened, drenching the pavement, and the N train was several blocks away. As she strolled through the corridors of the Dispatch, Paulina stopped by the one office she’d asked Ted Allen to clear out for her a few months ago. A junior media reporter had been given the office, a reward for a promotion, but when Paulina informed Ted Allen what she had in mind, the young man was given a nice little cubicle by the Flavia coffeemaker.

  The office was enclosed, sealed off. Exactly what she needed.

  On Paulina’s orders, the office had been cleared out; not even a dustball remained. Instead three rows of shelves had been installed, forming a U around the walls. What was inside the office had to be kept a secret until her story was ready. And then the bombshell would drop.

  Only two people had a key: Paulina and Ted Allen himself. The key was removed from the rings of the entire janitorial staff, and Paulina only entered when she was positive there were no looming eyes peeking over her shoulder.

  Tonight, she had a tremendous urge to look inside. She needed to be reminded of what all her hard work was preparing for.

  Checking once more to make sure she was alone, Paulina twisted the key in the lock, opened the door and flicked on the overhead light.

  What she saw inside made her glow with delight. The way the room glittered, the light reflecting on everything she’d painstakingly gathered over the past few months. And her treasure trove was growing by the day. It was only a matter of time before the contents of this room, these seemingly innocuous items, changed the face of New York journalism.

  Satisfied, Paulina turned off the light, closed the door and got out her umbrella, preparing for her journey into the rain.

  9

  “Right here,” I said to Wallace. He was holding a copy of the transcript of my interview with Daniel Linwood. I’d asked him to read it in its entirety before we spoke. So far he’d only read what was printed in the Gazette. There were many quotes that were cut for space, details that didn’t make it in
to the final piece. I wanted to see if Wallace noticed what I had just minutes ago.

  I hadn’t noticed it upon my first few listenings. It was so subtle, yet because I was already skeptical of the whole situation, it stood out in neon lights.

  “I’m not following, Henry,” Wallace said. He turned off the tape recorder. “Please, placate an old man whose hearing is going. Enlighten me as to what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “First off,” I said, “Daniel mentions he heard sirens when he woke up. Yet there’s no record of any complaints or investigations by the Hobbs County PD in that vicinity. And when I spoke to the detective assigned to the case, he was only slightly more helpful than your average retail clerk. And then I heard this.”

  I rewound to the spot in question. Then I pressed Play. When Daniel spoke that word, I stopped the tape.

  “Brothers,” I said. “Daniel Linwood talks about seeing his family for the first time when he got back home that day. He refers to his sister, Tasha, but then he uses the word brothers. As in plural. Daniel Linwood has one brother, James. There’s no record of Shelly and Randall having any other sons. And then he uses the word several more times. As though he can’t help it. Once is a slip of the tongue. Twice is a heck of a coincidence. Three times, like Danny says on the tape, that means something’s wrong.”

  Wallace looked at the transcript, found what I was referring to, stared at it so intently I expected a hole to be seared through it.

  “I think Daniel was referring to brothers because there was another brother in his life.”

  “But you just said he only has one brother, this James. I don’t follow.”

  “I think the other brother, the plural brother, was with Danny during the years he was missing. I think whoever kidnapped Daniel Linwood had another young boy. I think even though he can’t force himself to remember details of the past five years, Danny subconsciously is referring to it. I think whoever took him had another child, and Daniel was made to believe they were brothers. And even though James is his only biological brother, his memory still retains a stamp of some sort. A footprint of the lost years.”