The Stolen Read online

  The irony was when she’d met Henry, the very first thing he did was lie right to her face. Looking back, she knew he’d done it to save his own life without implicating her. And while back then she contemplated literally ditching him on the side of the road, she could look back at his brazen behavior fondly.

  He’d tricked her into giving him a ride out of town when he was mistakenly wanted for murder. In the end Henry was able to clear his name, yet there was a moment, that moment when he’d come clean, admitting his lie, when she could have left him on the side of the road to die. But in that moment Amanda was able to look into Henry Parker’s eyes and tell one thing. This was more real than anyone she’d ever known.

  Henry’s eyes gave away everything. The year they knew each other, he could never hide anything. She could read his language—words and body—like nobody else. And he offered himself in a way that was both selfless and confident, and utterly consuming.

  That’s why when he ended their relationship, it wasn’t simply another thing to forget. Being with him was the first time Amanda felt a future. She couldn’t be the only one who thought that way, though, so when he decided to end it, for her own sake in his words, she didn’t fight. She didn’t want to be another one of those sad girls, trying to convince a guy to stay.

  If she was meant to be happy, she would be. If not, that was life.

  So when Henry called her out of the blue, after radio silence for nearly six months, the easy thing to do would have been to hang up. To tell him to go screw himself.

  Instead she found herself sitting on a bench in Madison Square Park, waiting for him to arrive, looking at every boy that walked by, waiting to see if the months had been as cruel to him as they had to her.

  The park was neutral ground. That was one condition she made him agree to. They had to meet far enough away from both their offices that they could sit, and talk, and see what was what, without any distractions.

  Amanda folded her arms across her chest. The sun was bright over the trees. She sat and watched couples lounging on the green grass. The line snaking outside the Shake Shack, home of the best burgers in NYC. Her purse was splayed open slightly, and Amanda noticed the glint of her keychain. Attached to the silver loop that held her keys was a small red heart made of leather. Henry had brought it home one day. He’d attached it to the chain when she was in the shower. When she asked what it was for, he said it was because she had the keys to his heart. At first she laughed. It was a pretty cheesy gesture, something out of a bad romantic comedy, but that night they made love, and as Henry lay there, naked, staring at her, she knew that he’d meant it.

  It would have been easy to throw the heart away. Looking at it now, she was glad she’d kept it.

  She buttoned the purse and looked up to see Henry walking down the gated path. He stopped briefly beside the dog run to make faces at a small shih tzu that was trying to leap at him with its tiny legs. Henry was making bug-eyed faces at the dog, and Amanda couldn’t help but smile. He looked up, looking for her, saw her, and Amanda saw his cheeks flush red. He quickened his pace and walked over to her bench, sat down next to her. A foot separated them. It felt like a mile and a millimeter at the same time.

  “Hey,” she said, offering a purposefully bland greeting.

  “Hey, Amanda.” He half leaned in, unsure of whether to offer a hug, a kiss or nothing. She felt a brief flash of electricity when he did it, felt slightly disappointed when he pulled back, but glad at the same time. “What’s up?”

  He looked good. Better that she’d hoped in some ways. Perhaps if he’d showed up thirty pounds heavier, with an unflattering beard and gut paunch, it’d be easier to move on. Yes, his eyes were bleary and red, probably from late-night deadlines, but it was still Henry. She’d gotten used to those eyes, his near-constant state of exhaustion. And despite that, every night she missed falling asleep next to him, Amanda remembered how proud it used to make her to see his name headline a terrific story. She looked at his shock of brown hair, an inch or so too long, and couldn’t help but smile.

  “You need a haircut,” she said.

  “Really?” He ran his hand through his hair. Amanda remembered doing that for him. “You think?”

  “Yeah, you could use a trip to Supercuts.”

  “So,” he said tentatively, “what’s up?”

  “I don’t know. Work. Life. What’s usually up,” she replied. He nodded. She wanted to say you called me, but that was combative. “You know you called me.” Screw it, she had to say it. Henry nodded, chewed on his thumbnail for a moment.

  “Just want to start by saying I’m sorry about what happened. You know, between us. I didn’t…”

  “Stop,” she said, her face growing warm, slight anger bubbling up. “You said your apologies a long time ago. If I wanted to hear them again, I’ve got a good memory and a lot of sad songs on my iPod.”

  “That’s not why I called you,” Henry said. “I just…You know, I don’t really know how to start it.”

  “Why do you need to in the first place?” she asked. Her heart was beating fast, frustration building. She’d begun to wish she’d stayed at the office, hung up the phone, let everything heal the way maybe it was meant to. Seeing him was maddening and invigorating at the same time. And she wasn’t ready to open back up.

  “I need your help,” Henry said. “It’s not for me. It’s for a kid.”

  “A kid?” she asked, surprised.

  “Daniel Linwood, have you heard about him?”

  “Of course. My office is handling the paperwork. You know, I never realized bringing someone back from the dead was as easy as filling out a bunch of paperwork. Scary to think there’s enough precedent that we have the forms on file. I’m actually thinking I might do the same thing with my aunt Rose, freak the hell out of Lawrence and Harriet. That’d make a pretty neat headline. ‘Girl brings dead, smelly aunt back to life, scares the hell out of her adoptive parents.’”

  “It’s been a while since I wrote obituaries,” Henry said. “But I bet it’s like riding a bike.”

  “Think of it as an anti-obituary.”

  “Now, those I don’t have a lot of experience with.”

  “So Daniel Linwood. The boy who came back after five years. I saw your story in the paper. What do you need to know about him?”

  “Well, long story short, there’s a lot about his disappearance and reappearance that doesn’t sit well with me. For one thing, there haven’t been any suspects arrested in his kidnapping or disappearance, and from my talks with the detectives in Hobbs County they’re looking as hard for him as O.J. is for the real killer.”

  “I’m waiting to hear what this has to do with me.”

  “I’m getting to that. So I interviewed Danny for that story…”

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah, that’s what he likes to be called now. Anyway, during the interview, he said something kind of strange. He used the word brothers. As in more than one. And he used it several times, even when I corrected him, like his brain was hardwired to do it. But Danny’s only got one brother. It might have been a slip of the tongue, but there’s also a chance he retained something from his disappearance, something about his kidnappers or where he was. Maybe he remembers somebody else, somebody his own 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, know
ing 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.”

  “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 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 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 New York City, but was barely in New York 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.

  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 her 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 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 Ol
iveiras’ income never exceeded thirty-four-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 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.