The Stolen (10 page)

S
ometimes 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 Oliveiras’ 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.

“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.”

“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. Lancaster was scheduled for her weekly lesson with Michelle the evening she disappeared. 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 Intermediate 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.”

“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 this has happened to more than one child. That it even happened to one is just…God, horrible.”

“You know I will. I know what this means to you. I hope you know what it means to me. And not just from a professional perspective.”

“I know.” Amanda gathered her purse and began to walk out of the store.

“That’s it?”

She looked at me, her eyes a mixture of hurt and confusion.

“That’s it,” she said. “For now, that’s all I can take.” Then Amanda left.

I watched her until the door had closed and Amanda had rounded the corner. It took a moment to regain focus.

I decided the next step was to call Delilah Lancaster. It was clear she and Michelle were very close, to the point where Delilah was contacted before any of Michelle’s school friends. I figured there was a reason for that. If the violin was all Michelle had left, I needed to speak to the person who probably influenced her more than any.

I sat in the store for another few minutes, then gathered up the folder and left. I hoped that somewhere, Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira knew two people were going to fight for them.

T
he next morning I went to Penn Station first thing and bought a ticket on the 148 regional Amtrak en route to Meriden, Connecticut. Delilah Lancaster was scheduled to meet me. I’d spent the previous night going over her comments, trying to gain a better understanding of her relationship with Michelle Oliveira.

I took a copy of the file on Michelle Oliveira, a copy of that morning’s
Gazette
and a large iced coffee that promptly spilled all over my linen jacket when a kind man with a Prada briefcase elbowed me in the head. I went to the bathroom compartment on the train to clean it, and though I was able to avoid stepping in the unidentified brown goop on the floor, I left with a softball-size blotch on my chest. I debated finding Prada man and throwing him onto the tracks, but I needed my composure. Not to mention I needed to stay out of jail.

When the train pulled out of the station, I cracked open the
Gazette
and read the story Jack had written for this edition. The piece focused on the looming gentrification of Harlem, how real estate prices were soaring, speculative investors, many of them foreign, were snapping up town houses and condos like they were Junior Mints. The average two-bedroom had nearly doubled in price over the past decade. Foreign investors, emboldened by the weak dollar, were monopolizing the market. The prices Jack quoted quickly confirmed that if I ever desired to buy in New York rather than rent, I’d either have to win the lottery or find a sugar mama.

The reporting was solid, one of Jack’s better recent efforts. Too many of his recent articles felt slapped together, rushed, pieces he forced past Evelyn and the copy editors simply because he was the man. Had the stories been written by a younger reporter who hadn’t yet cut his teeth, won major awards and written a shelfful of bestsellers, many of them would have been spiked. The old man needed an intervention. The ink of the newsroom was still the blood that pumped through his veins, but he was a train slowly careening off the tracks. Without some straightening out, the impending crash would permanently derail his career.

The train took about an hour and forty-five minutes to reach Meriden. I finished the
Gazette
and spent a good twenty minutes staring at an advertisement featuring a man quizzically holding an empty bottle of water before realizing it was hawking Viagra. When the train came to a stop, I noticed a man with a friar’s patch of baldness jotting down the ad’s Web site before hustling off the train. One new customer.

I disembarked the train and took in the city of Meriden. I hadn’t spent much time in Connecticut, only having traveled here once to interview a fast-food worker who’d witnessed a murder while on vacation in NYC. A lot of New Yorkers commuted into the city from parts of Connecticut—Greenwich being a popular hub—in large part due to the ever-booming Manhattan real estate market. For just a thirty-minute train commute, a million bucks could buy you a home or large condo as opposed to a one-bedroom with the view of fire escape.

Meriden, though, was no Greenwich.

What struck me first was that the Meriden train station resembled less of an actual station and more like a glorified bus stop. A small hut was the only building on the gravelly lot. It had boarded-up windows, graffiti sprayed layer upon layer. A ticket vending machine sat lonely outside the hut, like a relic from the 1970s. I wasn’t even sure if it accepted credit cards. A dirty, bearded man sat on a bench fully asleep, his yellow windbreaker also looking as if it hadn’t been removed since long before the man’s last shave. He looked comfortable, and clearly wasn’t waiting for the train.

The air was cool, but I had no doubt the day would grow hotter throughout the morning. I buttoned up my jacket, stuck my hands in my pockets, and waited. The surrounding buildings were low, squat, though they seemed to have an air of vigor. Fresh coats of paint. Newly cemented sidewalks, clear of footprints and cracks. It looked like a city wrenching itself toward respectability, while experiencing a few hiccups along the way.

As well as brushing up on the Oliveira case file, I also read about the demographics and income of the city of Meriden, specifically how both had changed over the years during Michelle Oliveira’s disappearance. In 1997, when Michelle was abducted, more than forty percent of Meriden residents lived below the poverty line. The median income was a shade over $28,000. And more than sixty percent of residents had one or more children.

Today, the median income was more than $45,000, and was growing at a rate far larger than the national average. Plus, only nineteen percent of residents currently lived below the poverty line. Yet less than half of residents now lived with children. I wondered if Michelle’s abduction had anything to do with this. Whether the horrific nature of Michelle’s disappearance convinced families it simply wasn’t safe to raise a family here.

From what I could tell, this was a city that seemed to want to right the wrongs of its past. A city that desperately wanted to prove it was safe for girls like Michelle. And whatever part of the city didn’t want to improve, it would remain contentedly criminal. A place where a girl could be abducted, and her abductors could remain free. That part of the city would be what it always was, and whatever happened was simply God’s—or the criminal’s—will.

I stood outside for a moment, unsure of what to look for, until a honking car horn brought my attention to the Chrysler sitting alone in the lot. A woman was in the driver’s seat. I could see her through the windshield, an uncomfortable look on her face. She didn’t want to be here. I walked over, peered in through the passenger-side window.

“Delilah Lancaster?” I said.

She nodded, said, “Get in.”

I obeyed. She started the engine as I buckled my seat belt. We peeled away from the station, leaving the tracks in our wake.

Her car was if not new then new
er
. A black 300 model, it had less than ten thousand miles on it, and there were no telltale signs of wear and tear on the interior. A classical station played on the radio, and I noticed Delilah’s hand moving in nearly perfect rhythm, sliding gently up and down the steering-wheel cover as though she was conducting the symphony herself.

Delilah Lancaster was in her early forties. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a few errant streaks of gray shining through like silver threads. Her face had aged gracefully, the lines and striations of a woman who was comfortable in growing older. She moved delicately but with purpose, her eyes fixed on the road.

We sat in the car for several minutes, neither of us speaking. She drove past several streets of well-maintained homes. We passed by those into a less-friendly part of town that resembled the train station in its sense of abandonment. When we stopped in front of an empty building, I turned toward her to ask where we were.

“I agreed to talk to you,” she said, her hands still on the wheel despite the engine being off. “But I don’t want it in my house or in any place of business or pleasure. That’s the agreement.”

I nodded, reached into my bag for a tape recorder. She eyed it, curled her lip.

“This is also part of the agreement,” I said. “You have to go on the record.” She nodded. I turned the recorder on.

“You know I went through all this seven years ago,” she said. “The police questioned me many times. I know I got scared that night, but all those police, I thought somebody had been killed. For a moment I thought it might have been Michelle. All I know is, one day I was Michelle Oliveira’s tutor, the next day she was gone from this world, and then several years later she rose like the phoenix.”

“Why did you think she might have been killed? That seems like you were jumping to a pretty terrible conclusion.”

“When you’ve lived in this city as long as I have, you’ve seen young boys killed because they were targeted by rival dealers. When you’ve seen young girls caught in the cross fire, then you can say that I’m jumping to conclusions. I did think Michelle might have been another victim. That she’d been taken away forever.”

“Well, now she’s at Juilliard,” I said. A slight smile crossed Delilah Lancaster’s lips.

“She’s the most talented individual I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with,” Delilah said. “The moment I walked into the Oliveira home for the first time and listened to that girl play, the French bow moving in her hand like the wind, I knew it. French bows are mainly used by soloists, and most young students don’t even know the difference. But Michelle, she made her father buy a French bow. Nothing else would suffice. Most young girls have posters on their walls of their favorite bands, their favorite athletes, boys they have crushes on. Do you know what Michelle Oliveira had posted on her wall?”

I said I didn’t.

“You’re aware that most girls that age don’t have posters, or much of anything on their walls. They haven’t yet begun to have crushes, and wouldn’t know who Orlando Bloom was compared to Barack Obama. But Michelle, she had a poster on her wall. I don’t even know where she got it, or how. But right on her wall, above her bed, was a picture of Charles IX.”

I waited for an explanation. “Is that a King of England or something?”

Delilah shook her head. “Charles IX is the oldest violin in existence. It was made in 1716 by Antonio Stradivari. It is kept in pristine condition at the Ashmolean museum in Oxford. You can imagine this is not exactly a common item for a five-year-old to worship.”

“Stradivari—is he related to the Stradivarius?”

“The same,” she said.

“For a young child to hold such an instrument in this regard, it simply made my heart float. When she disappeared—” Delilah lowered her head, clasped her hands together “—I felt like I’d lost a kindred spirit. Someone who understood the beauty and passion of music like so few do in their lives. And to lose her at such a young age—I thought a great student had been taken. A shame in so many ways. And when Michelle came back, I thanked God for keeping one of his finest creatures on this earth.”

“You really cared for Michelle, didn’t you?” I asked.

Delilah looked at me. “
Still
care. I do care for her the way a teacher looks at a prized pupil, yes. But our bond went deeper than that. I cared more for Michelle than I did most of my friends and—” she sighed “—perhaps most of my family.”

I looked at Delilah’s hand, barren of any rings. She noticed this.

“My husband died three years ago. Pulmonary embolism. Life hits you when you never expect it. But I still have my music. That, at least, is everlasting. And one day Michelle will create a composition that will stand the test of time. That students, like she once was, will study.”

Delilah looked out over her town, the barren building in front of her.

“This city has changed so much. So many people left after what happened to Michelle. I didn’t blame them. I have no children, but if I did I couldn’t justify raising them here. Now young families, dare I say
yuppies,
have moved into those houses. Rats joining a ship. I never thought I would see that in Meriden.”

“You’re against gentrification?” I asked.

“It pays my bills,” she said. “And allows me more leisure time than I previously had. But Lord, if I could find one truly talented student in the bunch, it would make my year.”

“Not many children like Michelle come along,” I said.

“No,” she agreed. “No, they don’t.”

“Aside from the obvious, was there anything about Michelle that was different when she came back? Did she ever mention a family member, a friend, somebody you didn’t recognize?”

Delilah shook her head. “Michelle didn’t have many friends. The gifted ones never do.”

“Did she strike you as different in any way? After she returned?”

Delilah thought for a moment. “She became more withdrawn. Michelle was once a vibrant, popular girl, but she never fit in again. You can’t explain to a young girl why people are staring at her, knowing she can’t possibly understand exactly what happened. One night, a few days after she came back, I thought I saw scarring on her arm, but I decided it was just a pimple, some kind of adolescent puberty thing. It saddened me to see such a lovely girl just have her soul sucked away. But what person wouldn’t after going through something like that?”

“Did she ever say anything to you that gave any clue as to where she might have been all those years?”

Delilah shook her head. Stared ahead of her. I looked at the tape recorder. Afraid this was all I was going to get from Delilah Lancaster.

Another song came on the radio, the violin strings prominent. Delilah’s fingers flowed with the sound. Then they abruptly stopped.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

She cocked her head, looked deep in thought. “Beethoven’s sonata,” she said.

“Is that what’s playing right now?” I asked.

“No,” Delilah answered, her voice soft. There was a tinge of fright in there that made my pulse begin to race. “Beethoven’s Sonata no. 6. It’s an incredibly difficult piece. It can take months, if not years, to master. Oh, God, I remember that night.”

“What happened?”

“It was only the second or third lesson after she returned,” Delilah said. “Michelle was so down. Depressed. I asked her to play something that made her happy. And she picked up her bow and began to play…oh, God…”