The Stolen (18 page)

We sat there in silence. It was the kind of quiet I hadn’t experienced with many other women. I longed for that sense of confidence. Of comfort.

After a few minutes had passed, Amanda said, “What do you think the cops will do now?”

“You mean the dedicated men and women of the Hobbs County PD? Probably nothing. I’d bet my life savings that the same guy that mistook me for a barbecue started that fire, but I can’t imagine the cops will work very hard to prove it. They want to wipe this whole mess under the bed and be done with it.”

“What about Petrovsky?”

“I don’t know. They claim they never found a body, either in the driveway or inside the bonfire. All they did was file a missing persons report when his secretary said he didn’t show up at work. Petrovsky isn’t married, no children, no real family in the States, so until enough time has gone by they won’t have anything breathing down their necks. And the press won’t be putting pressure on them if there are no weeping widows or no orphaned children to plaster on the front page to stir sympathies.”

She looked sad. “It’s like a crime was never even committed.”

“It wasn’t,” I said. “Until a body turns up. Or we catch these assholes.”

“If someone is willing to kidnap two children, kill a doctor, torture you and set a house on fire, I have a feeling they wouldn’t think twice about disposing of a body.”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “We start from the other end. We’ve been looking for what happened to Michelle Oliveira and Daniel Linwood, who kidnapped them and why. And we haven’t made a lot of headway on that end. So now we follow this.” I took a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket. Tossed it at Amanda. She uncrumpled it, read it.

“The receipt,” she said. I nodded.

“Toyz 4 Fun,” I replied. “Let’s see who was buying a young girl some early Christmas presents. And I’ll bet whoever it is has another child. Someone who hasn’t been reported missing yet. Someone who in a few years is meant to be another Danny Linwood.”

J
ames Keach walked down the off-white hallway, still shaking after nearly tripping over an old man and his walker, just thankful he didn’t rip the old guy’s IV from his arm. James’s jacket was unzipped, one hand in his pocket while the other one hung loose. Just like Paulina had taught him.

Be cool,
she said.
If anyone asks, you’re visiting a relative. It’s okay to be nervous—nobody likes being in a hospital—but nurses and orderlies are trained to sniff out anyone who doesn’t belong. You belong, right, James? Just tell yourself you belong and you’ll act like it. Just don’t be a pussy, James, and you’ll be fine.

He still couldn’t get over that word. His friends used it in casual conversation all the time, usually out at bars or while watching lumberjack competitions on Spike TV. He’d never been called one. And to be called that name by a woman, his boss, on a regular basis, was something James still hadn’t come to grips with.

Once this task was complete, he was going home, getting under the covers and sleeping. Tomorrow he’d be joining his father on a golf outing with Ted Allen, and he’d need to be up for that. James knew his father had cashed in a favor in getting Ted Allen to hire him at the
Dispatch.
That didn’t bother him much. Everybody had connections and used them. That was the point. Besides, wouldn’t you rather get a recommendation from a close friend than have to slog through identical résumés from overachieving losers? That he got stuck working for Paulina Cole was something totally unexpected. Unlike any boss he’d ever worked for, Paulina actually scared the piss out of him.

James felt the thin camera in his pocket. Point. Click. Done.

That’s it. This guy from IT, Wilmer or Wilbur or Wilfred or something, showed him how to use it.
Idiot proof
was his term. James laughed at that. Wondered who the idiots were they had to design it for.

He knew the tip was good. Paulina’s tips always were. And while James was used to Paulina’s volcanic temperament and mercurial attitude, James had noticed something different about her the past few weeks. Her moods had swung heavier, her demeanor more vicious, her attitudes more severe. Like she was gearing up for something big, steeling herself. Though he’d been running errands for her for going on a year now, she was never totally candid with him. He knew she was working on something big, but she refused to share the details.

In good time Jamesy,
she’d said.

He counted off the doors as he walked down the hall.

703.

704.

705.

706.

He was there.

But the door was closed.

It wasn’t supposed to be closed. He hadn’t expected it to be closed. He assumed it would be wide open, people coming and going, nobody noticing a thing. But opening a hospital door, man, someone would definitely notice that. If not a nurse then another patient. He couldn’t see inside. A curtain was drawn. If a nurse was in there she’d sure as hell see him, and there was no way he could get it done without drawing suspicion and ruining the whole thing.

James stepped back. Took a breath. Leaned against the wall. He knew this was the very antithesis of what Paulina had advised, but fuck it, he needed a moment to regroup.

What should he do? Open the door, waltz in, pray nobody was in there? Or wait. Maybe someone would open the door and pull the curtain back. Make it easy for him.

A minute passed. Then five more. He was sweating.

He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, saw the leather come away wet and shiny.

Time to sack up, Jim. Show the queen bitch what you’re made of.

James stepped in front of the door and reached for the handle. He gripped it, closed his eyes and began to pull.

Just then the door swung outward, nearly knocking James off his feet. When he regained his balance, a pretty nurse was standing in the doorway. She was staring at James. His heart was racing.
Ohcrap, ohcrap, ohcrap, ohcrap, ohcrap, ohcrap…

Then the nurse smiled, whispered to him.

“Are you here to see Mr. O’Donnell?”

James gulped, managed to eke out a “Yes, ma’am. I’m his nephew.”

“That’s sweet of you to come. He hasn’t had many visitors. Mr. O’Donnell is resting right now,” she said. “But if you want to sit with him, go right ahead.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

The nurse held the door for James. Easy as pie.

When the door eased shut, he stepped around the curtain and saw the man in bed.

He was much older than his picture in the paper. Thinner, too, his face with a sickly gray pallor. He was breathing steadily, tubes in each nostril, an IV in his arm.

James quickly took the camera out of his pocket.

He whispered, “Say cheese, Jack.”

T
he Toyz 4 Fun store was located at 136 Evergreen Court in White Plains, New York, about eight miles southeast of Hobbs County. Since the Rent-a-Wreck company refused to deal with us after we lost their car, I was forced to make an expensive upgrade at a regular rental company. Thankfully I was now officially working the story, so I was able to expense the ride. Not to mention how much of a relief it was to drive a car that didn’t feel like it was in danger of spontaneously combusting at any moment.

The conversation on the ride up was pleasant, if a little awkward. It was hard to put Jack and the Linwood story out of my mind, and I think Amanda could tell I was distracted.

The Toyz 4 Fun store was wedged between a nail salon and a paper goods shop in a strip mall right off Woodthrush. We parked in the lot next to a beat-up Camry. It was a warm day out. I had on jeans and a white T-shirt, while Amanda had on a yellow sundress. The kind of outfit that made me wish we could forget about work and just sit down on a bench somewhere, sip lemonade or do whatever normal couples did when they weren’t investigating kidnappings and disappearing murder victims.

The Toyz logo had the letters spelled out on different-colored building blocks on the awning. A play easel was set up in front of the store. Scribbled on the easel in erasable magic marker was “Deluxe Easel: Special Price $49.99!!!” It was nice to see an easel outside a store that didn’t feature the soups of the day.

Each exclamation point was topped with a smiley face. It was the kind of store I loved to see walking down the street when I was a kid. Not the electronics extravaganzas and smutty Bratz dolls that passed for toys these days, but the true-to-heart toy stores, with owners that cared, knew you by name, knew exactly what you wanted. I didn’t get many toys when I was a kid, but the once-a-year trip to the Leapin’ Lizards toy store in Bend was worth waiting those other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days.

Amanda pushed the door open and a series of wind chimes rang. I couldn’t help but smile.

In front of us were rows and rows of toys. Building blocks. Play-Doh. Action figures. Lego sets. Dollhouses. Erector sets. Everything a growing boy or girl needed to have fun and get into loads of trouble.

An elderly man sat behind the counter, thick glasses shielding kind blue eyes. His hair was sparse, combed over, but there was barely enough to do a passable job of it. He was wearing blue overalls with suspenders, like the OshKosh kid in his waning years. He smiled when we entered. His face was lined, but his cheeks were red, veiny, and his enthusiasm was genuine.

“Corolle doll, right?” the man said. “Or if it’s a boy, let me see…how about My First Pirate Set?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Well, I’m guessing you two to be, what? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight? Thirty tops? Your kid is somewhere between three and six. Those toys are my most popular sellers for that age group. So what’ll it be? Corolle or pirates?”

“I’m sorry sir,” I said. “You’ve got us wrong. We don’t have any kids.”

“Bun in the oven?” he said.

“Nope,” Amanda said.

“Gift-hunting then?”

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re actually here because we’re hoping you can answer a few questions for us.”

“Oh,” the man said, confused. “Okay then, what can I do you for?”

I took the receipt from my pocket.

“Were you working here at around three-thirty on July 27?”

“Assume I was. I’m here every day unless I’m sick, and I haven’t been sick in some time. My name’s Freddie, by the way. Nobody will be addressed by ‘sir’ in this store.”

“No problem, Freddie,” I said. I handed the receipt across the desk. Freddie looked at me, unsure of what to do with it.

“That’s a receipt from this store, right?”

He picked it up, glanced at it, said, “Looks like it.”

“Is there any way you could look up in your computer and see who this receipt was issued to?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It says here ‘change’” He pointed to a line at the bottom. “Means whoever paid, paid in cash.”

I grimaced. “I know it’s a long shot, but is there any way you might know who purchased that item?”

Freddie looked at the receipt again, furrowed his brow. “This here is for accessories for a Victorian dollhouse,” he said. “I don’t do a lot of sales on dollhouse accessories. Sad to say they’re a little old-fashioned. But I keep some in stock just in case. Probably to make me happy more than the kids.” He thought for another moment, then said, “Elaine Reed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Robert and Elaine Reed. Bob and Elaine. They came into my store all the time when their son, Patrick, was born. They bought that boy all sorts of toy soldiers, must have spent more money than they made on those things. I made sure they knew to keep them away from that boy’s mouth. All those sharp parts, you know. But I remember Elaine suddenly buying everything under the sun for a girl, including those accessories. Little tables, chairs, even a tiny medicine chest.”

“If they have a son, then why were they buying dollhouse accessories?” Amanda asked.

Freddie said, “That’s what I wondered. It wasn’t just the accessories. The first thing they bought was an actual dollhouse. I had to special-order it for them. And not a cheap one, mind you. Then they kept coming back over the next few days to buy more doodads for it. I assumed it wasn’t for Patrick—don’t know if you can tell a boy’s, er, sexual orientation at such a young age. So I asked Elaine one day. Said, ‘Elaine, what are all these doll parts for?’ She told me they’d just had a baby girl.”

“Baby girl,” I said. “Seems like bad parenting to buy such tiny things for a baby.”

“I thought the same thing, remembered what she’d done with Patrick and warned her about that. Elaine told me the girl was actually six years old. I thought, ‘That’s strange, I didn’t remember her being pregnant.’”

“Did you ask her about it?” I said.

“Naw,” Freddie said. “It’s not my right to pry into my customers’ business. But when I asked about it, Elaine kind of looked worried, like I’d pried or something. I figured they might have adopted, or something else was going on, but either way I was happy for the business. And happy for Elaine, because anyone who spends that much money on toys sure must love their child. Not to mention how happy that kid’s going to be. But after that day I asked one question, Elaine and Bob never came back to my store. I hate to think I offended them.”

“Was Elaine a good parent?” Amanda asked.

“Wonderful,” Freddie said. “Some of them, parents, I mean, you can tell they just buy things ’cause they feel obligated to. Like they just want to shut the kid up or think they can buy affection. Elaine, though, she loved it. You could tell she couldn’t wait to get home and see the smiles on her kids’ faces.”

“Did you happen to catch their daughter’s name?” I asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I know we’re asking a lot, Freddie,” I said, “but is there any chance you might have an address for Mr. and Mrs. Reed? It’s very important we speak to them.”

“I’m sorry, who did you say you were again?”

“My name’s Henry Parker,” I said, handing Freddie a business card. “We’re investigating a story and really need to speak with the Reeds.”

“I hope everything’s okay,” he said. The man was legitimately concerned.

“I hope so, too,” I said. “But there’s a chance there’s something wrong with one of their children and we need to find them.”

Freddie nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can. I just hope they’re safe. I think a while ago Bob bought Patrick one of those Erector sets, only Elaine didn’t have enough room in the car and asked for it to be shipped home.” Freddie rummaged under the desk, pulled out a large file box. He opened the lid, began to sift through alphabetical orders. “Reed…Reed…Reed…here we go. Elaine and Bob Reed.”

“Can you give us the address?”

“No problem. That package was shipped to 482 Huntley Terrace.”

My jaw dropped.

Amanda said, “Henry, that’s the house…”

“That burned down yesterday.”