The Stolen - Jason Pinter [10]
34
Jason Pinter
article, give the reader a sense of local color recorded words
could not.
Hobbs County was located about thirty miles north of
New York City, nestled in between Tarrytown and the
snuggly, wealthy confines of Chappaqua. Just a few years
ago Hobbs County was an ingrown toenail between the
two other towns, but recently a tremendous influx of state
funds and pricey renovations had things moving in the
right direction. Good thing, too, because statistically,
Hobbs County had crime rates that would have made
Detroit and Baltimore shake their heads.
According to the FBI Report of Offenses Known to
Law Enforcement, the year before Daniel Linwood disappeared, Tarrytown, with 11,466 residents, had zero
reported murders, zero rapes, one case of arson (a seventeen-year-old girl setting fire to her ex-boyfriend's baseball
card collection), zero kidnappings and ten car thefts. Each
of these numbers were microscopic compared to the
national average.
That same year, Hobbs County, with 10,372 residents,
had sixteen reported murders, five rapes, nine cases of
arson, twenty-two car thefts and two kidnappings. If
Hobbs County had the population of New York City, it
would be on pace for more than twelve thousand murders
a year.
Hobbs County was literally killing itself.
One of those two reported kidnappings was Daniel
Linwood. The other was a nine-year-old girl whose body
was later found in a drainage ditch. Since then, those crime
rates had dropped like a rock. This past year, Hobbs had four
murders. One rape. Eleven car thefts. And no kidnappings.
There was still a lot of work to be done, but something had
lit a fire under Hobbs County. It was righting itself.
The Stolen
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And then Daniel Linwood reappeared, hopefully speeding the cleansing process even more.
The rebuilding had naturally raised property values,
and between the drop in crime and influx of new money,
Hobbs County found itself awash with wealthy carpetbaggers interested in the refurbished schools, reseeded
parks and investment opportunities. Five years ago you
could have bought a three-bedroom house for less than
two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Today, if you
scoured the real estate pages and found one for less
than three quarters of a million, you'd be an idiot not to
snap it up.
While there was no getting back Daniel Linwood's lost
years, his family could at least be thankful he had come
back to a town far safer than the one he'd left.
"Only been to Hobbs once," Stavros piped in from the
front seat. "Few years ago. Pro football player going to
visit his aunt just diagnosed with Hodgkins. She lived in
the same house for thirty years, give or take. Guy told me
he'd tried to buy her a new place, get her out of the life,
but you know how old folks are. Rather die at the roots
than reach for a vine. You know, even if the client's only
booked for a one-way trip, I'll usually offer to hang around
in case they decide they need a ride back to wherever.
Hobbs, though, man, you could offer me double the rate
and I would have jetted faster than one of them Kenyan
marathon runners. Not the kind of place you want to be
sitting in a car alone at night. Or anytime, really."
I eyed those dice tattoos. Wondered what it took to
scare a man who wasn't afraid to get ink shot into his
neck with a needle.
"I hear the town is different now," I said. "A lot's
changed in five years."
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Jason Pinter
"New coat of paint, same cracked wood underneath,"
Stavros said. "You don't start from the ground up, poison's
still gonna be there. Anyway, you're booked for a return
trip, right? I'm sure you'll be fine, long as you're finished
before the sun goes down. The dealers and hoods come out
thinking you're the po-lice."
"I really think you're wrong," I said, my voice trying
to convince me more than Stavros. "Anyway, when we get
there, I don't think you'll have to worry too much about
being alone. If I know the press, they'll be camped out at
this house like ants