The Stolen - Jason Pinter [33]
someone who could help. Time to add another lunch to my
growing tab.
Curt Sheffield picked up, but it took major convincing
to get him to not hang up on me.
"Ain't no way I'm going to even touch a child abduc- The Stolen
95
tion case, bro. Not to mention that it's in a different state,
and I'd have to explain why I'm asking those kind of questions. If I tell them it's to sate some reporter's curiosity, I
might as well tell them I deal crack while downloading
underage porn. I'll get booted faster than you can say
'Starsky minus Hutch.'"
"So how could I get hold of those records if not through
the police?" I asked, praying Curt's reach extended beyond
that of his precinct.
"Only other firms who have access to those kinds of
documents are the legal aid societies. They keep a database
of all child-related abuse cases. I'm guessing this falls
under their jurisdiction."
"Even if there was no evidence of actual abuse?"
"Just 'cause there ain't no scars on the outside don't
mean they're not on the inside."
"That's deep, Curt. You write poetry, too?"
"Yeah, I'll Robert Frost your ass if you try to squeeze
anything else out of me. Good luck, sorry I couldn't help
more."
"Yeah, thanks for nothing."
"When can I collect on that tab?"
"I'll have my people call your people."
"Yeah, whatever. Later, Parker."
I had to get more information on Michelle Oliveira's abduction, but I wasn't going to be able to go through the
police department. I sat there in silence, thinking about
what Curt had said. The legal aid society.
I knew one person who worked at the legal aid society.
But calling her would touch nerves much closer to my
heart than Daniel Linwood.
I opened my desk drawer. I could almost sense it down
there. It had been months since I'd spoken to her. But
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Jason Pinter
rarely a day passed when I didn't feel that ache, that
gnawing in my gut that seemed to only get worse over
time.
Six months ago I'd made a choice. I decided I had to
give her up. I told myself at the time it was the right thing
to do. A man had to put his love before himself. And since
Amanda had nearly been killed twice because of me, in
my mind there was no other option.
So I said goodbye to Amanda. I hadn't been truly happy
in months. It didn't take a great reporter to figure out the
two were directly correlated. But I still couldn't be with her.
There had been times over the past few months where
I had wanted to call, where I'd gone so far as to pick up
the phone and dial everything but the last number on her
cell phone, nearly crying when I hung up before pushing
the final key. Nights where the booze loosened up my inhibitions, and only that last vestige of clarity prevented me
from calling. Like that terrible night six months ago, today
there was only one choice to make.
Amanda worked for the New York Legal Aid Society.
She would have access to Michelle Oliveira's records. She
could help the investigation. She could provide answers.
She could also throw it back in my face.
And I would deserve it.
Maybe this was the opening I needed, I wanted. A way
to tell myself it wasn't about her, even though deep down
I couldn't even fool myself. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe
fate was a cruel son of a bitch.
Before I had a chance to think again, I picked up the
phone and dialed.
Amanda picked up on the first ring.
"Hey," I said. "It's me."
10
The girl woke up with a slight headache. Her first thought
was that she'd fallen, maybe hit her head on the sidewalk
or bumped into the same tree she'd rammed her bike into
the other day. But she didn't remember putting on a
helmet, didn't remember actually falling. And she only
rode her bike when her mommy was watching. And right
away she felt the terror that she was alone.
She stood up warily. Her breathing was harsh, and she
felt hot tears rush to her eyes. She reached out for her bed,
the couch, some familiar sign. But she found nothing. She
grew desperate and called out. There was no answer.
The room was pitch-black. Had her mommy just put her
to bed,