The Stolen - Jason Pinter [38]
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
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Jason Pinter
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 NewYork City, but was barely in NewYork 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.
The Stolen
111
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