The Stolen - Jason Pinter [83]
Finally on the two hundred and twenty-fourth listing,
we found it.
"There we go," I said. "Four-eighty-two Huntley Terrace."
"Bingo," Amanda added.
According to the database, the house had been pur-234
Jason Pinter
chased in 2001 for three hundred and forty thousand
dollars. There was a picture of the property on the Web
site. I clicked to enlarge it.
The house was easily recognizable. As was the driveway and garage we'd seen the other night. We clicked
through various photographs of the interior and exterior,
looking for anything familiar. The rooms were different;
obviously these shots had been taken before any renovations.
What was more surprising was that there was no sign
of the metal gates, nor the brick wall surrounding the
property. Whoever purchased the house in 2001 had built
them custom-made.
"That's odd," I said, clicking onto the "buyer/seller"
link. "According to this, the buyer wasn't Bob or Elaine
Reed, or anyone named Reed at all."
"Who was it, then?"
"Someone named Raymond Benjamin," I said. "Does
that name sound familiar at all?" Amanda shook her head.
Then her eyes opened wide.
"Wait a minute," she said, pointing at the name on the
screen. "When we were in that house, when you came
into the room where I was held, didn't one of the guys
call for a Ray?"
I thought hard, vaguely remembered hearing that, but
between the cigarette burn and my state of panic I couldn't
be sure. "You think this Raymond Benjamin might have
been the same guy from the other night?"
"Be a heck of a coincidence, a guy who obviously
knows the place well enough to set us up shares the same
first name as the man on the property deed."
"Yes, that would be a mighty coincidence. It would
also mean that Raymond Benjamin knows Dmitri Petrov- The Stolen
235
sky." I tapped my fingers on the keyboard. "The guy who
had me, he'd been in prison before. Attica. He was there
during the riot, and that was in '71. If he was telling the
truth, he'll have a criminal record."
"I think it's time to leave the pizza place," Amanda
said.
"It sure is. Let's see what we can find out about
Raymond Benjamin. It's been at least twenty-four hours
since I asked Curt Sheffield for a favor. Let's give him a
ring."
30
The diner smelled of cooking grease and burned coffee.
A plate of eggs sat in front of him, untouched. Raymond
Benjamin rubbed his aching jaw, then took another smoke
from his pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. It was all he could
do to relax after the events of the past few days. Everything
had been going just the way he'd planned, in that there
were no disruptions, no mass hysterics. Everything cool,
calm and quiet. And then all of a sudden the newshound
Parker shows up at Petrovsky's office and everything goes
to shit.
He hadn't wanted to torch the house. Benjamin actually
had some fond memories of that place. But once Parker
decided to follow Petrovsky, it was only a matter of time
before somebody came knocking. Burning it down was a
necessary evil. There was too much inside for him and
Vince to get rid of in the little time they had, not to mention
having to dispose of the doctor and that beat-up car Parker
drove. Better to torch the whole thing and wipe their hands
than risk one little thing turning up and screwing up the
whole operation. Ray couldn't afford that. There was too
much at stake.
Raymond Benjamin smoked his cigarette, eased back
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237
into the booth and took out his wallet. He looked at the
pictures inside. The first one was of a beautiful young
couple. Ray barely remembered what life had been like
back then. He'd been so impetuous, so violent. He was
amazed a woman had actually had the temerity to marry
him. The first photo had been a year or so before Ray Jr.
was born. The boy had Ray's nose, but got the rest of his
features from Ray's wife. Becca. Becca, who'd died
while he was holed up in that shithole prison. Ray Jr.,
born in 1970, the year before the riots changed everything.