The Stolen - Jason Pinter [85]
my life. Ten years ago, no way that kid gets the jump on
me. Never used to underestimate folks. All of a sudden
Parker can ID me and probably you. His word against
mine, and I've already spoken to our friend who's good
with tools who'll claim I was working late that night. So
here's what happens. If it even looks like this guy might
throw a wrench into things, we don't wait for him to fall
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into our lap. We take him out. And the girl if necessary.
No more cigarettes, no more nicey-nice. Quick, simple,
and they disappear."
"Like those kids we nabbed," Vince said, satisfied.
"No. Not like those kids. Parker and Davies have to stay
gone."
31
Manhattan's 19th Precinct was located on Sixty-Seventh
Street between Lexington and Third Avenue. I'd only been
there once, just a month or so after I'd arrived in New York.
It was to report a lost or possibly stolen cell phone. I'd
filled out a form with my information, handed it to the cop
behind the front desk, and that was the last I ever heard
about it. Probably for the best. The NYPD has more
important crimes to worry about than who took my Nokia.
Curt had worked at the 19th going on three years. I
knew he was well respected within the department, one of
those up-and-comers that are a rare breed in that they're
both clean-cut enough to stick on a recruiting poster, but
hardworking and intuitive enough to gain the respect of the
rank and file.
It was this respect that I was counting on as Amanda
and I entered the precinct. The majority of cops had no
love lost for me, and despite being vindicated many still
considered me responsible for the death of one of their
own. The irony was that even though the department loved
Curt's image, he couldn't have cared less. That's the only
reason he agreed to bring me into his precinct. It wouldn't
win him any friends, but it would help uncover the truth.
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The precinct was up a short flight of stairs. It had a red
brick facade and an arched entryway, bracketed by two
green lamps, above which hung a yellow banner that read
"Thank you for your support." The banner was bookended
by two images: the American flag and the badge of the
NYPD.
Curt led Amanda and me through the precinct, though
not nearly as fast as I would have liked. I could feel
eyeballs boring holes through me as we snaked through the
corridors, and knew that many of these men had worked
with, probably known, John Fredrickson. A few years
back, I defended two people Fredrickson was beating to
death, and in the struggle the man's gun went off, killing
him. I didn't know he was a cop, and his death was the
result of choices made long before I came along. Yet perception was reality, and the feeling was if I hadn't stuck
my nose in, he'd still be alive.
"Just this way," Curt said. We followed him down the
hall into a row of cubicles, each one set up with large,
likely obsolete computers. We entered a larger cubicle
which was set up in a U-shape, two computers at either
end. The walls were covered with crime-scene photos,
mug shots, business cards. Curt pulled up a pair of chairs,
then sat in a larger one. He shifted around a few times, then
leaned forward and scratched his ass.
"That's lovely," Amanda said.
"Hey, if you can convince Chief Carruthers to spend an
extra nickel on chairs that don't make your ass feel like
it's the wrong side of a Velcro strip, you'd be spared seeing
illicit activities such as these."
"Is it really that bad?" I asked.
"Man, come around here during lunchtime when the
detectives are all eating at their desks. You'd think a family
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of porcupines must have made a nest in every seat. Like a
messed-up orchestra, all scratching at the time same."
I said, "Think I'll file that under 'visual imagery I hope
to file away and never see again.' So what is this here?"
"Here is where we find out about the criminal record
for this guy Benjamin, the dude listed on the property
deed on Huntley Terrace. You're sure this Ray Benjamin
is