The Stolen - Jason Pinter [86]
"I can't be sure, but that's what we're here to find out."
"Now, you said this guy made a comment about serving
time up at Attica, right?"
"That's right."
"Then our boy's damn sure got a record. Which means
he's just a mouse click away from being ours."
Curt logged in to a database, then proceeded to enter
first name "Raymond," last name "Benjamin," into the
fields. He plugged the years 1968 and 1972 into another
field marked "date range." He clicked a box marked "Caucasian" and pressed the search key. One of those helpful
little hourglass icons appeared on the screen. On my
computer, the sand fell through the hourglass at roughly
the same speed as cars cruising Fifth Avenue during the
Puerto Rican Day parade.
A few minutes and ass scratches later, the hourglass disappeared and a file appeared on the screen. A mug shot
appeared in the top-right corner of the page. I recognized
the man in the image at once.
"That's him," I said, pointing to the screen like I was
picking him out of a lineup. "Holy shit, that's the guy."
"From the other night?" Curt said. "This is Raymond
Benjamin."
I nodded. "No doubt."
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Jason Pinter
Despite the picture being at least twenty years old, it was
easy to tell this was the same man. The man in this photo
had a fuller head of hair, fewer lines cutting across his face,
but the look in his eye was the same. Defiance. Anger.
"There's no scar," I said. "When I saw Benjamin that
night, there was a faint scar on his right cheek. There's
nothing like that in this picture."
"Let's see here," Curt said. He clicked a button, then the
photo enlarged. Curt highlighted a line below the photo.
"Mug shot, dated 1969."
"Probably the last shot taken before he was sent to
Attica," I said.
Amanda traced her finger down the man's cheek on the
screen. "So if this photo was taken before he went to
prison, there's certainly a chance he either got that scar in
jail or afterward."
"Yeah, the scar actually did zigzag a little bit, like it had
been stitched up by someone who got their medical license
at the local butcher shop." I looked at Curt. "This is the
only photo on record for this guy?"
"Afraid so," he said. "So what I want to know is how
a dude who got busted for armed robbery in the sixties
ended up buying a house that got burned down over thirty
years later?"
"After he almost barbecued my balls," I added. "And if
the house is owned by a three-time loser, why did the
inside look fit for the Huxtables?"
"Obviously the house was in his name, but that was to
hide whoever actually lived there," Amanda said.
"What I think happened," I said, "is that this guy
Benjamin bought the house as a front. I'm not quite sure what
the catalyst was, but a husband and wife named Robert and
Elaine Reed have actually been the ones living on Huntley."
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"They weren't in the fire though," Amanda said.
"No, no bodies found. Not that Russian doctor or
anyone else," Curt said.
"So the papers are in this guy Benjamin's name, but he
sublets it to the Reeds. Only there's no paperwork or documentation. The Reeds have a young son, Patrick, but
according to receipts from a local toy store they'd been
purchasing gifts for a young girl within the past month. I
think very recently, the Reeds added a young girl to their
family. Only I don't think they did it through conception
or adoption."
"In vitro?" Curt said.
"No."
"Adopted a kid from Zaire?"
"Uh-uh. I think they kidnapped a child, and until that
house burned down they'd been holding the girl just like
whoever took Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira had
done. Amanda, you saw all the toys in the room you were
held in. This wasn't some medieval torture chamber, this
was a home. A place for a family to live."
Amanda reluctantly nodded. "Actually reminded me a
little of my room when I went to live with Lawrence and
Harriet Stein," she said. She turned to Curt. "I was
adopted. My parents died when I was young, then I went
from orphanage