The Stolen - Jason Pinter [95]
system your car has been located in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. On Lindle Road, right by the entrance to I-283
North. It looks like it's right off of exit 2. Sir, you're sure
you don't want us to contact the police? Our caller ID
shows you're phoning in from NewYork City. That's quite
a drive."
"No worries," Raymond said. "I'm a fast driver."
35
The Harrisburg Sheraton was right off of the Interstate,
about a hundred yards down Lindle Road and a few miles
east of the Oberlin College campus. Though the night sky
had descended on the city, I could see that the trees were
full, the grass lush. The town had a wonderful, oldAmerica feel. And we were less than ten miles from
Hershey Park. Unfortunately, this wasn't the best time to
check out the chocolatey goodness.
Some terrible techno music was playing on the radio,
but I hadn't been paying attention for the past hour. Every
minute that passed we were closer to finding the Reed
family and getting to the bottom of this bizarre triangle.
Dmitri Petrovsky.
Robert and Elaine Reed.
Raymond Benjamin.
Three groups of people that would never have any sort
of interaction in a normal world, yet for some reason
they'd become intimately involved in one another's lives
and businesses. I hoped Curt's boys had done their
homework at the precinct, and I hoped that, if this was the
place, that the Reeds hadn't already packed up ship.
My eyes were weary. A three-and-a-half-hour trip
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doesn't sound like much, but after a full day's work in
addition to the other stresses involving Jack and this story,
it was all I could do to keep focus. I had to keep telling
myself what the opportunity was here, both the truth to be
revealed and the benefits for the Gazette. Things would be
tough with Jack out. I liked Wallace, and the man had been
almost endlessly supportive, but he was hardly a mentor.
I was on my own at work. Thankfully the two people in
the car were my backup.
The Harrisburg Sheraton was a fairly quaint hotel, the
low-slung roof lined with hanging plants out front. Lamps
in the grass lit up a trail that went from the parking lot to
the entryway, and the guest rooms, about eight floors of
them, were just a few yards beyond.
I parked the car, turned off the ignition.
"How you all feeling?" I said as we exited the car. Curt
stretched, his long limbs raised into the sky. I noticed the
gun by his hip. He'd come in plainclothes. There wouldn't
be much love for an NYPD cop in PA. Amanda had on a
nice purple blouse. She wrapped her arms around her
chest, looked slightly worried.
"I'm good," she said. "Could use a bathroom break."
We walked into the hotel. The floors were covered in
beige tiles, and half a dozen overstuffed chairs surrounded
tables. A few hotel guests were seated, reading books and
newspapers, sipping coffee.
Curt said, "They're not just going to give us the room
number. I thought about this. We need a way to find out
what room the Reeds are in without alerting them to the
fact that we're here."
"Oh, man," Amanda said, sighing. "You guys are seriously
like troglodytes. Does everything have to depend on me?"
She walked up to the reception desk as Curt and I
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watched, curious, scared and feeling a little emasculated.
We trailed behind Amanda just enough that we could hear,
but far enough behind in case her ruse specifically did not
include us.
"Hi," Amanda said, sprawling her arms across the desk.
"Lissen, I need to see my boh-friend. He's staying in your
ho-tel. I think he might be with his wife, so I guess this
really is a ho-tel."
The receptionist, a guy with acne scars and a badge
that read "Clark," who looked like his first day on the
job was tomorrow, said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, what can I
help you with?"
"My boh-friend," she slurred. "Robert Reed. He's in
this ho-tel. I need to know what room he's staying in."
"Ma'am, we're not supposed to give out guests' information. If you'll just..."
Amanda dug into her purse, then slapped something
down on the desk. Clark's eyes bugged