The Stolen (13 page)

“I agree,” I said. “He’d heard the name Michelle Oliveira before. And I don’t buy that he didn’t know about Danny Linwood.” I stood in front of our car, thinking about what to do next.

“Think we should head back?” Amanda asked.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I’m going to wait for him. Petrovsky. I’m going to follow him when he gets off work and see where he goes. If necessary, confront him off hospital grounds. Where there’s no security, nobody but us.”

Amanda sighed.

“The least you could have done was tell me that upstairs. I would have grabbed a magazine from the waiting room.”

She smiled at me, and we both piled into the car, waiting for the good doctor to emerge.

T
he phone call was not unexpected, but it rattled Raymond Benjamin nonetheless. He’d been sitting in his loft, sipping a glass of pinot noir, from the Argyle wineries, 2005 vintage. There were few things that beat a glass of red and a cigarette at night. Perhaps a little Coltrane. Getting a phone call from this number ruined all of it.

He recognized the area code and extension immediately, and as soon as they appeared in the caller-ID display, Benjamin knew there was a problem. Petrovsky was only supposed to call if there was an emergency. And Benjamin made it very clear about what constituted an emergency.

He answered the phone. “Doctor,” Ray said. “There’d better be a fucking good reason for this.”

Raymond Benjamin listened as Dmitri Petrovsky filled him in on what had occurred at the hospital that day. He ended the conversation by saying he’d watched the two people—Henry Parker and Amanda Davies—leave the hospital. Only, when they left, they didn’t drive away. In fact, they’d been sitting in their car for several hours. Petrovsky and Benjamin came to the same conclusion: they were planning to follow the doctor when he left work.

When Ray Benjamin hung up the phone, he sat there for a moment, thinking. Then he got up, tossing the rest of his glass into the sink, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. He called Vince and told him to be at the garage in fifteen minutes. Ray had a lot of phone calls to make.

First he called the house. The couple took it as well as he expected. He told them they’d prepared for a day like this. And if they kept up their end of the deal, it would all be worth it. And if they didn’t, he only needed to remind them of the photograph.

When everything was in motion, and Petrovsky confirmed that Parker was still at Yardley, Ray Benjamin went to the garage. Vince was waiting for him. Vincent Cann was a tall, slender man of thirty-eight. His jet-black hair was slicked back, his face clean-shaven as always. A pair of designer sunglasses sat on his face. He nodded when he saw Benjamin approaching.

“Clusterfuck, ain’t it, boss?”

Ray answered by not answering at all.

They piled into the car. Ray opened his window a crack. The younger man was chewing gum, his jaws working overtime. Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh pack of Chesterfields. He depressed the electric lighter, unwrapped the pack, stuck the cig in his mouth and waited.

Vince said, “Should we get going?”

“Wait a second,” the older man said. The lighter wasn’t ready yet.

When the metal knob popped out, Ray took the end, pressed it to the tip and inhaled deeply. There was nothing like a good Chesterfield. When the butt was half smoked, a long finger of ash hanging off the end, Ray flicked it out the window.

“Clear your schedule for the next few days,” Ray said to Vince as he pulled into traffic. “We’re going to be busy cleaning this mess up, and there’s not a lot of time.”

P
aulina arched her back, feeling the convulsions ripple through her body. She embraced the aches of pleasure, the slightest hint of pain as Myron Bennett raked his too-long nails down her stomach. She felt the final shudder of orgasm, the sweat dripping down her chest, waiting until everything was calm before finally becoming still. Paulina looked down. She was still wearing her bra, a slight puddle of moisture collecting in between the cups.

Gathering herself, Paulina climbed off Myron, taking one more glimpse at his naked body, his erection like a flag of surrender. The boy had a beautiful body, that’s for sure, and though nobody would ever know of their tryst, it secretly thrilled her to know she’d just fucked a man thousands of women would ditch their husbands and 2.4 children for.

She located her underwear, snagged the band on her shoe, kicked it into her hands and headed for the bathroom.

“Hey,” Myron called out as Paulina groped her way to the bathroom door. “I didn’t come yet!”

“Nobody’s watching if you want to finish yourself off,” she said, closing the bathroom door. Paulina looked at herself in the mirror. Her mascara was streaked. She ran the faucet and washed it off. She looked at her breasts, felt a twinge of sadness, noticed they were sagging slightly more than she remembered. For years Paulina had taken care of her body, spending countless hours at the gym, countless dollars on every treatment under the sun. But aging happened to everyone, even women who were born to fight everything. Push-up bras did wonders to enhance her natural cleavage, but nobody could fight Father Time, especially since he had gravity on his side. She thought about having them done, wondered if it was an outpatient procedure. The last thing she needed was to be out of work a day or two, then come with them
enhanced.
Boob jobs were only worth it if no one knew you’d had one.

She could hear Myron moving about in the bedroom. She heard the sound of his zipper, laughed to herself that he was too frustrated to finish the job. Myron was a nice treat, and thankfully she’d never have to see him again. At least not in person.

In Sunday’s edition of the
Dispatch,
Paulina would be running a lengthy article about Myron’s decade-long affair with Mitsy Russell Henshaw, wife of billionaire venture capitalist Richard Henshaw. Richard Henshaw had been a longtime critic of the
Dispatch,
specifically the paper’s editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. It was what Allen called a “have your cake and eat it, too” story. It was both a juicy bit of gossip that would sell papers, while accomplishing the goal of humiliating one of Ted’s most vocal enemies. Paulina figured it only fair that if she was going to report the piece, she deserved a piece of the cake, too.

Though Myron was in his late thirties and no longer in the kind of shape that had secured him deals as an underwear model in the nineties—the abs a little softer, the arms not quite as sinewy—he was still a striking bachelor, the kind of man that would turn heads and make very wealthy women think very bad thoughts.

She had interviewed him for three hours, at the end of which Paulina offered to buy him a drink. To make things a little more personal, she said, rinse off the professional. And when they were in the comfort of a pair of martinis, she let Myron know that as long as she was putting her keyboard out, he’d be putting out, too. And so here she was, room 1250 at the W Hotel, the beauty of her exorbitant expense account allowing her the beauty of Myron Bennett.

Yet as much as she’d savored the night’s pleasures and would enjoy the media circus surrounding Myron’s affair, she’d be glad to get back to work on the real story that had kept her juiced the past few months. Underwear models came and went. It was a rare occasion that you could do something that
mattered.
And in just a matter of weeks, she’d be ready to bring Jack O’Donnell down like a house of cards. And with Jack, the veneer that was the
Gazette
would tumble as well. And that kind of satisfaction would last longer than any orgasm.

Cinching up her robe as she left the bathroom, Paulina took her purse from her wallet and flipped a twenty at Myron. The crumpled bill landed sadly on the pillow. Myron stood there staring at it. He was topless in his jeans, searching around for his shirt. He looked at the money, confused, then looked up and down at Paulina as if she were hanging in a freezer.

“You have the most beautiful tits,” he said, a sultry grin on his face that made Paulina feel like retching.

“Please,” she said. “Save it for the women who give a shit.”

“What, one party and you get all cold on me? It wasn’t good for you, beautiful?”

“Ugh, don’t call me that. I’m sure Muffy or Tiffani or whatever rich bitch you’re going to bang tomorrow night will love that ooey-gooey shit. You’re a good lay, Myron. I appreciate it. But enough of the honeydoll, baby stuff. I’m a grown woman, you’re a grown man, now help me find my shirt.”

“It’s under the bed, doll.” He smiled at Paulina’s grimace. She glanced under the bed, came up with a wrinkled blue shirt. She nodded toward the twenty on the bed.

“Take it.”

“What’s that for?”

“Whatever you want. A taxi. A beer. Doesn’t matter.”

He looked at the money. “Really, you don’t have to.”

“Listen, I spent the better part of an entire day talking to you and listening to the most boring shit on earth. I listened to you whine about your mean parents, your crummy job, how nobody will hire you as a model anymore. And I know you have less money in the bank than you have brains up in that head of yours. I don’t think you’ll say no to cab fare. So just say thank-you and go home.”

He watched her for a moment, looked at the money. “Thank you,” he said. “But you don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

Paulina’s mouth dropped, a startled laugh escaping her lips. “Bitch? You call me a bitch because, what, I just repeated what you’ve been blabbing about all night? If you don’t like hearing the whole, cold, hard, clean truth, just continue to delude yourself. Facts are facts. Nobody wants to hire a forty-year-old has-been when twenty years old can be bought for less, and without the baggage. And if you didn’t fuck Mitsy for a decade, you’d keep that irrelevant streak of yours going. So you don’t want to believe the truth? Then, buddy, don’t read the newspaper. But if you want a reality check, you little baby, what I say shouldn’t hurt you any more than your life hurts you.”

“See,” Myron said. “That’s what I mean. Most women, when you give them an orgasm, they don’t treat you like you’re a piece of, a, a dust ball or a termite or something. Something they can pick up and throw in the trash like it didn’t exist.”

“Listen, Myron. You’re a sweet guy. But sweet guys get as much out of life as a little teacup puppy that someone carries around in their purse. You get fed when your master wants to feed you, but pretty soon you’re a nuisance and not quite as much fun to look at. If you want more out of life than that, you have to take it. If that means being a bitch, well, I’d rather be a bitch than a pussy.”

Myron stared at her. “I’m looking forward to reading the article.”

Paulina nodded. “It’ll be a good one, I promise you that much. I’ll make sure a copy of the
Dispatch
is delivered to you first thing Sunday morning.” Then she strode across the room until she was nearly mouth to mouth with Myron. “And if you so much as mention this night to anyone, I’ll run a correction on Monday about your chronic herpes outbreaks.”

“My what?”

“Exactly.”

“Even you wouldn’t stoop so low,” Myron said, though he looked unconvinced.

“Try me,” Paulina replied. “I love it when people think they’re calling my bluff.”

Myron nodded, put his shirt on, found his shoes. He thanked Paulina, grabbed the twenty and left. Paulina stood there in a room full of rumpled sheets, the air stinking of sweat and sex. Then she gathered up her belongings, went outside and caught a cab home.

B
y three o’clock, my legs were growing stiff. We’d watched countless people arrive and leave Yardley since that morning, with no sign of Dmitri Petrovsky. We’d taken turns going in to the cafeteria for cups of coffee and bathroom breaks, doing everything we could to stay alert without going insane, but I was growing impatient. And even worse, worried.

Doctors came and went, but nobody who looked like Petrovsky.

At four o’clock, Amanda asked, “Do you think we might have missed him?”

I shook my head. “I hope not. Let’s make sure.”

I took out my cell phone, called the Yardley switchboard, asked to be connected to Pediatrics. When a woman’s voice picked up, I asked if Dr. Petrovsky would be available for any more appointments today.

“I’m sorry, sir, he’s got two more patients scheduled for this afternoon, then he’ll be out again until Monday.”

“Do you have any idea what time he’ll be finished with his patients?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry, but if you want to come in next week I’d be happy to schedule you for an appointment.”

“No, thanks, I’ll call back later.” I hung up. “He’s still there, but probably not for much longer.”

Amanda nodded. She began to rub her shoulders.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Just a little stiff.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Nah, thanks, though.”

For a moment I had an ache to reach out, put my arm around her and rub her shoulders myself. Not too long ago it wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, just something else that happened over the normal day of a relationship. Small gestures like that in the end meant so much, and it was only when they ended that I realized their significance.

“Henry, look,” Amanda suddenly said, pointing in the direction of the entrance. “There he is.”

Sure enough, Dmitri Petrovsky was leaving Yardley. He was easily identifiable with his bushy beard, ambling gait. He’d changed out of his hospital whites and was wearing a bulky overcoat, carrying a stuffed briefcase. He trudged through the parking lot as our eyes followed him. He stopped for a moment to yell at another motorist whose Saab edged a little too close, and for a moment I worried that the argument would escalate and our whole plan would be shot. Thankfully, after a heated exchange and a middle-finger gesture that left the driver steaming, Petrovsky continued walking, eventually stopping at a dark blue Nissan.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Take my tape recorder out of my bag.” She did so. “Now turn it on.”

She clicked the record button.

I said, “I want to record the directions. Just in case.”

“Smart,” Amanda said.

I started the engine, waited until I saw the brake lights on Petrovsky’s car turn red before I edged out of the parking space. I turned the corner of our row just as Petrovsky finished backing out. I allowed another car to move in front of us as all three vehicles headed for the exit.

“What if he sees us?” Amanda said.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t.”

Petrovsky pulled up to the exit and put his right-turn signal on. He made the right, and the car in front of us turned left. I put my right blinker on, waited until Petrovsky’s Nissan was about thirty yards away, then I pulled onto the exit ramp and began to follow the doctor.

Petrovsky kept an even speed as he circled the exit ramp that led away from Yardley. I stayed far enough behind that it would be tricky for him to see me in his rearview mirror. Neither Amanda nor I spoke. We were both focused on the road, the car and what would happen next.

When the ramp came to an end, Petrovsky kept on straight and merged onto the freeway. He pulled into the left lane; I took the middle, kept pace three cars behind. There was still light in the sky, sundown not yet for another hour, so I was able to make out his car pretty clearly. The hum of our engine seemed as loud as a bullhorn as we kept pace, threatening to give us away.

After a few miles, Petrovsky drifted over to the middle lane, then turned on his right-turn signal and headed toward a sign that read Exit 62. I relayed this to the tape recorder. When he pulled into the right lane, I allowed a silver Mercedes to do the same and I pulled in behind it. I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky closely. I could make out the man hunched over the steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we were being cautious, keeping out of sight.

I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds decreasing as the road became more residential. The doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after, leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.

We followed him down this road for some time. Eventually the sun began to set. The sky grew darker. Soon all I could make out of Petrovsky’s car were the taillights. The faint hum of the tape recorder was the only noise in the car. My pulse was quickening. I had no idea how this night would end.

About twenty minutes later, Petrovsky turned on his left blinker and pulled off onto a narrow street. I had to follow, had to hope it was too dark for him to recognize our car or see me behind the wheel. I was still about thirty yards behind him, but when his Nissan made another right and then a left within seconds of each other, I had to speed up before losing him among the turns.

“There’s no way he doesn’t know we’re following him,” Amanda said, her voice quiet, fearful. “No way.”

I said nothing. Just spoke the directions into the recorder and kept driving.

We passed through streets lined with houses, lamps illuminating rows of homes. Most of them were in disrepair, casting an aura of poverty, carelessness, hopelessness. I tried not to look at them, focused on the car in front of us, felt cold sweat beading down my back. Fear and adrenaline coursed through me, and I wondered how much longer this chase would last.

Then Petrovsky made a right onto another road, this one dimly lit. I couldn’t see any houses on either side. There were no lamps. It was just him and us.

I glimpsed the street sign, stated into the recorder, “Turned right onto Huntley Terrace.”

Huntley Terrace was a narrow road. Once we’d driven a few miles, we passed by a few houses spaced sporadically apart, driveways hidden behind thick brush and wooden fences. There were no streetlights, no road signs. We were still twenty yards behind Petrovsky, but we were the only cars traveling this road. By this point, the gig was up.

“Henry,” Amanda said. “What is that?”

I squinted my eyes, felt my stomach lurch as I saw that we were approaching a pair of metal double gates up ahead. The were bracketed by a brick wall that encircled the property within. The woods were thick on either side. I couldn’t see anything beyond them.

“Oh, fuck,” I said. Petrovsky had slowed down as he approached.

“What now?” Amanda asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m scared,” she said. She turned to me. In her eyes I could tell she knew what I was thinking. We had to keep going.

I slowed the car down, pulled to a stop and put the car in Park. I waited to see what Petrovsky would do next. His car stopped at the gates. It stayed there for close to a minute, then I heard the sound of metal screeching as the gates swung inward. They did not look like they enclosed a residential area. They were protecting a single home. Was this where Petrovsky lived?

When the gates were open, the doctor pulled onto a gravel road and then disappeared out of sight. I waited, unsure of what to do.

And after a minute of waiting, I realized something strange.

The gates hadn’t closed.

They were wide open.

Whoever was inside those gates was waiting for us.

“Too late to turn back,” I said.

I put the car into Drive and slowly approached the gates. I still couldn’t see anything beyond them, but as I got closer I could make out a red hue around the bend. Definitely Petrovsky’s brake lights.

I drove through the gates, half expecting a Sonny Corleone sneak attack. But we passed through without anything out of the ordinary. I made the turn, then jumped as I heard the metal sounds again.

The gates were closing behind us.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Amanda said. “We should go.”

“We can’t now,” I said. “Let’s just see what’s what.”

As I continued down the path, Petrovsky’s Nissan came into view. It was parked at the end of a driveway. The driveway was next to a house. It was shrouded in darkness, but there was just enough light from the moon to illuminate the seven-foot-high brick wall surrounding the entire property. It confused me. The wall wasn’t high enough that an adult would have a problem climbing over it. I also noticed that every tree on the property was at least ten or twenty feet from the fence. There were no limbs that could reach the fence. It had been clearly built to keep someone smaller from getting out.

Down the driveway, I could see Petrovsky. He was standing next to his car. Hands in his pockets. He was waiting for us.

I pulled up close until I was directly behind the Nissan, then put the car into Park and shut the engine off.

“Stay here,” I said to Amanda.

“The hell with that,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

We both stepped out of the car. Petrovsky was standing in the middle of the driveway. He did not move as we approached. He did not seem surprised to see us.

As we got closer, I could see that the doctor was trembling slightly. His hands were in his pockets, his body too rigid. As I got closer, a wave of fear coursed through me. I saw that Petrovsky was shaking. The man was afraid.

“Dr. Petrovsky,” I said. “It’s Henry Parker. I know you saw us following you. I’m sorry to approach you under these circumstances, but I have more questions.”

“Yes, Mr. Parker,” the doctor said, his voice low, remorseful. “I am very sorry, too.”

I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and then everything swam away.