The Stolen (23 page)

I
left the apartment with Amanda. We said our goodbyes outside. She hailed a taxi. I watched it pull away, for a second hoping that her window might lower, her head drifting out like in an old movie, where the cab would pull over and all sorts of romance would ensue. ’Course, that didn’t happen. The cab pulled up to the light, then turned out of sight when it became green.

I trudged to the subway, feeling like the whole story had begun anew. We’d found the Reeds once, and that was almost out of blind luck. The next time, neither I, nor they, would be so lucky.

The Harrisburg police believed every word I said, and were more than happy to step up their patrol and look for this man Benjamin. It was maddening that we were facing such resistance in Meriden and Hobbs County, the cities that preferred to keep their heads stuck in the sand.

I got onto the subway, flipping through the
Gazette
to pass the time. As much as I was reading the paper for the articles, I also felt somewhat obligated to advertise our paper, make sure fellow straphangers were well aware of the newspaper of choice. Given the fact that I’d probably slept a total of five hours in the past two days and my eyes were totally bloodshot, they might have assumed the
Gazette
was a paper for strung-out junkies. Not exactly the target market for our reporting skills.

I got to the office at a quarter past nine. When I stepped off the elevator, I was greeted by a sight that cheered me up immediately.

Sitting at his usual desk was Jack O’Donnell. And he looked no worse for wear.

Hardly able to contain my excitement, I half walked, half sprinted through the newsroom and perched myself by Jack’s desk. He was wearing one of his patented suit jackets with patched elbows, and pants that looked like they’d survived a horrific gardening accident. He smelled like Old Spice, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He looked exactly like what you’d expect a seasoned reporter would look like. The old newsman turned to me, a weary smile spreading across his lips.

“Hey there, if it isn’t the boy who saved an old man’s life.”

“Come on,” I said, “stop it.” I felt like a schoolgirl complimented by the starting quarterback.

“Seriously, Henry, I owe you a great deal of gratitude. I’ve been on this earth for a long time—maybe I’ve outstayed my welcome considering some of the things I’ve done—but if not for you there’s a good chance I wouldn’t be here right now. So thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Jack,” I said. “You’d have done the same for me.”

“Saved your life?” he said. “An old bag of bones like me can barely muster up the strength to get dressed in the morning, let alone go around saving lives. I appreciate the gesture, but you’re the hero here.”

“If you remember,” I said, “you saved my life a few years ago. You know, that whole thing where they thought I’d killed John Fredrickson? After Amanda, you were the only one that helped me. So get off this modesty kick, it doesn’t suit you.”

Jack smiled smugly. “Okay, I’ll take it. But I promise, that’s the last time you’ll have to go picking me up off a floor. Unless I’m break-dancing, but then all bets are off. Speaking of bets, Wallace tells me you’re in the middle of a pretty tense story. What’s the deal?”

I recounted everything that had happened since I first interviewed Daniel Linwood. I told him about the discovery of Michelle Oliveira’s disappearance, our attempt to follow Dmitri Petrovsky and the doctor’s murder. About the Reeds and how I believed they’d kidnapped a girl named Caroline Twomey for reasons I still didn’t know. And about Raymond Benjamin, the career thug who was somehow mixed up in all this.

Jack sat there, resting his head on his hands, his eyes betraying a sense of worry. When I was finished he stayed seated for another moment, took a breath, closed his eyes, and said, “It’s not supposed to be this difficult, Henry. You can’t put your life in danger on every story.”

“That’s not fair, Jack. I didn’t choose for this to happen. I was assigned to the Linwood story, and then—”

“And then what? That should have been the end of it. Your piece on the Linwood boy was terrific. Case closed. So what happened?”

“Life happened,” I said, feeling my blood pressure rise. “I can’t speak for you, Jack, but I can’t just let things go. As soon as I knew there was more to the Linwood story, as soon as I realized there were people who didn’t want me digging, it’s like…it’s like someone turned on a switch inside me. And I can’t stop until I know everything.”

“You know what they call someone who needs to know everything?” Jack asked.

“A good reporter?” I replied.

“Dead,” Jack said. “Every trail leads somewhere. Very few stories simply end. And if you keep playing Indiana Jones, at some point your luck’s going to run out, and some very bad people are going to shut you up.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I said. “I’ll take it under advisement.” I stood up.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“This story isn’t finished,” I said. “I have to go make some bad people upset at me.”

I walked back to my desk, happy that Jack seemed healthy and vibrant, but annoyed that he was still questioning me. He had to know I couldn’t just give this up. I needed to know why Raymond Benjamin got involved with the Reeds. And if, somehow, through all this he was connected to Daniel Linwood.

Rule number one in journalism: always start with the money.

Specifically, where did Raymond Benjamin get it?

I logged in to our LexisNexis terminal and ran a search for Raymond Benjamin. More than a thousand hits came up. I narrowed it down by adding search terms like “criminal,” “jail” and several others. A few hits came up relating to the 1971 riots at Attica. Raymond Benjamin was named in several newspapers as one of the inmates involved, though none of them named him as having taken part in violence or murders. I scrolled down through several entries, and found one that piqued my interest.

It was printed in the
Buffalo News
out of Buffalo, New York. It was an in-depth article, four pages long, and incredibly detailed. It went on record about the horrific abuses suffered by the prisoners in Attica, and how the shoddy treatment was the catalyst for the riots.

One of the most damning pieces of evidence, the article stated, was the discovery by Dr. Michael Baden that all twenty-nine of the prisoners and all ten of their prison-guard hostages were killed by Attica guards themselves. This was a huge blow to the penal system, which for years had been spreading stories that the hostages had been killed by the prisoners, who had slit their throats. That the guards resorted to lethal measures so quickly and brutally was yet another blow to the system.

According to the article, a prisoner by the name of Raymond Benjamin was treated for facial lacerations, as well as severe dehydration and malnutrition. When asked about his conditions inside the prison, Benjamin stated he’d eaten only one meal a day the week before the riot, hadn’t showered more than three times a month the prior year, and had repeatedly been subjected to other forms of torture and brutality. Strangely, though, Benjamin refused to blame the prisoners or the guards for his wounds. Benjamin was quoted as saying, “I got nobody to look at besides myself, where I come from. Sometimes you make your own choices, sometimes where you come from makes ’em for you. Me, my fate was set long before I had any say in it.”

All of this seemed to jibe with what I remembered of Benjamin. He’d brought up Attica that night I was held in the basement on Huntley. And I distinctly remembered that long, thin scar running down his cheek.

I went through every article I could find pertaining to Raymond Benjamin and the riots. Then, in a small item in the
Journal News,
a paper that served Westchester, Putnam and Rockland counties in New York, I found a short item in which Raymond Benjamin was named. It was accompanied by a photograph, as well. I recognized Benjamin immediately.

The photo was taken at a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the opening of a new shopping mall in Chappaqua, New York. Chappaqua was a pretty tony suburb, and I wondered what Ray was doing there. In the photo he was wearing a hard hat. And he was clapping. The caption read, “Workers from Powers Construction celebrate. Raymond Benjamin of Hobbs County among those proud of this state-of-the-art development.”

Right there, two things leaped out at me. Raymond Benjamin was from Hobbs County. Just like Daniel Linwood and the Reed family. Not to mention Dmitri Petrovsky. No doubt that’s how Ray met the good doctor.

And second, according to the article, Benjamin was employed by a company called Powers Construction. I couldn’t picture the man who pressed a lit cigarette to my skin working on a job site, holding a jackhammer under his gut. It didn’t seem right. This was a guy whose job was to hurt, to kill, not to build.

Unless it was a sham.

I logged off the machine and went straight to Wallace’s office. He was on the phone, but when he saw me enter he said, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up. He turned to me, pressed his palms on the desk.

“Henry,” he said. “How’s your friend Sheffield?”

“He’ll pull through,” I said. “A centimeter in another direction and it would have been a different story. He’ll have a tough recovery, but he’s a tough guy.”

“I’m glad to hear that. And you saw Jack out there—the place wasn’t the same without him.”

“No, sure wasn’t.”

“And how are you holding up?”

“Can I use up my daily allotment of ‘I’ve been better’?”

“Consider it done.”

“Great,” I said. “What do you know about an outfit called Powers Construction?”

Wallace shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been doing some research on the man I think is behind these kidnappings, and he’s named in a New York paper as working with this Powers Construction company. It just doesn’t seem to make sense. The guy I saw seems to be more handy with a gun than a screwdriver.”

“I’m sorry, off the top of my head I don’t know.”

“You think it could be a front? He’s employed there for legal purposes, maybe does his wet work on the side? You know, waste-management consulting?”

Wallace chuckled. “It’s possible,” he said. “But then why would Powers Construction employ the man if he’s got a record—which he would have to disclose—and to top that off, he’s hardly a model employee?”

“Until now, he hasn’t been in any trouble since the seventies. Something just feels off here.”

“Do some looking into this Powers Construction,” Wallace said. “Are they a legit outfit? And where are they based out of?”

“Putnam County,” I said. “They’ve done work all over the surrounding towns. Including Hobbs County, which as it turns out is the birthplace of our very own psychopath Benjamin.”

“You know, now that I think about it,” Wallace said, “I remember reading somewhere that Powers Construction was responsible for some pretty major jobs. Not just commercial, but residential, too. If I remember correctly, a congressman who recently retired had a mansion built by Powers.”

“I’ll check it out,” I said. “But if you’re right, it definitely seems like these might be some big-time players in real estate development.”

“Strange times for that market,” Wallace said. “Millions of people’s lives are being ruined by the subprime mortgage mess. Government’s doing what it can to help, but it can’t help everyone. You’re going to have a lot of foreclosures over the next few years. And that means a lot of business for a company like Powers. People buy up those foreclosed homes, then either gut and renovate or simply tear them down and rebuild.”

“Strange,” I said, thinking. I felt like a piece of the puzzle might have just become clearer. “I spent a lot of time in Meriden and Hobbs County recently. And in both places it was obvious they’d seen more work than Joan Rivers. Each town was like a tale of two cities—one old and decrepit, one new and rebuilt.”

“I’m sure if part of the town was rebuilt, it’s only a matter of time before the rest catches up.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Even the Linwoods’ house looked like it had been carved out of marble recently. When I read up on Daniel Linwood’s kidnapping, the family received thousands of dollars in donations, public and anonymous. No idea if that went into their house, but I’ll tell you, it wasn’t the only one on the block that looked new. I’m wondering if Powers Construction has held the scalpel over Hobbs County. And if so, maybe they’re tied into the mess somehow.”

“Even if you think it’s not about the money,” Wallace said, “it’s about the money.”

Obviously there was a strong motive for Powers Construction to want to be a part of some major rebuilding projects in Hobbs County, as well as other towns and cities across the Northeast. I still felt like I was missing something. Follow the money, Wallace said. That’s what I decided to do. I had to talk to Reggie Powers.

T
he home office of Powers Construction was located at Twenty-Third and Fifth in Manhattan. Before calling over, I decided to do a little research on the company. Their Web site had one of those incredibly flashy designs, and I could picture Reggie Powers grimacing as he handed over thousands of dollars to some tech geeks who’d likely never seen a working construction side. The company logo was an intersected
P
and
C.
Both letters looked like they were made out of curved steel, bolts and all.

Powers was, according to the site, one of the leading commercial and residential contractors in the entire Northeast. Their projects ranged from billion-dollar properties, from several financial institutions, to smaller homes and houses. They were credited for having essentially rebuilt several small towns, and were even one of the contractors called in to evaluate the Gulf Coast after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Whatever the size of the project, it looked like Powers Construction was the bidder to beat.

It was no secret that the construction industry had some shady underpinnings, since the majority of contracts were doled out to the lowest bidder. The problem therein was that the lowest bidders often miscalculated their budgets, necessitating a six-million-dollar property costing north of seven million. Yet the smarter, or shadier companies (amazing how often the two went hand in hand), worked out sweetheart deals to rig bids. The contractor would offer a bid far lower than any of his competitors, which was of course accepted. If they ran over budget, which was almost guaranteed, the bill would be settled under the table. This meant projects were bid on for far less money than they actually cost, keeping other companies out of the loop, but allowing the illegal parties to get rich based on the sheer number of developments they partnered on.

Reggie Powers himself had quite an interesting story. According to his online biography, he was the most influential black construction owner in the entire country. Born in Crown Heights in 1959, Powers had little formal education and had worked various construction jobs throughout his formative years. Then after the Crown Heights riots of 1991, Powers decided he was tired of seeing his neighborhood torn apart by violence, and was tired of seeing good men and women live in housing that was akin to inhumane treatment. Within five years, Powers had taken his own earnings, and with the help of lenders, bought out a company known as TBC—Thomas Blake-man Construction—renaming it Powers Construction. One of his first rebuilding projects was tearing down a number of projects in which drugs and violence were rampant. These buildings were replaced with low-income housing. According to Powers, it was the end of the dark days, and the beginning of a new Brooklyn.

Within a few years, Powers had become known not only as one of the wealthiest and most influential private contractors on the East Coast, but one of its biggest philanthropists. He donated time, money and manpower to numerous towns, and was credited with helping to lower crime rates across the board.

Of course, official biographies often swept more than their fair share under the carpet. Not to mention that Powers’s relative inexperience made his volcanic rise even more shocking. I had to think that simply due to the sheer size of Powers Construction, it would be strange if they didn’t have some sort of bid-rigging system going on.

Once I’d done some digging around regarding the company profile, I decided it was time to meet the man face-to-face. Reggie Powers. See what, if anything, he knew. And whether he was aware that one of his employees, Raymond Benjamin, was a murderer.

I called the main switchboard at Powers Construction, and a pleasant secretary picked up the phone. She sounded as if she’d been there a long time, even had a cadence nailed down.

“Po-
wers
Con-
struct-ion,
how may I direct your call?”

“Well, first I was wondering if you could give me the extension for one of your employees. The name is Raymond Benjamin. And after that I’d like to be transferred to Reggie Powers’s office.”

“One moment, sir,” the woman said. I heard typing on the other end. Then I heard her mutter,
Hmm, that’s odd.

“Ma’am? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sir, sorry about that. According to our database, we do employ a Raymond Benjamin, but he doesn’t have an office or an extension.”

“Is there any contact information for him?”

“I’m sorry, sir, not that I have access to. You’d have to speak to our human resources department.”

“That’s all right. Can you transfer me to Mr. Powers’s office?”

“Sure thing, just a moment.”

She put me on hold. A minute later, a young man’s voice came over the line.

“Mr. Powers’s office.”

“Hi, my name is Henry Parker and I’m a reporter from the
New York Gazette.
I’d like to come in and speak with Mr. Powers today. It’s a pretty urgent matter.”

“Mr. Powers has a very busy schedule today. He’s not in the office right now, but if I can pass a message to him, I’ll see if he has some free time.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Tell him I want to speak to him about Raymond Benjamin and Dmitri Petrovsky.”

“Can you spell those for me, sir?”

“Just remember the names.”

“Um…okay. I’ll call Mr. Powers right now. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

I gave the secretary my cell phone number. He said he’d get back to me ASAP. I hung up the phone and began to play the waiting game again.

I tried to think how Reggie Powers might be connected to all of this. Powers Construction employed Raymond Benjamin, though the fact that he was a ghost at the office pretty much confirmed that he was there to do dirty work, collect a W-2, and that was all. But why would Reggie Powers want anything to do with Dmitri Petrovsky? He seemed like the least likely person on earth to want to have anything to do with a kidnapping, especially given his background. The more the pieces came together, the more trouble I had making them all fit.

Ten minutes later, my cell phone rang. I picked it up.

“Mr. Parker.” I recognized the voice as Powers’s secretary. “Mr. Powers is at a job site all day today, but he said if you can meet him there at six o’clock, he’d be happy to speak with you.”

“Where’s the site?” I asked.

“He’s overseeing the construction of a mall in Hobbs County, New York, today.”

Hobbs County. Why was I not surprised. I checked my watch. It was three-thirty. I had plenty of time to drive up to Hobbs County.

“Give me the address,” I said. I jotted down the information, thanked the secretary and hung up. I chewed on the tip of my pen. I had no idea what Reggie Powers would know. I sure as hell had a few questions he needed good answers to.

I put my tape recorder and notebook into a small backpack, stopped in to Wallace’s office to tell him where I was going. He told me to check in once I was done with Powers. I got the sense Wallace understood how big this story was getting. And that scared me.

I took the subway Uptown to my apartment, got in the rental car and began the drive up to Hobbs County.