I'll do. I'll help you with whatever information you need in regard to this Oliveira girl, but I'm not going to ask for anything in return. And I don't even want you to offer.'
'I won't,' he said, though the words seemed hard for him to say.
Amanda stood up. Smoothed out her skirt. Henry stood as well.
'Michelle Oliveira?' Henry nodded. Amanda clutched her purse, felt the sharp edges of her keys. 'I'll call you later when I get the files. One thing, I'll only give them to you in person. I could get in deep doo-doo if my supervisor knows I'm doing this, so I'll contact you discreetly.
Don't send me any e-mails, don't call or text message. I don't even want to see a carrier pigeon. You might trust me, but I sure as hell don't trust Verizon.'
'That's a deal.'
'Then I'll call you,' she said. Amanda turned around to leave.
'Hey, Amanda,' Henry said.
'Yeah?'
'It was good to see you.'
'I'll call you,' she said, glad the smile on her face couldn't be seen as she walked away.
12
Sometimes all you can do is wait. That's what I did back at the office while waiting to hear from Amanda. I went over the Daniel Linwood transcript half a dozen times, word by word, line by line, to make sure I hadn't missed anything else. I listened to the tape, tried to hear the cadences in his voice, catch a sense of apprehension, a feeling that he was holding back. And though I strained hard to hear it to the point where I tried to convince myself, it simply wasn't there. Daniel Linwood had laid it all out.
At least the way he remembered it. Or didn't remember.
Those words stuck in my head. Brothers. Such a small thing, Danny himself hadn't even noticed it. When a person misspeaks, they often correct themselves. If not, they won't make the mistake again. Not Danny Linwood.
At about five o'clock, when I was beginning to think it wasn't coming, that tomorrow would be a repeat of today,
I got an e-mail. The subject heading read 'Marion Crane.'
Right away I knew who it was. It was tough to hold back a smile.
When I'd been on the run for my life a few years ago,
Amanda and I had stopped at a hole-in-the-wall hotel to plan our next move. She signed the ledger using the same name, Marion Crane. The Janet Leigh role from Hitchcock's Psycho. Marion Crane, the girl who would have done anything, including stealing thousands of dollars, just for a better life.
The e-mail was brief.
Battery Park City. Starbucks. Bring money to buy me a double latte and maybe a scone if I'm feeling adventurous.
I wondered why the hell she had to pick Battery Park
City of all places. Battery Park was at the southernmost tip of NewYork City, but was barely in NewYork City. I'd been there a few times, reporting on a new housing development that was alleged to be one of the city's first 'green' buildings, but a little digging turned up that the solar panels alleged to power thirty percent of the building's generator were nothing more than fancy aluminum, and the developer had pocketed a few hundred grand from snookered tenants.
Since I wasn't calling the shots, I hopped on the 4 train and rode it to the Bowling Green stop. When I got off, I immediately saw two Starbucks (or was it Starbuckses?
Starbucksi?) across the street from each other. I walked into the first one, didn't see Amanda, and sheepishly left.
Battery Park had a stunning view of the Hudson River, the grand Statue of Liberty easily visible from the shore.
Because of its proximity to the ocean, the temperature in
Battery Park was ten to fifteen degrees cooler than the rest of Manhattan, so in August it was still a brisk sixty-five.
I was glad I'd decided to wear a sport jacket.
The second Starbucks thankfully was the right one, though if I came up empty I didn't doubt there was another one right around the corner, or even inside the restroom.
Amanda was sitting by a back table reading a discarded copy of the Dispatch. Next to her purse was a small tote bag.
Inside it I could see a thick folder with stark white printouts spilling out. She saw me coming and put down the paper. I pulled out the chair to sit down, but Amanda shook her head.
'Uh-uh.' I stood there, confused. 'Double latte. One sugar.'
'Scone?'
'Nope. Gotta watch my girlish figure.'
I wanted to tell her she needed to watch her figure like
Britney needed another mouth to feed, but decided against it.
I nodded, bought the drink, fixed it to her specifications, set it down on the table and sat down.
'The Dispatch? ' I said, gesturing to the discarded paper. 'Really?'
'It's for show, stupid. I'm here incognito.'
'Right. So that's it? The Oliveira file?' I said, gesturing to the tote bag. She sipped her drink, nodded.
'I feel like we're investigating Watergate or something,' she replied. 'Passing folders under the table.'
'If that were the case, I could think of a few places a little less conspicuous than Starbucks.'
'That why we're in Battery Park. You think either of us knows a soul down here? Besides, I thought you loved the
Woodward and Bernstein stuff.'
'I do, but Robert Redford is a little too old and leathery to play me. And Dustin Hoffman's too short for you.'
Amanda looked around exaggeratedly. She eyed the barista, squinted her eyes. I had no idea what in the hell she was doing. It was as if she was expecting a rogue team of FBI agents to come out of nowhere and load her in the back of a van. Sadly, it wasn't even two years ago when two FBI agents did break into her house and shoot someone in her bedroom.
Maybe that's what made it funnier.
She pressed her foot up against the tote bag underneath the table. Then she kicked it toward me. Then she gestured at the bag before taking a long, slow sip of her latte.
'Oh, is that for me?'
She eyed me contemptuously. 'Oh, for Christ's sake, open the damn thing.'
I picked up the tote and pulled out the folder. The top sheet was Michelle Oliveira's birth certificate. She was born on November 15, 1991. That would make her sixteen today. Michelle Oliveira's parents were Carlos and
Jennifer Oliveira. At the time of the abduction, the family resided in Meriden, Connecticut. According to tax records,
Carlos worked as a housepainter, and Jennifer had worked in a variety of temp jobs over the years. Secretary to an orthodontist. Court stenographer. Doctor's office receptionist. Telemarketer.
Together, the Oliveiras' income never exceeded thirtyfour-thousand dollars a year. They had two other children, a boy, Juan, now fourteen, and a girl, Josephine, twelve.
Juan was a high school freshman, Josephine was just about to begin the seventh grade. Their sister Michelle was kidnapped on March 23, 1997, not yet six years old. She returned on February 16, 2001, nearly four years later.
According to the report, Michelle had spent that afternoon at the home of Patrick and Lynette Lowe. Michelle
