Jason Pinter - The Stolen

"Was Elaine a good parent?" Amanda asked.

"Wonderful," Freddie said. "Some of them, parents, I mean, you can tell they just buy things 'cause they feel obligated to. Like they just want to shut the kid up or think they can buy affection. Elaine, though, she loved it. You could tell she couldn't wait to get home and see the smiles on her kids' faces."

"Did you happen to catch their daughter's name?" I asked.

"No, I didn't."

"I know we're asking a lot, Freddie," I said, "but is there any chance you might have an address for Mr. and Mrs.

Reed? It's very important we speak to them."

"I'm sorry, who did you say you were again?"

"My name's Henry Parker," I said, handing Freddie a business card. "We're investigating a story and really need to speak with the Reeds."

"I hope everything's okay," he said. The man was legitimately concerned.

"I hope so, too," I said. "But there's a chance there's something wrong with one of their children and we need to find them."

Freddie nodded. "I'll do whatever I can. I just hope they're safe. I think a while ago Bob bought Patrick one of those Erector sets, only Elaine didn't have enough room

in the car and asked for it to be shipped home." Freddie rummaged under the desk, pulled out a large file box. He opened the lid, began to sift through alphabetical orders.

"Reed…Reed…Reed…here we go. Elaine and Bob

Reed."

"Can you give us the address?"

"No problem. That package was shipped to 482

Huntley Terrace."

My jaw dropped.

Amanda said, "Henry, that's the house…"

"That burned down yesterday."

I needed to learn more about the house on Huntley

Terrace. If Robert and Elaine Reed had bought it, there would have to be sale records. I could look them up on streeteasy. com. Even if they didn't have contact info for the Reeds, there would surely be a brokerage firm that would. It made sense. There was a dollhouse in the room

Amanda was held in, and the place looked like the perfect abode for a family with young children. But what I didn't understand was how the two men who held us that night were connected to the Reeds. Or how the Reeds were connected by proxy to Dmitri Petrovsky.

We drove around the streets looking for an Internet cafe. I didn't want to have to go all the way back to the city to use the computers at work. We were getting close to something. Many different spools, but I couldn't figure out the common thread that attached them.

"Look, there." Amanda was pointing to a small pizza parlor. A sign posted outside read "Internet Access."

"You up for a slice and a socket?"

"I am a little hungry."

"Cool. Eat first, search later," I said.

We parked, walked in and scarfed down two slices and a Coke apiece in less than ten minutes. When we finished, we took two seats in front of a lonely computer in the back of the restaurant. The keyboard was dusty, and I imagined it didn't get much use. The counterman eyed us suspiciously, as though we were as likely to rip the computer from the wall as use it properly.

When I clicked the computer off sleep mode, I entered in my credit card number for access. Once we were in, I directed the browser to streeteasy. com.

"What is this?" Amanda asked.

"Streeteasy. com is a pretty useful tool. It's an online database that records any property transactions, along with the buyer, seller, asking price and brokerage firm who handled the deal. I have a log-in."

I plugged in my log-in information and entered the name

Robert Reed in the search field. Several listings came up, with records dating back to 1989, and in five different states.

"This can't be right," Amanda said. "How could he live in three different states at the same time?"

"It's probably not all the same Robert Reed. Hold on,

I'll narrow the search."

I narrowed the parameters to Hobbs County. The search came up empty. I tried it again, only this time plugging in

Elaine Reed instead. Again the search came up empty.

"Maybe someone else bought it for them? Or Elaine bought it under her maiden name?" Amanda asked.

"That's possible," I said. "We might have better luck searching for the exact house." We had enough information to narrow the search range.

According to Freddie at Toyz, the Reeds' son, Patrick, was currently somewhere between three and five years old.

Which meant the Reeds had probably moved into the house on Huntley within the past seven years, either when they decided to try to start a family or when Patrick was on the way and space was essential. I entered the date range in the past eight years just to be sure.

The list came back with two thousand, seven hundred and eighty-three hits.

"I think we can narrow it down more," Amanda said.

"We know there were at least three bedrooms in that house on Huntley. That should help, right?"

"Definitely, one sec."

I refined the search to only include houses that had a minimum of three bedrooms. The search came back with three hundred and sixty-seven hits. We were making progress.

"Now we just sift through these and look for anything on Huntley. Anything that looks familiar."

We scrolled through page after page of home sales and purchases through the past eight years. It was fascinating to see the range of prices at which houses had been bought, but it also gave an accurate overview of what the most expensive areas in the state were. Unsurprisingly, Hobbs

County homes were ridiculously cheap. Until a few years ago at least, when I noticed they began to trend upward by a large margin.

We'd been sitting at the computer for nearly two hours.

The computer had charged thirty-six bucks for the access.

I hoped Wallace wouldn't spent too much time scrutinizing my expense account.

Finally on the two hundred and twenty-fourth listing, we found it.

"There we go," I said. "Four-eighty-two Huntley Terrace."

"Bingo," Amanda added.

According to the database, the house had been pur-234

Jason Pinter chased in 2001 for three hundred and forty thousand dollars. There was a picture of the property on the Web site. I clicked to enlarge it.

The house was easily recognizable. As was the driveway and garage we'd seen the other night. We clicked through various photographs of the interior and exterior, looking for anything familiar. The rooms were different; obviously these shots had been taken before any renovations.

What was more surprising was that there was no sign of the metal gates, nor the brick wall surrounding the property. Whoever purchased the house in 2001 had built them custom-made.

"That's odd," I said, clicking onto the "buyer/seller" link. "According to this, the buyer wasn't Bob or Elaine

Reed, or anyone named Reed at all."

"Who was it, then?"

"Someone named Raymond Benjamin," I said. "Does that name sound familiar at all?" Amanda shook her head.

Then her eyes opened wide.

"Wait a minute," she said, pointing at the name on the screen. "When we were in that house, when you came into the room where I was held, didn't one of the guys call for a Ray?"

I thought hard, vaguely remembered hearing that, but between the cigarette burn and my state of panic I couldn't be sure. "You think this Raymond Benjamin might have been the same guy from the other night?"

"Be a heck of a coincidence, a guy who obviously knows the place well enough to set us up shares the same first name as the man on the property deed."

"Yes, that would be a mighty coincidence. It would also mean that Raymond Benjamin knows Dmitri Petrovsky." I tapped my fingers on the keyboard. "The guy who had me, he'd been in prison before. Attica. He was there during the riot, and that was in '71. If he was telling the truth, he'll have a criminal record."