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."
"I think it's time to leave the pizza place," Amanda said.
"It sure is. Let's see what we can find out about
Raymond Benjamin. It's been at least twenty-four hours since I asked Curt Sheffield for a favor. Let's give him a ring."
30
The diner smelled of cooking grease and burned coffee.
A plate of eggs sat in front of him, untouched. Raymond
Benjamin rubbed his aching jaw, then took another smoke from his pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. It was all he could do to relax after the events of the past few days. Everything had been going just the way he'd planned, in that there were no disruptions, no mass hysterics. Everything cool, calm and quiet. And then all of a sudden the newshound
Parker shows up at Petrovsky's office and everything goes to shit.
He hadn't wanted to torch the house. Benjamin actually had some fond memories of that place. But once Parker decided to follow Petrovsky, it was only a matter of time before somebody came knocking. Burning it down was a necessary evil. There was too much inside for him and
Vince to get rid of in the little time they had, not to mention having to dispose of the doctor and that beat-up car Parker drove. Better to torch the whole thing and wipe their hands than risk one little thing turning up and screwing up the whole operation. Ray couldn't afford that. There was too much at stake.
Raymond Benjamin smoked his cigarette, eased back
into the booth and took out his wallet. He looked at the pictures inside. The first one was of a beautiful young couple. Ray barely remembered what life had been like back then. He'd been so impetuous, so violent. He was amazed a woman had actually had the temerity to marry him. The first photo had been a year or so before Ray Jr. was born. The boy had Ray's nose, but got the rest of his features from Ray's wife. Becca. Becca, who'd died while he was holed up in that shithole prison. Ray Jr., born in 1970, the year before the riots changed everything.
Every person was born with a specific skill set. Ray's son was born a technogeek, the kind of guy who could build computer systems out of thin air, could design corporate Web sites and security systems as easily as he buttered a bagel. The last Ray heard, his boy was making nearly a hundred grand a year. He was married with two kids. Ray hadn't seen them in a decade.
Ray himself was born with a different set of skills.
And in a cruel irony, it was that skill set that led Ray to spend the majority of his twenties shuffling from prison to prison. He was a born criminal. Burglar, fighter. Age had sapped much of his brawn. No way that Parker kid would have had the upper hand when Ray had his juices flowing, when his fists were like unstoppable pistons.
Now, in his late fifties, Ray was holding on to his fighting memories the way a jilted lover holds on to his, afraid of what would become of him when he realized the man he used to be was slipping away. Lives like Ray's didn't have second acts.
He thought about his time in Attica. Somehow the worst and best years of his life. They'd made him what he had become, but he wasn't sure if the pain and sacrifice were
Jason Pinter worth it. He thought about that day back in '71, when his fellow prisoners had finally risen up against the guards, who'd tortured them for so long. Ray remembered watching Dog Day Afternoon as a young man, just a few years after he got loose. He remembered the feeling of pride in his gut when Pacino delivered that electrifying speech. It was simply incredible, like a candle being lit in his stomach, working its way through him until his whole body was warm. He'd seen that in person. He'd been there.
Everyone watched that flick and got that vicarious thrill of what it was like to make a stand. Ray had been there.
He'd made that stand.
When Vince came back from the bathroom, the red welt above his eye was shining like a Christmas bulb. The younger man slid into the booth across from Ray, went right back to work on his ham, eggs and sausage links. Ray watched Vince eat for a bit, the man shoveling food into his yawning mouth like it was Thanksgiving and he didn't have a care in the world.
"Eat enough of that, it'll kill you before a bullet does."
Vince smiled as he gnawed on a link. "Best to go out having fun," he said.
"You know, as dumb as we were," Ray said, "things could have gone worse the other night. Much worse."
"Sure could have," Vince said, a forkful of dripping egg sliding back onto his plate. "What d'you think would have happened if the cops had come before we'd taken care of the place?"
Vince stopped chewing. Put the fork down. "We would have been in a world of shit. Years wasted," Ray said.
Vince nodded as if he'd figured out the right answer on a multiple-choice test.
"Not really wasted. I mean, it's been fun, right? We've made money."
"You know we're not doing this for money, for our health," Ray said. "This isn't some two-bit scam we're pulling. There are lives at stake."
Vince laughed. "You mean like Petrovsky," he said with a goofy smile.
"No," Ray seethed. "Not fucking Petrovsky. Lives that matter. Petrovsky was a degenerate. He was a means to an end. And we have to protect that end, you hear me?"
"I hear you."
Ray lowered his voice. "I'll be talking to our friend later. We need to make sure everything is sealed up on our end. No doubt they'll find out that house was registered in my name. I'll play the 'woe is me' card, but let it end there. There isn't enough evidence in that house of anything. I gave it a once-through before we lit the match.