Eyes of the Innocent: A Mystery (36 page)

“It’s okay. I just need to get my phone,” she said, reaching in between her cleavage to grab it. “Those guys took my first phone from me. They just didn’t realize I had two of them. Good thing I wore a sports bra today. It turned out to be the perfect hiding place.”

“That’s where it was the whole time I was eavesdropping on you?”

“Yeah. You’ve heard of speakerphone? This was boobyphone.”

Primo, who snatched the thumb drive as soon as Sweet Thang came through the door, was in the lobby, studying his prize, as if he could read the data if he stared at it hard enough. Finally, he exited.

Not that I was paying him much attention. As I said, he was no longer my concern. I was busy trying to think up some witty, half-lascivious remark about Sweet Thang’s clever use of her cleavage.

Then I heard a loud crack. Then another. Then a third.

It was the unmistakable sound of someone firing a gun. And it came from right outside the store.

*   *   *

On the video screen, I could see Primo facedown on the pavement. The truck had peeled away almost as soon as the gun was fired, its passenger door still open. Davi and Johnny weren’t sticking around to defend their boss. There was nothing left of him to defend. A small-but-spreading pool of blood leaked from Primo’s head.

Sweet Thang clutched my arm as we watched the life pour out of this man whose real name we did not know.

“Is he…?” Sweet Thang began, then answered her own question.

There was no further sound coming from the street. Gunshots and squealing tires have a way of bringing life to a halt in Newark, as everyone dives for cover and waits to make sure there isn’t a retaliatory salvo.

But in this case there would be no return fire.

“Call Detective Raines and tell him Windy’s killer is dead. His number is in here,” I told Sweet Thang, handing her my phone. “I’m going to go out and have a look.”

I exited the safety of the bulletproof chamber, treading softly across Maury’s lobby. I could see Primo with my own eyes now, through the cracked glass door. He hadn’t made it very far, having fallen just beyond those crumbling steps, his arms splayed at an angle that suggested he died before he hit the ground.

Cautiously, I shoved open the door. I looked to my right, but there was nothing unusual. Then I looked to my left.

And there was Akilah Harris, gun still clenched in her left hand.

Her mouth hung open, her crazy hair blowing slightly in the wind, her battered right arm dangling limply at her side. Her eyes were fixed on Primo like she was in some kind of trance.

I hadn’t paid much attention to what she was doing back in that stockroom. But now it was obvious: she found herself a gun—Maury had plenty—dug up some matching bullets, sneaked out a back door, and waited for Primo to appear.

I hadn’t cared if Primo got away, figuring he’d eventually either get his or he wouldn’t. Akilah didn’t want to leave justice to chance.

“You okay, Akilah?” I said.

“I fired three shots,” she replied. “One for Boo. One for Alonzo. One for Antoine.”

I looked at Primo again. Only one shot had hit, at least that I could see, but it had done the job. There was a large, bloody hole on the left side of his bald head, just behind the ear. If there was an exit wound, I couldn’t tell—that side was down. Someone else could do all the forensics.

I walked slowly toward Akilah, who hadn’t relinquished the gun.

“He’s dead,” I said. “It’s okay now. You can put the gun down.”

She didn’t move. I walked a little closer. Still nothing. Soon I was next to her and gently removed the gun from her hand, laying it on the ground. She leaned against me and I wrapped one arm around her, being careful not to put any pressure on her broken side. She put her left arm around me, in a not-quite-embrace, and began a rambling explanation of why she had done what she did.

Some of it made sense. Some of it didn’t. But I was able to piece together a few items of interest. She said the whole thing started after Windy told her she had to leave the house and she told him they were through. Windy’s attempt at reconciliation, with Akilah listening, had been to call Primo and demand he do something about the mortgage—or the councilman would cut off his supply of city land.

Akilah said Primo lost his mind when he heard that, and made all kinds of threats. Windy knew he was in trouble, knew Primo was dangerous, and gave her a copy of his Excel file on a thumb drive. If anything happened to him, she was to hand it to the police.

But she wasn’t thinking about the thumb drive—or anything else—when her house burned down. And when she first met Sweet Thang and me, just a few hours later, she was still under the misbelief the fire was an accident. She only realized otherwise after she heard about Windy’s abduction, at which point she was a woman on the run with no place to go.

We stayed in our somewhat-hug until the cops arrived. There was, naturally, a lot of explaining to do. I told them the man lying in the bloody puddle was the man who had killed Councilman Byers, which confused them. Then I told them I was a newspaper reporter, which confused them more. They weren’t sure whether to cuff me as a suspect or ask me to leave the crime scene until the public affairs officer arrived.

The explaining got a little easier when my detective pals, Pritchard and Raines, showed up. I laid out everything for them chronologically—from the illegal campaign contributions, to the falling-out between Windy and Primo; from the creation of the thumb drive to all the horrible things Primo did to find it.

And yes, I told them Akilah Harris fired the fatal shot into Primo’s skull. I wasn’t worried for her. Even if they charged her—and I doubted they would—no jury would convict a mother for killing the scumbag who torched her children, kidnapped her, and broke her arm.

About an hour later, having gone through everything a few more times, Pritch gave Sweet Thang, Tommy, and me a ride back to the newsroom. We were mobbed when we entered—everyone, by that point, had heard some version of what happened—but Tina was having none of it and immediately turned into her own crowd-control unit.

“Everyone back, back!” she shouted. “These three have work to do.”

It was, after all, coming up on deadline. I settled down to write and the words flowed quickly. Explaining it to the cops had been a useful exercise in helping me order my thoughts. And besides, I had lived a lot of it.

Sweet Thang stayed by my side the whole time, making useful suggestions here and there. Tommy wrote the section about the campaign contributions and their link to Primo’s various LLCs—after all, it was his reporting that discovered it. Then we cobbled it together in a long, hopefully coherent, narrative. By the time we were finished, I was pleased with the story. It hit all the pertinent facts. It read well.

And there was no mention of a space heater anywhere.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing is a solitary act, but I can promise you this author doesn’t stand alone. So, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to offer my profound thanks to …

My Facebook friends—you know who you are—who made me take writing this seriously, because they answered a resounding “yes” when I posted a status update asking, “Does anyone actually read acknowledgments?”

Toni Plummer, my editor at Thomas Dunne Books, whose keen eye is surpassed only by her kind heart; and to the rest of the crew at St. Martin’s Press and Minotaur Books, including big bosses Tom Dunne and Andy Martin, marketing mavens Matt Baldacci and Jeanne-Marie Hudson, publicist extraordinaire Hector DeJean, and library guru Talia Sherer.

Jeanne Forte Dube, an agent who has provided me with endless amounts of wise counsel, loving support, and street meat.

Becky Kraemer, my secret weapon, who is underpaid but by no means underappreciated.

Karen Kleppe Lembo, Arlene Sahraie, and all the library scientists out there who make it their passion to connect books and readers.

The booksellers who haven’t been afraid to take a chance on a new author; the ones I’ve met so far, in stores large and small, make me hope we’re still friends when I’m an old author.

The interns. (Those who subscribe to my newsletter know I can’t risk saying more—too great a chance it will come back to haunt me.)

The readers who have sent an e-mail or stopped by a book signing to share their thoughts about Carter and his buddies; in particular, Maureen Caouette, who knows how to make good use of a snow day.

The reviewers who have taken the time to read my work critically and engage with the words and characters (but who I cannot name individually, lest I sound like a suck-up).

Friends at Christchurch School, who provide such a supportive community for me and my family and who tolerate us when the kids scream in the dining hall.

Tony Cicatiello, James “Kato” Lum, and Jorge Motoshige, who always let me crash.

Joan and Al, the greatest Meemaw and Papa ever; to Ga, who at 92 still teaches and inspires; to my mother and father, who are my biggest cheerleaders and, if you know them, probably forced you to buy this book (sorry).

Last, and most significant, my wife, Melissa, who is a more supportive spouse, devoted parenting teammate, and loving partner than I possibly deserve. Ask anyone who knows me: I married up.

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