Brad Parks - Eyes of the Innocent

“Beats me. Why?”

“I still don’t know,” Tommy said. “It was something I was going to look into a little more the next time I got the chance. Then this came up. But now you’re telling me Windy has been kidnapped and killed by someone named Donato Semedo and, well, fill in the blanks.”

“I suppose we could go pay a visit to Donato Semedo and find out.”

Tommy pointed to the line of news trucks.

“Well, you can,” he said. “I have to stay here and babysit.”

“Oh, right,” I said, and was about to bid him adieu and head in my own direction, except I realized I had no means by which to do so. Unless I felt like walking back to the office.

“Of course, I don’t have my car with me,” I said. “I’m going to need to hitch a ride somehow. Anyone else from our place here with you?”

“Just Tina,” he said.

“Tina?” I said, and the mere utterance of her name brought a surge of guilt, even though I had no cause. “What’s she doing here?”

“She was on her way to the office when she got the call about Windy and she knew she could get here before anyone else. Not that it mattered-the police had already plugged up the road.”

“Where is she now?”

Tommy signaled his ignorance by shrugging. So I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed her.

“Tina Thompson,” she semishouted over the sound of the helicopters.

“Hey, it’s your favorite reporter, where are you?” I asked.

“I’m about a hundred feet away from where you and your boyfriend are having your little chin wag,” she said. “I was going to come over, but I didn’t want to intrude. You two make a cute couple, by the way.”

I looked to my left, then to my right, then back to my left. With all the people and confusion, I didn’t see her. Then finally I spotted her walking toward me, waving.

She looked terrific, as usual. She was not particularly dressed up-just black slacks and a plain black leather jacket-but Tina was one of those women who didn’t have to try too hard. Her hair was up in a ponytail. Her cheeks had a rosy glow from the cold, like she was just coming in from a jog. As she got closer, she even appeared happy to see me.

“Sorry I didn’t wait for you last night,” she said. “To be honest, I was still at the office when you texted me and I was looking for an excuse to cancel anyway. It was a long day and I was too tired for a night out.”

“Oh,” I said. “And here I thought you were pissed at me.”

“What made you think that?”

“The part where you texted me that I sucked.”

“I was just kidding,” she said, then added as an aside to Tommy, “He’s such a girl sometimes.”

“Not in bed, I hope,” Tommy said.

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied.

“Still?” Tommy inquired.

“He keeps wasting opportunities.”

“A tragedy.”

“Tell me about it,” she said.

Tina crossed her arms and shook her head, her eyes rolling. Tommy consoled her with a pat on the shoulder.

“Are you two finished?” I asked.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Tina said. “So what have you been up to this morning anyway?”

I gave her the same spiel I had given Tommy but this time finished with how I needed to mooch a ride off her.

“So, wait, where is your car again?” she asked when I was done.

“It’s at the office … I had Enterprise pick me up there,” I lied quickly, because I didn’t particularly feel like explaining why Sweet Thang had taken me home the night before. Tina has a dirty mind. She might jump to conclusions.

“Anyhow, let’s get going,” I continued before she sniffed out my untruth. “Come on. Time’s a-wasting. Chop-chop. Head ’em up and move ’em out.”

“Okay, okay, take it easy,” Tina said, then turned to Tommy. “I assume you’ve got this covered?”

“It’s pretty easy when nothing’s happening and nothing will,” he assured her.

And we were off. Tina drives a Volvo, making her perhaps the only childless woman in American who does. But she often reminded me it was only temporary-the lack of child, that is, not the Volvo. It was a wonder she hadn’t already installed the infant seat.

I typed “13 Hanover Street” into her nav system, which had a male voice-Nancy, wherefore art thou, Nancy-and the address turned out to be a short distance away. As we drove into the Ironbound and began snaking through its tight streets, I filled the time telling Tina about some of my previous day’s discoveries, from my chat with Detective Raines to my meeting with Rhonda Byers to the realization, thanks to Akilah’s sister, that Mrs. Byers probably wasn’t our black-hatted villain after all.

And then we pulled up to Donato Semedo’s residence-or what was supposed to be his residence, anyway. But it wasn’t. Not unless he lived on the third baseline: 13 Hanover Street was a small neighborhood softball field.

Not that it was any great surprise. If you were planning to dump a body in a rental car, you probably weren’t going to give your real information.

“Are you sure you remembered the address right?” Tina asked.

“Yeah, definitely. It was Dan Marino and Dartmouth College,” I said.

“Come again?”

“Dan Marino was a football player who wore number 13. Dartmouth College is located in Hanover, New Hampshire. That was my mnemonic.”

“Oh, of course,” she said sarcastically. “So what now, Dan Marino?”

I leaned on my palm and looked out at the empty softball field, then said, “I wish I knew.”

* * *

Tina declared she was needed back at the office, which seemed like a fine place for me to be, at least until I figured out something better.

As we drove toward the newsroom, we artfully avoided the conversation-or, rather, The Conversation-we needed to have about our future and plotted strategy on Windy Byers instead.

“Why don’t you type up the stuff you got this morning and we’ll put it online,” she concluded as we got off the elevator. “No sense in saving it for tomorrow’s paper-the whole world might have it by then.”

“No problem,” I said, and we went our separate ways.

As soon as I walked into the newsroom, I saw Sweet Thang and noticed she was putting great effort into not looking at me. It was a rather dismal performance. Her desk naturally pointed her in the direction of mine, so she had to turn her body away at a strange angle to avoid facing me.

I decided to spare her the agony. She had too many months left on her internship to sit that way the whole time. It would be bad ergonomics. So I went over to the chair next to her and noisily lowered myself into it. She started blushing the moment I sat down, even though she was still pretending to give all her concentration to the morning paper.

“Hello,” I said, finally.

“Oh, hi,” she said, lifting her face a little bit toward me but still not meeting my eye. “I didn’t even see you come in.”

Up close, she looked even more pathetic. Her hair was still a little wet, making her blond curls droop. Her shoulders were slumped and she wasn’t sticking out her chest like she normally did. She was wearing pants, which was unusual-Sweet Thang was more of a skirts and dresses kind of gal-and a bulky sweater. There may have even been a sports bra underneath.

More than anything, she came across as embarrassed, like she had been scolded. And I was a little surprised to discover my primary thought toward her, which used to involve things you only see late at night on Cinemax, was now something more like pity. Or maybe it was just concern. I wanted to protect her.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Ohimjustfinethankyou,” she said, a little too quickly.

“Come on, what’s wrong?”