Brad Parks - Eyes of the Innocent

“I was with Sweet Thang at an interview, then got caught in traffic on the Garden State Parkway on my way to see you,” I said, which was all true. I just didn’t feel like it was the right moment to add: then I nearly deflowered the girl and only stopped short when I was tripped by my conscience while rounding third base.

“All I’m going to say is: beware of women who bake for you,” she said, and stalked off.

Nearby, Buster Hayes rose from his chair and made a whipping sound as he walked away.

“Oh, what?” I said, but he had already made his point.

I turned to my computer and began my search for the mysterious Donato Semedo. One bogus address aside, I didn’t expect finding him would be difficult. For a reporter who knows his way around public information databases, people with unusual names are a treat. The Robert Johnsons of the world can kill you, but give me a Donato Semedo and I’ll be able to tell you whether he wears boxers or briefs within a few keystrokes.

Except, as it turns out, for this particular Donato Semedo.

He didn’t vote. He didn’t get speeding tickets. He didn’t own property. He didn’t have a credit card. He didn’t have liens against him. He never declared bankruptcy. He wasn’t a registered sex offender. He didn’t have a criminal record. He never served time in a state or federal prison. He was not a public employee or retiree in the state of New Jersey. He was not licensed to provide medical care, dental care, massage therapy, or child care.

Half an hour in, I was starting to give up hope and run out of databases. Then I remembered one more, a database of last resort in more ways than one: the Social Security Death Index.

Sure enough, I found Donato Semedo. Born January 27, 1917. Died July 8, 1987. Last residence: Newark, New Jersey. Card issued: New Jersey. He was probably some nice old Portuguese man who doddered around the Ironbound without bothering a soul, then had his identity stolen once he departed this mortal coil.

The question-who was Donato Semedo? — ceased to matter. It was now: Who was pretending to be Donato Semedo?

* * *

As I leaned back to ponder that question, I became aware my friendship bread was under attack.

“I’m starving,” Tommy said as he hacked off a piece with my plastic knife. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I thought you were babysitting the New York press corps.”

“I was. Buster Hays took over for me,” Tommy said, carefully transferring a slender slice to his plate. “He said a scene like that was no place for a little girl like me.”

Tommy lifted the bread to his mouth, then paused. “I swear, one day I’m going to stick my foot up his ass so far he’s going to be able to taste my Tod’s.”

“Tod’s … those must be … shoes?”

“You are so straight it hurts,” he said as he chewed. “Oh, my God, this is so good! Who made it?”

“Sweet Thang.”

Tommy stopped mid-chew. “You know you have to be careful of women who bake for you,” he said. “They’re all crazy.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Cuv ith twue,” he said, through a full mouth.

“How would you know?”

He swallowed and smirked. “Actually, I don’t. But I bumped into Tina and she told me to come over here and say it.”

“Evil,” I said. “Anyhow, I ran down our friend Donato Semedo. It turns out he’s dead at the present time.”

“Let me get this straight: they let a dead guy take out a rental car, but they make me wait until I’m twenty-five?”

“I know. What a country.”

Tommy chewed some more. The refined sugar and all that other bad stuff didn’t give him pause. Then again, his metabolism hadn’t turned thirty yet. Just wait.

“So did you say Donato Semedo showed up in one of your ELEC reports?” I asked.

“I think so, let me check,” he said, and went to retrieve a notepad from his desk. “I started writing down all the names that didn’t look like they ought to be giving money to a Central Ward councilman. Yeah, here it is. Semedo comma Donato.”

He held up the pad, as if it was evidence.

“So here’s a thought,” I said. “If Donato Semedo is a dead guy, what’s the possibility some of the other names on that list are also dead guys?”

“I’d say it’s a good possibility,” Tommy said.

“You mind if your notebook comes over to my desk and plays for a little while?”

“Okay. But no unhealthy snacks and no scary movies.”

“Got it,” I said as he handed it over.

I started by running the names on Tommy’s list through the voter rolls. Anyone who was engaged enough in the political process to make a donation ought to be registered to vote, right? True, it wasn’t going to be perfect. Some names were too common-Jose Silva being the Portuguese equivalent of John Smith. And since some of these people would presumably be foreign born, they might not have earned the right to vote.

But that was where the death index again came in handy. And I started getting hits. Inacio Barbosa. Dead. Martinho Fortes. Dead. Cornelio Moniz. Dead. Desiderio Ronaldo. Dead.

Within half an hour, I had more than a dozen confirmed cases of daisy-pushing donors who had, in a fit of posthumous generosity, given roughly $50,000 to candidate Wendell A. Byers Jr. And, beyond those I could say with confidence were deceased, there were at least another two dozen whose mortality could be considered suspect. All told, the haul of potentially dirty money in Byers’s campaign coffers was over $100,000.

I went to Tommy’s desk to return his notebook.

“Your notebook played well with others,” I said. “But he has a lot of naughty names in him.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?”

“Well, this is just a guess, but most of the time when you have bogus campaign contributors, it means someone is trying to circumvent contribution limits. The classic way of doing it is, say I’m president of a company that really needs a road-paving contract and I want to throw fifty grand at the mayor. I can have my company give so much-the dollar amount always changes, but it’s around ten grand-and I can give my ten grand personally. But I’m stuck after that. So I enlist a bunch of my employees, hand them each ten grand, and instruct them to make a generous donation in their own name.”

“Okay. So if you can have living employees do that, why enlist the nonliving?”

“Because, matey,” I said, affecting a pirate brogue, “dead men tell no tales.”

“Ah, pirates,” Tommy said wistfully. “To be stuck aboard a ship full of men out at sea for months at a time.”

Before I could jog Tommy out of that little fantasy, my cell phone rang.

I recognized the number as belonging to Detective Sergeant Kevin Raines.

“Hello,” I said. “Is it me you’re looking for?”

“Yeah, hey,” he said quickly. “It’s Raines.”

“What, no props for the Lionel reference?”

“I’m a little busy. I just realized I never returned your call from yesterday. How did things go with Mrs. Byers?”

“I can give you the play-by-play if you want, but I’m pretty sure that’s a dead end. We paid a visit to Akilah’s sister last night, and she told us Mrs. Byers has known about the affair for a long time-and besides, the two lovebirds split up several weeks ago. At the moment, I’m more interested in Donato Semedo.”

“Hang on a sec,” he said. “How the hell do you know about Donato Semedo? We haven’t told anyone about that.”

“What do you think I do here, sit around playing with myself all day waiting for you guys to tell me what’s going on?”

“Well, no, but-”

“You know he’s dead, right?”