Brad Parks - Eyes of the Innocent

“You mean the original Donato Semedo? Yeah, we figured that out,” Raines said.

“Know anything about the guy pretending to be Donato Semedo?”

“Yeah, he’s short, broad, and favors hats that keep his face hidden from security cameras.”

“He also favors nail guns from what I hear,” I said.

“Goddammit. Now how the hell do you know that ?”

“Sometimes a reporter just knows things,” I said. “Did you also know that he made a contribution to Windy Byers’s most recent reelection effort?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, isn’t that illegal, Officer?”

“I got a murder on my hands,” Raines said. “You think I care about a campaign finance law violation?”

“But don’t you think it’s interesting that there was a connection between Byers and the guy who killed him?”

“Maybe. I’m still trying to get basic forensics done at this point. I don’t have time for all that Oliver Stone stuff right now. But if that’s really flipping your skirt up, go talk to Denardo Webster.”

Denardo Webster. The name rang a very soft bell, then I placed it: Windy’s chief of staff, the no-neck guy who escorted Mrs. Byers at the press conference.

“He’ll probably play dumb at first, but don’t let him. He knows what’s up,” Raines continued. Then, before disconnecting, he added, “I can’t believe I’m saying this to a reporter. But if you learn anything, let me know.”

I thanked him and turned to Tommy.

“See if you can find anything that ties all these names together, other than a predilection for taking long dirt naps,” I said. “I’ve got an errand to run.”

* * *

The constituent services office for Central Ward Councilman Wendell A. Byers was located on Springfield Avenue, just a few doors down from African Flavah, my favorite breakfast spot. And while I was tempted to visit Khalid and spend some quality time with his pancakes, that would have to wait.

My last act before leaving the office was to type the name Denardo Webster into our public employee database. It told me he was being paid $72,253 a year for his services. This, of course, gave me questions to ponder as I drove. Did a Newark councilman actually have a staff that needed chiefing? And what, exactly, did he do all day that was worth $72,253?

I suspected the answer would be: not much.

The office was a small storefront with impressive decal work on the glass door. The crest of the Newark City Council and Windy’s name were outlined in gold. The view inside was blocked by metal shades, which were lowered and drawn. Underneath the decal, taped to the door, was a handwritten sign that said APPOINTMENT’S ONLY. NO DROP IN’S PLEASE.

I tried not to let the wanton apostrophe abuse grate at me as I pulled on the door. It was locked. I pressed the doorbell and, as I waited, fought the urge to rip the paper off the door and scrub out the offending punctuation. I hit the button a second time and, finally, heard it buzz open.

I found Denardo Webster sitting in full recline, his feet propped on a desk. Up close, he was even bigger than he had seemed at the press conference: my height but probably twice my weight. Back in the day, he had been someone’s defensive tackle-or someone’s bouncer. And even now that he had allowed himself to go soft, I got the impression he’d be handy to have around if you needed someone to lift a piano.

Not that he was working all that hard at the moment. An extra-large Styrofoam container of fried chicken and French fries sat on his rather generous lap. And he was about halfway through demolishing every grease-soaked morsel. The boss was dead, but it apparently hadn’t spoiled this guy’s appetite.

“Can I help you?” he said in a deep, thick, syrupy voice.

“I’m Carter Ross with the Eagle-Examiner, ” I said. “You must be Denardo Webster.”

He took a bite of chicken and sat there, stoically, staring at me as he chewed. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin before answering.

“You got an appointment?” he asked.

“No,” I said impatiently. “If I had known Councilman Byers was going to die today, I surely would have made one. But it kind of caught me by surprise.”

More staring. The feet were still on the desk.

“I can’t help you if you don’t have an appointment,” he said.

Without exerting too much effort, he leaned slightly forward and grabbed a toothpick, then began cleaning his right front tooth.

“Okay,” I said, trying to keep from losing my mind. “Could I please make an appointment for, say, right now.”

“Can’t,” he said. “I’m on my lunch break.”

He chomped down on the toothpick with his back molars and reclined further.

“As a matter of fact,” he continued. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m on my lunch break. The office is closed right now.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I said, close to yelling.

He looked at me impassively. Even the toothpick, which he lazily shifted from side to side, was moving slowly.

I considered my options. Strangling the guy was one of them. But that wouldn’t ultimately get me the information I needed, and, besides, I’m not sure I could locate his neck, much less choke it.

Trying to intimidate him with a damning article about bureaucratic inefficiency-what did he do for his seventy-two clams a year anyhow? — didn’t feel like it would motivate this guy much, either.

Then, magically, wonderfully, I heard Tommy’s voice in my head: I just always heard stuff about Windy Byers doing it on the down low with one of his council staffers .

I glanced around the office. There didn’t appear to be any other council staff besides the chief. Then I looked at the massive man stretched out before me and wondered, was it really possible? This guy and Windy? You’d be talking about more than six hundred pounds of man love rolling around on each other. Could it be?

Only one way to find out.

“Look, I know you and Windy liked to do it, okay?” I said.

As soon as I said the words “do it,” the toothpick dropped out of his mouth. And I knew it was true. Congratulations, Denardo Webster. I now own you.

“His wife knew about it, too-Windy told her,” I lied. “She and I agreed that it was best kept out of the newspaper-no sense in dragging out something that would just hurt a dead man’s reputation. But if you don’t cooperate with me, you give me no choice…”

“Just take it easy, take it easy,” he said, the molasses suddenly gone from his vocal cords. “Let’s just be cool, okay?”

I looked at his desk and saw the picture of a middle-aged woman and a pair of chunky little boys who favored their daddy. Yeah, I definitely owned him.

“Oh, I can be cool,” I said. “But I need some answers, and I don’t plan on waiting for an appointment to get them.”

“Okay, okay, yeah, sorry about that. It’s just I get people coming in off the street all day long and-”

I held my hand up to stop what would otherwise be a stream of excuses. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, and pulled out my notebook. “Tell me about Donato Semedo, Inacio Barbosa, Martinho Fortes…”

I could have continued, but there was not the slightest bit of recognition on his face.

“I got no idea who those dudes are, I swear,” he said.

“They all made pretty sizable campaign contributions to your boss,” I said.

“Oh, oh, yeah, yeah, I know what you’re talking about,” he said. “But, I swear, I never met them. I don’t know who those dudes are.”

“I’m sure you don’t. They’re all dead.”

He looked at me quizzically.

“Yeah?”

“Them and at least a dozen others. All dead people. All giving money to Windy Byers.”