Eyes of the Innocent

CHAPTER 9

I had forgotten about Sweet Thang’s second cell phone. But now it came back to me, vividly: how she kept a spare for when she talked out the batteries on the first one, how I scoffed at her when she told me about it, how I shook my head as I stored both numbers. And now it looked like some kind of brilliant.

“Hello?” I said in a quiet voice.

Dead air.

“Hello?” I whispered again, just a little louder.

The reply was a long, barely audible “Sssshhhhh.”

The shush belonged to Sweet Thang, and I felt an immediate and powerful sense of relief just knowing she was alive. I gripped the phone tightly, as if holding it was akin to holding Sweet Thang herself, and if I merely managed not to let go, everything would turn out fine.

The next noise was something like static, perhaps the phone’s mouthpiece rubbing against something. Then there was jostling, like the phone was being buffeted as she walked.

I cranked the volume on my earpiece as loud as it could go. Denardo frowned at me curiously. Cradling the phone against my ear, I pulled out my notepad, turned to a fresh page, and scribbled, “It’s our girls. Shhhh.”

He nodded.

I pressed my ear against the phone and concentrated, trying to pick out some sound I could identify, something that would give me a hint as to her whereabouts. There was nothing but more jostling. Then, suddenly, I heard Sweet Thang, as loud and clear as if she had the phone to her mouth:

“It’s not in the bathroom,” she said. “Maybe Akilah will find it in the bedroom.”

Okay. So they were in someone’s residence. And they were looking for something.

“I’m getting tired of this,” a male voice replied. It was a little more distant sounding-across a room perhaps-but I could make it out okay. It had an accent that came from well south of the border, if not south of the equator. It was agitiated but also authoritative, the voice of someone used to being in charge.

Primo. It had to be Primo.

“So, tell me, honestly, do you like the paint color in here?” Sweet Thang said. “It’s a Ralph Lauren color. They called it ‘Sullivan,’ but I call it ‘Sulli’ for short.”

“You are talking to me about paint?” Primo bristled. “These gentlemen here are ready to hurt you, badly, and you’re talking to me about paint?”

“Paint is important,” Sweet Thang replied.

Was it ever. I knew that paint. And I knew where I could find it: Sweet Thang’s apartment. It was the color she had just painted her walls.

I speed-walked out the office door, gesturing for Denardo to follow me. Placing my finger over the phone’s mouthpiece, I whispered, “We have to get to an apartment in Jersey City as fast as your truck can take us,” and recited the address from memory. Then I added: “But no siren.”

We couldn’t risk the noise. Primo would get suspicious if Sweet Thang’s pocket started sounding like it had an ambulance inside it. Denardo rounded up the other two members of our rescue crew. As we hurried toward Denardo’s SUV, I held my index finger to my mouth in a shushing gesture so they wouldn’t start jabbering, then dove into the backseat with Tommy.

He mouthed the words “Call the cops?” but I shook my head. The police had already failed me once. There was no sense in wasting more time with them. And, more to the point, I didn’t need this to turn into an armed hostage situation. Someone else could worry about what laws had been broken later. I just wanted the girls returned unharmed.

“It’s not in the bedroom,” I heard Akilah saying. “It’s got to be in here somewhere. I had it when I came in and I didn’t leave with it. Let me check the couch again.”

“No!” Primo replied. “There will be no more checking and rerechecking! You will find it. Now.”

“But I don’t-” Akilah began.

“Perhaps I have not explained myself clearly,” Primo interrupted. “You are going to give me what I need. The only question is how much you suffer first. Do I have to make you suffer? Do you need to feel pain?”

“But I-” Akilah started.

“I’ve heard enough,” Primo barked. “Gag her, Johnny.”

I heard the sound of duct tape-a lot of it-being peeled off a roll. Akilah protested but was quickly silenced.

“Now,” Primo said. “Break her arm.”

Akilah struggled and grunted, then gave a muted yelp of pain. Sweet Thang protested, “Stop it! Stop it! You’re hurting her!”

But that was exactly the point. Even with Akilah gagged, the howls poured through my phone, growing increasingly frantic, crescendoing into something that could only be described as animalistic. It stayed at that bloodcurdling pitch for fifteen long seconds until it finally subsided into soft moaning. Just listening to it was horrible. Tommy, who had no trouble hearing it from five feet away, looked like he was going to vomit.

Akilah was starting to talk. But it was impossible to understand what she was saying. Apparently Primo couldn’t figure it out, either, because I heard duct tape ripping and suddenly Akilah’s voice became distinct: “My arm … my arm … Oh Jesus … Oh my God … My arm…”

“Oh, honey,” I heard Sweet Thang start to say, but she was cut off by Primo.

“You touch her, you die,” he spat. “You scream, you die. You move, you die. Davi, make sure she doesn’t move.”

“Get your hands off me,” Sweet Thang squealed.

“He can put his hands wherever he likes,” Primo insisted.

The phone jostled and I missed what came next. Primo was saying something, but it remained unhearable until either Sweet Thang stopped struggling or Davi stopped fondling her.

“… like that,” I finally heard him say. “If you think I can’t break someone, look at what I did to your boyfriend. By the end, he was begging to tell me about the thumb drive.”

Thumb drive. Thumb drive? As in the computer storage device? The kind you plug into the USB port? Why would someone possibly go this berserk just to get a thumb drive?

Then I got it. The thumb drive must have contained a copy of the Excel spreadsheet Denardo told me about, the one where Windy logged all the illegal campaign contributions Primo made. He obviously made a copy for Akilah, as a kind of insurance policy.

In the hands of, say, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, that data file was an indictment, conviction, and twenty-year prison sentence waiting to happen. It would also go a long way to establish motive for a murder prosecution should the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office get to it first.

So it made sense Primo would do anything to either possess or destroy that file or the thumb drive that contained it-burn down a house, torture a man, kidnap and kill two women.

After all, that thumb drive represented his freedom.

* * *

The sound of Akilah panting, moaning, or sobbing-or some combination of all three-still filled the phone.

“Now,” Primo said. “Are you going to tell me where I can find it? Or is Johnny going to work on that arm a little more?”

There was no reply. Akilah was tough and stubborn, a kid from the projects who’d surely had some scrapes in her life. But I don’t care who you are, a broken arm hurts like hell. I didn’t know how much more she could take.

“Please,” Sweet Thang pleaded through choked vocal cords. “Please stop. Please, she’s had enough.”

“It stops when she tells me what I need to know,” Primo said. “Johnny, gag her again. I don’t need the neighbors to hear her screaming.”

“Just tell him, Akilah, tell him,” Sweet Thang begged.

I heard more duct tape being unrolled, then more muffled agony. Maybe I was just imagining it, but the sound was different from the first time. There was more anger this time. This was the man who had set her house afire, killed her children, and killed her (ex-) lover. I felt like Akilah was finding the resolve, somewhere deep inside herself, not to give him anything.

There may have been some self-preservation at work, too. Because, really, once Primo had the thumb drive, what incentive would he have to keep Akilah-or Sweet Thang, for that matter-alive? They were just witnesses at that point, and why would he hesitate to kill witnesses? He had already killed three people, one of them a public official. Two more bodies on top of that wouldn’t change Primo’s bet. He was already all in.

I was just figuring this out, but I bet Akilah had already done the math. Now I hoped she could hold on until we got there. We were already approaching the Pulaski Skyway. It wouldn’t be far now. Denardo was pushing ninety when he could, but the road had enough other travelers that he didn’t get many openings. Five minutes. Maybe seven.

There was still the question of what we would do once we got there. It wasn’t going to be physical-there were four of us, sure, but Tommy and I weren’t exactly street toughs, and Hector didn’t have pants on. Denardo was the only one of us you’d draft for your ultimate fighting team. And he was several thousand chicken wings on the wrong side of being in good shape. We’d have no chance against Primo and his thugs, who were armed and, from the sound of things, ruthless.

But maybe we could convince him it was in his best interests to leave the girls and make a run for it. Hell, I’d buy him his ticket back to Brazil or whatever South American country currently lacked an extradition treaty with the United States.

The phone had gone strangely quiet, to the point where I worried I had lost the call. I studied the display-still connected. I pressed the phone harder against my ear, then plugged a finger in my other ear to block out more ambient noise.

Faintly, I could hear Akilah straining to breathe against her gag. We had crossed over the Hackensack River and were bearing down on the Tonnelle Avenue exit, the one for Sweet Thang’s place. Not far now.

Then I heard Primo’s voice.

“Let’s try this again,” Primo said. “I can continue to find ways to hurt you. If you think your arm hurts right now, you can only imagine what it will feel like when I have Johhny here dislocate your kneecaps.”

Johnny actually laughed, the sick bastard.

“So, Johnny is going to remove the tape, and you’re going to tell me where that thumb drive is. Then this ends.”

I heard ripping tape, then Akilah gulping air in between sobs.

“Now,” Primo said. “Where is it?”

Akilah was maybe trying to say something, but her own hyperventilating was making it difficult.

“Does Johnny need to do some more convincing? He can be very persuasive, you know.”

“No! No!” Akilah finally said, whimpering. “Please … please … please…”

Something had changed again in her voice. The anger was gone. She sounded like a wounded little girl. The imperative to avoid pain at all costs had finally won out. Primo had broken her. She was going to tell him, and the next sound I’d hear is gunshots. We were too late.

“Okay. Where is it,” Primo demanded.

“It’s … it’s … it’s in the jewelry box,” Akilah blurted, forcing out the words. “I hid … I hid it in her jewelry box.”

The jewelry box? As in, Sweet Thang’s jewelry box? But that wasn’t in the apartment anymore. That was …

I put my finger on the mouthpiece.

“Turn around!” I shouted at Denardo. “Now!”

“What the … it’s a divided highway, man,” Denardo said.

“Find a way. We’ve got to get back to Newark.”

Primo had been barking at one of his goons to find the jewelry box, figuring it must have been somewhere in the apartment. But it sounded like the guy was coming back empty-handed.

“Where is it?” Primo asked.

Akilah was battling to catch her breath and couldn’t get any more words out. Meanwhile, Denardo barreled down the exit for Broadway, a quirky little left exit that, fortunately for us, was also an entrance ramp on the other side. He hooked around and was soon back on the highway, heading in the opposite direction.

“Where is it?” Primo asked again.

“Akilah, do you mean my jewelry box?” I heard Sweet Thang say.

Akilah must have signaled affirmatively because Sweet Thang said, “It’s at a pawnshop.”

“A pawnshop?” Primo asked. “What the-”

“She stole all my jewelry and pawned it,” Sweet Thang explained. “See, after you burned down her house, I felt bad she had no place to go, so I let her stay-”

“Stop talking! You talk too much. I don’t care about your stories,” Primo said. “Where is this pawnshop?”

“I don’t … I don’t know,” Sweet Thang said, her voice rising an octave. “This friend of mine went there and got my bracelet back, but I told him not to bother with the rest of it. He never told me the name of the place. Akilah, honey, please just tell him.”

There was silence.

“Akilah, please,” Sweet Thang begged.

“Tell me or I break your friend’s arm, too,” Primo said.

Finally, I could hear Akilah moan: “M-M-Maury’s.”

“Maury’s Pawnshop. I know where it is,” a new, deeper voice said. It sounded African-American. It must have been one of the goons, probably Johnny-I didn’t know a lot of black guys named Davi.

“I’ll go get it for you, boss,” Johnny said.

“No,” Primo said. “We’re all going to get it.”

Not if we could get it first.

* * *

By my best guess, figuring it would take Primo and his entourage at least five minutes to usher the girls down into a car, we had a ten-minute head start on Primo. Ten minutes to negotiate the release of one jewelry box from one slimy pawnbroker. Having seen how Maury operated-speed did not appear to be among his customer service priorities-I just hoped it was enough time.

“Now, it’s just like before,” I could hear Primo saying. “One of these men will have his finger on a trigger at all times. If you want to live, you do as I say. If you try to run, you die. If you scream, you die. If that thumb drive isn’t at the pawnshop, you die. You understand?”

The answer was inaudible, but the rubbing noises coming through my earpiece told me Sweet Thang was on the move again. Then the sound stopped. I looked at my phone, which was flashing. The call had been terminated. Maybe she went into the elevator.

“I lost her,” I said.

“Okay, what the hell is going on? Where are we going?” Denardo asked.

“We’re heading to a place called Maury’s Pawnshop,” I said. “It’s-”

“Oh, I know Maury,” Denardo said. “Everyone in the hood knows Maury.”

I filled in our crew on what I had been able to piece together from my eavesdropping.

“So, basically, we’re using the thumb drive as leverage in a hostage negotiation,” Tommy said.

“Yep,” I said.

“Have you ever negotiated a hostage release before?”

“Nope,” I said.

And we left it at that. As soon as we got off the highway and entered Newark, Denardo flipped his siren back on and began an aggressive grand slalom through the city streets. Presumably, Primo would be obeying traffic laws-what with two kidnapped women in the car-so Denardo’s maneuvering increased our lead by another minute or two. At this point, every second mattered.

We screeched to a stop outside Maury’s, leaving some taxpayer-funded rubber on the asphalt.

“Keep an eye out for Primo,” I told Tommy. “Call me the second you see him.”

I leaped out of the SUV, charged up the crumbled front steps, and burst through the spiderwebbed glass door that separated Maury’s Pawnshop, Check-Cashing, and Payday Loans from the outside world. Inside, the same pudgy Hispanic guy as before-what was his supposed name? Pedro? — was staring at the same overwrought Mexican soap opera. Or perhaps it was a different one. The mustaches looked the same.

I was about to start the whole routine where I asked to see Maury while Pedro stalled us-a dance that would waste precious minutes-but Denardo, who had decided to follow me in, took a shortcut.

“Yo, Tracy, get your black ass out here,” he boomed, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the bulletproof glass. “We got some business to conduct.”

“Maury’s real name is Tracy?” I asked.

“Yeah. Between that and the lisp, he got beat up a lot at recess.”

“How do you know him?”

“You been around this city your whole life, eventually you know everyone, one way or another,” Denardo said. “My cousin used to date his sister. They all went to West Side back in the day.”

Maury emerged from the back, his Jheri curls looking freshly lubricated, wearing a lime-green suit and, of course, sunglasses. Again, I couldn’t see the shoes. But I was guessing white imitation-snakeskin cowboy boots. Or perhaps some pointy-toed slip-ons.

Maury slid open the small piece of Plexiglas that covered the airholes and pointed at me.

“You,” he said. “I thpecifically inthtructed you not to return here.”

“Tracy, shut the hell up,” Denardo said. “He ain’t none of your concern.”

Maury looked a little cowed. I wondered if Denardo had been one of the kids who administered those playground beatings.

“Now,” Denardo continued. “You got a jewelry box I need.”

“How would you dethcribe thith…?”

“It’s the one you took off that little skank Akilah Harris.”

“Thkank!” Maury said, like it offended him. “Thuch language!”

“Yeah. Now go back to your little hole and get it.”

“Thkank!” he said again, then turned and disappeared into the stockroom.

A minute passed. Then two. I kept glancing at the clock on my cell phone, watching our time advantage slip by as Maury screwed around. I didn’t want to know what this scene would turn into if Primo got here and we still weren’t in possession of that thumb drive. Would it become an open auction? Or would he just decide to depress the price by shooting the other bidders?

I looked at some of the guns Maury was selling in his display. But they weren’t going to solve anything. Not for me. I had never handled or fired one in my life and wouldn’t know where to begin. Mostly, I found myself yearning to be on the other side of that bulletproof glass, safely ogling buxom Mexican women with Pedro.

“You know what you’re doing with this thing once we get it?” Denardo asked.

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I was maybe going to…”

Then I looked at the bulletproof glass again.

“Yeah,” I said. “Actually, I think I might. Let’s just get this stupid thumb drive first.”

Two more minutes passed. I tried to keep myself calm, but that’s not easy when you can feel your heart thunking against your chest and are in imminent danger of breaking into a flop sweat. I expected my phone to ring any moment with Tommy telling me Primo was about to walk in.

“You okay?” Denardo asked at one point.

“This is taking too long,” I said. “This Primo guy is going to be here soon.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “You sure you can handle him?”

“No,” I said.

Not exactly the most inspiring answer. But at least it was honest.

Finally, Maury returned, clutching a jewelry box that, just as Sweet Thang once described it, looked like a miniature armoire, with tiny pocket doors and tiny doorknobs and everything.

“Thith it?” he asked.

“Open it,” I said.

Maury swung open the little doors and I saw it immediately, hanging on a string with the necklaces: a blue SanDisk thumb drive, encased in a protective plastic shell.

Denardo looked at me. I nodded.

“I’ll give you ten thousand bucks for it,” Denardo said.

Maury was so startled, he actually lowered his sunglasses.

“Ten thouthand? Cath money?” he asked.

Denardo reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, removing the flap so Maury could see the stack.

“Take it or leave it,” Denardo said.

“Deal,” Maury replied quickly.

“I’ll need a receipt, of course,” Denardo said.

Maury just nodded and started gleefully banging on his cash register.

“A receipt?” I asked.

“Well, this money ain’t exactly mine,” he said. “This is the last campaign contribution from that Primo guy. Normally Windy logged it in to his computer, then took the cash to the bank. But he was killed before he got a chance to do it. I’ve been carrying it around with me ever since. I didn’t know what else to do with it.

“So, as his chief of staff, this strikes me as a judicious use of campaign funds”-he grinned-“and I figured I should get a receipt in case anyone asks me to account for it later.”

Denardo began shoving the bills through the Plexiglas.

“Actually, stop for a second,” I said, then turned to Maury. “There’s one more condition of the sale: we’re going to need to borrow your store for a little while.”

* * *

Maury had no problem with the temporary rental of his store. Heck, for another ten grand, he probably would have sold us the whole damn thing. He buzzed us through the heavy door to the side of the bulletproof glass, then showed us the video screen that allowed us to see what was being recorded by the store’s security cameras-there was one inside, one outside. After extracting a promise we not touch the “merchandithe,” he and Pedro made themselves scarce while Denardo and I hunkered down to wait for our man to arrive.

It didn’t take long. I barely had time to remove the thumb drive from the jewelry box before my cell phone rang. It was Tommy.

“A blue panel truck just pulled up a block away,” Tommy said. “Hector tells me it’s Primo’s.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to put you on speakerphone. I want you to be my eyes on the street. Tell me what you see.”

“Okay,” Tommy said, his voice squelchy but distinct. “The truck is parking … It’s parked … There’s a man getting out of the driver’s side, a big black fellow … Now there’s a bald guy getting out of the passenger side. He looks South American. It guess that’s Primo, yeah?… Yeah, Hector says it’s Primo … The back door is opening up … It’s Akilah! She’s walking with the two men toward the pawnshop. She looks … She’s in pain, yeah, she’s in a lot of pain. She’s walking on her own and she’s … Oh! She stopped walking for a second and the black guy shoved her … They’re nearing the door, so I’m going to shut up now and … They’re yours.”

Just as Tommy’s narration finished, I saw three people appear on the video screen. Then the front door swung open. Primo entered.

It was my first look at the man. He was shorter than I thought he’d be, but broader-if I had to guess his dimensions, I’d say five six, 230. A regular fireplug. Even his fingers were short and thick. His bald head had a square, boxlike shape. His goatee, equal parts salt and pepper, made a neat oval around his mouth. Under a three-quarter-length black trenchcoat, he wore a black V-neck pullover and charcoal-gray slacks. His walk was quick and direct. Maybe it was because of all I already knew about him, but he moved like a killer.

Akilah stumbled in gingerly behind him. Her hair had a bedraggled, slept-in-the-gutter kind of look. Her face was a mess of snot and tears, like an infant who hadn’t been tended. Her left arm appeared to be fine. But she was holding her right arm like it was made of tissue paper and would tear at the slightest stress.

Johnny the Goon brought up the rear. He was a big chunk of black guy, but his bulk wasn’t nearly as troubling as what was bulging against the pocket of his jacket. As I said, I’m no gun expert. But whatever he was packing looked large enough to put a respectable-sized hole in anything it hit.

Primo walked up to the window and put his meaty hands on the counter. I expected to feel a rush of nerves, but it never came. I was calm, in control, anxiety-free. I was one tough hombre when I was shielded behind bulletproof glass.

“Hi, can I help you?” I said, ever the officious clerk.

“I’m looking for a jewelry box for my niece,” he said, still looking around the store, not making eye contact, trying to play nonchalant. “Something nice.”

“Aren’t you really looking for this, Primo?” I said, dangling the thumb drive in front of him.

At the mention of his name, his head snapped toward me. His body seemed to coil, and for a brief instant, I thought he was going to leap through the bulletproof glass. Instead, his eyes narrowed on the thumb drive, then on me.

“Where did you get that? Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m just a neighborhood pawnbroker, looking to make a deal with you, Primo,” I said. “You give me the two women you’ve kidnapped, and I’ll give you this thumb drive.”

He glowered at me.

“How do I know that’s the thumb drive I need?”

“Take a good look,” I said, pressing it up against the glass. “While you were shooting Windy full of nails, I’m sure this is exactly what he described to you.”

From the way Primo was studying the thumb drive, I could see I was right. He started stroking his goatee absentmindedly, obviously a nervous habit.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I continued. “What good will the thumb drive do you if there are still two witnesses alive who can testify against you? But here’s the thing, Primo: either way, you’re going to have to make a run for it. You know that by now, right? It’s way too hot for you here. So the question you have to ask yourself is, What do you want to leave behind?

“If you leave behind these two women, all they can do is offer the authorities a vague description of a man whose name they do not know, along with a story about how they were kidnapped. Maybe the police would look for you, maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, you fall off the radar screen pretty quickly.

“But if you leave behind this?” I said, pulling the thumb drive back from the glass and waving it around. “This drive has everything. Every payoff you ever gave Wendell Byers. Every piece of land he sold you in return. You’ve got fraud, corruption, racketeering, and, oh yeah, you become the prime suspect in the murder of a city councilman. So what’s it going to be?”

Primo’s eyes darted back and forth between me and the thumb drive.

“How do I know you haven’t already copied the file somewhere else?” he asked.

I turned to Denardo. “Can you give me that receipt for a second?”

He fished it out of his wallet. I held it up against the glass.

“Because we were only a little bit ahead of you,” I said. “If you’ll look at the time on this receipt, you’ll see we bought this thumb drive no more than five minutes ago. And you’ll notice there are no computers here. There’s been no time to download this data. This is the only copy.”

“Ten thousand dollars,” he said, after he was done studying the receipt.

“Funded by your last campaign contribution to Windy Byers,” I said.

I thought the irony might sting him. But I suppose literary devices didn’t have that effect on everyone.

“Your friends are worth a lot to you, I see,” he said.

“True,” I said. “But I think we both know this thumb drive is worth a lot more to you.”

He actually chuckled slightly and petted his goatee a few more times.

“You are right, of course,” he said at last. “We have a deal.”

* * *

I pointed at Akilah, who had been watching the entire interaction with wide eyes.

“She’s the down payment,” I said. “Both of you stand against the wall over there and let her come through that door.”

Primo nodded and walked backward until he reached the far wall. He jerked his head at Johnny, who had been clutching the back of Akilah’s shirt. He released his grip and she tripped toward the door, which I buzzed open. She slid through it quickly, then ran back into the stockroom without a single word of acknowledgment. And that was fine. I needed to concentrate on getting Sweet Thang back. There would be time for hugs and thank-yous later. And I suppose I couldn’t blame her for wanting to get as far away from Primo as she could.

“Okay,” I said. “The final payment is outside in your blue panel truck. Please go get her.”

Primo and Johnny stalked out the door, and I once again saw them on the video screen, walking back up the street.

“You still there, Tommy?” I asked in the direction of my cell phone.

“Yeah, I see them coming out of the store,” Tommy said. “They’re coming back toward the truck … Man, Primo looks pissed … Now they’re getting in the truck, they’re starting the engine and … They’re on the move.”

I felt a surge of confused panic.

“They’re making a run for it?” I asked.

“No, no … They’re turning the truck around … Just turning around … They’re cutting off a Dodge Durango … The driver just made a proper Jersey gesture at them … They’re coming back toward the store … And … They’re pulling up to the corner now.”

“Okay, I’ve got visuals, thanks, Tommy,” I said, huffing a lungful of air out of my mouth as the truck appeared on my screen. I didn’t realize it, but I had been holding my breath.

Primo hopped out of the passenger side door and left it open. The truck’s engine was still running. He was evidently going for the quick exit and I wasn’t going to stop him. Bringing Primo to justice wasn’t my job. That was the responsibility of the Newark police or maybe U.S. Marshals-if they could find a nameless man with a talent for identity theft. I didn’t really care. All that mattered to me was that Sweet Thang would be able to tell her grandchildren about this someday.

And if, at the end of the story, the bad guy got away? Well, that would just be a good lesson for the kiddies that the world isn’t always fair.

On the screen, I could see Primo open the truck’s back door, then Sweet Thang hopped out. I felt my throat constrict a little when I saw her, looking shell-shocked but otherwise unharmed. I swallowed twice and tried to keep my composure. There would be time for emotion, hopefully in another minute or two. But not yet.

Primo grabbed Sweet Thang by the hair-the cruel bastard-and stomped to the front entrance. Sweet Thang followed awkwardly. Walking while being led by one’s curls is not a particularly graceful endeavor.

The front door to Maury’s swung open and Primo entered, dragging Sweet Thang behind him. She turned to have a look at where she was going, then saw me behind the glass.

“Carter!” she yelped.

“Just relax, honey,” I said. “It’s almost over.”

Primo faced me.

“Before I let your woman go, I have to know,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m a reporter with the Eagle-Examiner,” I said, then couldn’t resist adding, “I guess you’re getting a firsthand lesson in the power of the press.”

He let out a disgusted grunt.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” I said. “You’re going to stay against the wall over there. I’m going to place the thumb drive in this box here and spin it toward you. Then you’re going to let Sweet Thang go. As soon as she’s through the door, you can come get it.”

“No good,” Primo said. “How do I know you won’t just spin the box back as soon as she’s in?”

“Because then you and your goons out there would come in with your guns and trap us in this little box. And I have better things to do than be stuck in here all day.

“Besides,” I added. “The truth is, Primo, I want to give you this drive so you can get as far away from here as quickly as possible. Because I don’t ever want to see your ugly face again.”

Admittedly, it was a fairly juvenile thing to say. And given a little more time, I’m sure I could have done better. But he sneered at me a little bit, so I felt at least moderately fulfilled in that I had launched one quasi-decent insult before he ran out the door.

“Okay,” he said. “You first. Put the drive in the box.”

I placed the blue SanDisk thumb drive-with all its evidence-in the glass cubby.

“Now spin it,” Primo said.

I spun.

“Okay, your turn. Let the girl go.”

He released his grip, and Sweet Thang staggered toward the door. I buzzed it open. She burst through, then quickly shut it behind herself.

She was safe.

The first thing she did was kiss me. Softly. On the mouth. With her hands cupped around my face. It wasn’t exactly the kiss you’d give your cousin, but we could sort that out later.

Then she hugged me. Hard. All over. Except where the soft warmth of her breasts should have been, I felt something jabbing into me.

Apparently, it was getting her, too.

“Ouch,” she said. “Forgot about that.”

She started lifting her sweater and I turned the other way-we needed to establish these kinds of boundaries in our relationship-which only made her giggle.

“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.