Free Eyes of the Innocent: A Mystery by Brad Parks Page A

cliché, chew it up, and swallow every last morsel.
    “And you say her mom lives around here?” I asked.
    “Yeah, she right over there,” Braids said, pointing two buildings down. “Third floor. Right side. You can ask her.”
    “I will,” I said. “Believe me, I will.”
    I considered trying to take down names and phone numbers for Braids and Hoodie in case I had any more questions. But they weren’t exactly quotable sources on the subject of Akilah Harris. And the chances I would get a real answer out of either of them was so remote, I decided not to bother. So I thanked them for their time and started walking toward Akilah’s mother’s apartment.
    On the way, I had a quick phone call to make.
    “Szanto,” grunted a voice on the other end.
    “Hey, it’s Carter,” I said. “Can the Akilah Harris story for tomorrow.”
    “Why?” he said, half gargling with a mouthful of coffee.
    I told him what I learned, along with my guess that there were probably other aspects of the story that couldn’t be verified.
    “Yep, smells like garbage day at the fish factory all right,” Szanto said. “Let’s kill it.”
    *   *   *
    As I walked through the gaping front entrance of Akilah’s mother’s building—whatever door was there had been ripped off long ago by neighborhood pharmaceutical salesmen—it occurred to me I could probably just drop the whole thing. Akilah Harris was no longer a gripping human interest story or a victim of tragic exploitation. She was a liar whose negligence killed two children. From a news standpoint, that made her a lot more run-of-the-mill: your basic two-faced criminal, not someone worthy of reader sympathy.
    But there was something telling me to keep digging on this one. Was I outraged Akilah would dare attempt to mislead a gifted investigative journalist such as myself? Hardly. Was I just curious what else she made up? A little.
    No, it was the missing mortgage record. Things like that didn’t just happen by accident. Someone wanted something covered up. I didn’t have the slightest idea who or what. But reporters love cover-ups only slightly less than they love their own mothers—more if their mothers don’t cook well. Whisper the word “cover-up” in a noisy room full of reporters, and I guarantee we’ll all stop and turn our heads to listen. There’s just something about cover-ups we can’t resist. And it seemed worthwhile to waste a little more time trying to figure out this one.
    Besides, it beat researching manufacturer’s specifications on space heaters.
    I reached the third floor, turned left, and found a door with “Harris” typed on a small, plastic piece of tape. From somewhere inside, Entertainment Tonight had been cranked to a volume that ensured that local corpses were now fully aware of the latest starlet to check into rehab due to “exhaustion.”
    I knocked, wondering if it was even possible the sound could be heard above all the smugness coming out of the television. I waited.
    Apparently not.
    I knocked again, harder. This time I heard someone stirring inside. Feet shuffled up to the door. Then nothing. I had the feeling I was being examined through the peephole, which always made me slightly uncomfortable. I mean, do you smile? Look serious? Stick your eye real close and try to look back? What is proper peephole etiquette anyway?
    An angry black woman inquired, “Who is it?”
    “I’m a reporter with the Eagle-Examiner, ma’am,” I yelled, trying to be heard above the television. “I was just hoping to ask you a few questions.”
    “It’s after dark,” the voice said.
    “I’m aware of that, ma’am, but…” I began.
    “I don’t open my door after dark.”
    “Ma’am, I’m going to slip my business card under your door right now so you can see I’m Carter Ross from the Eagle-Examiner .”
    “I don’t care if you’re Ed McMahon and I may have won a million dollars, I don’t open my door after dark.”
    I rolled my