As the Wicked Watch(106)

“Pam and I talk about twice a week,” she said.

After the attack, Pamela sent me a text message to wish me well and had said she hoped I’d feel better soon. But I hadn’t spoken to Pamela since that day at Yvonne’s when Terrence Bankhead’s name first came up.

“Did she mention the name Terrence Bankhead?” I asked.

“No, who’s that?”

“He’s a suspect. You and I need to catch up. Let me know what you can find out about this sample, and let’s try and get together sometime this week,” I said.

“Okay, sounds good.”

I should be relieved that Pamela hadn’t called. That she’d hitched her wagon to April and cut me loose. But I was still bothered by what Yvonne had told me about Pamela’s not wanting to hear anything else about Terrence, her turning away from the truth.

I felt a headache coming on, and I massaged my temples and forehead and closed my eyes. I was furious over what Nussbaum was planning to do and at Keith for talking him into it. But the exchange with Ellen had cut me deep.

“Jordan?”

I looked up, and Grace Ito was standing at my cubicle. I tried to mask my exasperation with her, but the eye roll couldn’t be contained.

“I deserve that, I guess,” she said.

“No, that wasn’t directed at you. It’s just been a long day. What’s going on?”

“First, I’m so sorry about what happened to you,” she said, a single tear rolling down her face. “I never said you put my life in danger. Those were Keith’s words, not mine. I told a few people at the Billy Goat one night that you’d taken me out on a story. But I told them it was exciting. I never said I was scared.”

“Were you scared?”

“Yeah, but I never would’ve admitted it to them. I respect you so much. You are my hero.”

Well, this was just great. For a second time today, I was fighting back tears in the workplace. Grace’s words were not what I’d expected. I’d attended my fair share of mentor programs and “women must stick together” summits. But there was nothing like hearing someone looked up to you because of the work you put in.

“I have something else to tell you,” she said.

“What?”

“That kid I talked to at Carol Crest . . .”

“The one whose name you didn’t get?” I said, unable to resist the dig with the gentle nudge of a big sister.

“I know who he is now,” she said.

My ears perked up. “How?”

“He’s on the football team, right? Sports started covering those games, because they’re now a favorite to go to state. I went out on that shoot. He’s the star running back.”

“What’s his name?”

“Demetrius Turner.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No, I couldn’t get close. But it’s him, I’m sure of it. He has his hair twisted in the front with blond highlights on the tips. He’s number 28.”

I checked the clock above the city desk. It was 2:25. School didn’t let out until 3:30.

“Grace,” I said. “Thank you, and I believe you, and I believe in you.”

*

I hailed a cab over to Carol Crest Academy and instructed the driver to drop me off by the football field. I arrived moments before the dismissal bell and took a seat in the bleachers. A coach or team staffer wearing a Crest Academy sports jersey with a whistle around his neck and carrying a clipboard exited the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Once he was on the field, he spotted me and headed my way. I could tell by his determined stride he was coming to confront me.

“Hello, ma’am. Can I help you?” he said.

“No.”

“Well, are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes, I’m waiting on my ride.”

“Are you a sub?” he asked.

While I thought about how to respond, I pretended not to hear him.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Are you sub?” he said.

I nodded. But he wasn’t satisfied.

“Practices are closed to the public,” he said.

It occurred to me that with the state championship within its grasp, the coaches were on the lookout for spies from other teams stealing plays and assessing the biggest threats on the Crest squad.

“I know you don’t think I’m here to steal secrets, do you?” I feigned a laugh. “See these?” I said, proffering a foot. “I’m wearing four-inch heels, not Adidas.”

He folded his arms and smirked.

“I’ll be out of here before practice starts. I promise.”

He would make a terrible reporter; he gave up way too easily. He strutted back to the field, satisfied with his “investigation.”

Ten minutes passed before the first ballplayers jogged out onto the field. I moved off the bleachers and stood against the wall in the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Once Demetrius made it out onto the field, it’d be too late.

A group of players finally emerged from the pit, trash-talking, cursing, and smacking one another in the back of the head the way immature boys do. Because they were clustered together, it was hard to make out the numbers on the front of their jerseys. Then I remembered Grace said Demetrius had blond highlights at the end of his twisted hair, and suddenly there he was.