As the Wicked Watch(40)
These tattered images of life in West Englewood provided a snapshot of the constant ups and downs of the economic circumstances of residents desperately trying to hold on to what they’ve worked hard for in communities that lack investment and access to economic opportunity.
There were fewer boarded-up, burnt-out houses the closer I came to the Auburn Gresham community, where Pam lives. I checked the GPS. I’d already traveled 2.3 miles from Yvonne’s block. Pamela had described the distance between her house and Yvonne’s as a straight shot, a little over a mile. By the time I got to the narrow turnoff for her semi-gated neighborhood at Damen at 82nd Street, I had traveled nearly 3 miles. That’s a nothing bike ride for an energetic fifteen-year-old. But if I were a mother, would I allow my daughter to ride alone through the city’s consistently most dangerous neighborhood, even during the daytime?
I don’t think so.
*
If I had anticipated that things at Tanya’s house would be somewhat chaotic, I would’ve been spot-on. Cars were lined up all the way down the block in front of the house. I parked about a block away just past the “L” tracks where Masey’s body was found, still cordoned off with police tape. I looked around to make sure no one could see me and moved the seat as far back as it would go, slid down and shimmied out of my skirt. I thought I was careful until I heard the familiar sound of a slight tear in the fabric as I tried to manage this uncomfortable position, praying no one saw me. That would be creepy. Pulling the pants on was much easier. I was running about fifteen minutes behind, and I didn’t see a Channel 8 news truck, though I was grateful there wasn’t a truck from a competitor present yet. Louise had so far kept her word.
But where the hell was Scott?
I surveyed the adjacent blocks, a blend of single-and multifamily properties. The number of vacant spaces stood out. There’s one directly west of the crime scene, another directly across the street, and another next to Tanya’s house. Under cover of night, I can see how someone dumping a body could’ve gone sight unseen.
At the intersection, city workers hopped out of a municipal pickup truck and set up barricades to block traffic. As I walked toward Tanya’s, two squad cars pulled up, cutting off the north-and southbound lanes on Calumet Avenue, while maintaining the throughway on 45th to MLK Drive. It’s chilling to think that just a few days ago, while Scott and I were filming my live update on King Drive in front of missing posters with Masey’s likeness, the honor student’s body lay less than half a mile away.
The community showed evidence of regentrification. Tanya’s house appeared to have had some work done on the redbrick facade. It was a nice-looking property landscaped with fresh shrubs and seasonal mums in dark purple. The house next door was mid-makeover. I steadied myself against the banister, going up the steps to the front door to face the unknown. So far I had misjudged everybody I’d dealt with today, except Superintendent Bartlett. My now-fragile ego couldn’t afford another misstep.
Tanya greeted me at the door wearing a white T-shirt that had Masey’s ninth-grade school picture printed on the front, in color, revealing the tenderness of Masey’s young skin and even the shine of her lip gloss. Tanya’s hair was pulled up into a tight chignon atop her head. Her movements made the image on her shirt come alive.
“Hey, girl. How are you?” she said, like we were old friends.
“Hi, Tanya. I’m good and you?”
“Good. Come on in. We’re ready for you,” she said.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same. Where in the hell was Scott?
Tanya led me into a bright room with light-colored hardwood floors and an open floor plan. There was a gray sectional with a matching overstuffed chair, a vintage glass-top coffee table that held fruit and vegetable trays and red paper plates with matching plastic cups. I surveyed the room, trying to figure out how to set up the interview, which is what Scott should be doing. I’d just pulled out my cell phone to text him when Louise strolled up to me without so much as a limp. The Ace bandage was gone; she’d made a miraculous recovery.
“Welcome, Jordan. Nice to see you,” she said, more amiable than earlier today. A woman stood slightly behind her. From their resemblance, I surmised she must be Tanya’s mother.
“We’re just waiting for Pamela and Bishop Toney to get here,” she said, turning slightly to her left. “This is my sister, Patricia.”
“Hi, Patricia, it’s so nice to meet you. Thank you so much for allowing us to come into your home,” I said, except there was no us, only me.
“You’re welcome,” Patricia said.
“I’m actually waiting for my camera to arrive. If you’ll excuse me for a second, I need to call him to find out how far away he is.”
I know Scott was rubbed a tad raw when I left him, but he wouldn’t stand me up for an assignment because he was pissed off. That could cost him his job. But why hasn’t he called or texted? My call went straight to voice mail. My patience worn down to a nub, I called the desk, and Ellen picked up.
“News, Holbrook.”
“Ellen, it’s Jordan. I’m at the pre-vigil shoot and I don’t know where the hell Scott is. He’s not picking up his phone,” I said. “He agreed to meet me here. He’s never done this. Do you know what’s going on?”
“Let me check the log.”