As the Wicked Watch(55)

“Good,” he said, a couple of beats too late, unmasking his inner asshole. My smile broadened into a sly grin. I didn’t bother turning around and picked up the pace to Peter’s office. I was energized, sensing it was a good time to ask for exactly what I wanted.

I knocked before entering. Nussbaum was sitting on the corner of his desk with his back to the picture window that framed downtown’s architectural splendor, his feet barely touching the floor. Peter is about an inch shorter than me when I’m wearing high heels, so I avoid standing too close to him whenever possible to protect his ego, in case it’s fragile. I just wish he or his wife would do something about that errant swath of hair that lays across his forehead like half of a bang. It isn’t that I’m not fond of Peter. For the most part, he’s an okay guy. I’d just like to walk into a news director’s office at a major metropolitan news station and see a woman sitting behind the desk, or a person of color. Not since I’ve worked in television has that ever happened. What has been consistent, though, is there’s always a reporter, an assignment editor, or a news director, all of them men, looking for a reason, any reason, to push me off the crime beat. Covering violent crime is often viewed as a masculine pursuit, and a lot of editors assign the top crime stories to male reporters by default. I’ve seen female assignment editors who are just as guilty of enforcing this unspoken patriarchy. Intentional or not, they need to check themselves. It’s one of those hidden assumptions I have to push back against time and again.

“Jordan! Please, have a seat,” he said. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I just wanted to tell you that I think you did a helluva job last night on a very complicated, very emotional story.”

It was unusual for Peter to describe a story as emotional. Masey’s murder was so devastating, it pierced the heart of a cynical newsman, and that was saying something.

“Thanks, Peter. I appreciate that. I really do,” I said, then immediately launched into my pitch. “You know, last night, I think I might have picked up on a potential clue in this case. I’d like to put my forensic hat on and dig deeper into this story. The nature of the crime, the outcry from the community, all of it, demands focused attention. And I’m willing to work overtime, weekends, whatever I need to do to stick with this story, because if we—”

Peter held up his hand and interrupted me. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cut you off, Jordan,” he said.

You’d better have a good reason.

“I see where you’re headed, and listen, you don’t have to convince me. I’m all in. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Now, the overtime I’ll have to figure out, but look, you’ve got your finger on the pulse of this story, and what’s more, you’re in the community, which is a big part of this. So yes, we’re in agreement. Stay close. And see what you can get out of Dr. Chan, though I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” Peter said.

“Well, exactly,” I said confidently. “Dr. Chan is out of the country, and when we last spoke, it sounded like he was going to be gone for a good three weeks to a month.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Peter said.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll shoot him an email. He told me that he was sending some evidence for testing to the state crime lab before he left town. Unless he’s lying flat on his back somewhere, I’m pretty confident he’ll respond,” I said.

“Sounds good, Jordan. Thanks for making us look good out there,” he said.

“My pleasure, Peter. Thank you.”

As I exited Peter’s office, something he said struck me as odd. “You’re in the community,” he’d said. In my mind, that could mean either one of two things. He was acknowledging the way in which I’d skillfully inserted myself into my subject’s lives and gotten them to open up—an outsider from Austin, Texas, with no roots on Chicago’s South Side. Not even a third cousin. Or he simply meant, “You’re Black and they trust you. So you might as well stick with the story.”

Either way, he’d given me the green light to take my reporting to a whole other level. And Tonya would have to suck it up. I just pulled off the news equivalent of a triple axel in his face, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

As I walked back to Ellen’s desk to share the good news, I contemplated where I’d test out my newfound freedom first. Should I call April Murphy or Pamela Alonzo? Or should I start with Lieutenant Joseph Samuels—just to see what I can learn from him about the investigation?

“Well?” Ellen said.

I smiled wide and opened my mouth in a silent scream. “I’m on special assignment,” I told her. “Well, Peter didn’t use that term, exactly, but I’m off the day-to-day crime stuff for now. He’s moving that to GA,” short for general assignment.

“That’s great!” she said, and tilted her head slightly toward Keith, who was looking directly at us. “Did he say anything about Tonya?”

“What about him?” I asked.

“He’s a parasite. We know that. He could see this as an opening to push in on your beat,” Ellen said.

I paused before responding, because frankly I was slightly annoyed that she would bring this up. I was still basking in the good fortune that Peter had bestowed on me. Then I spoke slowly and deliberately. “This is the right story for me right now,” I said. “I have neither the time nor the energy to worry about him.”