As the Wicked Watch(60)

“Oh my God, Jordan, I’d love that! Thank you!” repeating her exact words from before.

“Okay, I’ll let you know,” I said as we got off the elevator. “Oh, and Grace, I’m embarrassed to say but I don’t know your last name.”

“Ito!” she blurted out with no ego and no offense taken. “It’s Ito. I-t-o.”

Now that I’d identified my apprentice, I had to figure out how to pull this off and what I hoped to get out of this arrangement. I decided to check out a new trendy coffee bar that recently opened along the pedestrian walkway by the Chicago River. Coffee is my water during the day, just as wine is my drink at night, so it’s a wonder it has taken me this long to try it. Besides, a walk would give me time to think. I crossed the circular drive by the Booth School of Business to access the winding metal staircase leading to lower Michigan Avenue. The sound of CTA buses and drivers laying on their horns to leverage their way down the congested, luxurious Magnificent Mile placed my body at the scene, but my mind was someplace else. Outside a crowded high school gym after the bell for the final period, waiting on my friend to meet me so that we could walk to the bus stop together. I tell her, “I’ve got a ride today.” She scrunches up her face, disappointed. “Again?” she says. She looks forward to our talks after school, no matter how brief. “Okay then, girl, see you tomorrow,” my new friend says, and walks away.

If I’m the friend, I’m thinking, Why can’t I walk with her to catch her ride? Why is the bus stop different? Is there something or someone she doesn’t want me to see? Maybe that’s it. Masey was hiding something or someone. Was her “ride” at the vigil?

“What kind of car was it?” I had asked Shawn Jeffries, and she responded like a typical teenager. “I didn’t pay any attention.”

Jordan, you couldn’t even tell Bass the color of the car in your parking space last night. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something more to it. Finding out was my new obsession.

I descended the steps to the bowels of lower Michigan, looking behind me as if the way back would suddenly disappear. The upper and lower streets in downtown Chicago are a configuration like no place else. The first time I came down here, I kept waiting for someone to yell, “Get out from down there!” It’s dark and oftentimes damp and a little scary at night. It reminds me of the tunnel in Paris where Princess Diana died in a car crash. But it’s perfect for inconspicuous parking lots and gargantuan heating and cooling systems for the vast number of high-rise office buildings and hotels on the busy thoroughfare above.

The wind was crisp and strong along the riverfront and fashioned fast-moving ripples across the calm water. Chicago’s wind is known as “the Hawk.” It nearly blew me backward as I rounded the corner and fought against it to open the static door to the café, instead of using the revolving door. The river wind rushed in behind me and nudged me from behind like a playground bully, drawing a few glares from the patrons.

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly and moved toward the counter. As I was about to place my order, I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I figured it was Joey returning my call. I was wrong. I stepped to one side to take the call.

“You must be kidding me,” I said aloud to no one. It was Pamela Alonzo.

“Pamela, hi,” I said, at a loss for words.

“Hello, Jordan,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I wanted to call and thank you for everything you did yesterday. I saw your story. They can’t forget about my baby after that, can they?”

Oh yes they can, and they just might.

“Not if I can help it,” I said.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m grateful. I know I didn’t make it easy on you,” she said.

“Pam, it’s not your job to make it easy for me.”

I was anxious to tell her about April. “I’m really glad you called. I thought about calling you, but I didn’t want to intrude. Yesterday was overwhelming, and I’m sure you have a lot to do,” I said.

“You mean the funeral,” she said.

“Well, yes,” I said.

“I would if they would release the body, but the medical examiner hasn’t done that yet,” she said.

What? That’s insane. Dr. Chan completed his examination on Saturday; it’s Wednesday. What the hell is going on? I had already intruded on Dr. Chan once today, but I felt the urge to call him back and ask him why the morgue had not released the body to the family. I couldn’t dwell on that now. Pamela was on the phone, she’d reached out to me, and there were some important things I wanted her to know and needed to find out.

“Pam, remember the other day when you told me your mission in life was to find out who did this?” I asked.

“Yes, and I meant it, too,” she said.

“I spoke to my editor this morning. The whole newsroom knows how important this investigation is,” I said. A week ago, nobody was even trying to cover it.

“That’s very different from what I’ve experienced, Jordan. You and I know that wasn’t always the case, but I hope you’re right,” she said.

Summoning the courage, I blurted out, “Can we meet?”

I expected Pamela to hesitate. I was wrong about that, too.

“At the coffee shop?” she said.