As the Wicked Watch(64)

“So you understand, I’m not letting go until the man who did this is either dead or in prison,” Pamela said. “They catch your mother’s killer?”

“Yes. There was no mystery there. It was her ex-boyfriend. He’d been stalking her for months,” April said.

“Glad you got closure. See, I’m afraid I won’t live long enough to see that day. I don’t have any faith in the police after the way they handled—or I should say, mishandled—my daughter’s disappearance. If I heard the word runaway one more time . . . I was gonna scream!”

Her voice rose into a near scream. Her mood can change in an instant, as it did yesterday when I was interviewing her at her “sister-in-love’s.” But that’s to be expected under the circumstances.

“Through all of this, I’ve begged the police, and I begged them again last night, to do everything in their power to catch who did this. No, I didn’t bad-mouth them, because I need them on my side. You understand?” Pamela said. “This isn’t going to be another unsolved murder on the South Side. And you said the magic words last night on TV, April. You said if it’d been your daughter, the police would’ve handled things differently. I believe you’re right.”

It was then that April Murphy came into view for me as savvy and deliberate. For surely, it wasn’t lost on her that as a White suburban woman, for her to say what she did on the air last night boxes the critics in from describing Pamela as just another angry Black woman complaining about the police. April might not be batting a thousand with media, but she doesn’t fit the profile of someone who can be easily dismissed on police investigations.

I drifted away from the conversation for long enough that by the time I sprung back into consciousness, April was boasting about how her group helps victims’ families put pressure on police to do their jobs, and the success she’s had reviving cold cases across the country, which was different from the series of failures she described to me a few minutes ago.

Pamela and April were getting on well, and I hated to break their groove. But the question that had been burning in my brain since last night wouldn’t let me wait a minute longer.

“Guys, I’m sorry to interrupt, but, Pamela, I recall you telling me how Masey got to school every day. We were here, remember?”

“Yes,” she said.

“You said she took a couple of buses and walked about a half mile on the final leg of the trip.”

“Right,” she said.

“Did she take the same route home? Or did she get a ride home from school?” I asked.

Pamela looked puzzled. “No, she came back the same way. I don’t get off till six on Wednesday and Thursdays, and I work until seven on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays,” she said. “On Mondays, I pick up Malcolm early from after-school care. His auntie Cyn gets him the rest of the week. I wish I could’ve picked her up.”

It was as I’d feared.

“The reason I asked, Pamela, is because last night I met a girl from Masey’s school. She said they were friends. She told me that Masey got rides from school in the days leading up to her disappearance. Not every day, but on occasion,” she said.

“What?” Pamela exploded. “From who?”

“She didn’t know. She said she and Masey would meet after school by the gym and she’d walk Masey to the bus stop.”

“Okay, but she got on the bus, right?”

“Well, yes, on those days, she would get on the bus. But the girl said they’d meet at the gym regardless of whether Masey had a ride or not. She said Masey usually wouldn’t know until the end of the day,” I said. “But she didn’t walk Masey to her ride.”

“Masey never got no rides from school!” Pamela said with a look of disbelief mixed with betrayal. “That’s a damn lie!”

“Pam, she said she saw Masey get in a car once from a distance, but she couldn’t tell the make or model. You know kids. She didn’t think anything of it.”

“Was she sure?” Pam said, clearly struggling to breathe.

“I have no reason to doubt her. She seemed sincere, and she was very, very upset about Masey,” I said. “I didn’t include this in my report, because if there’s something to it—well, my instinct told me not to.”

“Why haven’t the police said anything?” she said.

“I honestly don’t think they know. I haven’t mentioned it to them yet. I wanted to ask you first,” I said.

“Oh my God!” Pamela said. “Oh my God!”

Pamela looked confused and frightened. It was obvious she genuinely knew nothing about this.

“Could a family member have picked her up?” I asked.

“No, not without me knowing about it!” she said.

April shifted uncomfortably in her seat and leaned back away from the table. I felt it, too, the awkwardness of learning at the same time as Pamela this revelation about her daughter. Any parent with a teenager knows their child doesn’t tell them everything. But a secret this big, this out of character as a guy picking her up from school? This was a blow, one that might push us closer to the killer but destroy Pamela in a way she couldn’t brace herself for, a betrayal of the closeness she believed she shared with Masey.

“What’s this little girl’s name?” Pam asked.