As the Wicked Watch(67)

“Jordan, you won’t believe this! I talked to a student who said he remembers seeing Masey get into a car a couple times after school,” Grace said.

“Did she say what kind of car?”

“It’s a he, and he said it was a sports car, maybe a Dodge Charger, but he wasn’t sure. He said he noticed it because one of the rims was missing, and the driver was wearing this ‘dope-ass jacket,’ he called it.”

“Was it a man in the car?”

“I didn’t ask him, but I assumed he was talking about a guy from what he said about the jacket and the rims.”

“Did he say anything about what the guy looked like?” I asked.

“He said he was a big guy,” Grace said.

“As in heavy? Tall?” I asked.

“That’s all he said—a big guy. He didn’t get a real good look at him. He just saw him in passing,” Grace said. “He said he walked his girlfriend to the bus stop and spotted Masey getting into the car as he was crossing the street heading back toward the school for football practice. He said he was running late to practice, so he didn’t get a good look at him. Oh, but he said he had a low fade haircut from what he could tell.”

“Good work, Grace!” I said. “What’s the kid’s name?”

Grace looked stricken suddenly, and the color drained from her face. “Oh. Uh, I dunno. I didn’t get it.”

I closed my eyes and dropped my head, fighting the urge to scream, You didn’t get it? Are you crazy? Instead, I breathed deeply and mustered a calm “Why not?”

“It was happening so fast. The hallway cleared out after the bell and I had to duck into the girls’ bathroom. I don’t know!” said Grace, shaking her head and growing more distraught by the second. “I was afraid of getting caught!”

“Okay,” I said, “rule of thumb: always ask the person’s name first. Always, always. Got it?”

“Got it,” she said.

Masey had a secret boyfriend. But who was he a secret from? Was it just from her mother? Did her friends know about him? Was he involved in her disappearance? My mind went back to my cousin Stephanie’s lying to her parents about a band trip so that she could spend an entire weekend with an older man. Is Masey’s boyfriend an older guy? The type who hangs out around high schools? Who would Masey have confided in?

Her cousin Yvonne.

My phone vibrated and I looked down and saw a text message from Joey.

I did what you asked, but our cover is blown, he wrote.

I texted back: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

I sighed and shook my head. I wanted to call him, but whatever Joey meant, I would have to deal with it later. Right now I’m focused on Yvonne. All paths were leading to her. Besides, she was one of the last people to see Masey alive.

“What’s the matter?” Grace asked.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

I scrolled through my text messages and checked my email. Still no note from Pamela with Yvonne’s address.

“Grace, are you free tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m available,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to ride out to Englewood. I hope by the time I get there, Pamela Alonzo will have texted me her cousin’s address, but I think I know where she lives. I want to drive around.”

“Okay, I’m in. Just the two of us?”

“Yeah, I sent the camera home. This is investigative journalism, Grace. We’re investigating,” I explained. “Have your iPhone ready. We can get some pictures, at least.”

I texted Pamela: Can we meet at Yvonne’s? What’s her address? I’m on the West Side. It’ll take me about 30 minutes to get there.

I dropped a bombshell on Pam about a mysterious person in her daughter’s life. Someone who in fact might have killed her. Pamela has said twice now that she won’t be satisfied until he’s dead or in prison. Does she have an inkling who it is? Is she at this very moment out looking for him? Or is she having a mental breakdown, curled up in a fetal position and convulsed in tears? Was I expecting too much from a grieving mother? Maybe Bartlett was right.

I took the 71st Street exit off the Dan Ryan Expressway and drove west. I checked my phone—still nothing from Pam. I am now concerned about this radio silence.

Did April say something off-putting after I left the two of them alone? Did Fawcett tell her to stop talking to the press?

I recognized the blond-brick facade of the Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church at Sangamon, Louise’s street, but drove past. The next block was Peoria, the street Cynthia Caruthers told me Yvonne lived on, but she didn’t know the house number. I kept going.

“What are we looking for?” Grace asked.

I didn’t know how to answer her. I was on a wild-goose chase, cruising around a neighborhood I knew nothing about apart from the news stories that all too often tell the worst and not the best that happens, which, again, is part of the struggle I have with what I do for a living. The power we have in the media to paint a perception of a neighborhood as reality by the stories we cover.

Englewood looks different in daylight. Clusters of people are gathered on front porches and steps, and along sidewalks teenagers no different from Masey block the path as if the street belongs to them. And honestly it does. This is the center of the universe for them. Nothing is bigger or more important than where you are from. It’s your identity, which is why the death of a young girl from this neighborhood is so painful. It’s no secret a blind eye can be cast on the death of someone who “deserved it,” but no one thinks this of Masey.