As the Wicked Watch(70)

“Very late last night. I don’t know the exact time, but it had to be, oh, not too long before closing,” he said.

“What time do you close?” I asked.

“Two o’clock,” he said.

I thought about Yvonne with her short, blond-streaked hair. That was just yesterday. I doubt the kitchen-tician left the vigil, braided her hair, and hit a convenience store afterward.

“Eddie, I don’t doubt she said it, but that makes no sense.”

“Believe me, I hear it all day. Kids talking stuff on each other, saying crazy stuff. That’s probably all it was,” he said.

Patrons began to pile into the store. Some grew annoyed as they waited in line.

“Eddie! I could use some help!” Kendall yelled, getting her revenge for the way he’d spoken to her minutes earlier.

“I’ve gotta go now, lady,” he said abruptly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Eddie. You’ve been very nice, and very helpful,” I said.

As I made my way to the front door, I heard a car horn honking incessantly. It sounded close. It was mine. When I emerged, I saw Grace holding my phone in her hand waving it. I was so focused on her phone, I’d left my own in the car.

She rolled the window down and shouted, “It’s been ringing and ringing, but you told me to stay in the car.”

I ran to the car and jumped in and grabbed it from her just as the ringing stopped. The caller was Justin Smierciak.

“You were in there a long time. Your phone rang three times.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to talk to the clerk, but I had to wait in line like everybody else,” I said.

“Did you find out anything?” she asked.

My thoughts were so jumbled by the far-out theory Eddie had just shared that I didn’t know how to put it into words.

“Masey did hang out here,” I said. “I was right about that. The clerk remembers her being in the store often. But that was about it.”

I wanted to call Joey but not in front of Grace. I only hope that when Joey said “our cover is blown,” he didn’t mean I could no longer count on him for the inside scoop, because I needed it now more than ever. My instincts were telling me that the rumor mill was working overtime to pump out such a ridiculous story about kids being involved in Masey’s murder. Sometimes the streets talk faster and louder than any news network. As for Justin, he calls me after five o’clock only when he’s looking for somebody to go grab a beer with. Before heading back toward downtown, I decided to circle a couple of blocks along Peoria and Sangamon.

“What are we looking for now?” Grace asked.

I suspected that by now Grace was growing impatient and wondering what the hell she had signed up for by agreeing to this ride-along.

“Sometimes you don’t know what you’re looking for. But you know it when you see it, like the convenience store,” I said, putting on my mentor hat. “Investigative journalism requires patience. You have to trust the process. Some clues jump out at you. Others you have to dig for and get your hands dirty.”

“You have to be brave, too,” she said.

I laughed. “Grace, were you scared back there?”

“A little,” she said.

I guess I can respect the fact that such a scene felt different for her. But long before I became a reporter, I decided that I couldn’t go through life being afraid of people, especially not my own. How do you treat someone with dignity and respect in your reporting when you fear them or their circumstances? It’s one of my frustrations, and it’s not just White reporters. I see profiling in media cross racial and economic lines more than folks in my business would ever admit.

I turned left onto Peoria Avenue. “I just want to drive up and down a couple blocks, and then we’ll head back.”

The 7100 block was quiet. Just about every other house had boarded-up windows, and there were very few cars parked along the curb. The 7000 block was the same. Half of it was taken up by a school building. I headed toward Sangamon. It, too, was uneventful. I passed Louise Robinson’s house. Cynthia said Yvonne lived about a block away, but she never specified parallel blocks.

Maybe Yvonne lives across 71st.

At dusk, I pulled out onto 71st and this time turned south down Peoria. There were more boarded-up homes and a few people sitting outside those that weren’t. The end of the block was busier. There were cars parked on both sides and a large group of people was congregating in the middle of the street.

Grace looked frightened. She placed one hand on the dash and the other on the door handle. I wasn’t crazy about driving through the crowd, either. I flicked my headlights on and off to warn them of the approaching vehicle. Nobody moved until I was right up on them. Driving about 5 miles an hour, I surveyed the scene. Men and women, mostly men, standing around listening to loud music. Then I noticed someone I was sure I had seen before: a young girl with long braids wearing an oversize white leather jacket with silver spikes and studs on the back and along the sleeves. She turned toward me just as I was driving past. It was Monique Connors. I caught her eye just as I sped away through a clearing. I don’t know if she recognized me or not.

“Oh my God,” I said.

“What?” Grace asked.

“That girl standing there with the white jacket on,” I said more to myself than to Grace. “I met her last night at the vigil.”