As the Wicked Watch(71)

I started putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Pamela had compared Yvonne’s house to Grand Central Station, and from what I could tell, this residence fit the description. Grace’s witness at Carol Crest had described the driver as wearing a dope-ass jacket. And Eddie had described Masey’s friend as way lighter than me with braids.

It was hard to tell as it grew dark, but the girl in the white studded jacket did appear to be a lighter complexion.

That’s Monique. I’m sure of it, and I’d bet dollars to donuts that’s Yvonne’s house she’s standing in front of.

“Oh shit, Jordan!” Grace said. “Look!”

The street came to a dead end. No sign. No warning. I couldn’t turn left or right. I was completely blocked in and would have to practically drive up into somebody’s yard so that I could turn around and head back down the way I came.

“Calm down! I’m sure this happens all the time,” I said.

“I didn’t see a sign saying this was a dead end,” Grace said.

“Me either. Take out your phone and turn off the flash. Try to angle it up to get a picture of the girl there in the white jacket.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, do it! Hold on!”

I turned to the left and rolled my window down halfway, waving my arm out the window to signal Sorry, excuse me. At least I hoped they would take it that way.

“Get ready. There she is,” I said.

Grace did as I told her, but Monique made it easy because she was standing in the middle of the street, pointing right at me. “What are you doing over here?” she shouted. “It’s that reporter!”

Then I heard someone say, “Get out the street!”

I stuck my hand back out once more as a thank-you, switched on my headlights, and tore down Peoria doing about 40 miles an hour. My only regret was that I was too busy trying to get out of there to look for a car with a missing rim. There was no way I was circling back.

I pulled back onto 71st Street. Not convinced that someone from the group hadn’t decided to follow me, questioning my intentions, I sped up to 45 miles per hour until I made it to the entrance ramp to the Dan Ryan and headed west toward downtown.

“Whew!” I sighed. “Was that exciting enough for you?”

Grace laughed nervously. “Yeah, pretty exciting.”

“Did you get the picture?” I asked.

Grace checked her phone. “I put it on speed snap, so I got several shots. That jacket really shows up in the dark. Look.”

I glanced over carefully as I drove. Grace had captured the girl’s face. It was blurry, but I was convinced it was Monique. Frankly, her reaction gave her away.

“Who is she?” Grace asked.

“Somebody I met at the vigil last night,” I said. “We’ve gotta go back to Masey’s school and find that kid you talked to today.”

*

It had been a long day of discovery with emotional minefields exploding all over the place. After all I’d put Grace through, I figured I at least owed it to her to drop her off in front of her apartment on the Far North Side.

“Check your phone; I sent the pictures to your phone,” she said with one foot out of the car. “Thanks, Jordan. This was interesting.”

“That’s one word that comes to mind,” I said half joking, half still in shock.

“Oh, and Grace, remember what I said about the football player at Masey’s school. You know what he looks like; I don’t. The good thing is, at least we know he’s on the football team. It should be easy enough to stake out practice to find him,” I said.

“Okay, but I made up an excuse today so that I could get out of work early to go to the school with you, remember? I’m not sure if I can pull that off two days in a row,” she said.

“Let me worry about that. I’ll figure something out,” I said. “Good night, and thanks, Grace.”

“Good night,” she said.

On the way home, I took one of the most incredibly scenic routes that any city has to offer down Lake Shore Drive. The view of Lake Michigan, even on those infamous brutally cold days, is awe inspiring. How could a place so beautiful hide such ugly secrets? Would the silence surrounding Masey’s death melt away like the sheets of ice soon to arrive over the lake? I thought about calling Pamela, but my persistence might make things worse. Surely she saw my text messages. I can’t imagine her phone not being fused to her hand, the grip of a mother waiting for answers she needs, but at the same time, wants to ignore. Learning who killed her daughter won’t bring Masey back. The absence of an answer might even allow for her to pretend it was all a dream—or more aptly put, a nightmare. I regret not driving past her house when I was in her neighborhood to see if she was there. But that would have required an explanation of why I was hanging around the area. My heart rate picks up unexpectedly and a wave of anxiety ripples through my body. The what-ifs start pounding so loudly in my head, I debate pulling over.

What if Pam is shutting down?

What if April Murphy is a fraud or an opportunist who just wants to be on television?

What if Masey wasn’t the girl her mother thinks she was? What if there was a dark side to her life I’d have to reveal to her family and the viewers at home?

What if Ellen is right and Keith Mulvaney uses my absence from the day-to-day crime beat to carve out a place for himself or take it over?