As the Wicked Watch(73)

“Hi, Pamela, I’m just checking on you. I didn’t hear back from you yesterday. How did things go with April after I left?” I asked.

“April is a beautiful person. She has a good heart,” Pamela said.

Pamela’s words were kind, but I sensed tension.

“That’s nice. I’m happy I connected you two. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“I saw your last report,” she said, her voice dissolving to a thud I recognized as disappointment. “I thought you would’ve told me before you said it on the air.”

“Before I said what?” I asked.

“What we talked about . . . Masey getting picked up. I was hurt,” she said.

Huh?

“But you already knew I had this information.”

“You’re not a mother, Jordan. You wouldn’t understand. It makes me look like a bad mother that I didn’t know who was picking her up,” said Pam. “You know as well as I do, people are already looking for a reason to blame me, turning me into one of those moms you people in the media seem to enjoy taking advantage of.”

“Pam, I’m sorry that you feel that way, but I would never portray you as an irresponsible mom. I’m at a loss for words right now.”

It never crossed my mind that Pamela, under any circumstances, would have perceived what I consider simply doing my job as a betrayal. Though this is a reminder to me of the inherent risks of getting too close to the people I’m reporting on. I’ll do any and everything I can to help her, but at the end of the day, it’s my job.

“That wasn’t my intention, Pam,” I said. “I’m sorry you see it differently, but I’ll have to leave it there.”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

I think we both recognized that we need each other. Our alliance, however fragile, may be the only way this case gets solved.

“Pam, I really need to talk to Yvonne, and I need you to go with me. I have some time this morning. Can you meet me at her house at ten-thirty?”

“I can’t; I have something to do. I’m taking Malcolm to counseling.”

“My heart breaks for Malcolm. I can’t imagine what he’s going through emotionally. But, Pam, we have got to follow up on this lead.”

“All right, let me see what I can do. Give me about an hour,” she said. “Will it just be you, or is a cameraman coming with you?”

“No, just me.”

“Okay, I’ll text you her address.”

*

No surprise—Yvonne’s house was located right where I’d been the night before. I made a U-turn and parked directly in front of the house. I looked for Pamela’s car. Even though I’d gotten a head start on her, in the back of my mind I kind of hoped she’d arrived early so we could have a chance to smooth things over. But her early arrival would probably have set off a whole new set of problems. The sight of her in the neighborhood would have led to a swarm of neighbors surrounding her, offering their sympathies and demanding to know what the police were saying. The attention could set off alarm bells. A reporter at Yvonne’s house . . . does that mean there’s new information? Is there a break in the case? What do they know about Masey’s killer?

As I walked around the car to the sidewalk, my gaze was initially fixed on the front door, but the sight of a man talking on the phone loudly as he emerged from the basement stairs caught my eye. We stared at each other. Pulling his cell phone away from his face, he asked in a suspicious and protective tone, “Can I help you?”

His pristine White Sox hat, slightly tilted to the right, concealed a portion of his face. He was definitely not a pretty boy. His features were strong, his face narrow. From what I could see, a perfectly groomed beard complemented his chiseled face. The long-sleeved thermal shirt he was wearing revealed a body not nearly as well groomed as his beard. He reminded me of a guy who played ball years ago who now leads a more sedentary lifestyle.

“Hi. I’m actually here to meet Pamela Alonzo,” I said.

“Pamela Alonzo don’t live here,” he said.

“I know. I’m meeting her here. I’m Jordan Manning from Channel 8.”

“Oh, you’re that reporter. Yeah, she’s upstairs. Go on up and knock on the door.”

That reporter.

“All right, thanks.”

I walked toward the house past two tricycles resting on their side in the grass. Along the walkway was a faded hopscotch chalk drawing that led to the porch steps. Yvonne’s house was by far the best kept on the block, a welcome sign of life in a blighted area neglected by an uncaring government and people’s desires to move out and move on, resulting in uninhabitable homes and buildings that should have been torn down a long time ago.

I see movement in the curtains covering the window near the front door. Whoever’s inside knows I’m here. Before I could knock, Pamela opened the door. She understandably has looked weary since the day I first met her, but today she looked especially worn down. The dark circles under her eyes had deepened and her hair was brushed back in a ponytail, frizzy edges framing her face, a shadow of the defiant woman who addressed the crowd at the vigil. There was no point in asking how she was. I already knew.

“Come on in,” she said.

I tried to make eye contact with Pam to get a read on how she was feeling after our earlier conversation, but all I saw was a mother at a breaking point. My search was abruptly interrupted by a jolt from a piercing scream.