and he wanted answers to why she had escaped and his boy hadn’t.
Forensics proved that Carson Whitlock had been Grubb’s fifth victim, brutally murdered more than two months before Annie was taken, but not found until after her capture. Those facts did nothing to sway Whitlock, who confronted Annie as she walked home from school one day, an act that earned him a restraining order.
Chapa had always been concerned about any lingering effect his story might have had on the young girl’s already damaged life. For years he had wanted to make it up to Annie Sykes. The guilt would rise up in him each time he was assigned a new story about Grubb.
Maybe Annie had forgiven him by now. The police certainly hadn’t. Though Chapa had used only those quotes that were on the record, some of the brass in the various jurisdictions involved with the case saw it otherwise.
There was some aggressive ass-covering involved, which always happens when a reporter breaks a story before it gets spun. And a bit of quiet embarrassment over the way a child helped break a case that had stumped the authorities for months. In time, police departments all over the Chicago area would turn on Chapa for questioning their investigation methods and describing, in detail, how they had failed to put together several significant leads.
No matter the cause, the results were severe. Chapa struggled, more than most reporters, to get any sort of information or even the most basic cooperation from authorities. For years he’d been routinely harassed at crime scenes. That simmering tension spilled over one night when the subject of an exposé he’d been working on assaulted him at a bar, and Chapa was the one who spent the night in jail. It was made clear to him then that he was on his own.
Sometimes Chapa missed the days before the Grubb story, when he was still carving out a career. Back then, his life, personal as well as professional, made a lot more sense to him.
Chapa was thinking about that time now as he drove to the Record ’s main office to do some research on Annie. He was lost in his thoughts of the past as well as his troubling visit with Michelle Sykes, but still noticed the green sedan in the rearview mirror. Chapa was almost sure it had been there since he pulled out of the Sykes’ neighborhood, some twenty minutes earlier.
CHAPTER 8
The green sedan was still there ten minutes and a dozen turns later. Most of those changes in direction had no purpose other than to prove Chapa’s suspicions. Though it figured that whoever was following him already knew where Chapa worked, he was feeling territorial, and wanted to lose this asshole before driving on to the Record .
Chapa switched off the radio right in the middle of a vintage Warren Zevon howl. He then turned a sharp left onto what he knew was a short street, followed by a quick right, then punched the accelerator. It was midafternoon, and traffic was light.
As he swung left and merged into the flow on northbound Randall Road, Chapa caught just a slice of green in his mirror. He’d left the tail back around the last corner. Maybe the driver hadn’t seen him. He kept looking back for about a half mile, but couldn’t make out if a green sedan was somewhere in the pack of cars lagging behind.
He turned off Randall a few streets sooner than usual, into a lazy residential area. For two blocks Chapa saw nothing but tree-lined asphalt in his wake. But as he pulled up to a four-way, he spotted the car casually closing in about a block and a half back.
Chapa drove through the intersection and past the next one, then pulled over. The green sedan slowed down, then paused before rolling through the first intersection and coming to a stop against the curb.
Whoever was driving that car had to be connected to Grubb, Chapa figured. Maybe it was the killer Grubb had told him about. The one who was stalking Annie Sykes.
Eyes locked on the busted side-view mirror, wondering what the other
Forensics proved that Carson Whitlock had been Grubb’s fifth victim, brutally murdered more than two months before Annie was taken, but not found until after her capture. Those facts did nothing to sway Whitlock, who confronted Annie as she walked home from school one day, an act that earned him a restraining order.
Chapa had always been concerned about any lingering effect his story might have had on the young girl’s already damaged life. For years he had wanted to make it up to Annie Sykes. The guilt would rise up in him each time he was assigned a new story about Grubb.
Maybe Annie had forgiven him by now. The police certainly hadn’t. Though Chapa had used only those quotes that were on the record, some of the brass in the various jurisdictions involved with the case saw it otherwise.
There was some aggressive ass-covering involved, which always happens when a reporter breaks a story before it gets spun. And a bit of quiet embarrassment over the way a child helped break a case that had stumped the authorities for months. In time, police departments all over the Chicago area would turn on Chapa for questioning their investigation methods and describing, in detail, how they had failed to put together several significant leads.
No matter the cause, the results were severe. Chapa struggled, more than most reporters, to get any sort of information or even the most basic cooperation from authorities. For years he’d been routinely harassed at crime scenes. That simmering tension spilled over one night when the subject of an exposé he’d been working on assaulted him at a bar, and Chapa was the one who spent the night in jail. It was made clear to him then that he was on his own.
Sometimes Chapa missed the days before the Grubb story, when he was still carving out a career. Back then, his life, personal as well as professional, made a lot more sense to him.
Chapa was thinking about that time now as he drove to the Record ’s main office to do some research on Annie. He was lost in his thoughts of the past as well as his troubling visit with Michelle Sykes, but still noticed the green sedan in the rearview mirror. Chapa was almost sure it had been there since he pulled out of the Sykes’ neighborhood, some twenty minutes earlier.
CHAPTER 8
The green sedan was still there ten minutes and a dozen turns later. Most of those changes in direction had no purpose other than to prove Chapa’s suspicions. Though it figured that whoever was following him already knew where Chapa worked, he was feeling territorial, and wanted to lose this asshole before driving on to the Record .
Chapa switched off the radio right in the middle of a vintage Warren Zevon howl. He then turned a sharp left onto what he knew was a short street, followed by a quick right, then punched the accelerator. It was midafternoon, and traffic was light.
As he swung left and merged into the flow on northbound Randall Road, Chapa caught just a slice of green in his mirror. He’d left the tail back around the last corner. Maybe the driver hadn’t seen him. He kept looking back for about a half mile, but couldn’t make out if a green sedan was somewhere in the pack of cars lagging behind.
He turned off Randall a few streets sooner than usual, into a lazy residential area. For two blocks Chapa saw nothing but tree-lined asphalt in his wake. But as he pulled up to a four-way, he spotted the car casually closing in about a block and a half back.
Chapa drove through the intersection and past the next one, then pulled over. The green sedan slowed down, then paused before rolling through the first intersection and coming to a stop against the curb.
Whoever was driving that car had to be connected to Grubb, Chapa figured. Maybe it was the killer Grubb had told him about. The one who was stalking Annie Sykes.
Eyes locked on the busted side-view mirror, wondering what the other
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