Suitable for Framing

by Edna Buchanan

  Boys will be boys, I thought, sipping my soda and wondering if this one would show at all.

  He stepped up and turned the chair facing me around, straddling it. “What’s up?” he said, mimicking the moves of some suave movie hero.

  He was the shy, skinny kid among the raucous group from the video parlor.

  “So we meet again,” I said. “I thought it might be you.”

  He lifted an eyebrow and looked nonchalant, trying hard to be very grown-up. I flipped open my notebook.

  “I wrote the story about Jennifer Carey and her little boy.”

  The confidence faded from his shiny dark face.

  “She and her children were hit by the red Trans Am.”

  “I know who she is.” His voice was somber. “How is the lady?”

  “If she lives, she’ll probably never be the same. The police know that FMJ—Peanut—was driving. I understand he’s a friend of yours.”

  “I might know the dude, I wouldn’t call him a friend. I might know the dude,” he repeated regretfully.

  “Seen him today?”

  “No way. I don’t run with that crew.”

  “Oh? You and FMJ have a falling out?”

  “Look that motherfu—that dude’s crazy. I got no business with him, nothing to do with him.”

  We watched each other in edgy silence for a moment.

  “You said somebody was hanging some shit on me for something I didn’t do?”

  “You understand the felony murder rule?”

  “I’m familiar with that aspect of the law.” He licked his lips, looking beyond me into the mall. “But you could refresh my memory about it.”

  “Under Florida law, when somebody dies during a felony, like auto theft for instance, then all the people who were involved in that crime are guilty of murder. Even if they didn’t mean to kill anybody. An old lady has a fatal heart attack during a robbery, she’s been murdered. Somebody gets run over by a stolen car, it’s murder. Everybody involved shares equal responsibility.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Even if it’s an accident?” His voice was low, without bravado.

  “There are no accidents if a crime was in progress.”

  “Sheesh.” He sat motionless, digesting what I had said.

  “Everybody in the Trans Am could be charged with felony murder, even if they were just along for the ride.”

  His eyes looked hollow. “The big one,” he muttered softly.

  “The cops say J-Boy was the front-seat passenger.”

  He looked startled. “They know that?”

  I nodded. Suddenly he scrambled to his feet. I thought he was leaving.

  Instead he fished in his pocket. “You want another Coke? I’ll buy.” Though rail thin, he looked clean and neat. Somebody’s son. Why is nothing ever simple? He took my empty paper cup, dropped it in a trash can, and returned with two ice-filled soft drinks, plastic straws protruding from the top. This time he sat rigid in his chair, like a child in the principal’s office, a child in trouble.

  He spoke softly now, voice worried. “Peanut—FMJ—he bad news, he crazy, man; the dude is dangerous. I got nothing to do with him. Never should’ve.”

  “Why did he take the name FMJ?”

  His twisted smile was ironic. “Full metal jacket, the bullet he like to use. Hits hard, punch a hole right through a car. Don’t mushroom out.”

  I stirred my icy drink with the straw. “Why does he shoot people in the leg?”

  “He say he likes it. Nobody he shoots can chase him on one leg. He want everybody to remember his name. Bullet in the leg, it take a long time to heal, makes them remember him, and they don’t die.” His eyes inched up toward mine with a cynical expression. “He didn’t want no murder rap.”

  “I’d like to talk to him. Would you give him my number?”

  “I tol’ you, I ain’t gonna be seeing him. Count on that. And you don’t want to find him either. He’s cold. He likes to put a hurt on people.”

  “There was another passenger, in the backseat.”

  His stare was steady.

  “The police say there were three people in the car.”

  “Shouldn’t have happened, man. Shouldn’t never have happened. You don’t have to hurt nobody to take a car. Nobody has to get hurt. He don’t care, he’ll do anything.”

  “Was it you in the backseat?”

  His eyes darted around the mall. “Somebody say it was? I never said that.”

  Afraid he would bolt, I backed off. “Think FMJ is worried about Jennifer Carey, sorry about her little boy?”

  “Naw, shit! He think he cool. That’s why he FMJ now. Thinks he really bad. I told you, he’s cold. He’s cold.” He rubbed his hands together vigorously as though they, too, were cold. “Ain’t no need to take cars away from people,” he muttered. “You wait till they park it and gone. No muss, no fuss. No need to hurt nobody. But FMJ, he don’t care. He got nothing to lose now.”

  “How do you know it’s so easy to steal somebody’s car?”

  “Experience.” He puffed up a bit. “I can take me any car in no time—sixty seconds, less.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, unimpressed by his braggadocio. “What do they do with all these cars?”

  “Must have somebody somewhere who wants ’em for something,” he said vaguely, his expression suddenly that of a person late for an appointment. “Got to get going now.”

  “Isn’t your mom worried that you know FMJ?”

  He snorted a derisive laugh, stood as if to go, and I got up with him.

  “So how do I reach you?”

  “For what?”

  “I’d like to talk some more about what happened.”

  “Let me think about it. I still gotcher card, I’ll establish communication,” he said, hands jammed into his pockets as we rode the elevator.

  We had reached the pink parking level. “One more thing,” I said, as he turned to go.

  He stopped, apprehension in his eyes. “What’s that?”

  “You just don’t look like a Cornflake to me. What’s your real name?”

  “Howard,” he said. “You can call me Howie.”

  “That’s better. Thanks for the soda, Howie. Let’s stay in touch.” We shook hands. His felt moist and the motion was awkward. I went to my T-Bird without looking back, hoping he wasn’t still watching and wouldn’t see its new-car finish. Why am I so paranoid? I thought. He didn’t seem like such a bad kid.

  Back at the office there was news, and I quickly dialed Trish in the library.

  “Debbie Weston got a job at the Washington Post,” I told her. “She gave two weeks’ notice this morning. Move fast.”

  “I’m on it! I’m on it! Thanks, Britt! Thanks a million.”

  One more call and I could go home.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Where have you been, Britt?”

  “Working on a story.”

  She sniffed. “That’s why I called, Britt. A story.” She sounded peevish.

  “Oh? What kind of story?”

  “A positive one. Why are you always so absorbed by bad news?”

  I rolled my eyes and began clearing my desk, the receiver tucked under my chin.

  “You never want to hear any good news.”

  “Yes, I do, Mom. I love happy endings. They just don’t happen often enough.”

  “Maybe it’s because when somebody wants to tell you one, you don’t bother to return the call.”

  I pressed a thumb and middle finger against my closed eyes, gently massaging the lids. “What kind of story, Mom? Is it a fashion—”

  “Not exactly.”

  Why me? I wondered.

  “Unlike the kind of stories that you always—”

  “What is it?” I interrupted. “I was about to go home. If I hang around here too long something will happen and I’ll wind up working all night.”

  “You never hav
e time to listen.”

  “It’s not that, Mom, it’s just that I need to get out of here.” I stared at the air vents in the ceiling, envisioning poisonous PCBs raining down upon me. “I’ll call you from home.”

  “It’s about Heidi,” she blurted, “the new stylist who worked the fashion show yesterday. I may have mentioned to you that her car was stolen when she and her husband went out to dinner.”

  “And she got it back?”

  “Yes! When they arrived home the night before last it was in the driveway. Not only that—”

  “Oh, no.” I straightened up in my chair. “There was a note?”

  “How did you guess? From the thief, and it was so sweet. He left theater tickets. They went to the playhouse tonight—”

  “Mom! Call the police.”

  “What? Are you joking?”

  “Mom, I’m dead serious. Call the police. Do you know where Heidi lives?”

  “Why, no. What are you talking about?”

  I snatched the phone book. “What’s her last name?”

  “Britt, I have no idea. Wait, is it English, or is it Irish? I think it starts with an A. I’ll ask at our staff meeting tomorrow.”

  My head began to ache. I quickly explained. “Mom, try to remember! We can’t page her at the theater if we don’t know her name. And without her address, we don’t even know which police department to call, much less where to send them.”

  “Well,” she said comfortingly, “we don’t know that they’ll do it again. Maybe they were sincere this time.”

  I glanced at the clock. Most likely it was already too late. “Mom, you don’t understand. They’re being ripped off at this very minute.”

  “Well, dear.” The tone was chastising. “You really should have returned my call sooner.”

  Chapter Five

  Despite my frustration, I did sleep that night—for three hours. I was dreaming of fire, leaping flames, in blazing color and CinemaScope, when the claxons faded and the sirens stopped, forced out by a sound more persistent. So real was my dream that I groped for the phone, convinced that the call was a tip on some major out-of-control inferno and wondering whether I had remembered to stash my fire boots in the new T-Bird’s trunk.

  I expected the raspy voice of a fire department source or an editor. It was Rakestraw.

  “Britt, you awake?”

  The digital clock glowed in the dark: 3:15 A.M. I blinked.

  “Sure,” I mumbled. “I’m always up by now.”

  “Sorry, but you said you wanted to be in on any new developments.”

  “You got Peanut?”

  “You mean FMJ?”

  “Whichever.” I felt groggy. “You’ve got ’im?”

  “Nope. He’s pulled another Casper on us. But get used to seeing people on crutches.”

  “What?”

  “Two more carjackings tonight, drivers shot in the leg.”

  “So it was him. Why do you think he keeps doing that?” I croaked irritably, groping over Billy Boots for my notebook on the nightstand.

  “Maybe he aims for their heads but he’s a lousy shot. Could be he’s making a statement. Maybe he’s just a mean little bastard. Who the hell knows? But that ain’t all.”

  “What?” I switched on the reading lamp, squinting in the light.

  “The cars they took tonight. They’re using ’em.”

  “For…?”

  “I wondered why one was an old battering ram of an Olds, not like the hot new models they’ve been taking. That was it—battering ram. They hit the Jordan Marsh department store downtown. Backed it right through the glass front doors.”

  “Didn’t the alarm go off?”

  “Sure, but they’re not stupid. They know that after breaking glass activates the sonic alarm, it takes the security company three or four minutes to process it and notify the police. They also know that since alarm calls are ninety percent false, cops aren’t impressed. Hell, they’ll finish their coffee or whatever and take their time. Depending on where they’re at, it takes them five to fifteen minutes or longer to respond. These kids know they’ve got a window of eight to twenty minutes. They’re fast. They ran in and cleaned off the high-ticket racks. Loaded up all the most expensive shirts, pants, and jackets they could carry and hauled buggy, three carloads full. We got ’em in action on store security tape.”

  “Think you can round them up by morning?”

  “Hope to. Everybody’s looking, even the chopper. They shouldn’t be too hard to spot. We’re watching the warehouse districts and their neighborhoods. Want to come out and play?”

  I hate to turn down an invite from a source, especially a cop. Their love-hate relationship with the press runs hot and cold. Say no and he might invite somebody else, maybe a TV crew, and with my luck the big one would break.

  “Sure, I wasn’t doing anything anyway.”

  “Meet me at the station. If I have to leave, they’ll know where I’m at.”

  “Be there in twenty.”

  I hit the floor and snatched my trusty navy blue jumpsuit off the closet door where I keep it for middle-of-the-night emergencies. Of course, now that I was up, Bitsy pranced to go out and Billy Boots howled for breakfast, circling his empty dish like a shark.

  Too rushed to open a can, I shook dry cat food into a dish, debating whether to call Lottie. Why drag her out at the cost of a night’s sleep for something that might not be major? I decided.

  Bitsy whimpered at the door, excited and ready for adventure. She yelped and whined as I tried to slip out without her. I sighed and opened the door. “Come on.” We bounded out into the dark of night together.

  Rakestraw stood next to his unmarked in the eerily lit station parking lot, talking to a detective from juvenile. “What the hell is that?” asked the other cop, smirking down at the white toy poodle with a red ribbon in her hair.

  “As good a police dog as you’ve ever seen,” Rakestraw said. The other detective shook his head and walked off. “I used to work midnights with Francie,” Rakestraw said quietly. “I wondered if you still had her sidekick.”

  I had never wanted a small yappy dog, but her owner was my friend. Francie used to smuggle Bitsy onto the midnight shift in her patrol car. When she died in the line of duty, I inherited Bitsy. After action-filled nights spent chasing bad guys and taking prisoners, she probably finds her life with me boring, but if she can cope, so can I.

  “She’s no trouble,” I said. “It would have broken her heart not to come. If there’s a problem, we can follow you in my car.”

  “Wouldn’t want to break her heart now, would we? Come on.” I signed the ubiquitous release form, absolving the taxpayers from liability should I be killed or maimed, and we settled into the unmarked. Bitsy crouched on the floorboard, ears cocked to the police radio chatter, like old times.

  “She never forgot,” I said. “She’s still a police dog at heart.”

  Rakestraw didn’t answer. His eyes were sweeping alleyways and dead ends as we cruised the dark past the Edgewater, then past the apartment house where I had met Gilberto’s mother and sister.

  The warm, soft night blurred the city’s hard edges. I never cease to be fascinated by Miami’s mysterious netherworld.

  “Your story was all right,” Rakestraw said, the closest he has ever come to a compliment.

  My quotes from the mother and sister of Gilberto, aka Peanut, aka FMJ, made it unclear who had divulged his name to me. The woman’s only outrage was directed at the system that had failed so miserably when she sought help for a son who scared even her.

  “It’s good,” Rakestraw said. “The publicity will put heat on that judge who kept sending him home, and on the state attorney’s office to try him as an adult.”

  “Can’t try him till you catch him.”

  “Something’s gonna catch up with him—we will or lead will,” Rakestraw predicted. “If we don’t find him first, he’ll pick the wrong vic
tim and get his brains blown out.” He threw me a sidelong glance as we turned a corner. “The public defender’s office called the captain to ask if we had released his name to the media.”

  “They should know you wouldn’t do that,” I said. Jennifer Carey remained alive but unconscious. I hoped she would survive and testify against him. FMJ was growing into a bigger story. I couldn’t wait to interview him. I hoped it would be tonight.

  We cruised for an hour listening to the activity on the police radio. Bitsy snoozed, probably dreaming she was back on patrol with Francie. I yawned, glad I hadn’t awakened Lottie to wander the city aimlessly with us when she could be sleeping.

  “Where do you think they took the stuff?” I stifled another yawn. “Think they stole it on order or spur-of-the-moment?”

  “Some is probably for personal use, but they’ve obviously got connections, somebody with a store or space at a flea market. None of the cars they took have turned up. They’re not driving them, they’re stealing more. Somebody’s in business.” He squinted sideways. “Want to stop for a hit of coffee? You look like you could use some.”

  He must have read my mind. I did not look forward to work later. I knew I would run out of gas by late afternoon.

  This evening appeared to be a dud, but it gave me a chance to know Rakestraw better and develop him as a source. He swung east, toward the boulevard and an all-night coffee shop.

  The intercity frequency burst to life as we got out of the car: Miami Beach units involved in the high-speed pursuit of several westbound vehicles on the MacArthur Causeway. We froze, listening. The dispatcher reported about ten subjects in three cars fleeing a smash-and-grab at the Jordan Marsh on the Beach.

  “Son of a bitch, it’s them! They hit another one!” We piled back into the car and Rakestraw turned the key. “And they’re headed this way!”