Suitable for Framing

by Edna Buchanan

  “Even if you’ve done something more serious, deals can be worked out.”

  “How?” His voice was small, with a trace of hope.

  “You’re still a juvenile. If you weren’t the main player, maybe you’re more a witness than a guilty party. Maybe they would need your testimony.”

  “You mean be a rat.” His eyes burned.

  “It’s more like being a hero,” I said, “to help get FMJ and the adults who are dealing with him off the street. He’s dangerous. You say that yourself. He’s about to have a big birthday. The big one-eight makes him an adult, which means state prison. You don’t want to wind up like that. There have to be other options. Maybe I can find out something. Then we can talk about it.”

  “You won’t send anybody else here or hand me up?”

  “Hell, no. I’ll find out, then you can decide the right thing to do.”

  He nodded.

  I thanked him for the coffee. He walked me as far as the door to the stairwell. I left him standing alone, surrounded by the vast night sky. Two minutes later I emerged into a world of bright lights and canned music, a mall full of families and children, and happy shoppers and holiday decorations.

  Chapter Eight

  I felt like a mother hen. “The city can be treacherous,” I warned Trish. “This ain’t Kansas—or Oklahoma.”

  She stood at my desk, more color than I remembered in her face, holding her new Miami News ID card, just issued by security. Unlike most, her postage-stamp-size Polaroid was a good one. It was the megawatt smile that did it.

  “I know what it’s like out there,” she protested. Her eyes reflected the heady excitement of the newsroom, the nerve center of this big-city paper, with its spectacular view from massive bayfront windows, reporters at their word processors, editors clustered around the city desk, executives in their glass offices, and big overhead clocks ticking down to deadline after deadline, day after day.

  I knew how she felt I regularly realize how lucky I am to have this job.

  “Traffic is a bitch,” I told her. “Miamians are a hostile breed. They floor it to be first at a red light. Most are unfamiliar with North American driving habits. They’ve got guns, baseball bats, and short fuses. Sometimes it’s easier to bail out and hoof it. Leave press ID on the windshield and maybe the cops won’t tow it. Metro Rail would have been handy, if it went to the airport, the seaport, or the Beach—the places with the most serious parking problems. But it doesn’t. Thank our elected officials for that.”

  I pressed a good road map into her hands.

  “It’s easy to get lost,” I said in my most helpful schoolmarm mode, “so remember St Louis.”

  “St Louis?” She looked impatient, in a hurry to go out and tackle the world. I didn’t want her tackled first.

  “Streets, terraces, and lanes: S T L,” I explained. “In Miami they all run east–west. Everything else runs north–south.”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “Stay alert. Hey, we’ve had a couple of reporters robbed, one stabbed, another winged during the last riot Ryan here almost got his head bashed in.”

  Ryan looked up from his desk behind us, as though on cue, obligingly sweeping his chestnut hair off his forehead to proudly display his scar.

  “When a man gets hurt, the powers that be get over it. It’s an occupational hazard,” I told her. “But when a woman gets hurt, everybody looks bad. Her editor catches heat for sending her out there, and we risk being told that there are certain stories or assignments we shouldn’t handle.”

  Ryan smiled sweetly. I stared him down, and he turned back to his terminal. Socializing could come later. This spiel was important.

  “As you drive,” I told her, “watch the guys loitering on street corners. Especially the one with the paper bag in his hand. It could be a sandwich, a can of Coors, a brick, a rock, or a Molotov cocktail. Somebody sitting on the top of a bus bench is probably there to see inside passing cars, looking for a purse or something worth stealing.

  “Remember—”

  “I know, I know.” She grinned. “This ain’t Kansas.”

  Trish went to orientation and I drove to headquarters to see Rakestraw. A man on crutches lurched painfully out of the office, his face purple. “This is where our tax money goes?” he bellowed. He was mad as hell. So was Rakestraw.

  The wounded victim’s car and personal possessions were still missing, along with the gunman who had shot him. No wonder the man was irate.

  Rakestraw’s sour mood had another reason, a setback in the Carey case. Arturo, owner of the red Trans Am, had been unable to pick FMJ out of photo lineups as the driver.

  “Think you’ll still be able to make a case?” I asked, settling into a chair.

  “I’m hoping that when we finally pick them up, one of the other subjects in the car will flip and testify against him,” Rakestraw said.

  “So you’d make a deal?”

  “To nail FMJ, sure. We’ve got plenty of other robbery and agg assault charges against him, but the felony murder is the biggie.”

  “Have you ID’d the backseat passenger yet?” I thought I sounded casual, but Rakestraw was nobody’s fool.

  “Nope.” His shrewd eyes rose slowly from the reports on his desk to check me out. “You know something, Britt?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll let you know as soon as I am.”

  We then danced around a debate on where an unnamed hypothetical, salvageable street kid on probation could reside while finishing school. The Crossing was the best choice. A halfway house for troubled kids committed to straightening out their lives; for most it’s a last chance before being locked up.

  As I left the station, I was accosted by a tall grim man in the lobby. I answered his question before he asked it.

  “You want Detective Rakestraw,” I told him. “Second door on the right.” I am not psychic; his crutches were a clue.

  He hobbled in that direction.

  I was about to pull out of the parking lot when the driver of a rented Buick in the next space carelessly pushed open his door, bouncing it off the side of my brand-new T-Bird. I hate that and furiously rolled down the window to tell him so. Before I could, I saw the crutches he was awkwardly maneuvering, struggling to get out. I sighed, rolled up the window, and took off.

  I thought about Howie and the Crossing and discussed it later in a phone chat with Lottie.

  “How you gonna get him to go? You can’t just throw a net over him like a stray tomcat. That’s you, Britt, always picking up strays. It don’t work with bad-ass teenagers.”

  “That’s just it. He might be redeemable. He’s never had a chance, but he’s so self-reliant, living on his own the way he does. He reads the dictionary, for God’s sake. If he’d only read the definitions too, he might sound educated. But he tries. You haven’t met him.”

  “But I’ve seen his work.”

  “He probably was in that car,” I conceded, “but he wasn’t driving. Listen, we’ve all been in bad company once or twice, or in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Trish was assigned a desk in the last row, in the far back corner of the newsroom, but she was usually up front, near mine. “Where’s Britt, Jr.?” Ryan would ask when she was not. She would roll up the nearest empty chair and watch me work, asking questions, absorbing like a sponge.

  She wanted to know it all.

  “How do you handle victims and survivors? You always get so many wonderful quotes,” she said. “How do you approach them?”

  “It’s the toughest part of the job,” I replied, trying to dig a path through the clutter of notes, mail, printouts, and clippings on my desk. I tossed aside the obvious jail mail and tore open a neatly typed envelope. “Uh-oh,” I said. “Bad news from the Inspector Deity.”

  “Who?” Trish said.

  “Listen to this. ‘Please find enclosed a very important scientific announcement. The Inspector Deity regrets having to infor
m four billion-plus Homo sapiens that a terminal progressive planetary depletion of atmospheric oxygen is coming soon. Best regards, Emmett R. Merrill, M.D.’”

  “Good gawd,” Trish said. “I just got this job.”

  “I knew it felt close in here.” I stared up at the air-conditioning vents. “Where were we?”

  “Talking to victims.” She dropped her small hands into her lap in feigned despair. “I once tried to interview a woman whose husband was shotgunned in a stickup. She slammed the door on me and threatened to call the sheriff.”

  “It happens. And the TV wolf pack doesn’t make it any easier. The competition is fierce, and they usually wind up grossing out everybody you want to talk to. But it’s important because the survivors are the only ones left to speak up for a victim.”

  “How do you get them started?”

  “Well, not like the TV reporters who chase them asking, ‘How does it feel?’ You have to be gentle. Sometimes they start and can’t stop. I think it’s cathartic in many cases.”

  She hung on every word. “You know, Britt,” she confided, “I also lost my father as a kid, grew up without a dad. We’re so very much alike.”

  Personally, I doubted that the daughter of a Cuban freedom fighter and Miss Middle America shared much in common. But it was flattering that she thought so.

  We celebrated Trish’s first Miami News byline, a story on studies revealing that it would cost $80 to $90 million to enlarge the Miami Arena, somehow built too small just six years earlier at a cost of $53 million. Nothing like the farsighted vision of our elected leaders. The story, of course, revealed a problem to taxpayers but was a breakthrough for Trish.

  We toasted the occasion at the 1800 Club a few blocks from the paper. We even talked love lives that evening at a little table in the crowded semidarkness. I spilled my sad story about Kendall McDonald and how ethics and job pressures drove us apart.

  “Maybe it will all work out someday,” she said sympathetically.

  “It would be nice,” I said wistfully, “but unlikely.” A low tolerance for alcohol tends to make me feel sorry for myself after a drink on an empty stomach. “We still care about each other. In fact, when that incident with the rapist happened he was wonderful. I couldn’t have gotten through it without him. Just made me miss him more. We’re a perfect example of why you can’t mix business with pleasure.”

  She looked thoughtful. “But dating a source can be super convenient. Can’t hurt to have the inside track on your beat, especially when there’s tough competition.”

  “No way.” I shook my head. “Too risky. Tends to get complicated.”

  “So where do you draw the line?” Trish leaned forward, eyes serious.

  “When a relationship with a source begins to be fun and feel good—you stop.” I stared morosely into the light reflected in my glass. “The story of my life. It’s a bummer because the men you deal with on the police beat understand the hours, the pressures, and the deadlines. But they’re off limits. It’ll be easier for you,” I assured her. “You won’t be dealing with the same sources daily.”

  She smiled mysteriously, as sly as a cat with her paw in the canary cage. She’s keeping a secret, I thought. Must be a romance.

  The arrival of my club sandwich and Trish’s dinner salad interrupted. I would feel better after eating. “Did I tell you to watch out for Gretchen?” I asked, when the waitress had gone. “She’ll pace and lurk around behind you on deadline like some psycho killer. Don’t let her rattle you.”

  “Actually she’s been pretty decent so far,” Trish said. “Those clothes! She always looks gorgeous. I wonder where she has her hair done?”

  “Someplace we peons can’t afford,” I said. “There’s a beauty school on the Beach with cut-rate prices if you let the students work on you. The best part is, you don’t even need an appointment. It’s great. I’ll give you the address.”

  Trish studied my hair, not at its best at the moment. “Gretchen does look terrific,” was all she said.

  “Packaging lies.”

  Appetite whetted by her first byline, Trish had little patience with stories that were not major news. The following afternoon she was assigned the daily weather story.

  She peered over my shoulder at the story I was working on, human body parts found in the rubble of a downtown demolition site. The crew had failed to check the interior for vagrants before imploding the building.

  “Good gawd!” she said.

  “The guys on the work crews all claim they thought somebody else checked the interior,” I said. “It makes you wonder if anybody pays attention to what they’re doing anymore.”

  “And I’m stuck with the boring ol’ weather. It never changes: hot and humid with afternoon thunderstorms. When will I get something juicy to work on?”

  I hit the SAVE key. “Just wait. Some days weather is the biggest story in this town.”

  “When that happens you can bet they won’t give it to me.” She pouted. She wore a silky blouse that made her skin glow.

  “Pay some dues,” I said. “Nobody starts out a star.”

  “I know, you’re right,” she said. “Have you got the inside number for the weather service?”

  “In my Rolodex,” I said, returning to the demolition story.

  She flipped through the cards. “God almighty, Britt, you must have the unlisted numbers of every cop, politician, and muckety-muck in this town.”

  “Took years to collect,” I said.

  She ran her weather story by me, we polished it up, and she turned it in while I finished my story.

  Deadline was minutes away, and I had a few final calls to make. Two truckloads of rubble had been removed before the remains were spotted. Detectives with cadaver-sniffing dogs were at the county dump searching for body parts. I wanted to know what they had found and whether the medical examiner had enough for an identification. Trish sat at the next desk, reading a printout of my Sunday piece about the police pistol range, closed for renovation after poor ventilation caused the rangemaster to suffer lead poisoning.

  “Trish, would you check my voice mail for messages? It’s nine-one-eight-two,” I said, giving her my four-digit code as I dialed the ME office.

  She picked up a phone, punched in the numbers, monitored my messages, printed them out, and handed them to me while I talked to an investigator at the morgue. The wrecking company owner had returned my call.

  “Would you get him back for me?” I whispered, one hand over the mouthpiece. “Ask about their safety procedures.”

  She had already spoken to him by the time I hung up. “No comment, on the advice of his attorney,” she said.

  “I figured,” I said, “but it doesn’t hurt to try.” I wrapped up the story and got it in just under the wire.

  Later, Trish picked my brain about the local suicide hot line.

  “I’ve gotta do a feach,” she complained. “Sounds like a yawner.”

  “Reach Out? Always good human-interest stories there.”

  “Here’s hoping.” She winked, picked up a notebook, and headed out.

  I followed, minutes later. Reports of a sniper at an upper-floor window of a high-rise near county hospital, where the Interstate and the Dolphin Expressway intersect. At least ten shots fired. Police diverted motorists and closed off both highways, halting traffic for miles. The building, nearby offices, a motel, and about a square mile of city streets were being evacuated as SWAT moved in. I was halfway there when suddenly my scanner erupted. Several cops had been injured and were en route to the emergency room.

  The chaos on the air sounded as though they had been shot. I fought traffic, drove on the shoulder, and burst into the ER, heart pounding. The place was crawling with brass who had heard the same exchanges on their radios.

  A hospital staffer confirmed the officers’ arrival, saying only that their injuries were being evaluated. Then I saw Evie Snow show up and caught my breath. Sergeant Tully Sno
w, her husband, had to be one of the injured. I knew them both. Attached to the public integrity squad, he vigorously pursued police and political wrongdoers with an almost religious zeal. He’d worked his way up from patrolman to detective sergeant despite personal tragedy. He and Evie had four children. The youngest, a little girl, had died of leukemia two years earlier after a long history of remissions and relapses. Police medical coverage was good, but benefits for their little girl were exhausted long before her struggle ended. I had written about some of the fund raisers held to help defray expenses. The ordeal had taken its toll on both parents. This was the first time I had seen Evie since little Lynette’s funeral. Stressed and distracted, in jeans and a loose blouse, she was escorted into an emergency room cubicle. Had tragedy struck again?

  Sergeant Danny Menendez, the public information officer, appeared. “How bad are they? How many hit?” I said.

  He raised a hand. “It’s okay. No major damage. False alarm.”

  “What?”

  “There was no sniper. Turns out it was just medical students partying. One of them lives there. They were taking turns shooting a thirty-two caliber weapon off the balcony to celebrate passing some exam.”

  In the ensuing panic and confusion, two police cars had collided. Four cops suffered minor injuries, none serious enough to be admitted.

  “Somebody said on the air that they’d been hit,” Menendez explained. “Since they were on the sniper call, everybody assumed…”

  What a relief. False alarm, this time. I encountered Evie in the corridor outside the ER.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked, greeting her with a smile.

  “Fine,” she said, winking back tears. She had aged considerably in the few short years since I had last seen her. New worry lines were etched across her brow. How do police wives cope? I wondered.

  Before leaving the hospital, I checked on Jennifer Carey, whose condition had been upgraded. She was out of the woods but faced extensive therapy and might never walk again. New stories unfold every day, but hers haunted me. So did the whereabouts of FMJ. I called Rakestraw from the hospital’s community relations office. No arrest appeared imminent. Identical smash-and-grabs had gone down at department stores in Hollywood and Fort Lauderdale. Sounded like FMJ and crew had expanded their horizons.