Suitable for Framing

by Edna Buchanan

  Another look in the mirror told me I should go home and change, but there was no time now. I should have done that first. She was probably already in the newsroom, telling some outlandish story. At long last I reached the downtown exit, drove to the News, parked in my slot under the building, and skulked up the escalator, head down, hoping not to meet anyone. First stop was the ladies’ room. I washed my face, did a neater job of pinning the front of my blouse together, then tried to scrub the stain off the collar. My nose oozed blood and a dark bruise was emerging on my cheekbone. My right arm was also scratched. I dabbed on peroxide from the first-aid kit in my locker.

  I stepped into the newsroom, half expecting bells and whistles to go off, sounding an alarm. Everyone looked busy, as usual. To my relief, Trish was not at her desk. Perhaps she hadn’t come right back to the paper. Maybe it was my move. Dread in my heart, I went to Fred’s office. It was empty.

  That was when I saw them gathered in the managing editor’s office. The afternoon news meeting. Shit, I thought, frustrated and eager to confess. It was that time already. They had just started, and the damn things often lasted an hour or more.

  I certainly wasn’t going to intrude, bouncing in there as they evaluated the world news of the day, with my bulletin that two of their reporters had just made spectacles of themselves by smacking each other around in front of half the police department, an organization whose morale and professional behavior we constantly monitor and criticize.

  I had to corner Fred privately after the meeting broke.

  Hands trembling, I sat at my desk trying to look busy as I watched for Trish and stayed poised to catch Fred when he emerged. Time moves so fast on deadline, yet now it dragged.

  “Britt, what happened to you?” Ryan froze in his tracks.

  “Shut up and sit down,” I muttered. “Did you get mugged?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” I said cryptically, keeping my voice low. “Say nothing. I’ll fill you in later.”

  Last thing I needed was a bunch of nosy reporters crowding around my desk demanding details before I had covered my ass with the boss. Where was Trish? I wondered. She might have beaten me to Fred by phone.

  Budgets and notebooks in hand, editors began to drift out. But Fred was still in there. The managing editor was on the phone, then he handed it to Fred. He showed no sign of coming out. Deep in discussion, they signaled the city editor to join them. All three glanced out into the newsroom several times, but I couldn’t discern if they were looking at me or not.

  Minutes later Mark Seybold, the paper’s in-house lawyer, hurried into the newsroom, joining them. There seemed to be a flurry of excitement as the publisher also appeared. Murphy’s secretary, Estelle, was summoned to the door, then emerged, an odd expression on her face.

  My phone rang and I snatched it up impatiently. It was Estelle. “They want to see you in the managing editor’s office, right now.”

  “Did they say what it’s in reference to?” I asked, feigning innocence.

  “You’d better get in there,” she said, and hung up.

  I dabbed at my still-oozing nose, stuffed some extra tissues in my pocket, and got to my feet. Face flaming, feeling as though all eyes were focused on my disheveled person, I walked into the office.

  Grim faces told me I was about to be fired.

  No one spoke. The managing editor motioned to an empty chair in front of his desk. The others were sitting and standing on either side of me.

  I had wanted to speak only to Fred, in private. I was so ashamed. I never intended to embarrass the paper.

  I took a deep breath. “I wanted to tell you first,” I said, directing my remarks to Fred, who sat in a leather-covered chair to my right, his back to the picture window. Late-afternoon sun shone blood red on the water behind him. A pelican soared by, precariously close to the face of the building.

  Primly I arranged my skirt over my knees.

  “I assume this concerns what happened with Trish.” Their eyes were grave. “All I can say is that I never intended for it to happen. I’m really sorry. She provoked me beyond belief.”

  This is worse than I expected, I thought, studying their faces. What the hell had she told them? Mark Seybold, wearing his navy tie covered with little locomotives, held up one hand like a traffic cop.

  “Britt, I don’t think you should say any more. The police are downstairs and want to talk to you. I would advise you to retain counsel. I can’t represent you.”

  I cocked my head to one side as though I hadn’t heard right. “What are you talking about?”

  “Trish’s death,” he said. “The police say it’s murder.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Trish’s death left me speechless. Detectives David Ojeda and Charlie Simmons from homicide asked me to accompany them back to their office to “help us piece this whole thing together.”

  “What happened? Is it a whodunit?” I asked. They seemed to be thinking that over. “Do you have anyone in custody?”

  Simmons glanced at his partner and shook his head.

  I stared at the floor, avoiding the prying eyes of my colleagues as we walked across the newsroom toward the small lobby where the elevators are located.

  We all looked up at the sound of someone running. Lottie came dashing full tilt down the hall that stretches the length of the building. She hit the brakes when she saw us. The news had spread with the speed of light. The expression in her honest brown eyes made me painfully aware of how all this must look.

  “Britt!” Breathless, she focused on me, ignoring them. “What do you need me to do?”

  “No sweat. It’s okay.”

  “Should I call anybody?”

  Who to call? I wondered. My mother was the only person I could think of, and I certainly didn’t want her upset.

  “No, thanks, Lottie. I’ll call you later.”

  Ojeda was waiting, impatiently holding the elevator. We left her standing there, right hand outstretched, biting her lip, poised for action, uncertain what it should be. As the doors slid shut I glimpsed Onnie, her face frightened.

  This entire situation, which could be cleared up easily, had unnecessarily upset my friends, I thought, annoyed.

  The detectives’ unmarked waited on the ramp in front of the building.

  “Shouldn’t I take my own car so I have a ride back?”

  “We’ll see that you get back,” Simmons said casually.

  What frustrated me most during the ride was their innocuous small talk. I had no interest in the state of some quarterback’s shoulder or the retirement plans of a coach. I wanted to know about the case, to quiz them about what had happened, fill them in on Trish’s background, and speculate on who did it. If anyone had. Could she really be dead? Murdered? It strained belief, as though the past few days were a demented dream.

  Trish invaded our thinking, was paramount in our minds, yet they refused to mention her. When I asked direct questions, they were evasive, saying only that we could discuss it later, at their office.

  We settled in a drab interrogation room located just off the fifth-floor homicide bureau. No hanging posters or bright tablecloth like they had for Howie, I thought.

  I sat at a wooden table, my back to the wall. Ojeda leaned against the door. Simmons occupied the chair opposite me. I knew them both, had written stories about a number of their cases. Ojeda, mercurial and clever, was inclined to make snap decisions and was often too quick to make assumptions. His loud ties seemed out of character for a man in his line of work. His hairline was receding, his mustache fierce, his smile knowing.

  Simmons stayed in good shape, looked and acted younger than his late forties, and had an uncertain marital status. Sometimes he appeared domesticated and wore a wedding band. Other times he did not. I had never been curious enough to ask if he was often between wives or involved in a single stormy on-and-off-again marriage.

  At the moment Simmons wore a wedding band and
a veiled expression I had never seen before.

  “You know we want to talk to you, Britt, but we have to advise you of your rights.”

  Yikes, I thought, what is wrong with these guys? Are they in the wrong ballpark on this one!

  He gingerly slid a sheet of paper from a manila folder. “I have the standard form right here.”

  “Charlie,” I said, my smile impatient, “all that’s not necessary. We’ve known each other for years; we can talk.”

  Ojeda stirred but said nothing.

  Charlie grinned casually and tossed up his hands. “You know how it is, Britt. Procedure.”

  I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. “Okay, okay, I know my rights.”

  “Well, now.” He shrugged, like a man being nibbled to death by minutiae. “I have to go through this whole damn thing line by line.”

  He read them, explaining every facet in excruciating detail, as though to a first-grader, enunciating the fact that I had the right to remain silent, that everything I said could and would be used against me in a court of law, that I had the right to have an attorney present.

  “I’ve been advised to get an attorney,” I commented.

  He sighed. “If you think you need one.”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “So you want to sign the waiver and talk to us?”

  “Sure, if that’s what it takes to clear this up.”

  “If, at any point, you think you need an attorney, I am obliged to stop everything and accommodate you. You need not make any statement if you do not wish to do so.”

  Why did I get the feeling that all this was recitation by rote, like a little poem learned for Sunday school?

  “Come on, come on!” I said. “Let’s do it and get it over with.” A moment of hesitation nagged as I signed. Was this the right thing to do? A lawyer would certainly advise against it, but that was for the guilty, those with something to hide. Not me.

  I checked the NO box next to the question: Do you wish an attorney? And YES after: Are you now willing to answer questions without an attorney present?

  Ojeda placed a wooden chair near the door and took a seat. Charlie remained directly across from me.

  “You using any drugs?” Ojeda asked.

  “Me?” I yelped. “No way. You know better.”

  “Under any medication? Pills?”

  “The only pills I take are vitamins,” I snapped.

  “A lot’s been going on in your life recently,” Charlie began sincerely. He sounded like a shrink or somebody’s pastor.

  “Yeah, everybody’s been talking about your escapade over at the Mayberry house,” Ojeda said with a smirk.

  Oh, God, I thought. “Come on, guys, don’t go into the good-cop bad-cop routine. I know that act too well. This whole thing is ridiculous! By the way,” I added, “that was not ‘my escapade.’ It went down the way it did because of Trish.”

  “It was her fault?” Simmons said sympathetically.

  In retrospect I realized how that sounded.

  “What led up to this beef between you two?” Ojeda asked.

  “You have to understand the sort of person she was.”

  “Tell us.” Charlie looked deeply interested.

  I knew better. But when in doubt, tell the truth. So I told them the whole thing, left nothing out.

  Ojeda nodded, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, armpit stains exposed. “So you been having your friend, an investigative reporter in Chicago, check her out?”

  “To learn what made her tick, what there was in her background, so I could figure out how to deal with her.”

  “So you two weren’t friends?” Charlie asked.

  “No,” I said quickly.

  “Ever been to her home?”

  “Once,” I said reluctantly. “An oceanfront condo on the Beach. But I’m not sure if she was still living there. She may have moved. She was house-sitting. We had dinner.

  Charlie nodded solemnly. “So you were friends but had a little falling out?”

  “We never got to be really close friends.”

  “And you believed she was after your job?”

  “That was obvious.”

  “And it upset you that she was winning a lot of attention, making a big splash, so to speak.”

  “At the expense of others, she was preying on vulnerable people. That’s what I objected to.” I swiveled in my chair, directing questions at Ojeda, hoping he’d say more than Charlie. “How was Trish killed? What happened? Where was she found?”

  He sniffed noisily and deferred, gesturing to Charlie, who said, “We’re getting to that, Britt. But first we want to know everything you did today.”

  I sighed. “I was here for several hours at the station, down in auto theft, on that arrest in the McCoy case. I met Trish on the way out.”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  I told them.

  “Who was there at the time?”

  “I saw Officer Gravengood and his partner, Hancock. There were a few K-9 officers, motorists driving by, and Lord knows who else watching out the windows of the station. I think I saw a few detectives going in the back door. From the public integrity squad, I believe.”

  “What did you do afterward?” Charlie said.

  “Sat in my car for a few minutes, embarrassed as hell. Then drove around for a while. Probably close to an hour or so. Then I went back to the News. I wanted to talk to my editor. Tell him my side of the story.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “They were tied up in a news meeting.”

  “You didn’t think this was important enough to interrupt or send in a message?”

  “You don’t interrupt the news meeting—unless somebody shoots the president, the Space Shuttle blows up, or World War Three breaks out.”

  Ojeda pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow, looking duly impressed. “Anybody you know see you doing all that driving around?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “When did you see Trish Tierney again after the altercation in the parking lot?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

  “I see.”

  The detectives swapped glances, and Ojeda jerked his head toward the door. They stepped outside to confer while I tapped my foot impatiently.

  “Would you do us a favor, Britt?” Charlie stuck his head back into the little room.

  “Sure,” I said eagerly.

  “We’d like to take the clothes you’re wearing.”

  “What?”

  “A formality. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “How?” I pictured myself huddled in that chilly little room in a bra and panties.

  “One of us will drive you home, a policewoman will go inside with you, and you can change.”

  “Fine.” By that time I was eager for anything to escape that little room, get them off my neck, and have them acknowledge that they had been barking up the wrong tree.

  Before we left, Ojeda wanted something else. “One more thing, Britt. Did you—uh, wash up after your altercation this afternoon? We want to take a scraping from under your fingernails and a few pictures of your injuries.

  Oh, God, I thought. They’re wasting precious time while the killer gets away. But I’d gone too far to say no now. If I did, it would look as though I had something to hide. I described my visit to the rest room, when I had arrived back at the paper, but agreed to whatever they asked.

  A crime-scene tech came up with a camera, took the scrapings, and snapped pictures of my scratches and bruises. I felt so stupid. Like the two detectives looked. Unless they got out and went to work, the killer’s trail would be cold.

  Charlie waited in the car while a black detective named Marcia Anders and I went into my apartment. I was glad that Mrs. Goldstein didn’t seem to be home. I took Bitsy out for a few minutes and quickly changed into a gray sweat suit and Reeboks
as the detective, a star pitcher on the policewomen’s softball team, watched from the doorway. How like Trish to cause me this humiliation. I also felt an odd sense of regret. She was too young to die, too beautiful and talented. The mystery of who she was and why might never be solved now, even if her murderer was caught. As Anders grew impatient, I fed the animals; there was no telling how late I’d be.

  The detective had placed the garments in large separate paper bags and was filling out labels.

  I took a burger from the freezer and put it in the fridge to thaw for later.

  We returned to headquarters and our former positions in the little room.

  Charlie licked his lips and slid another paper from his folder. “Now, according to this incident report, you are quoted as telling Ms. Tierney, “I could wring your neck.”

  Both watched me expectantly.

  I thought carefully. “As I recall, I said something to that effect. I was provoked, big-time.” My stomach churned uneasily. “I didn’t know an incident report had been made.” Actually, it was not surprising. Reporters constantly scrutinize cops. I could see where a cop would take joy in making a report on fisticuffs between two reporters.

  “Gravengood thought it behooved him to do so,” Ojeda said. He chewed the inside of his cheek. “You familiar with Commodore Park, over on the Miami River?”

  “Sure. The lover’s lane where those two kids got shot back in ’eighty-one.” Teenage sweethearts attacked by some weirdo. The boy died, the girl survived, the weirdo got life.

  “Precisely,” Ojeda said. “Did you have occasion to see Ms. Tierney there after assaulting her in the parking lot?”

  “No! Is that where you found her?” He nodded.

  “Look,” I said, annoyed. “I’ve cooperated fully. You’re wasting time, blowing the investigation and letting the real killer get away!”