Suitable for Framing (10 page)

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 Snow, 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.

Where do you start to look for a teenager? When teen robbers killed a British tourist upstate, civil rights advocates accused the cops of being discriminatory and racist because they interviewed every teenager in the area. They would prefer, I suppose, that the cops question octogenarians about teenage crime. On the way back to the paper, I stopped at the Edgewater to look for Howie, wandered both levels, but didn't see him.

At the office, I stepped off the elevator into a newsroom alive with the excitement that every journalist senses instantly, a big story breaking.

“Hear what happened to Trish?” Ryan's face was serious, eyes concerned.

“No.” I held my breath. “Tell me she's all right.”

“She is. But wait till you hear the story she's got. Some woman killed herself, right in front of her.”

“No! She was working a story on the suicide-prevention line. What happened?”

A cluster of people at the city desk parted and I saw Trish at the epicenter, speaking intently to the editor in the slot.

Janowitz drifted away from the group and joined us. “Hell of a story,” he said admiringly. “She was doing a feach on Reach Out, listened to a call from a suicidal woman, heard the volunteer slough the woman off, took down the address, and went out there. Trish spoke to her, but before she can drive away, the woman hotfoots it out of her apartment, crosses the street, and goes up to the roof of an eight-story parking garage. Trish figures it ain't kosher, especially since the woman didn't drive a car and had talked about jumping. So she goes after her. Gutsy thing to do. Finds her alone on the roof, tries to talk her down, grabs her, but the woman wrestles away and does a full gainer. Close call. The woman could have taken her down too.”

I caught up with Trish as she left the city desk. Pale and slightly disheveled, she still clutched her notebook. “You okay?”

She nodded, face haunted. “It was horrible, Britt. I tried to hang on, but she was bigger than I am and so strong … I'll never forget her eyes.”

She brushed a hand across her face as though wicking away emotion and got down to business. “The desk wants a first-person story—with an investigative piece later on whether the Reach Out staff followed proper procedure and has adequate training and supervision.”

“They're usually on the ball,” I said, still stunned. “They save lives.”

“They sure as hell didn't save this one. Wish I could have.” Her voice cracked.

“Whatever you do,” I said quietly, “don't cry in the newsroom. Can you handle it?”

She took a deep breath. “I can, if you could sort of look over my shoulder. Never did a story like this one. It's tricky and I'm still a little wobbly. Will you help me?”

“Sure thing.”

The dialogue between her and the woman who died was chilling.
I will never forget a word she said as long as I live
, Trish wrote.

Life had not been kind to Magdaly Rosado, who had talked freely to Trish.

At forty, she had already been through hell without end. Her first husband was in prison. Her second abused her and fought bitterly with her only child, a son, now nineteen. She cleaned downtown offices while her husband drank and her son used drugs. The son wanted his stepfather to stop beating his mother. The stepfather wanted the son kicked out of the house.

Magdaly was caught in the crossfire. Her own mother had recently died; her ex-husband, nearing release, was writing threatening letters from prison; and the landlord had begun eviction proceedings because of noisy family fights that often involved the police.

As her world grew darker and more dangerous, Magdaly, treated for depression in the past, stopped taking her medication.

Trish said that despite a history of suicide threats both husband and son seemed stunned that she had actually done it. They were apparently among those who subscribe to the theory that people who threaten suicide don't mean it and the ones who do don't talk about it first. Wrong.

I pulled up a chair next to Trish's terminal and we worked together. “The volunteer said she was a regular; he had talked to her before,” Trish said. “He had sent her literature and referrals in the past. He was busy and figured she would be okay, but there was just something in her voice, Britt.” She bit her lip. “I felt scared for her, so I took the address and drove over there. Figured if she wasn't okay I'd find her some help, and if she was it would be a nice endorsement for Reach Out.”

She had found Magdaly alone and depressed. They talked, heart-to-heart. Magdaly had promised to seek counseling. As Trish sat in her car jotting some notes on their conversation, Magdaly emerged from her building, crossed to the municipal garage, and boarded the elevator.

“There was no time to stop and call anybody, and I thought maybe she had a legitimate reason for going over there. But I had to follow and be sure. By the time I got up to the roof she was sitting on the edge with one leg swung over the side. Nobody else was around; only the first four levels were full.

“I told her she had a lot to live for. She didn't buy it.” Trish's eyes glistened. “Too many people kept letting her down. All her life, I think. We talked for about fifteen minutes. I kept hoping somebody would come. But nobody did. That's when I grabbed her. If only I could have held on to her, Britt. I tried, but she just broke away and went. I ran all the way down eight flights. You should have seen her.” She shuddered. “Head smashed open. I never saw anything like that before.”

“I'm sorry you had to see it now.” I put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “You did everything you could.”

The story screamed to be read.

The copy editor even framed one of Trish's most compelling grafs inside a quote box:

“I begged her, but as I reached out, she simply stepped into space. I could see her eyes. She wanted to die. At the very last second she seemed to change her mind, but it was too late. She was gone.”

A powerful story, stripped across page one with a small photo and a thumbnail sketch of Trish.

It was the story everybody talked about the next day, including the radio talk-show hosts. The Reach Out counselor was dismissed, not for failing to answer the victim's cry for help but because he had allowed Trish to monitor a call that should have been confidential. Typical.

The furor would probably cost Reach Out what little funding it had, I thought, rereading Trish's story over breakfast the next morning. At the very least, it would cause a major shakeup in administration. Too bad somebody had to die before that happened.

I can deal with crank letters from total strangers. I resent them from my editors. The interoffice envelope in my mailbox had my name scribbled on one of the neat little lines outside.

The memo was to: The Staff; Subject: New Expense Report Form.

On and on it went, for a page and a half, in a pompous style and the cautionary attitude that a first-grade teacher would use on new recruits. “Allow approximately five weekdays for reimbursement, providing the report is not sent back to you for corrections.”

Given the waste of time and trees and the insult to intelligence, Gretchen's signature at the bottom was no surprise.

“Does she lie awake at night dreaming up things like this to torment us?” I asked Ryan, who was also grumbling.

Her arrogance added to the uneasiness that had plagued me since I awoke that morning. The unrelenting heat on the streets seemed to smolder that much hotter, knowing as I did that FMJ was out there somewhere, with nothing to lose, armed, dangerous, and fresh out of Prozac.

The call from Jason Carey did nothing to lift my spirits. “The baby's home from the hospital,” he informed me wearily. “She cries a lot and misses her mother, but otherwise she's doing fine. Jenny regained consciousness yesterday, but she didn't recognize me or her mom.”

The ache in his voice made me think of Magdaly Rosado, who literally threw her life away, while others, like Jennifer Carey, must fight to survive. If there is a God, I thought, he has a mean sense of humor.

“How are you?” I asked Carey. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

“I'm having trouble sleeping,” he confessed. “I think it's because I hate waking up, that first moment in the morning when I realize again that it's not a bad dream; it really happened. Jenny isn't here. Jason isn't going to go to kindergarten or grow up.”

Oy, I thought, wishing for some Prozac or a stiff drink myself.

“There is a victims' support group you ought to contact,” I said. My right eye began to twitch. It usually does that only when I am exhausted or talking to my mother. “It helps,” I told him. “And what about your family?”

“There is only one thing that will help,” he said quietly. “That's the reason I called. The police seem to know who is responsible but haven't arrested him. I'm afraid they've put the case on a back burner, that they'll forget.”

“Not at all,” I said. “The detective is good and very committed. They're working hard.”

“I've heard nothing for days. There hasn't even been anything more in the paper.”

“There have to be new developments,” I said.

“Do you think it would help to offer a reward? I could put together ten thousand dollars. Or should I use it to hire a private detective to go after them?”

I pressed my fingers against my eyelid as it did the rumba. “I don't know what to tell you, Mr. Carey.”

“Jason.”

“I know it isn't easy, but I would wait a little. Money attracts a lot of fakes and charlatans and predators. They smell it and come crawling out of the woodwork and from under rocks. You don't want to expose yourself to them or waste your time. I could see doing it if the police had no name and no leads, but they know who they're looking for. Same goes for a PI. The police have far more resources. It's only a matter now of one of them spotting him or stopping him for traffic or some other offense.”

“Why don't the police put his picture in the newspaper, on TV?”

“He's protected because he's still a juvenile, a child.”

There was a silence. “Jason was a child. This creature isn't.”

“You're right. I believe he will be eighteen this week, and I think that once they arrest him the state attorney's office will move to charge him as an adult. Save your money for medical expenses and Eileen's education. Give the cops a month, tops, to wrap it up. Then you can reconsider.”

He sighed and agreed.

Providentially, the next call was from Howie.

“Nice to hear from you,” I said. “Where are you?”

I guess he didn't like the sound of my voice. I feared for a moment that he'd hung up.

“Why?” the voice was low and wary.

“I really need to see you. I have some information you need to know.”

“Come alone,” he began, “and—”

“Forget the spy stuff,” I snapped. “You have to trust me. I'm your only friend, Howie.”

We met on Bayshore, the street that runs behind the Edgewater, between the vertical mall and the bay. A frisky breeze had picked up with what might be the first hint of fall. A good omen, I thought.

I drove over and saw him standing alone, near Morningside Park, on the bay. He looked stick thin but clean and neat in jeans, a Star Trek T-shirt and, high-top sneakers. I had been afraid he wouldn't show, but his face lit up when he saw me pull to the curb. I parked and fed the meter as he came loping across the street in long easy strides.

“Don't have to do that.”

“What?”

“Spend cash money on a meter.”

I blinked in the sunlight. “Yes, I do. My expense account doesn't cover parking tickets.”

“Man, you got an expense account? Cool.”

“Not so cool, twenty-two cents a mile.”

“That's it?” He looked offended. “They should give you a car to drive.” He fished something small out of his pocket, held it up, inserted it into the meter, and flipped the handle. It promptly registered, adding an hour to my time.

“What was that?”

“Tab off a Miller.”

“A beer can tab?”

“Yeah, some meters, you don' even need that. Jus' hit 'em in the right spot, buy you some time. Wanna see?”

“Some other time,” I said, glancing around to see if anyone was watching.

We walked, watching the bright sails of a Sunfish regatta bobbing out on the bay.

He seemed slightly taller than when I had first seen him. Maybe he was in a growth spurt. That happens with teenagers. His voice even registered at a somewhat lower pitch.

Though his body language was casual, his alert eyes took in everything: passing traffic, parked cars, purses, pedestrians, the wallet bulges in their pockets. Sociopaths do that. Their view of life comes from a different perspective. But so, of course, does mine. I am constantly tempted to warn careless strangers to be more cautious. Don't carry a purse in a way that asks to be dragged by a thief in a passing car. Don't leave that handbag in your shopping cart while you browse. Don't block the windows of small stores with posters that may obscure what is happening inside. Why invite trouble? It shows up often enough.

To give him the benefit of the doubt, Howie had probably picked up similar insight while surviving on the street. Maybe he was actually a budding reporter, not a predator. Many people swear they are one and the same.

“Look.” Howie tilted his head toward the corner. “Thought you'd wanna see it.”

Spray-painted graffiti covered the side of a vacant building that had once housed an Italian restaurant. The number ninety-nine scrawled inside a red circle with a line drawn through it. Ninety-nine is street jargon for the police. Interesting, but not as arresting as the larger display: F M J in gigantic black letters next to the number 784.

“Know what that means?”

“Yep.” The Florida State Statute for murder is 784. “Doesn't seem to worry him,” I said.

“He bragging on it. He be here last night.”

“You saw him?”

“No, but this in a buncha other places round here. Wasn't there yesterday. Probably all over town.”

FMJ was taunting the police. I wondered if Rakestraw had seen it. We walked back down to where we had met and sat on the seawall in the shade of a sea-grape tree. We could see Miami Beach across the bay, a distant pastel city shrouded in clouds.

“Do you know where they sell all the cars they steal?”

Howie was oddly forthright. “To whoever place the order. A dude in Hialeah'll pay a thousand for every '95 Camry XLE you can bring him. The juice man. Sweet deals on stolen wheels,” he chanted softly. “Won't buy from anybody eighteen or over. I could deliver six a day myself,” he bragged.

I smiled indulgently. Maybe FMJ was nearing the end of his career. Washed up at eighteen. “If you could, then why don't you?”

He shrugged. “I'm not greedy, like some dudes.”

Thinking of my T-Bird, I asked the expert, “What kind of car is most likely to be stolen?”

“One that is unoccupied.”

“Cute. Although not entirely true, with FMJ out there.”

“He always in a hurry,” Howie said. “Toyotas are easy.”

“Oh?” I said dubiously.

“Master key the big thing. Ain't nothing to cop master keys for Toyotas.”

“How?” I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“A lotta guys have a contact with a dealer. But actually”—he snorted—“when the key is worn down it'll get you in any Toyota. Jus' file it down a little on the curb, no problem. A-course, the older the Toyota, the easier it is.”

I cut my eyes at him.

“Want me to demonstrate?” he asked.

I laughed. “Nah. Want a hot dog?”

A street vendor with kosher red hots had set up shop half a block away. I hadn't had lunch.

He shook his head, looking a bit miffed.

“Be right back,” I said, slipping off the wall. “Wait here. I've got a lot to tell you.”

I trotted down the street and ordered up a hot dog with sauerkraut, relish, mustard, and pickles. I ordered two orange drinks, paid the man, grabbed a few extra napkins and straws, and glanced back toward the seawall. Howie was gone.

Shit! I thought. Did he really take off? I spilled some orange drink on my skirt as I rushed back to where we'd been sitting. He was nowhere in sight.

Then I realized my car wasn't either.

“Goddammit! Howie!”

I must have looked like the girl in
The Exorcist
the way my head swiveled around, frantic, hoping I was mistaken, that I had parked somewhere else. A car is stolen every nineteen seconds in this country. I knew that. But that car never belonged to me. Not only was my T-Bird gone, but a woman in a Chevy was backing into my space, with all that free time still on the meter.

That little bastard. What would the cops say? They'd get a big laugh out of this. I never should have dealt with Howie myself. I should have turned him in to the cops the first time I ever laid eyes on him.

How did he pull this off so fast? I checked my pocket, smearing yellow mustard on my white blouse in the process. I still had the keys.

My beautiful new T-Bird, not even five hundred miles on it. I'd never hear the end of this in the newsroom. What would my insurance company say? Especially after what happened to my last car. What would the credit union say? I had just received the payment book in the mail.

I loved that car. I left the hot dog and orange drinks on the seawall, my appetite gone, and stalked across the street to find a pay phone and call the cops. As I crossed, I scanned traffic, hoping to spot a police cruiser. Where the hell were they? Never around when you need them.

I reached the other side as a motorist leaned on the horn. Dammit. It wasn't even safe to be a pedestrian—which I was now.

The horn blared again and I spun toward the sound with murder in my heart. My car! My gleaming T-Bird rolled up to the curb. Howie grinned from behind the wheel. He lowered the window.

“Need a lift, pretty lady?”

“You little son of a bitch!” I screamed, as startled passersby stared. I dove at the driver's door, while Howie, laughing and raising his arms in mock defense, shifted over into the passenger seat.

I slid behind the wheel. “I'm gonna put your nasty little ass in jail! You … you … how the hell
could
you?”

His mouth opened in surprise, all wide-eyed innocence and righteous indignation. “You dissed me! That was a challenge! You was giving me the fish-eye like you didn't believe I could. What'd you expect me to do?”

“Look what you've done! This car is brand new!”

“All you gotta do is replace that little plastic collar round the steering column.” Earnest and persuasive, he didn't seem to understand what all the fuss was about. “That ain't nothing.”

I rested my forehead on the steering wheel, weak-kneed and shaky with relief.

“I didn't
take
it. I brought it back. It was jus' a little spin round the block. Come on, Britt. You know I wouldn't vic you. You challenged me.” He seemed astonished that I had taken offense.

I lifted my head, resisting the urge to bang it on the dashboard over and over. “Want an orange drink?”

“Sure.”

We retrieved the drinks, pulled into the cool shadow of the Edgewater parking garage, and got serious. “The cops need you to testify about what happened with the Trans Am.”

He looked grim. “You want me to be a rat.”

“Right. Because nothing you can do will make you a bigger rat than FMJ and those guys. No bigger rat than somebody who hurts women and babies. You're lucky the cops need you and are willing to make a deal.”

“That AK?”

“AK?”

“Actual knowledge. You know they would?”

“The detective on the case said so.”

He half turned in the seat. “You told 'im about me?”