Suitable for Framing (22 page)

“I saw the story in the paper.”

“What a crock.” He shrugged in disdain. “Don't believe half of what you read, and take the other half with a grain of salt.”

I raised my eyebrows. “They got it wrong?”

“As usual,” he said. “They just write what they want. All that crap about the reporter who followed her up there, tried to talk her out of it, tried to stop her.” He looked knowingly at me. “All bullshit.”

“How so?” I affected my best puzzled expression.

“I seen 'em come outa the building together, arm in arm, walk across the street, get on the elevator. I figured they was going for a car, but the elevator went straight to the top. Nobody parks way up there. I thought maybe the elevator was malfunctioning again. I started up, but before I could even check, here she comes over the side.
Whap!
”

I winced as his palms came together, simulating the sound of flesh meeting pavement.

“The other one, the reporter I guess, steps off the elevator a minute later, dainty as you please. I can tell you, they didn't have no big discussion like that stuff on the front page. Bullshit. They wasn't up there thirty seconds before she broke the law of gravity. Or proved it.”

“I thought the reporter said she ran down the stairs.”

“Guess that looked better in print.”

“Was she upset when she got off the elevator?”

“Nah. Looked around, cool as a cucumber. Took her time strolling to that pay phone right over there.”

“Did she see you?”

“Evidently not, judging from what she wrote.”

“Did you give a statement to the police?”

“Nah.” He looked sheepish. “I hadda go down to the garage on Tenth Street. You gotta check in, punch a clock at every building on schedule. You get involved with the police, you screw up the whole shift, hafta write reports. It ain't worth it. I got trouble enough trying to write these time sheets. Got rheumatoid arthritis. That's why I hadda give up a better job to move down here.”

He must have seen reproach in my eyes.

“If it woulda done her any good, I'da stayed. But it wouldn't've brought her back to life.”

“What do you think really happened up there?”

He shrugged. “Musta took a running leap soon as they got there.”

“Think it could have been foul play? That she was pushed?”

He looked shocked, totally taken aback at the suggestion. And the man's chosen profession is security, I thought.

“Why would somebody do that? Only one up there was the reporter. Cute little thing, she wouldn't be capable … Why would she do that?”

I wrote down his badge number and the name off the metal plate pinned to his pocket

There was no place else to go, then, but home. I dreaded it but found two surprises waiting: Lottie and Onnie, sharing a cup of tea with Mrs. Goldstein in her apartment. They opened the door and called when they saw me inserting my key in the lock.

“Where the hell were you?” Lottie hugged my neck.

Onnie did too. “You okay?” she murmured. “Sorry about Howie.”

“Me too,” I gasped, and began to weep, big choking sobs. I had wanted to be alone, but warm, caring friends were a comfort.

The concern in their faces touched me. Mrs. Goldstein, pushing eighty and born in the Ukraine. Onnie, a thirty-year-old Miami-born black woman, tall and angular with skin the color of burned toast Lottie, tough and Texas born, with her cowboy boots and frizzy red hair. And me, of course, the daughter of a martyred Cuban freedom fighter or executed political terrorist depending on where you stand. What a group we are, I thought. Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. I'm lucky to have them.

They had brought pizza, a fragrant pie stashed in Mrs. Goldstein's oven. “We got your favorite, extra tomatoes and fresh mushrooms,” Lottie said.

My stomach churned. No way could I eat anything, but I was glad they were there.

We trouped to my apartment Lottie carrying the pizza. Mrs. Goldstein stayed behind to wait for her husband, who was off on an errand.

It didn't help my remorseful state of mind to see Howie's possessions still in cardboard boxes in my living room.

“Want me to get rid of those for you?” Lottie said quietly.

“No!” I said, indignant. “Those are all his belongings.”

“I was there, Britt. I helped you pack 'em. There's nothing of value.”

“I'll think about it later.”

I numbly sipped coffee while they ate the pizza and drank lite beers. Lottie swigged hers from the bottle while Onnie sipped primly from a glass. “I know you'll think I'm crazy,” I began. “And if you repeat any of this, I'll be fired.” Then I told them everything.

They exchanged dubious glances several times.

Maybe they didn't believe me, but hopefully they gave me the benefit of the doubt. I saved the security guard and Miguel for last.

“They could be lying,” Lottie said. “Miguel to save himself and the guard just to hear himself talk. If he saw a phony story in the newspaper, why didn't he call and ask for an editor?”

“He doesn't have a clue about journalistic ethics or how a newspaper operates.”

“If all you suspect is true,” Lottie said slowly, “then Trish has been monitoring and erasing your messages.”

“How could she? The system's pretty tight,” Onnie said.

“Unless you made your four-digit code something real easy to guess, your date of birth, your phone number, or your address,” Lottie said. “A lotta people make the mistake of doing that 'cause it's easier to remember.” They both watched me expectantly.

“Worse than that,” I said. “I was never careful. Hell, she sat next to me, hanging over my shoulder half the time. I trusted her. I think I even asked her to retrieve messages for me a couple of times when I was on deadline.”

They groaned.

“Who'd have thought,” I said.

“You've changed it?” Lottie said.

“Yeah.”

“Change it again,” she said. “To think,” she added, “I was mad as a yard dog for a while, wanted to bite myself, 'cause you and Trish were so thick. Thought I'd lost a friend.”

“I'm not that easy to lose.” I remembered how bitchy she'd been.

“I thought I had a choice piece of gossip,” Onnie said, eyeing the last piece of pizza, “but you're a hard act to follow.”

“Tell us,” Lottie demanded.

“It's said that Trish slept with Abel Fellows to land the newsroom job.”

“What? I warned her about him! Told her he'd come on to her if he had the chance.”

“Maybe she used that information to her advantage. He apparently boasted to a buddy about it.” She looked coyly from Lottie to me. “Sheila, from personnel, confirmed that he's the one who recommended her hiring.”

“I thought it was me, pushing her to Fred Douglas.”

“Either way,” Onnie said wryly, “you helped her into the newsroom.”

“And look what she's done,” I said, thinking of Howie. “That bitch.”

“May her bones be broken more than the Ten Commandments,” Onnie said, and lifted her glass.

“Proves what I always say,” Lottie muttered. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

She excused herself to visit the bathroom and returned swinging a shimmery silver chain. “Where'd you git this, Britt? Found it on your bureau.”

“What is it?” Onnie turned from the microwave, where she was zapping the last slice of pizza.

I sighed. “Toss it in the garbage. It's supposed to be a dream catcher. My life's been a nightmare since I got it. A Comanche friend of Trish's made it for her.” I caught the circular pendant with its silver feather, then passed it over for Onnie to examine. “She gave to me when she got hired. It's one of a kind.”

“Hell, no, it ain't!” Lottie said. “I just wondered when you started shopping by mail too.” She is addicted. “I see these in them New Age catalogs all the time, from two or three different mail-order houses. Sell 'em by the thousands. But it ain't Comanche. It's Ojibway. Hell, she didn't even get the tribe right.”

I watched them as they left, wondering what they would say about me on the way home. My best friends in the world. Did they believe me, or were they measuring me for a rubber room?

I called Officer Annalee Watson from home next morning. She was not in, but she got back to me in a few minutes.

“How can I help you?” Her tone was distant and not at all helpful.

“I wondered how the twins were doing.”

“Fine. HRS has left them in the custody of the mother and grandmother, but they're under the supervision of a social worker and Janice has to attend parenting classes. Don't know how much she'll retain. She may have her tubes tied.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“Is that all?” She sounded decidedly cool.

“No, actually it isn't. I wanted to ask why you didn't call me when the twins were found.”

“I did,” she shot back, annoyed and defensive. “I was surprised you weren't interested. The day before it seemed like you were.”

“I was. What gave you the impression that I wasn't?”

“I called you, left a message, and was about to dial your beeper number when the other reporter, Trish, returned the call. She said you were too busy on another assignment and had asked her to handle it.”

“That wasn't true. You're sure you called my number?”

“The one on the card you gave me,” she said impatiently.

“Didn't you find it odd that somebody else returned the message?” My messages obviously had been monitored.

“No,” she snapped, “you both work for the same paper. Look.” She lowered her voice. “I shouldn't even be talking to you.”

“Why not?”

“You wouldn't win any popularity contests around here at the moment, if you catch my drift.”

“I don't.”

“I mean, I'm gonna take a lotta crap, anybody hears me talking to you. Your little escapade, trying to help a cop killer get away. Everybody's talking about it.”

“What?”

“Doesn't enhance your reputation as a reporter.”

“Officer Watson, the kid was a passenger in the car that day and never had a gun. He wanted me to help him surrender. That's what I was doing when somebody, probably the same person who's been sliming me, dropped a dime and we were surrounded. He was a valuable witness who could have helped put the cop killer in the electric chair.”

“Well, the word is out that a cop jilted you and now you're a woman scorned with a hard-on for law enforcement.”

“Good grief! I used to see a police officer, sure. The conflict in our jobs is what keeps us apart. We're still good friends. Before you form any opinion, please ask some police officers who know me, who've dealt with me in the past.” I took a deep breath. “I don't think you really believe these rumors or you wouldn't have tipped me off about them. Thanks for being up front with me.”

She paused. “I know what it's like,” she said quietly, “working in a male-run organization. And there's no busier gossip mill than a police department. I've been a target myself. When they can't attack a woman any other way, they attack her sex life. Hang in there. I've gotta go.”

Not only had my messages been monitored, erased, and returned without my knowledge, some might have been added. What about the unusual number of false leads and wild goose chases I had been wasting my time on lately?

I thought about skipping the rounds on my beat for a few days or so, to let things blow over, but nasty gossip, like a virulent weed, spreads like wildfire if ignored. The most effective damage control would be to act natural, show my face, and go on as usual. Hiding out, running for cover, makes you look guilty as hell.

At least, thanks to Annalee Watson, I knew what was being said about me. I put on my favorite blouse, peach-colored with tiny matching pearl buttons, and even applied some eyebrow pencil and mascara, unusual for me to wear to work. Nothing like cosmetics to build a little confidence—armor painted on to deflect the meanness in the world. Like a good soldier on the way to the front, I drove to Miami police headquarters.

As usual, all but the handicapped slots were taken. I circled the T-Bird like a vulture until somebody backed out, then zoomed into the space.

Rakestraw was in the lobby. He spun around and headed my way when he saw me. He looked sharp and eager. “Britt, I was just thinking about calling you. Hopefully we'll get a break today.”

“FMJ?”

“We're hoping. It's a long shot.”

“You know where they are?”

“Not exactly, but word on the street is that they need money to get out of town. A CI we've got in a chop shop is cooperating. Ain't too many 'ninety-one Allantes around.”

“True, I guess.”

“Well, they put out word they need one pronto, and there's a bonus for whoever comes up with one first.”

“So?”

“We got us three of 'em. We're parking 'em in plain view in areas where they hang out, where we hear they've been seen.”

“Staking them out?”

“Yeah, but just in case, we've got us a brand-new toy, a monitoring device.”

“Like the Lojack?”

“Only more so. It's a silent system that will track them down without fail. We've got one, plus a hidden antenna, in each car. Every three hours or so, we move 'em to a different spot, hoping to catch their eye.”

I had doubts about this part. “What if FMJ passes by, spots one on the move, and decides to take it then?”

Even his mustache hairs seemed to bristle. “Don't jinx us, Britt. They're under surveillance while they're moving, and Metro undercover detectives are the drivers.”

“How come they're involved?”

“These kids are street-smart; they know too many of our people.” He looked worried. “FMJ can smell trouble, so we have to be careful not to hang in too close on the surveillance.”

Sounded dangerous to me. “How does the device work?”

“Land-based tracking system.”

We were interrupted by Artie Gregg, an auto-theft detective wearing jeans and a striped pullover. “Bill, we got one on the move!”

“Damn!” Rakestraw said. “Come on.”

The three of us stampeded back to auto theft. Rakestraw high-fived a pudgy detective in front of a PC that was backed up to a printer. On the screen in front of him was a detailed road map outlined in red.

“Which one'd they get?” said Rakestraw.

“The one parked at Northside Shopping Center. Started moving four minutes ago. The team in the van on the other side is watching with binoculars, said the takers are two teenagers, possibly Latin males; they fit the descriptions. They walked up on foot. Didn't see the vehicle they got out of.”

“The chopper is up and has made visual contact,” a dispatcher reported in stereo on the detectives' walkies. They weren't taking any chances.

Rakestraw and I exchanged tense glances. “Let it be them!” I begged softly, thinking of Jennifer and little Jason Carey; McCoy, the young cop; and Howie. “Let it be them!”

“Look at this,” said the detective at the monitor. He hit a key and the road map on the screen zoomed down to a one-square-mile area, showing streets, intersections, and waterways. A moving green dot was the Allante we were tracking.

“It works through a mainframe in Fort Lauderdale,” said Rakestraw. “Prints out every eight seconds, showing where the car is at, what street, what intersection.”

“I didn't know you had anything like this.”

The pudgy detective at the monitor spoke without taking his eyes off the screen. “The vehicle locator box can be installed in a car, a truck, a boat. It's a little bigger than a beeper. Broadcasts on the nine-hundred-megahertz frequency band to a central computer through radio towers from Palm Beach to Key West. Covers every street and twenty miles out to sea.

“The primary purpose is fleet management, so a plumbing company can keep track of its trucks, for instance. The radio waves travel at a speed of a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second, and the computer measures the exact location plus speed and direction. Takes about two seconds.”

“Where's the car headed?” Rakestraw said.

“North, at thirty-five miles an hour.” The man at the keyboard frowned. The green dot moved with the car, miles away. I watched the three detectives glued to the screen. This, I thought, is the police work of the future. No pounding pavements or knocking on doors in the hot sun; they'll be sitting in air-conditioned offices instead, tracking suspects by computer. I loved it. What a way to monitor wandering husbands, errant boyfriends, and joyriding teenagers.

The green dot moved north on Northwest Second Avenue, crossing Northwest 108th Street, 108th Terrace, 109th Street, 109th Lane.

“The chop shop is south,” somebody said.

“Maybe they're headed for the expressway.”

“We better take 'em before they get on.” Rakestraw raised the dispatcher on his two-way. “Is North Miami advised?”

“Affirmative,” she said. “The county and North Miami Beach also have units in the area.”

The detectives in the van reported that they were following, three cars behind the convertible. “Visual ID looks good. Looks like our suspects,” said a deep, calm voice.

“Everybody in position?” Rakestraw said. “Use caution. These guys are armed.”

Everybody responded with a QSL, which means okay.

“Go get 'em,” said Rakestraw. “Take 'em whenever you're ready.”

“Let's do it!” said a unit at the scene.

The green dot on the screen continued north on Northwest Second Avenue, passed Northwest 123rd Street, then Northwest 124th Terrace. Then it stopped. The operator hit a key and an address appeared on the screen next to the green dot: 12450 Northwest Second Avenue. Eight seconds later: 12450 Northwest Second Avenue. Eight seconds later: 12450 Northwest Second Avenue.

“They're not just stopped at a traffic light,” somebody muttered. “Come on, come on!”

I wondered what would happen if they ran or tried to shoot it out.

“Two in custody!” somebody shouted at the scene.

“Way to go!” Rakestraw shouted. I studied their jubilant faces, wondering wistfully if any woman could ever make any of these men as happy. I doubted it.

The stolen Allante had been pulled over within sight of the expressway. Surrounded by uniform cars, with the police helicopter hovering overhead, the occupants surrendered. A handgun was taken from the waistband of the driver.

Our elated little group was still celebrating, clinking Pepsi cans, when we got the news. The suspects, in separate cage cars on the way to the station, had been identified as J-Boy and Little Willie.

I heard curse words new to me as Rakestraw punched the wall so hard I thought he had broken his hand.

What hurt most was the unspoken realization that, had they not been stopped, they probably would have led the cops to FMJ. But nobody was hurt and two out of three ain't bad. Maybe J-Boy and Little Willie, the latter fresh out of Youth Hall, would rat on FMJ. Maybe.

FMJ seemed to lead a charmed life, but his luck had to run out soon. Since I was on a street deadline, I wrote my story on an old electric typewriter provided for the press in the PIO office, then faxed it to the newsroom on the machine police flacks use to distribute their press releases.

How primitive, I thought, feeding the paper into the facsimile machine, hoping it was not being received in every competing newsroom in Miami.

Dazzled by the recent display of police technology, I resolved to begin using a modem-equipped portable laptop computer that would zap my stories right into the
News
computer system from out in the field. If FMJ used one, why not me? Why stall in the slow lane of the new information superhighway? In reality, I was having difficulty with something as basic as voice mail. But of course I knew why. Trish was the reason. How did a simple favor, extending the hand of friendship to another woman, evolve into something so sinister and ugly? How could she? What sort of person was this?

I stayed around for a while, but the word was not promising. J-Boy demanded his lawyer and Little Willie was crying for his mommy. Before clamming up, both denied knowing any Gilberto Sanchez, aka Peanut, aka FMJ.

Beating everybody else, filing my story for the street, made me feel back on track. I pushed through the station's double doors and was trudging through the parking lot, past the grassy course where K-9 officers train their dogs, when I saw her. It was Trish. She had just parked. She wore a pink knit dress, nipped in at the waist, and was laughing at something one of two cops walking near her had said. The officers veered off to the left, to the training area. Trish kept coming my way. What was she doing here?

She saw me and smiled. “Hi, Britt,” she said, apparently intending to walk on by and into the station.

“Trish,” I said coolly, stepping directly in front of her. “What a coincidence. What are you doing here again, on my beat?” I spoke as though confronting a naughty child in the act.

She reacted in kind, with a sheepish but engaging grin, as though caught raiding the cookie jar. She pushed her big sunglasses up on her tilted nose. “Heard about J-Boy. Didn't think you'd spend much time here today after everything that happened.”

Her skin glowed golden; she'd been getting some sun. I wondered how she found the time. She shrugged gracefully, shifting her weight like a racehorse eager to run. “Somebody has to stay on top of the story.”

“That's my job,” I said mildly.

“Actually, J-Boy's mother has already hired an attorney. He said I can talk to his client.” Her soft dark hair formed a cloud around her face. She looked stunning.

“No way,” I said. “You have no business—”

“I'm the only reporter he'll allow access to his client. No one else gets to talk to him.” She smiled again, so poised, so arrogant, that I could not resist.

“Wonder how you did that,” I said sarcastically. “Actually, you have more important things to think about,” I told her, maintaining our tone of feigned sweetness. “I spoke to someone who was there when Magdaly Rosado died, who saw the whole thing.”