Suitable for Framing (23 page)

She never changed expression, just stared from behind her designer shades.

“And I visited poor Miguel.”

“He's not allowed visitors,” she said smugly, as though relieved to catch me in a he.

“Good reporters don't ask permission. They walk in, do what they have to do, and get out. You should know that, Trish.”

Her smile faded. “Don't embarrass yourself, Britt. At least no more than you've already done. Your credibility factor in this town is about the same as Miguel's. Zilch.”

Her voice was calm, innocent, as though inviting me to tea, her expression angelic.

“This is my hometown. I'll be here long after you're gone.”

She laughed and I saw red.

“You killed Howie, Trish, and nearly got me killed. Maybe nobody believes that now, but they will. Lord knows how much other shit you've staged, how many innocent people you've hurt, but I'm making it my business to find out.

“In the meantime, forget J-Boy and his lawyer,” I said, picking up steam, stepping closer, in her face. “I've been chasing these kids all over this fucking town! You are not stealing this story out from under me.”

She never flinched. “His attorney granted me permission. Me alone. You will not have access. J-Boy is probably going to tell me that Howie killed the cop, McCoy, and that you and the old woman shielded him, knowing it.”

I slapped her, hard. The blow knocked her sunglasses askew. Her smooth skin reddened into a facsimile of my handprint. I stood there, more shocked at how good it felt than at how badly I had behaved.

To my surprise she swung back. I caught her arm as her other hand clawed at my face. She was surprisingly strong. As I shoved her away, she grabbed the front of my blouse, tearing off buttons as we scuffled.

There were people in the parking lot, and we were in full view of half the windows at the station.

Shouts of “Hey! Hey!” and raucous laughter came from a few cops near their cars about a hundred feet away.

“Let 'em go, let 'em go!” somebody yelled. “This is better than mud wrestling!”

Trish swung wildly, teeth clenched, catching a fistful of my hair. Fire flared in me, fed by pain and anger. Slapping her again, I clutched her wrist as she lunged toward me, tearing at my face. I wanted to knock her right into tomorrow, knowing I would regret it. We could even be arrested for this violent little dance in front of any number of sworn law officers.

“You crazy bitch,” she panted, as we broke apart.

“I'll kick your ass,” I muttered. “Cross me again, Trish, and I'll do it. There's not enough room for us both at the same newspaper. It's you or me.”

Her face was crimson as she explored the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “Which do you think it will be, Britt?” Her sneer displayed a tiny trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth.

“I've been there for seven years,” I began, lowering my voice so the two cops bearing down on us wouldn't hear, realizing how I must look, how hot and sweaty I felt.

“Who's had the most stories, the most front-page bylines recently?” she crowed. “I've already been told that your job is mine.”

“By whom?”

Her answer was a smirk. She had dropped her purse and I kicked it like a football.

“Whoa! Whoa!” warned a laconic middle-aged cop named Gravengood.

“I could wring your neck,” I told her.

“Ladies, ladies. What's your problem? What's wrong with you two?” He reached out as though to separate us further.

“Watch it, A1.” His husky partner hung back, wary. “I been shot at and stabbed, but I hate it the most when women start the ripping and the scratching and the yelling and the screaming and the clunking with high heels.”

Gravengood ignored him. “Anybody here interested in pressing charges?”

We stared at each other, both breathing hard. “Thank you, officer.” Trish turned to him, suddenly tearful and trembling. “I don't think it's necessary, but since she did attack me, would you see that I get safely to my car?”

“Sure,” he said kindly. “Go on now.” Then he focused on me. “Britt, what in blue blazes is going on? You crazy?”

“I'm sorry.” Humiliation overwhelmed me. “I can't believe this happened. She's unbelievable. You have no idea what that woman is capable of.”

“Well, I sure seen you get in a few good licks. This is a police station, for God's sake.” He turned to walk away as Trish's car pulled out. “Better fix your blouse,” he suggested over his shoulder.

Tears stung my eyes as I walked shakily to my car. I sat there for several minutes, trembling, trying to calm down. I hadn't struck another human being in anger since the first grade. I wouldn't have now, had it not been for what she said about Howie. Of course J-Boy and FMJ would try to shift the blame to him, I thought, after being prompted by Trish and their defense attorneys. It's convenient to blame somebody who's no longer alive to defend himself. A jury might even buy it.

I should not have lost my temper. Our fight would be the talk of the newsroom. The men would love it, embracing all the stereotypes about women being unable to work together, unable to get along.

I remembered the night I first saw Trish. That eager young woman had reminded me of myself. What went wrong?

My scalp ached where she had yanked my hair. I rummaged in my purse for a safety pin and fastened the front of my blouse. The top two buttons were gone.

I was tempted to go back to find the missing peach-colored pearl buttons but felt too embarrassed. I sniffled and checked to see if my nose was bleeding. One nostril was a little swollen, and a ragged scratch ran along the line of my jaw. It had bled, staining my collar.

Most important now was to 'fess up, I thought. I needed to explain my side to Fred Douglas before her version got me fired. But I obviously couldn't walk into the newsroom like this. What if Fred didn't believe me? He hadn't been receptive before. Why should he be now? Weary and confused, I needed time to think.

I took a ramp onto southbound I-95, drove its length, then turned around and headed north, the sun glinting off spectacular skyline and the far-off sea. I fought an urge to keep going—to keep driving, out of town, out of this mess, listening to mindless music, until I ran out of road or gas. Not so long ago I didn't know Trish. She wasn't even in the picture. I remembered the afternoon I picked up Lottie and we drove off, lighthearted and giddy, in my new car. That's the way it is, I thought. Whenever you think your life is going great, watch out! Here comes the pie.

Reluctantly, I swung off an exit ramp and turned back south, toward the paper. Traffic was jammed. The scanner reported that an overturned truck had dumped its load of tar on the roadway. Inching along, stop and go, bumper to bumper, gave me plenty of time to rethink my predicament. Unless they believed me this time, our bosses would most likely insist that Trish and I meet for counseling, the goal being for us to shake hands and agree to act like professionals. That was the best-case scenario. I didn't want to entertain the worst.

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.”

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!”

“So you say you're familiar with the park?”

“Of course! I grew up in Miami.”

“So you didn't follow Ms. Tierney there and ‘wring her neck,' as you put it?”

“Of course not!”

“So if a witness told me he saw you there today, he would be lying?”

“Yes!”

Charlie met my eyes and looked down, almost embarrassed, then brightened with an idea.

“Maybe it was self-defense,” he offered.

“You don't believe me, Charlie!” I half shouted. “I want to talk to a lawyer!”

“Sure,” he said smoothly. “You need a phone book?”

He stepped out and took the Yellow Pages off a nearby desk. Ojeda brought in a phone on a long cord.

Hand shaking, I dialed Jake Lassiter's number.

Jake is a former Dolphin linebacker with bad knees, a law practice, and a rakish charm. We had a date once for a stone crab dinner, but I wound up covering a three-alarm fire instead.