Suitable for Framing (26 page)

I felt a surge of panic. Where was our prosecutor? She walked in at that moment, the enemy, the person trying to keep me behind bars. I was happy to see her.

Audra Evans had to be in her early thirties but looked younger. Her short auburn hair was cut in a smooth, casual style, and she wore a simple gray knit dress over a slim, athletic body. Unself-conscious, she seemed totally focused on her goal. Looked like a fair and reasonable woman to me.

The next defendant was a young Latino accused of robbing several jewelry stores at gunpoint and binding the elderly owners with duct tape. He and an accomplice tried to outrun police after the last robbery and were captured with loaded automatics equipped with silencers.

His “fiancée” was present to praise his good character. No more than seventeen, with long, curly strawberry-blonde hair, high heels, and a tight-fitting dress.

Does her mother know she's here? I wondered.

The defendant's mother, a cashier at Office Depot, swore that her boy was a wonderful son who got mixed up with a bad bunch after they moved from New York three years ago, when he was seventeen. The male prosecutor asked if he had a juvenile record back in New York.

The mother considered the question for a fraction of a second too long. Time enough to recall that juvenile records are not available.

“No,” she said, “nothing.”

She and the young fiancée swore they would be responsible for his appearance in court and were willing to go to jail in his place. Sure, I thought, they should try talking to somebody who's been there first.

The judge denied bond. Made sense to me.

Ice skidded down my spinal column when my case was called next.

“I'm ready,” said the prosecutor.

She read a brief account of the basic facts, the prosecution's version. I resisted the urge to jump up and scream “Lies! Lies! Lies!” Ojeda elaborated on his theory, that as a result of the witnessed dispute outside the station I had followed the victim, strangled her, and returned to the newspaper, where I made incriminating statements to my supervisors. He mentioned the physical evidence, the button.

J.T. stipulated that the button came from my blouse but introduced Gravengood's report. He argued that the button had obviously been carried to the murder scene by the victim and pointed out that no other physical evidence linked me to the crime.

Evans stood expectantly, hands clasped, listening to the detective, as Ojeda testified about Ashe, the eyewitness. The man had not been located to view a lineup or give a deposition, “but we hope to have him available for testimony before the grand jury, when the prosecution seeks an indictment, and later for trial.”

The judge frowned. “Who is he?”

“A constant outdoorsman,” Ojeda said.

The judge stopped writing on a file and glanced up for the first time.

“The politically correct term for homeless man, your honor,” offered J.T. “We have been aware of the state's predicament and have succeeded in locating the witness.”

Ojeda glared, eyes searching the gallery. The prosecutor objected, her graceful hands pressed together prayerfully. The judge overruled her.

Ashe shuffled forward from a back-row seat. Skinny, whiskery, and nearly toothless, he was deeply tanned. He wore saggy trousers, too big around the waist, and a T-shirt He gave his name; his address, he said, was Miami. I could see where that might stymie a process server.

Audra Evans rested her chin on her right hand as she carefully formed her questions.

Ashe seemed to enjoy the attention almost too much. He remembered being at the park the day the body was discovered and talking to Detective Ojeda. “He ast me if I saw any blonde woman round there.”

“And what did you tell him?” the prosecutor asked.

“Yeah. I saw a blonde woman.”

“Do you see her in the courtroom today?”

The witness shrugged, smiled, and turned to a middle-aged blondish woman in the front row of spectators.

“There's one now.”

Titters erupted across the room.

“We're talking about a specific blonde woman,” Evans said, looking coldly at Ojeda.

“I see blonde women everywhere. I see 'em in my dreams.” He offered a toothless smile.

Ojeda buried his face in his hands.

The associate medical examiner, a mild-mannered young man in spectacles, spoke next.

Trish was strangled from behind and pulled back, still struggling, over the seat of her car. A heel mark from her shoe was found on the dashboard. She had been so self-possessed in life that I found it difficult to picture her as victim. The doctor went on about petechiae and hemorrhages around the superior horns of the thyroid cartilage. “The hyoid bone was in its normal three parts in this case,” he explained “But the connections were stressed and hemorrhagic, and the greater horns on the right and left of the hyoid bone were fractured, despite the fact that the hyoid bone had not yet fused into a single structure as they do when we get older.”

Coaxed by J.T., the medical examiner testified that all this indicated that a great deal of force was used to kill Trish and it seemed an unlikely crime for a suspect of my size.

The prosecutor pointed out, however, that Trish was an even smaller woman, at a hundred and five pounds, and that rage often enables people to perform acts of strength that might otherwise seem impossible.

J.T. asked about other medical tests and drew out testimony that, though vaginal examination revealed no semen, there appeared to be a lubricant on the pubic hairs and around the vagina, which indicated that Trish had had recent sexual intercourse. It was impossible to say how close to the time of death it had occurred.

Who was that? I wondered, remembering her sly smile the night we discussed love lives.

Inventory of her purse had included a six-pack of prelubricated condoms, with one missing.

Evans objected, calling it outside the scope of the investigation.

Fred Douglas testified that although I did experience difficulties with the deceased, I appeared genuinely shocked at the news of Trish's death and that my apologies could have been construed to explain our parking lot confrontation.

Douglas said I had always done my job in “a highly commendable fashion,” adding that “in fact, she was recently nominated for a statewide award. We're proud of her work.”

What award? I wondered.

Lottie testified next as a character witness. J.T. had said he would probably have my mother say relatively little, since, according to him, “everybody knows that mothers will say anything.”

At this point I would have hated to hear her say that I was a wonderful daughter who got mixed up with a bad bunch.

J.T. presented evidence to show that I was “a local product” who had grown up in Miami and that after college I worked, paid my taxes, and behaved responsibly.

He also pointed out that the prosecution's eyewitness, the happy “constant outdoorsman,” might also be a wino and did not appear particularly credible.

He concluded by saying that my mother, a widow, was willing to mortgage her condo, her chief asset, in which she had about $50,000 in equity, as collateral for my bond.

She hadn't disowned me.

Audra Evans called the crime particularly violent and objected to bond.

“I'll set bond at seventy-five thousand dollars,” the judge said. He instructed me to surrender my passport, ordered me not to leave Dade County, and called the next case.

“Now remember,” J.T. warned, “this doesn't mean the charges will be dismissed. All it means is that we've created a question in the judge's mind as to whether or not you are the person who committed this crime.”

I worried about the collateral, but Billy Marker said he'd take the risk—along with a mortgage on my mother's condo, of course.

The nonrefundable $7,500 premium would just about deplete my savings, already dented by the down payment on my T-Bird. But for freedom, the price was cheap.

Lottie and Onnie and, of course, my mother had all prepared to kick in. Bless them. True friends are those who really know you but love you anyway.

“Don't you-all come back again, child, ya hear?” Winsome trilled as I waited for Marker to write the bond.

I thanked her, then hugged her and Inez. The Singer promised to write. I knew she would.

My knees shook in Lottie's car. I wanted to drink in the big, broad blue sky and savor the sweet taste of freedom. It was heaven to fill my lungs with fresh air again, to escape the sounds and smells of the pod. Lottie, my mother, and Onnie wanted to cook dinner or go out. All I wanted was to go home.

We went to my apartment, where Bitsy went berserk, running in circles yapping. Even Billy Boots forgot his usual reserve and wanted to be held. I wanted to kiss the floor. First thing I did was toss out the burger, now gray and lethal, that I had thawed for that missed meal that now seemed so long ago.

Mrs. Goldstein brought homemade coffee cake, beef brisket, and noodle pudding. We all ate at my kitchen table. I devoured the good food, relishing every wholesome morsel. “I never want to see bologna or chili with rice again,” I told them.

“I think you and I ought to get away for a few days, to the Keys or Cocoa Beach,” my mother said. “You need to relax.”

I squeezed her hand. “Sounds wonderful. But my first priority has to be my own defense. The case goes to the grand jury in a few weeks. We have to find out who killed Trish before that happens.”

“Oh, Britt.” My mother looked tearful. “Can't you leave that to your lawyer and the authorities?”

“Who cares as much as I do about proving my innocence?”

“Us.” Lottie raised her hand like an eager schoolgirl. “We're with you.”

“I need all the help I can get,” I said gratefully. “J.T. is a champ, but Lord only knows what I owe him already. What's left in my savings account has to go to him for a retainer. If I have to go to trial, do you have any idea what that would cost? I go to trial and I'm in debt the rest of my life, to say nothing of the fact that my life might be spent behind bars. You can go broke proving you're innocent.”

I looked at their serious faces.

“There's only one way to get my life and my job back, and that's to find out who killed Trish.”

“Count me in,” Lottie said.

“Me too.” Onnie nodded.

My mother closed her eyes. “You are just like—”

“I know,” I whispered, placing my hand over hers. I wondered if he would always be a source of tension between us. She had never forgiven him for allowing his dream of a free Cuba to become a fatal obsession. Maybe it's because every time she sees me, she sees him.

Perhaps it was my new freedom or the fact that I knew time was short, but I felt positive and energized.

“We can do this,” I said.

“Right,” Lottie answered.

“What can I do?” Mrs. Goldstein asked.

“Cookies,” Lottie said. “Lots of cookies, chocolate chip. We're gonna need energy for this caper.”

“I'll start baking in the morning,” Mrs. Goldstein said, and went home to feed her husband. My mother sat quietly, smoking a long brown cigarette. I thought she had quit again but did not mention it, afraid it was me who had driven her back to the habit.

“Let's brainstorm.” I took a legal pad, the kind I like to use for sit-down interviews. “Trish was having an affair with somebody. Whoever it was probably killed her.”

“Think it was Abel Fellows?” said Onnie.

“Doubt it. He's a casting-couch type, probably just an encounter she used to get what she wanted. But we should include him on our suspect list.”

“Miguel Rosado certainly had a motive,” Lottie said.

I wrote his name on the yellow pad. “He's probably still in the prison ward at the hospital or in jail. That'll be easy enough to check. I've had plenty of time to think about it during the last few days. I think it was a cop because—”

“Speaking of cops,” my mother interrupted, “that Kendall McDonald, the one you used to see, called me twice. He was so sweet. I wish you—”

“McDonald?” I stared at her.

“Called me too,” said Lottie.

“He asked if I was all right and seemed so concerned,” my mother said. “He wanted to know what you needed. He said he had to remain at a distance from the investigation but that behind the scenes he was doing what he could,” she said. “He sounded genuinely upset.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I smiled, eyes misty. I had assumed the man had run like a thief.

“He can help us,” Lottie said.

“If he did, it could cost him his career. He couldn't afford to be linked to a reporter, remember? Can you imagine a police lieutenant involved with a murder suspect? Bum career move.”

“He'll call you,” Lottie said laconically. “Bet on it.” She sipped her tea. “Marty's been trying to reach you, and also Curt Norske, your good-looking boat captain.”

“I oughta get back to Marty,” I said, jotting myself a note. “Curt can wait.”

“Unless we need a boat to flee the country,” Lottie said. “I believe you're right about it being a cop.”

“It would explain Trish's pipeline into the department, the Zachary Linwood case and the others. How she seemed to know what I was working on before my editors did. It would explain how the tip that Howie was holed up at Margaret Mayberry's was called in by a cop, when only Trish knew. She told her lover, and he did it. Makes sense. Did the detectives ever come to the office and search through Trish's things?”

Onnie glanced at Lottie and shook her head. “Never did.”

“What's wrong with them?” I said, indignant. “J.T. is right, Ojeda is a hard-nosed hot dog. He was so focused on me as a suspect he didn't even bother to look at other possibilities. I was the easy target. Wonder what's become of her address book and the stuff in her desk?” Suspended from my job until the charges were resolved, I couldn't very well go snooping around the newsroom.

“Maybe Ojeda overlooked it, but we didn't,” Lottie said. Onnie nodded.

Startled, I studied the two of them.

“The night after you were arrested, we came in at two
A
.
M
. and went through her desk. Anything that looked interesting, we copied on the Xerox machine.”

“I don't believe you guys!”

“Ryan was in on it too. He was the lookout. He's beginning to think that's his permanent job.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“We was getting around to it,” Lottie said. “It hadda be a cop she was sleeping with. You know what she had? A copy of the goddamn police roster! A printout with the badge numbers, names, ranks, dates of service, home phone numbers, and addresses of everybody, from the chief on down to the last cop and civilian employee, listed alphabetically. More than a thousand of 'em. Big thick sucker.”

“They guard those like gold!” I said. “They print out a limited number for use at the station. When they update they shred all the old ones.”

“Hidden in the bottom drawer of her desk. Also had the call sheets they issue to cops with the home phone and beeper numbers of all the on-call assistant state attorneys and medical examiners.”

“Wow, how'd she ever get access to that stuff? You copy them all?”

“Helluva job,” Onnie said. “Spent more than a hour at the copy machine looking over my shoulder.”

“Cool. They'll come in handy for us, if I ever get back to work.”

“You will,” Lottie said.

“Where is her stuff now?”

“Murphy had the city desk clerk clean out Trish's desk. Two boxes stacked in the wire room.”

“We ought to have J.T.'s investigator or the cops go through it before they send it to her parents or it disappears. Maybe homicide will get on the right track. What else was in there?”

“Police reports, even supplements. Stuff that could only come from inside the department. Her Daytimer, with engagement calendar, notebook, credit card receipts, canceled checks.”

“You copied them?”

“Naturally.”

“You guys are amazing. Where are they?”

“Got 'em in the trunk of my car with my camera equipment. Want to go through 'em now? Didn't think you'd want to get into that tonight.”

“Why wait?” I was way past exhaustion.

I put on a pot of coffee while she went out to her car and brought back a cardboard accordion file.

We spread the contents out on my kitchen table. It was odd to see neat, precise notes recently handwritten by someone now dead. Trish had kept all her receipts and records in her Daytimer. She apparently kept it in the office while she worked and then carried it home with her at night. I recalled having seen her with it on her way out the door at the end of the day.

We shuffled through copies of receipts and canceled checks. “Ha,” I said, noting some Epicure bills. “I know about these.”

“Here's her latest rent check,” Lottie said.

“Rent? I thought she was still staying at the condo on Collins.”

“She was.”

“I didn't think she paid rent. She told me she was house-sitting. Let's see.” Sure enough, the memo said rent and listed the address. The canceled check was made out to a Clayton Daniels. Why was that name familiar?

“Clayton Daniels!” All eyes were expectant and on me. “That's the name of the man she said was stalking her! Trish said she left Oklahoma because a stalker was making her miserable. And that was his name.” I turned the check over. “This was cashed locally.”

There was a phone number under the endorsement on the back. I made a note to call it in the morning.

“I don't understand,” said my mother. “What can that mean, Britt?”

“Means she sure as hell wasn't renting an apartment from the man who stalked her out of her last job.”

“Means she was jist a damn liar,” said Lottie, pushing her hair back and riffling through the police roster. “Wish it showed which a these guys are single. You'd think they'd put their marital status on here.”

“Everything Trish said was a lie. God, maybe her own web is what strangled her,” I said.

“More likely somebody she snared in it,” Onnie said. “She sure spent a lot of money.”

“On herself,” said my mother, shuffling through copies of credit card receipts. “Suit from Lord and Taylor, dresses from Collection Fifty-one, shoes from Saks, the Woman's Place—”

Lottie and I looked up. “Let me see that,” I said.

“What is it?” said my mother, handing over the receipt.

“An abortion clinic,” we chorused.

“We know because we've covered demonstrations there,” Lottie added demurely.

I checked the date on the receipt for $350 with the same date on pages copied from her engagement calendar. “Here it is,” I said, “a two o'clock appointment, two weeks before the murder. She was off for the next two days.

“Her tipster, her source, her lover, her killer. Makes sense,” I said.

“Why do you think he'd turn on her?” Onnie said.

“With Trish anything is possible. I keep going back to that major coup, Lottie, when you and Trish scooped the world on the Zachary Linwood arrest. Her relationship with somebody on the inside had to already be in bloom. The department claimed only a few people were privy to that investigation. If the killer was one of them, that narrows it down.” Something nagged at my consciousness. I recalled the press conference. “Remember, the chief was mad as hell and ordered internal affairs to find out who had leaked the information.”

“I thought he'd have a stroke,” Lottie said.

“Well, whatever happened to that IA investigation? Did they ever find the leak? Who was it? What the hell happened?”

“Those probes rarely pan out,” Lottie said. “Cops investigating cops. Even if it did, you know how they like to keep that stuff quiet. Maybe Kendall McDonald can help us.”

“Won't hurt to ask,” I said, doubtful that I'd have the opportunity to talk to him.

I felt like we had just begun, but they all looked tired and I knew they had to work the next day.

“Why don't you guys go home and get some sleep?” I told them. “Leave this stuff here and I'll keep digging.”

“Yeah, I've got to pick Darryl up at the sitter.” Onnie yawned.

My mother carried her cup and saucer to the sink. “Would you like me to stay here with you tonight, Britt?”

“No, I'll be all right.”

“Are you sure you want to be alone?”

“Absolutely. After sleeping with four hundred other bad girls in the jail, it will be a real pleasure to sleep alone.” I kissed her, hugged them all, and saw them off into the night.

It was after midnight, but I prowled the apartment restlessly. Bitsy dogged my heels, refusing to let me out of her sight. Maybe some wine would make me sleepy, I thought, folding the papers back into the file.

I took the dog outside for a few minutes and stared at the stars. The air was cool, with charcoal-colored smudges moving across a sky the color of blue steel. The wind was as smooth as silk against my skin.

Moments after we went back inside, the doorbell startled me. Was Mrs. Goldstein still up? What did Lottie forget?

Without checking, I threw open the door.