Suitable for Framing (6 page)

He stopped, apprehension in his eyes. “What's that?”

“You just don't look like a Cornflake to me. What's your real name?”

“Howard,” he said. “You can call me Howie.”

“That's better. Thanks for the soda, Howie. Let's stay in touch.” We shook hands. His felt moist and the motion was awkward. I went to my T-Bird without looking back, hoping he wasn't still watching and wouldn't see its new-car finish. Why am I so paranoid? I thought. He didn't seem like such a bad kid.

Back at the office there was news, and I quickly dialed Trish in the library.

“Debbie Weston got a job at the
Washington Post
,” I told her. “She gave two weeks' notice this morning. Move fast.”

“I'm on it! I'm on it! Thanks, Britt! Thanks a million.”

One more call and I could go home.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Where have you
been
, Britt?”

“Working on a story.”

She sniffed. “That's why I called, Britt. A story.” She sounded peevish.

“Oh? What kind of story?”

“A positive one. Why are you always so absorbed by bad news?”

I rolled my eyes and began clearing my desk, the receiver tucked under my chin.

“You never want to hear any good news.”

“Yes, I do, Mom. I love happy endings. They just don't happen often enough.”

“Maybe it's because when somebody wants to tell you one, you don't bother to return the call.”

I pressed a thumb and middle finger against my closed eyes, gently massaging the lids. “What kind of story, Mom? Is it a fashion—”

“Not exactly.”

Why me? I wondered.

“Unlike the kind of stories that you always—”

“What is it?” I interrupted. “I was about to go home. If I hang around here too long something will happen and I'll wind up working all night.”

“You never have time to listen.”

“It's not that, Mom, it's just that I need to get out of here.” I stared at the air vents in the ceiling, envisioning poisonous PCBs raining down upon me. “I'll call you from home.”

“It's about Heidi,” she blurted, “the new stylist who worked the fashion show yesterday. I may have mentioned to you that her car was stolen when she and her husband went out to dinner.”

“And she got it back?”

“Yes! When they arrived home the night before last it was in the driveway. Not only that—”

“Oh, no.” I straightened up in my chair. “There was a note?”

“How did you guess? From the thief, and it was so sweet. He left theater tickets. They went to the playhouse tonight—”

“Mom! Call the police.”

“What? Are you joking?”

“Mom, I'm dead serious. Call the police. Do you know where Heidi lives?”

“Why, no. What
are
you talking about?”

I snatched the phone book. “What's her last name?”

“Britt, I have no idea. Wait, is it English, or is it Irish? I
think
it starts with an A. I'll ask at our staff meeting tomorrow.”

My head began to ache. I quickly explained. “Mom, try to remember! We can't page her at the theater if we don't know her name. And without her address, we don't even know which police department to call, much less where to send them.”

“Well,” she said comfortingly, “we don't know that they'll do it again. Maybe they were sincere this time.”

I glanced at the clock. Most likely it was already too late. “Mom, you don't understand. They're being ripped off at this very minute.”

“Well, dear.” The tone was chastising. “You really should have returned my call sooner.”

Despite my frustration, I did sleep that night—for three hours. I was dreaming of fire, leaping flames, in blazing color and CinemaScope, when the claxons faded and the sirens stopped, forced out by a sound more persistent. So real was my dream that I groped for the phone, convinced that the call was a tip on some major out-of-control inferno and wondering whether I had remembered to stash my fire boots in the new T-Bird's trunk.

I expected the raspy voice of a fire department source or an editor. It was Rakestraw.

“Britt, you awake?”

The digital clock glowed in the dark: 3:15
A
.
M
. I blinked.

“Sure,” I mumbled. “I'm always up by now.”

“Sorry, but you said you wanted to be in on any new developments.”

“You got Peanut?”

“You mean FMJ?”

“Whichever.” I felt groggy. “You've got 'im?”

“Nope. He's pulled another Casper on us. But get used to seeing people on crutches.”

“What?”

“Two more carjackings tonight, drivers shot in the leg.”

“So it was him. Why do you think he keeps doing that?” I croaked irritably, groping over Billy Boots for my notebook on the nightstand.

“Maybe he aims for their heads but he's a lousy shot. Could be he's making a statement. Maybe he's just a mean little bastard. Who the hell knows? But that ain't all.”

“What?” I switched on the reading lamp, squinting in the light.

“The cars they took tonight. They're using 'em.”

“For…?”

“I wondered why one was an old battering ram of an Olds, not like the hot new models they've been taking. That was it—battering ram. They hit the Jordan Marsh department store downtown. Backed it right through the glass front doors.”

“Didn't the alarm go off?”

“Sure, but they're not stupid. They know that after breaking glass activates the sonic alarm, it takes the security company three or four minutes to process it and notify the police. They also know that since alarm calls are ninety percent false, cops aren't impressed. Hell, they'll finish their coffee or whatever and take their time. Depending on where they're at, it takes them five to fifteen minutes or longer to respond. These kids know they've got a window of eight to twenty minutes. They're fast. They ran in and cleaned off the high-ticket racks. Loaded up all the most expensive shirts, pants, and jackets they could carry and hauled buggy, three carloads full. We got 'em in action on store security tape.”

“Think you can round them up by morning?”

“Hope to. Everybody's looking, even the chopper. They shouldn't be too hard to spot. We're watching the warehouse districts and their neighborhoods. Want to come out and play?”

I hate to turn down an invite from a source, especially a cop. Their love-hate relationship with the press runs hot and cold. Say no and he might invite somebody else, maybe a TV crew, and with my luck the big one would break.

“Sure, I wasn't doing anything anyway.”

“Meet me at the station. If I have to leave, they'll know where I'm at.”

“Be there in twenty.”

I hit the floor and snatched my trusty navy blue jumpsuit off the closet door where I keep it for middle-of-the-night emergencies. Of course, now that I was up, Bitsy pranced to go out and Billy Boots howled for breakfast, circling his empty dish like a shark.

Too rushed to open a can, I shook dry cat food into a dish, debating whether to call Lottie. Why drag her out at the cost of a night's sleep for something that might not be major? I decided.

Bitsy whimpered at the door, excited and ready for adventure. She yelped and whined as I tried to slip out without her. I sighed and opened the door. “Come on.” We bounded out into the dark of night together.

Rakestraw stood next to his unmarked in the eerily lit station parking lot, talking to a detective from juvenile. “What the hell is that?” asked the other cop, smirking down at the white toy poodle with a red ribbon in her hair.

“As good a police dog as you've ever seen,” Rakestraw said. The other detective shook his head and walked off. “I used to work midnights with Francie,” Rakestraw said quietly. “I wondered if you still had her sidekick.”

I had never wanted a small yappy dog, but her owner was my friend. Francie used to smuggle Bitsy onto the midnight shift in her patrol car. When she died in the line of duty, I inherited Bitsy. After action-filled nights spent chasing bad guys and taking prisoners, she probably finds her life with me boring, but if she can cope, so can I.

“She's no trouble,” I said. “It would have broken her heart not to come. If there's a problem, we can follow you in my car.”

“Wouldn't want to break her heart now, would we? Come on.” I signed the ubiquitous release form, absolving the taxpayers from liability should I be killed or maimed, and we settled into the unmarked. Bitsy crouched on the floorboard, ears cocked to the police radio chatter, like old times.

“She never forgot,” I said. “She's still a police dog at heart.”

Rakestraw didn't answer. His eyes were sweeping alleyways and dead ends as we cruised the dark past the Edgewater, then past the apartment house where I had met Gilberto's mother and sister.

The warm, soft night blurred the city's hard edges. I never cease to be fascinated by Miami's mysterious netherworld.

“Your story was all right,” Rakestraw said, the closest he has ever come to a compliment.

My quotes from the mother and sister of Gilberto, aka Peanut, aka FMJ, made it unclear who had divulged his name to me. The woman's only outrage was directed at the system that had failed so miserably when she sought help for a son who scared even her.

“It's good,” Rakestraw said. “The publicity will put heat on that judge who kept sending him home, and on the state attorney's office to try him as an adult.”

“Can't try him till you catch him.”

“Something's gonna catch up with him—we will or lead will,” Rakestraw predicted. “If we don't find him first, he'll pick the wrong victim and get his brains blown out.” He threw me a sidelong glance as we turned a corner. “The public defender's office called the captain to ask if we had released his name to the media.”

“They should know you wouldn't do that,” I said. Jennifer Carey remained alive but unconscious. I hoped she would survive and testify against him. FMJ was growing into a bigger story. I couldn't wait to interview him. I hoped it would be tonight.

We cruised for an hour listening to the activity on the police radio. Bitsy snoozed, probably dreaming she was back on patrol with Francie. I yawned, glad I hadn't awakened Lottie to wander the city aimlessly with us when she could be sleeping.

“Where do you think they took the stuff?” I stifled another yawn. “Think they stole it on order or spur-of-the-moment?”

“Some is probably for personal use, but they've obviously got connections, somebody with a store or space at a flea market. None of the cars they took have turned up. They're not driving them, they're stealing more. Somebody's in business.” He squinted sideways. “Want to stop for a hit of coffee? You look like you could use some.”

He must have read my mind. I did not look forward to work later. I knew I would run out of gas by late afternoon.

This evening appeared to be a dud, but it gave me a chance to know Rakestraw better and develop him as a source. He swung east, toward the boulevard and an all-night coffee shop.

The intercity frequency burst to life as we got out of the car: Miami Beach units involved in the high-speed pursuit of several westbound vehicles on the MacArthur Causeway. We froze, listening. The dispatcher reported about ten subjects in three cars fleeing a smash-and-grab at the Jordan Marsh on the Beach.

“Son of a bitch, it's them! They hit another one!” We piled back into the car and Rakestraw turned the key. “And they're headed this way!”

“That's
my
Jordan Marsh,” I protested, rebuckling my seat belt. “It's only a few blocks from where I live.”

Rakestraw stomped the gas and the car jumped the curb back out onto the boulevard. A Beach unit had been run off the road near the Coast Guard base and rescue had been summoned.

“Damn, they'll kill a cop before they're through!” Rakestraw snatched up the mike, took a deep breath, and drawled in an unnaturally calm and casual voice, “Unit Seven-twenty-four. Think I'm gonna swing by and have a look-see in case the Beach needs assistance.”

Then he floored it; the car leaped forward with such power that I was glad we'd skipped the coffee.

“The chase policy,” he explained.

“Right.” Now I understood his oddly passive voice to the dispatcher.

Talking on the air is like speaking on the record. Taped radio transmissions are the only official documentation of what happens out on the street.

Miami Beach officers can pursue fleeing felons at high speeds. Miami cops, however, are forbidden to do so in crimes against property. Cops hate it when bad guys get away. The unpopular policy was established after four teenagers ran from police in a stolen car and wiped out in a fiery crash. Instead of reflecting on how they managed to spawn car thieves, the irate parents filed wrongful death actions against the city. They charged that the youngsters would not have crashed if the police hadn't chased them. They also sued the hapless owner of the stolen car and his insurance company.

Now Miami cops can engage in hot pursuit only when lives are threatened, such as by shots being fired.

We raced south on the boulevard, the staccato adrenaline-charged voices of the Beach officers reporting their progress by radio.

One had to stop and investigate what appeared to be several dozen Haitian boat people wading ashore near Palm Island. At the sight of flashing lights, they had run in all directions.

The remaining cops were chasing the fleeing cars across the straightaway at speeds exceeding one hundred miles an hour, past Watson Island, still coming west.

“They're exiting onto the boulevard, into the city!” a Beach officer shouted.

“He's not gonna make it. He's gonna lose it!” one cried as the fleeing cars hit the exit ramp.

“He made it! But we lost unit two-fourteen; he hit the barrier! He's got right-side damage. There goes a tire! Oncoming units use caution, there's a tire rolling down the westbound right lane!”

How could teenagers, probably still unlicensed, out-maneuver cops trained in pursuit and combat driving?

The exit ramp loomed ahead. The oncoming wails of distant sirens merged into stereo with the same sounds on the radio frequency.

Sirens converged from other directions now, and radio traffic increased: Miami officers advising circumspectly about plans to mosey on by, then jamming pedals to the metal.

We saw them now, three blocks distant, headlights out. The battering ram, a black 1981 Olds, roared down the ramp, closely followed by a new Grand Marquis that took the curve on two wheels and a skidding Toyota.

“Here they come!” yelled Rakestraw.

I braced and held on. Wide awake, Bitsy crouched on the floorboard, ears at full alert, tail wagging. I failed to share her elation. If we crash head-on, I thought, my poor mother, whose calls I neglect to return, will not collect a cent. But had I stolen a car, run from the cops, and crashed, she would be able to sue for enough to retire to Barbados.

The suspects never slowed down. All three cars blew a red stoplight at 13th Street at seventy miles an hour. The Toyota whined like a jet engine as it hurtled straight into Overtown. The battering ram turned north, toward us, and the Grand Marquis fled south. Blue and red lightning flashed, beams bouncing and whirling through the night as half a dozen Beach units careened down the exit ramp, sirens screaming.

“You hear something?” Rakestraw barked.

“What?”

He snatched the mike. “Seven-twenty-four. I believe I just heard gunshots in the vicinity of the Beach's chase. I'm in pursuit.”

“Affirmative,” radioed another city officer. “I heard the shots.”

Rakestraw smiled wickedly and slid the blue flasher onto the dash. Another siren came up fast behind us. The driver of the oncoming Olds saw us and skidded into a U-turn, sliding sideways for half a block as Rakestraw stood on the brakes. So did the cop behind us as I braced for an impact that did not come.

The Olds' tires gained purchase on the pavement, and the car shot across the boulevard like a bullet. I thought I heard shouts and saw a backseat passenger perched high atop what had to be Jordan Marsh merchandise stacked all around him.

“We've got 'em boxed in now!” I saw Rakestraw's eyes and did not want to be any of those kids.

The Olds bounced across a sidewalk, ran two stop signs at a flat-out sixty, and accelerated the wrong way on a one-way street, aiming at an expressway entrance ramp. A tire blew and the driver lost it. They crashed into an expressway piling under the overpass, near the homeless encampment. A hubcap soared high into the air, bounced, then clattered across the roadway.

Smoke rose lazily from the wreck as both doors burst open and three skinny figures hurtled out into the haze. They hit the ground running in three different directions.

“They bailed!” Rakestraw shouted into his mike. “I'll take the one in the T-shirt and baseball cap, headed toward Second Avenue.” Police cars skidded to stops all around us, with cops taking up the foot chase.

“Stay here.”

“I'll go with you,” I said.

“No way. You can't keep up and you can't run around out here alone. I can't watch out for you.”

I watched him dart up the embankment, scale a fence halfway up, and run surefooted across sloping concrete at a 90-degree angle.

I hated this part. If I stayed with the car, I'd miss the action. Had FMJ been driving the Olds? Where was he now?