Suitable for Framing (7 page)

The busy radio was my only link. Breathless patrolmen reported their locations as they pounded down alleys and checked abandoned buildings. The Grand Marquis had ignored warning signals and roared across the Miami Avenue Bridge as it was about to open for a boat. The pursuing police cars didn't make it, and the Marquis had vanished on the other side of the river. Overtown, scene of Miami's last riot, seemed to have swallowed up the Toyota. The suspects on foot had eluded pursuers so far. Nobody can outrun a scared teenager. One patrol unit was called away to check a report of dehydrated Cuban rafters beached at Dinner Key near City Hall. The remaining searchers called for K-9 units and set up a perimeter. The harsh glare of powerful spotlights exposed the barren postapocalyptic nightmarescape of predawn downtown Miami. Chopper blades rent the air, hovering low, as the search focused on an area about four blocks away. Where is the Miami of my memories, the clean and gentle city where I grew up? I wondered. How did this happen?

Bitsy began to whimper and I stroked her head. Then I saw it. Furtive movement near the still-smoking wreck. Heart pounding, I caught my breath.

Shadows had come alive. Dark shapes, skittering figures emerged from everywhere, swarming over the Olds.

Homeless people rousted in the night by the commotion, they were looting the stolen merchandise in the smashed car.

I scrambled out, leaving the door of the unmarked open. Bitsy stood growling under her breath, eyes watching me expectantly. What would Francie have done? “Hey,” I yelled indignantly. “Hey, you!”

Nobody paid attention. A wraith in ragged clothes glanced up dismissively, then continued to load his shopping cart.

I kept shouting until one turned and took a short menacing step in my direction, the way someone would stomp to scare off an annoying cat or dog. Oh, for Pete's sake, I thought, got back in the car, and slammed the door. This is insane.

In daylight, I could reason with them face-to-face, but in the dark it's different. I am only a reporter, I told myself, not a cop.

When the cops straggled back, breathless, sweating, and empty-handed, the stolen car had been stripped clean by the homeless. Even the battery was gone. Rakestraw was mad as hell, sorry he had invited me. This had turned into the Chernobyl of local police work. The Beach had lost two cars in the chase, one patrolman was hospitalized with a neck injury, another was being checked out at the emergency room, and a city cop searching an abandoned building had plunged through a rotted floor. He too went to the hospital, for shots and stitches.

More than twenty thousand dollars in loot was gone, as were the culprits, at least ten kids, three of whom had eluded the cops on foot.

We drove to the Beach to see the tape from the store security camera. After the Olds exploded through the glass double doors, the kids swarmed inside like a mob of looters. I did not see Howie among them. Maybe he was telling the truth, I thought. The thieves, organized and fast, seized armloads of the most expensive merchandise. They took nothing cheap.

Rakestraw pointed out FMJ: wiry, slightly built, and short, clearly in charge and enjoying himself. The kid looked younger than his age, with a mop of wavy hair, the fuzz of a thin mustache, and a grin that would have been engaging had there not been a handgun stuck in his waistband, right next to his digital beeper. A few others wore dark glasses or scarves across their faces like the highwaymen from the bad old days of the Wild West, but FMJ did not. He mugged and swaggered, rolled his tongue at the camera, and mouthed obscenities.

Like Howie had said, he was cold. He didn't care.

The ill-fated chase had been launched when a Miami Beach patrolman arrived at the store on a routine alarm call and three cars sped away. The wrecked Olds wore a fresh license tag stolen from an apartment house parking lot during the night In the trunk the cops found a piece of luggage belonging to a wounded Chicago tourist shot in the knee. He had been driving the Toyota.

The amount of paperwork required by both departments was staggering. It was nearly sunrise when Rakestraw drove me back to the station for my car. The city looked innocent like a watercolor, soft-edged in the dawn light or maybe my eyes were bleary. As we rolled west on Northeast Sixth, a homeless man shuffled across the street in front of us dragging a large piece of cardboard. He wore a brand-new Ralph Lauren shirt, price tag still dangling. Rakestraw slowed for a better look, and the man gave us a toothless grin.

Too late to catch a nap, I showered, dressed, and ate breakfast at the Villa Deli. I ordered fuel for my body engine, the special: two eggs over easy, grits, bacon, and a toasted bagel slathered in cream cheese. I had the waitress wrap a cheese Danish to go. When lack of sleep caught up with me, chewing would keep me awake. The upside about staying out all night is that I can eat anything and never gain an ounce.

I wrote the story, turned it in, then plodded out to check my beat, tired and irritable. Only Bitsy had had fun. Now she would expect to ride in police cars again every night. Even Lottie was mad as hell.

We met for coffee after the first edition. “Did you notice on the way in today that all the windshield washers downtown looked well dressed?” she said. “I could have sworn that one who jumped on my hood was wearing an Armani jacket.”

“Probably was.” I told her why.

“You and the cops were out chasing those little rodents all night and didn't call me?”

“I swear I thought about it but figured it wouldn't pan out, so I let you sleep.”

“Are you crazy? I could've shot some great stuff.”

“Who knew?”

“You should have called me.” She pouted.

My mother called when I got back to my desk. The home of Heidi, the stylist, had been cleaned out while she and her husband attended the play.

“I didn't tell her it could have been prevented if you had only called me back,” she said.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Too weary to argue, I answered the next call with feelings of foreboding and resignation. It was good news.

“Is that you, Britt? Finally! We did it! We did it!” It was Trish Tierney. “I start in the newsroom Monday, general assignment. Thank you!”

There is some justice in the world after all, I thought.

“I want you to come by for dinner. To celebrate,” Trish said.

“Tonight?”

“Right, when you get off.”

“Well, I've got a couple of stories I'll be working on for a while, and then I'm probably gonna go round and round with the city desk. And I'm really tired, so I don't think I can, but it's great news. It'll be fun having you in the newsroom.”

“Britt!” Her hearty tone was positive and persuasive. “No excuses. You are my best and only friend in Miami. I owe you a lot. And you have to eat sometime. Remember, I'm a reporter. I know. It doesn't matter how late. Sounds like you could use a nice little dinner. Nothing fancy, for God's sake. Nothing that won't keep warm. Just some good nourishing food.”

“You wanna meet somewhere?” I said uncertainly.

“No. I'm cooking,” she said firmly. “Look, call me as you leave the paper, I'll pop dinner in the oven, and it'll be hot and ready to eat when you walk in the door.”

The woman would not take no for an answer, and her offer was tempting and convenient. She lived on the Beach, she said, not far from me. The frozen wasteland in my freezer influenced my thinking. “You're on,” I said. “Shall I bring something?”

“Not a thing. Just yourself.”

Nice. I called my wonderful landlady, Helen Goldstein, to ask if she would take Bitsy out for a few minutes so I could go straight to Trish's.

Mrs. Goldstein, married to the same man for sixty years and sold on the concept, agreed as usual, sounding pleased. “So,” she said optimistically. “You have a date. Your lieutenant? The skipper? Or somebody new?”

“I'm just going to grab a bite with another reporter. A woman,” I added, dashing her hopes.

The skipper, Curt Norske, was the dashing captain of the
Sea Dancer
, a sightseeing boat that catered to tourists and cruised Biscayne Bay. Sparks flew when our eyes met over a submerged body. So far, that relationship had been intermittent and casual, but “my” lieutenant, Kendall McDonald, was a longer story. I dismissed his image and focused on work, the prospect of warm food a tantalizing incentive. Living on coffee, adrenaline, and headlines gets old. One of these days, I thought, I have got to go to the supermarket and stock up. My problem is time; I am either too busy, too late, or too impatient for endless checkout lines. My pantry is well stocked only with pet food and my aging hurricane supplies, untouched for years, mostly outdated canned tuna and bottled water.

Trish's address was on a neon stretch of Collins Avenue hotels and high-rises. Somehow I had pictured her in an efficiency with a hot plate. I double-checked my notebook. This was it, I thought, if I took it down right.

The building was a condo conversion, the latest trend, Miami Beach's new look, wrought by enterprising developers. Older oceanfront hotels from the city's glory days are renovated, updated, and converted into condominiums. The lucrative market appeals to young local professionals, wealthy Europeans, Asians, and Latins, and anyone looking for a part-time Miami Beach residence.

The phenomenon is another metamorphosis in a city that has evolved in less than forty years from world-class resort to shabby retirement community to the new playground of the rich and famous. Trendy New Yorkers find it simpler to jet to Miami for the weekend than fight traffic to Connecticut, the Jersey shore, or upstate New York.

This pink and lavender building had been the Star Light Hotel, designed by one of the most prominent Art Deco-era architects. In the forties it was
the
place for celebrities and nightlife; in the sixties it hosted international beauty pageants. Encroaching shabbiness overtook it in the seventies and eighties. The glamour, the history, and the excitement faded into ghosts. But now the Star Light was back, restored to splendor, with all-new windows, a remodeled lobby, new cabanas, security, and renovated corridors.

My heels clicked across the mirrored and marbled lobby. The security guard took my name and said I was expected.

He must have telephoned my arrival. When I emerged on the fifth floor Trish was standing in the spill of light from her open doorway.

She wore shorts, a blue silk blouse, and sandals, a wisp of a girl with a contagious smile.

“It's been the most wonderful day. I just can't tell you.” She was nearly giddy with excitement. “I've been jumping up and down all afternoon! Of course, I'm also scared to death.” She looked closer at my face. “You look exhausted. Poor thing!” She drew me inside to rosy lighting, good music, and comforting aromas from the kitchen.

Sliding glass doors stood open to the terrace, sheers billowing in the breeze off the ocean, vast night sky and sea beyond. The apartment was gorgeous, including a crystal chandelier, plush carpet, and glass brick. My jaw must have dropped. This poor jobless reporter's apartment put mine to shame.

“What a nifty place!”

“Terrific, isn't it?” she said, smiling. “Let me get you a drink.”

The bar was built-in and well stocked, with crystal wine goblets suspended overhead. I opted for Dubonnet over ice. She pressed the glass into my hands. “Here, relax, make yourself at home and I'll be right back. I think I smell something burning.” She declined my offer of help and disappeared behind the glass brick.

I wandered out onto the terrace with my drink, my hair blowing in the evening breeze. The dark Atlantic was one with the midnight-blue horizon; the only lights twinkled from ships at sea. The music made the atmosphere instantly inviting and relaxing. There were breakers on the beach below and laughter from people in the outdoor pool.

I drank in the view and stepped back inside the magazine-perfect apartment, uncluttered, scarcely lived in, no cats, no dogs, no confusion. The only personal touch was a photo in a silver frame on the mahogany breakfront, a child that must have been Trish and a frail-looking boy who resembled her enough to be a brother or a cousin. Wearing jeans and plaid shirts, they sat on ponies.

I settled on a brocade love seat, sipping my Dubonnet and still gazing out toward the sea. Beautiful nights like this one always made me think of McDonald, wondering where he was, who he was with, and if he ever thought of me.

Trish emerged, pink-faced, wearing oven mitts and carrying a long dish covered by a pink linen napkin.

“Told you it would be ready in a jiff.”

“Sure you don't need help?”

“Absolutely. The kitchen's only big enough for one.” She placed the dish on the table, covered in rosy linen and set with bone china.

“How long have you had this apartment? It's perfect.”

“Isn't it?” She poured herself a club soda, perched gracefully on a settee, and gazed around the room. “If only it
was
my apartment. But no such luck. A friend back in Tulsa knows the owners and I'm house-sitting. Once they arrive for the season, I'll be out on the street.”

“Too bad, you must hate to give this up.”

“You know it, but I've sure enjoyed staying here. And”—she grinned and raised her glass—“now that I have a reporting job, maybe I'll be able to afford something as nice.”

“Well, it may take awhile,” I warned.

“Oops, I almost forgot.” She reached into the pocket of her shorts for something wrapped in a fold of white tissue paper. “This is for you.”

Startled, I unfolded the paper, and a delicate pendant on a silver chain dropped into my lap. “What's this?”

I held it up. A spider web had been spun through a circular silver rim, leaving a small opening in the center. Caught in the web was a tiny turquoise chip. Hanging from the bottom was a perfect little silver feather.

“I've never seen anything like it.”

“That's because it's one of a kind, handmade by a Native American friend, a Comanche I did a favor for, back in Oklahoma. It's a dream catcher.”

“A what?”

“Good dreams are caught in the web, trickle down the feather, and bring you good fortune. Bad dreams pass right through that hole in the middle. The turquoise is for protection. It worked for me. I wore it for a long time. No bad dreams. I want you to have it, Britt.”

“I couldn't possibly, Trish. It's fascinating, but it was a gift to you from a friend.”

I held it out, silver glinting in the palm of my hand. She shook her head and closed her fingers over mine. “And now it's a gift to another friend. You've done so much for me, Britt. I want you to have it.”

“If you're sure,” I said hesitantly. I fastened the chain around my neck. I loved it, but I felt a little guilty. All I had done was encourage her. She probably would have landed the job anyway, with her determination.

“Why were you so set on Miami?”

She looked surprised at the question. “You don't win Pulitzers working in Oklahoma.”

“That'll take awhile too.” I smiled at her enthusiasm. “But seriously, there are lots of good news towns. Why Miami?”

“For the same reasons you love it, Britt. The people back home are glued to their TV sets, watching
Geraldo
and
Oprah
. The people in Miami
appear
on
Geraldo
and
Oprah
.”

We both laughed.

“Sit down and I'll feed you.”

She unfurled the pink napkin, exposing a loaf of golden brown bread, sliced it, and I nearly swooned.

“I thought you said this would be something simple!” A crisp crust stuffed with cheese, pepper, and onion. “You made this?”

Her two-handed gesture was breezy, as though it was nothing. “It's a lot easier than it looks, an old family recipe.”

Tiny roasted potatoes and crisp green beans nestled around the perfect chicken. She opened a bottle of Chardonnay. “To Pulitzers,” she said exuberantly, as our glasses clinked.

“If reporting doesn't work out, you can always break into the bread business. You could sell a ton of this stuff and make a fortune. It's out of this world.”

“Don't even suggest that this job won't work out.” Her smile faded. “I'm scared to death and it's no joke. If I don't make it I'm in big trouble. I can't go back home.”

“Why?” I sipped my wine. “Your old paper'd take you back in a New York minute. Probably even pay you more money. Sometimes you have to quit and go back to be appreciated.”

“No.” She shook her head, luminous gray eyes fixed on her plate. “I can't go back. There's something you don't know. I had a bad experience, and I'm afraid…”

“Afraid? What happened?”

She took a deep breath. “You see—”

Sudden shouts and pounding cut off her words.

The commotion came from the corridor outside. A man's quavering cries, murmuring voices. A door slammed.

Our startled eyes met. “Jesus, what's going on?” She rose, turned off the stereo to hear better, and darted to the door.

“Wait, Trish,” I cautioned, following. “I wouldn't open it until you're sure.”

On tiptoe, she peered through the peephole. “What in tarnation?” She threw off the safety chain and swung the door open.

Right behind her, I glanced around the room for the telephone, in case we needed it.

The shouts were louder now. “Ellie, Ellie! Where are you? Come out. Come back. Ellie!”

Trish stepped into the hallway and I followed. Breathless and agitated, an elderly man in yellow Bermuda shorts was shouting and pounding on doors. A gaggle of perplexed tenants trailed in his wake.

“Did you see her? My Ellie. Where is she?” A child must be missing, I thought. In a manner of speaking, that turned out to be the case. Trish took command. She intercepted him, grasping his wavering hands in hers.

“What's wrong?” she said. “How can we help you?”

“My Ellie.” His eyes were wild. “She's not there. She wandered out again. This time she's gone. I can't find her.”

“She has Alzheimer's,” somebody said. “She doesn't know where she is sometimes.”

“Don't worry,” Trish said reassuringly. “We'll find her.”

“She's not herself. She could be down on the beach. The ocean!” He groaned. “She was taking a nap, so I went to the card room. She must have woke up and come down to find me … lost her way.”

The security guard emerged from the elevator. “She's not in the lobby, but she might have gotten by. I checked the pool.”

Tears streaked the old man's mottled cheeks.

“What was she wearing?” I asked.

He looked bewildered, then bit his lip. “A blue dress, pale blue, and house slippers.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventy-one.”

“Somebody check the roof,” I suggested, “and the stairwells.”

“She's confused.” He started to cry, his sobs ragged. “She doesn't know where she is, who she is. I never leave her alone. But I needed … I went out for a card game, for just a little while.”

“Of course,” Trish crooned. Her arms circled his thin shoulders. “You need a break once in a while. We all do. We'll find her.”

I ran back through the apartment to the terrace. No elderly woman in a blue dress below. But the beach was dark and full of shadows; she could be anywhere. Traffic is heavy on Collins.

“Call the police,” I told the security guard.

He rolled his eyes and looked reluctant. “Last time they didn't show up for forty-five minutes and we'd already found her.”

“Right,” I said. “But if she's a wanderer they may have already picked her up. If so, they won't know where she belongs.”

He called from Trish's phone. Ellie hadn't been picked up, but her description was broadcast to the zone cars. Short gray hair, five feet four inches, 125 pounds, with a slight limp. Most neighbors had returned to their apartments, though a young couple did offer to check the beach. The guard said he would search the roof. “Is there any way she could have gotten the elevator door open?” I asked quietly, remembering a missing octogenarian found at the bottom of an elevator shaft.