Suitable for Framing (9 page)

“I hate parking garages,” I said, thinking of all those times I was sure my car had been stolen, then found it, parked elsewhere. Maybe I wasn't forgetful after all; maybe it
had
been stolen.

“I don't do too much round here, you know,” he said solemnly, “'cause I live here. Don't wanna make trouble where you live.”

“Yeah, the mob has a phrase for it.” He offered another brownie. Tempted, I declined. “You're so skinny,” I said.

“You got nothing to worry about.” I took his sidelong glance as a compliment.

“So where do you get them if you don't take 'em from here?” I asked, worrying vaguely about the
News
parking lot just a block and a half away.

He shrugged. “The church and the hotels across the street. Pick a set of keys off the valet board over there.” He shrugged. “Or go up the boulevard to one of those gas stations by Bay Point.”

The publisher of the
News
lives in Bay Point, an affluent, walled-in waterfront community. Private security officers man a guardhouse and screen visitors. Lawns are green and homes lavish, with flower beds and landscaping and cookie-baking mommies who attend garden club meetings. It is
Leave It to Beaver
land, with children at play on safe, shady streets, while outside the walls, in gritty real life on the boulevard, prostitutes flag down traffic, the homeless hunker in doorways, and crime plagues small businesses.

“When they go pay for their gas and leave the keys,” Howie was saying. “Tha's when you jump in and be gone with the car 'fore they turn around. But I quit that game.” He frowned. “Too many people carrying guns these days. Kill you over a car.”

“You mean the police?”

“Hell, no, I ain't worried about no police. They won't shoot at a kid, tha's against official procedure. It's the damn civilians.” He stopped chewing his second brownie to wax indignant. “Too many of 'em got guns! They'll kill you! Some guy shot at a friend of mine. Damn near smoked 'im. The crazy fool was shooting holes in his own car! Almost killed somebody over a car!”

“Odd you should say that,” I said mildly, “because that's what FMJ is doing, shooting people over cars.”

Howie's face was half masked in shadow. “He shoots people he don't have to shoot. He say his gun want to get blood on itself. He cold crazy. He ain't shooting 'cause of the car, he's shooting 'cause he likes it; the dude likes hurting people.”

A sudden shudder tickled my spine. Must have been the caffeine and the chocolate cavorting through my system.

“You can't go on living like this, Howie. You've got to straighten out your life, get your act together, get back into school and make something of yourself. You're smart, you're a survivor. Jesus, Howie, you can
be
somebody.” I leaned forward. “Do it now. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

His gaze stayed steady. His expression didn't change; he didn't say a word.

“Sure,” I went on, “all this may seem swell now, but you don't wanna be living up here when you're twenty or thirty years old. Sooner or later some security or maintenance man is gonna catch on to you, or they'll do major renovations, a little urban renewal up here on the roof, and knock your house down.”

He stared at the floor.

“Maybe things are better with your mom now, and you can live with her.”

He sighed. “Once a junkie, always a junkie.”

“You sound like the parent instead of the child.”

“That's how it was sometimes.”

“Is that why you left?”

“I couldn't stay because of her boyfriend.”

“Maybe she isn't seeing him anymore.”

“She always seeing somebody.”

“Maybe you can learn to get along with him.”

He looked up at me, eyes shiny. “He was the dude I tol' you about, with the blade.”

It was my turn to sigh. “But this isn't it, Howie.” I gestured at his small abode. “This is no place to live.”

“I thought it wasn't
where
you live but
how
you live.” His voice rose angrily. “I do the best I can.”

“I know.” I was contrite.

“It's better than being locked up.”

“What makes you think you'd go to jail?” I thought again of Jennifer Carey and her son, hoping that Howie was not the backseat passenger.

“I was on probation,” he said warily.

“If it was for auto theft, you won't go to jail. You have to kill somebody to go to jail these days.”

He stared between his knees at the floor, arms clutched to his chest as though afraid of letting something escape.

“Even if you've done something more serious, deals can be worked out.”

“How?” His voice was small, with a trace of hope.

“You're still a juvenile. If you weren't the main player, maybe you're more a witness than a guilty party. Maybe they would need your testimony.”

“You mean be a rat.” His eyes burned.

“It's more like being a hero,” I said, “to help get FMJ and the adults who are dealing with him off the street. He's dangerous. You say that yourself. He's about to have a big birthday. The big one-eight makes him an adult, which means state prison. You don't want to wind up like that. There have to be other options. Maybe I can find out something. Then we can talk about it.”

“You won't send anybody else here or hand me up?”

“Hell, no. I'll find out, then you can decide the right thing to do.”

He nodded.

I thanked him for the coffee. He walked me as far as the door to the stairwell. I left him standing alone, surrounded by the vast night sky. Two minutes later I emerged into a world of bright lights and canned music, a mall full of families and children, and happy shoppers and holiday decorations.

I felt like a mother hen. “The city can be treacherous,” I warned Trish. “This ain't Kansas—or Oklahoma.”

She stood at my desk, more color than I remembered in her face, holding her new
Miami News
ID card, just issued by security. Unlike most, her postage-stamp-size Polaroid was a good one. It was the megawatt smile that did it.

“I know what it's like out there,” she protested. Her eyes reflected the heady excitement of the newsroom, the nerve center of this big-city paper, with its spectacular view from massive bayfront windows, reporters at their word processors, editors clustered around the city desk, executives in their glass offices, and big overhead clocks ticking down to deadline after deadline, day after day.

I knew how she felt I regularly realize how lucky I am to have this job.

“Traffic is a bitch,” I told her. “Miamians are a hostile breed. They floor it to be first at a red light. Most are unfamiliar with North American driving habits. They've got guns, baseball bats, and short fuses. Sometimes it's easier to bail out and hoof it. Leave press ID on the windshield and
maybe
the cops won't tow it. Metro Rail would have been handy, if it went to the airport, the seaport, or the Beach—the places with the most serious parking problems. But it doesn't. Thank our elected officials for that.”

I pressed a good road map into her hands.

“It's easy to get lost,” I said in my most helpful schoolmarm mode, “so remember St Louis.”

“St Louis?” She looked impatient, in a hurry to go out and tackle the world. I didn't want her tackled first.

“Streets, terraces, and lanes: S T L,” I explained. “In Miami they all run east–west. Everything else runs north–south.”

She nodded solemnly.

“Stay alert. Hey, we've had a couple of reporters robbed, one stabbed, another winged during the last riot Ryan here almost got his head bashed in.”

Ryan looked up from his desk behind us, as though on cue, obligingly sweeping his chestnut hair off his forehead to proudly display his scar.

“When a man gets hurt, the powers that be get over it. It's an occupational hazard,” I told her. “But when a woman gets hurt, everybody looks bad. Her editor catches heat for sending her out there, and we risk being told that there are certain stories or assignments we shouldn't handle.”

Ryan smiled sweetly. I stared him down, and he turned back to his terminal. Socializing could come later. This spiel was important.

“As you drive,” I told her, “watch the guys loitering on street corners. Especially the one with the paper bag in his hand. It could be a sandwich, a can of Coors, a brick, a rock, or a Molotov cocktail. Somebody sitting on the top of a bus bench is probably there to see inside passing cars, looking for a purse or something worth stealing.

“Remember—”

“I know, I know.” She grinned. “This ain't Kansas.”

Trish went to orientation and I drove to headquarters to see Rakestraw. A man on crutches lurched painfully out of the office, his face purple. “This is where our tax money goes?” he bellowed. He was mad as hell. So was Rakestraw.

The wounded victim's car and personal possessions were still missing, along with the gunman who had shot him. No wonder the man was irate.

Rakestraw's sour mood had another reason, a setback in the Carey case. Arturo, owner of the red Trans Am, had been unable to pick FMJ out of photo lineups as the driver.

“Think you'll still be able to make a case?” I asked, settling into a chair.

“I'm hoping that when we finally pick them up, one of the other subjects in the car will flip and testify against him,” Rakestraw said.

“So you'd make a deal?”

“To nail FMJ, sure. We've got plenty of other robbery and agg assault charges against him, but the felony murder is the biggie.”

“Have you ID'd the backseat passenger yet?” I thought I sounded casual, but Rakestraw was nobody's fool.

“Nope.” His shrewd eyes rose slowly from the reports on his desk to check me out. “You know something, Britt?”

“I'm not sure, but I'll let you know as soon as I am.”

We then danced around a debate on where an unnamed hypothetical, salvageable street kid on probation could reside while finishing school. The Crossing was the best choice. A halfway house for troubled kids committed to straightening out their lives; for most it's a last chance before being locked up.

As I left the station, I was accosted by a tall grim man in the lobby. I answered his question before he asked it.

“You want Detective Rakestraw,” I told him. “Second door on the right.” I am not psychic; his crutches were a clue.

He hobbled in that direction.

I was about to pull out of the parking lot when the driver of a rented Buick in the next space carelessly pushed open his door, bouncing it off the side of my brand-new T-Bird. I hate that and furiously rolled down the window to tell him so. Before I could, I saw the crutches he was awkwardly maneuvering, struggling to get out. I sighed, rolled up the window, and took off.

I thought about Howie and the Crossing and discussed it later in a phone chat with Lottie.

“How you gonna get him to go? You can't just throw a net over him like a stray tomcat. That's you, Britt, always picking up strays. It don't work with bad-ass teenagers.”

“That's just it. He might be redeemable. He's never had a chance, but he's so self-reliant, living on his own the way he does. He reads the dictionary, for God's sake. If he'd only read the definitions too, he might sound educated. But he tries. You haven't met him.”

“But I've seen his work.”

“He probably was in that car,” I conceded, “but he wasn't driving. Listen, we've all been in bad company once or twice, or in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Trish was assigned a desk in the last row, in the far back corner of the newsroom, but she was usually up front, near mine. “Where's Britt, Jr.?” Ryan would ask when she was not. She would roll up the nearest empty chair and watch me work, asking questions, absorbing like a sponge.

She wanted to know it all.

“How do you handle victims and survivors? You always get so many wonderful quotes,” she said. “How do you approach them?”

“It's the toughest part of the job,” I replied, trying to dig a path through the clutter of notes, mail, printouts, and clippings on my desk. I tossed aside the obvious jail mail and tore open a neatly typed envelope. “Uh-oh,” I said. “Bad news from the Inspector Deity.”

“Who?” Trish said.

“Listen to this. ‘Please find enclosed a very important scientific announcement. The Inspector Deity regrets having to inform four billion-plus Homo sapiens that a terminal progressive planetary depletion of atmospheric oxygen is coming soon. Best regards, Emmett R. Merrill, M.D.'”

“Good gawd,” Trish said. “I just got this job.”

“I knew it felt close in here.” I stared up at the air-conditioning vents. “Where were we?”

“Talking to victims.” She dropped her small hands into her lap in feigned despair. “I once tried to interview a woman whose husband was shotgunned in a stickup. She slammed the door on me and threatened to call the sheriff.”

“It happens. And the TV wolf pack doesn't make it any easier. The competition is fierce, and they usually wind up grossing out everybody you want to talk to. But it's important because the survivors are the only ones left to speak up for a victim.”

“How do you get them started?”

“Well, not like the TV reporters who chase them asking, ‘How does it feel?' You have to be gentle. Sometimes they start and can't stop. I think it's cathartic in many cases.”

She hung on every word. “You know, Britt,” she confided, “I also lost my father as a kid, grew up without a dad. We're so very much alike.”

Personally, I doubted that the daughter of a Cuban freedom fighter and Miss Middle America shared much in common. But it was flattering that she thought so.

We celebrated Trish's first
Miami News
byline, a story on studies revealing that it would cost $80 to $90 million to enlarge the Miami Arena, somehow built too small just six years earlier at a cost of $53 million. Nothing like the farsighted vision of our elected leaders. The story, of course, revealed a problem to taxpayers but was a breakthrough for Trish.

We toasted the occasion at the 1800 Club a few blocks from the paper. We even talked love lives that evening at a little table in the crowded semidarkness. I spilled my sad story about Kendall McDonald and how ethics and job pressures drove us apart.

“Maybe it will all work out someday,” she said sympathetically.

“It would be nice,” I said wistfully, “but unlikely.” A low tolerance for alcohol tends to make me feel sorry for myself after a drink on an empty stomach. “We still care about each other. In fact, when that incident with the rapist happened he was wonderful. I couldn't have gotten through it without him. Just made me miss him more. We're a perfect example of why you can't mix business with pleasure.”

She looked thoughtful. “But dating a source can be super convenient. Can't hurt to have the inside track on your beat, especially when there's tough competition.”

“No way.” I shook my head. “Too risky. Tends to get complicated.”

“So where do you draw the line?” Trish leaned forward, eyes serious.

“When a relationship with a source begins to be fun and feel good—you stop.” I stared morosely into the light reflected in my glass. “The story of my life. It's a bummer because the men you deal with on the police beat understand the hours, the pressures, and the deadlines. But they're off limits. It'll be easier for you,” I assured her. “You won't be dealing with the same sources daily.”

She smiled mysteriously, as sly as a cat with her paw in the canary cage. She's keeping a secret, I thought. Must be a romance.

The arrival of my club sandwich and Trish's dinner salad interrupted. I would feel better after eating. “Did I tell you to watch out for Gretchen?” I asked, when the waitress had gone. “She'll pace and lurk around behind you on deadline like some psycho killer. Don't let her rattle you.”

“Actually she's been pretty decent so far,” Trish said. “Those clothes! She always looks gorgeous. I wonder where she has her hair done?”

“Someplace we peons can't afford,” I said. “There's a beauty school on the Beach with cut-rate prices if you let the students work on you. The best part is, you don't even need an appointment. It's great. I'll give you the address.”

Trish studied my hair, not at its best at the moment. “Gretchen does look terrific,” was all she said.

“Packaging lies.”

Appetite whetted by her first byline, Trish had little patience with stories that were not major news. The following afternoon she was assigned the daily weather story.

She peered over my shoulder at the story I was working on, human body parts found in the rubble of a downtown demolition site. The crew had failed to check the interior for vagrants before imploding the building.

“Good gawd!” she said.

“The guys on the work crews all claim they thought somebody else checked the interior,” I said. “It makes you wonder if anybody pays attention to what they're doing anymore.”

“And I'm stuck with the boring ol' weather. It never changes: hot and humid with afternoon thunderstorms. When will I get something juicy to work on?”

I hit the
SAVE
key. “Just wait. Some days weather is the biggest story in this town.”

“When that happens you can bet they won't give it to me.” She pouted. She wore a silky blouse that made her skin glow.

“Pay some dues,” I said. “Nobody starts out a star.”

“I know, you're right,” she said. “Have you got the inside number for the weather service?”

“In my Rolodex,” I said, returning to the demolition story.

She flipped through the cards. “God almighty, Britt, you must have the unlisted numbers of every cop, politician, and muckety-muck in this town.”

“Took years to collect,” I said.

She ran her weather story by me, we polished it up, and she turned it in while I finished my story.

Deadline was minutes away, and I had a few final calls to make. Two truckloads of rubble had been removed before the remains were spotted. Detectives with cadaver-sniffing dogs were at the county dump searching for body parts. I wanted to know what they had found and whether the medical examiner had enough for an identification. Trish sat at the next desk, reading a printout of my Sunday piece about the police pistol range, closed for renovation after poor ventilation caused the rangemaster to suffer lead poisoning.

“Trish, would you check my voice mail for messages? It's nine-one-eight-two,” I said, giving her my four-digit code as I dialed the ME office.

She picked up a phone, punched in the numbers, monitored my messages, printed them out, and handed them to me while I talked to an investigator at the morgue. The wrecking company owner had returned my call.

“Would you get him back for me?” I whispered, one hand over the mouthpiece. “Ask about their safety procedures.”

She had already spoken to him by the time I hung up. “No comment, on the advice of his attorney,” she said.

“I figured,” I said, “but it doesn't hurt to try.” I wrapped up the story and got it in just under the wire.

Later, Trish picked my brain about the local suicide hot line.

“I've gotta do a feach,” she complained. “Sounds like a yawner.”

“Reach Out? Always good human-interest stories there.”

“Here's hoping.” She winked, picked up a notebook, and headed out.

I followed, minutes later. Reports of a sniper at an upper-floor window of a high-rise near county hospital, where the Interstate and the Dolphin Expressway intersect. At least ten shots fired. Police diverted motorists and closed off both highways, halting traffic for miles. The building, nearby offices, a motel, and about a square mile of city streets were being evacuated as SWAT moved in. I was halfway there when suddenly my scanner erupted. Several cops had been injured and were en route to the emergency room.