Suitable for Framing

by Edna Buchanan

  She paused. “I know what it’s like,” she said quietly, “working in a male-run organization. And there’s no busier gossip mill than a police department. I’ve been a target myself. When they can’t attack a woman any other way, they attack her sex life. Hang in there. I’ve gotta go.”

  Not only had my messages been monitored, erased, and returned without my knowledge, some might have been added. What about the unusual number of false leads and wild goose chases I had been wasting my time on lately?

  I thought about skipping the rounds on my beat for a few days or so, to let things blow over, but nasty gossip, like a virulent weed, spreads like wildfire if ignored. The most effective damage control would be to act natural, show my face, and go on as usual. Hiding out, running for cover, makes you look guilty as hell.

  At least, thanks to Annalee Watson, I knew what was being said about me. I put on my favorite blouse, peach-colored with tiny matching pearl buttons, and even applied some eyebrow pencil and mascara, unusual for me to wear to work. Nothing like cosmetics to build a little confidence—armor painted on to deflect the meanness in the world. Like a good soldier on the way to the front, I drove to Miami police headquarters.

  As usual, all but the handicapped slots were taken. I circled the T-Bird like a vulture until somebody backed out, then zoomed into the space.

  Rakestraw was in the lobby. He spun around and headed my way when he saw me. He looked sharp and eager. “Britt, I was just thinking about calling you. Hopefully we’ll get a break today.”

  “FMJ?”

  “We’re hoping. It’s a long shot.”

  “You know where they are?”

  “Not exactly, but word on the street is that they need money to get out of town. A CI we’ve got in a chop shop is cooperating. Ain’t too many ’ninety-one Allantes around.”

  “True, I guess.”

  “Well, they put out word they need one pronto, and there’s a bonus for whoever comes up with one first.”

  “So?”

  “We got us three of ’em. We’re parking ’em in plain view in areas where they hang out, where we hear they’ve been seen.”

  “Staking them out?”

  “Yeah, but just in case, we’ve got us a brand-new toy, a monitoring device.”

  “Like the Lojack?”

  “Only more so. It’s a silent system that will track them down without fail. We’ve got one, plus a hidden antenna, in each car. Every three hours or so, we move ’em to a different spot, hoping to catch their eye.”

  I had doubts about this part. “What if FMJ passes by, spots one on the move, and decides to take it then?”

  Even his mustache hairs seemed to bristle. “Don’t jinx us, Britt. They’re under surveillance while they’re moving, and Metro undercover detectives are the drivers.”

  “How come they’re involved?”

  “These kids are street-smart; they know too many of our people.” He looked worried. “FMJ can smell trouble, so we have to be careful not to hang in too close on the surveillance.”

  Sounded dangerous to me. “How does the device work?”

  “Land-based tracking system.”

  We were interrupted by Artie Gregg, an auto-theft detective wearing jeans and a striped pullover. “Bill, we got one on the move!”

  “Damn!” Rakestraw said. “Come on.”

  The three of us stampeded back to auto theft. Rakestraw high-fived a pudgy detective in front of a PC that was backed up to a printer. On the screen in front of him was a detailed road map outlined in red.

  “Which one’d they get?” said Rakestraw.

  “The one parked at Northside Shopping Center. Started moving four minutes ago. The team in the van on the other side is watching with binoculars, said the takers are two teenagers, possibly Latin males; they fit the descriptions. They walked up on foot. Didn’t see the vehicle they got out of.”

  “The chopper is up and has made visual contact,” a dispatcher reported in stereo on the detectives’ walkies. They weren’t taking any chances.

  Rakestraw and I exchanged tense glances. “Let it be them!” I begged softly, thinking of Jennifer and little Jason Carey; McCoy, the young cop; and Howie. “Let it be them!”

  “Look at this,” said the detective at the monitor. He hit a key and the road map on the screen zoomed down to a one-square-mile area, showing streets, intersections, and waterways. A moving green dot was the Allante we were tracking.

  “It works through a mainframe in Fort Lauderdale,” said Rakestraw. “Prints out every eight seconds, showing where the car is at, what street, what intersection.”

  “I didn’t know you had anything like this.”

  The pudgy detective at the monitor spoke without taking his eyes off the screen. “The vehicle locator box can be installed in a car, a truck, a boat. It’s a little bigger than a beeper. Broadcasts on the nine-hundred-megahertz frequency band to a central computer through radio towers from Palm Beach to Key West. Covers every street and twenty miles out to sea.

  “The primary purpose is fleet management, so a plumbing company can keep track of its trucks, for instance. The radio waves travel at a speed of a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second, and the computer measures the exact location plus speed and direction. Takes about two seconds.”

  “Where’s the car headed?” Rakestraw said.

  “North, at thirty-five miles an hour.” The man at the keyboard frowned. The green dot moved with the car, miles away. I watched the three detectives glued to the screen. This, I thought, is the police work of the future. No pounding pavements or knocking on doors in the hot sun; they’ll be sitting in air-conditioned offices instead, tracking suspects by computer. I loved it. What a way to monitor wandering husbands, errant boyfriends, and joyriding teenagers.

  The green dot moved north on Northwest Second Avenue, crossing Northwest 108th Street, 108th Terrace, 109th Street, 109th Lane.

  “The chop shop is south,” somebody said.

  “Maybe they’re headed for the expressway.”

  “We better take ’em before they get on.” Rakestraw raised the dispatcher on his two-way. “Is North Miami advised?”

  “Affirmative,” she said. “The county and North Miami Beach also have units in the area.”

  The detectives in the van reported that they were following, three cars behind the convertible. “Visual ID looks good. Looks like our suspects,” said a deep, calm voice.

  “Everybody in position?” Rakestraw said. “Use caution. These guys are armed.”

  Everybody responded with a QSL, which means okay.

  “Go get ’em,” said Rakestraw. “Take ’em whenever you’re ready.”

  “Let’s do it!” said a unit at the scene.

  The green dot on the screen continued north on Northwest Second Avenue, passed Northwest 123rd Street, then Northwest 124th Terrace. Then it stopped. The operator hit a key and an address appeared on the screen next to the green dot: 12450 Northwest Second Avenue. Eight seconds later: 12450 Northwest Second Avenue. Eight seconds later: 12450 Northwest Second Avenue.

  “They’re not just stopped at a traffic light,” somebody muttered. “Come on, come on!”

  I wondered what would happen if they ran or tried to shoot it out.

  “Two in custody!” somebody shouted at the scene.

  “Way to go!” Rakestraw shouted. I studied their jubilant faces, wondering wistfully if any woman could ever make any of these men as happy. I doubted it.

  The stolen Allante had been pulled over within sight of the expressway. Surrounded by uniform cars, with the police helicopter hovering overhead, the occupants surrendered. A handgun was taken from the waistband of the driver.

  Our elated little group was still celebrating, clinking Pepsi cans, when we got the news. The suspects, in separate cage cars on the way to the station, had been identified as J-Boy and Little Willie.

  I heard curse words new to me as Rak
estraw punched the wall so hard I thought he had broken his hand.

  What hurt most was the unspoken realization that, had they not been stopped, they probably would have led the cops to FMJ. But nobody was hurt and two out of three ain’t bad. Maybe J-Boy and Little Willie, the latter fresh out of Youth Hall, would rat on FMJ. Maybe.

  FMJ seemed to lead a charmed life, but his luck had to run out soon. Since I was on a street deadline, I wrote my story on an old electric typewriter provided for the press in the PIO office, then faxed it to the newsroom on the machine police flacks use to distribute their press releases.

  How primitive, I thought, feeding the paper into the facsimile machine, hoping it was not being received in every competing newsroom in Miami.

  Dazzled by the recent display of police technology, I resolved to begin using a modem-equipped portable laptop computer that would zap my stories right into the News computer system from out in the field. If FMJ used one, why not me? Why stall in the slow lane of the new information superhighway? In reality, I was having difficulty with something as basic as voice mail. But of course I knew why. Trish was the reason. How did a simple favor, extending the hand of friendship to another woman, evolve into something so sinister and ugly? How could she? What sort of person was this?

  I stayed around for a while, but the word was not promising. J-Boy demanded his lawyer and Little Willie was crying for his mommy. Before clamming up, both denied knowing any Gilberto Sanchez, aka Peanut, aka FMJ.

  Beating everybody else, filing my story for the street, made me feel back on track. I pushed through the station’s double doors and was trudging through the parking lot, past the grassy course where K-9 officers train their dogs, when I saw her. It was Trish. She had just parked. She wore a pink knit dress, nipped in at the waist, and was laughing at something one of two cops walking near her had said. The officers veered off to the left, to the training area. Trish kept coming my way. What was she doing here?

  She saw me and smiled. “Hi, Britt,” she said, apparently intending to walk on by and into the station.

  “Trish,” I said coolly, stepping directly in front of her. “What a coincidence. What are you doing here again, on my beat?” I spoke as though confronting a naughty child in the act.

  She reacted in kind, with a sheepish but engaging grin, as though caught raiding the cookie jar. She pushed her big sunglasses up on her tilted nose. “Heard about J-Boy. Didn’t think you’d spend much time here today after everything that happened.”

  Her skin glowed golden; she’d been getting some sun. I wondered how she found the time. She shrugged gracefully, shifting her weight like a racehorse eager to run. “Somebody has to stay on top of the story.”

  “That’s my job,” I said mildly.

  “Actually, J-Boy’s mother has already hired an attorney. He said I can talk to his client.” Her soft dark hair formed a cloud around her face. She looked stunning.

  “No way,” I said. “You have no business—”

  “I’m the only reporter he’ll allow access to his client. No one else gets to talk to him.” She smiled again, so poised, so arrogant, that I could not resist.

  “Wonder how you did that,” I said sarcastically. “Actually, you have more important things to think about,” I told her, maintaining our tone of feigned sweetness. “I spoke to someone who was there when Magdaly Rosado died, who saw the whole thing.”

  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 blous
e,” 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.