Suitable for Framing Page 11

  Where do you start to look for a teenager? When teen robbers killed a British tourist upstate, civil rights advocates accused the cops of being discriminatory and racist because they interviewed every teenager in the area. They would prefer, I suppose, that the cops question octogenarians about teenage crime. On the way back to the paper, I stopped at the Edgewater to look for Howie, wandered both levels, but didn’t see him.

  At the office, I stepped off the elevator into a newsroom alive with the excitement that every journalist senses instantly, a big story breaking.

  “Hear what happened to Trish?” Ryan’s face was serious, eyes concerned.

  “No.” I held my breath. “Tell me she’s all right.”

  “She is. But wait till you hear the story she’s got. Some woman killed herself, right in front of her.”

  “No! She was working a story on the suicide-prevention line. What happened?”

  A cluster of people at the city desk parted and I saw Trish at the epicenter, speaking intently to the editor in the slot.

  Janowitz drifted away from the group and joined us. “Hell of a story,” he said admiringly. “She was doing a feach on Reach Out, listened to a call from a suicidal woman, heard the volunteer slough the woman off, took down the address, and went out there. Trish spoke to her, but before she can drive away, the woman hotfoots it out of her apartment, crosses the street, and goes up to the roof of an eight-story parking garage. Trish figures it ain’t kosher, especially since the woman didn’t drive a car and had talked about jumping. So she goes after her. Gutsy thing to do. Finds her alone on the roof, tries to talk her down, grabs her, but the woman wrestles away and does a full gainer. Close call. The woman could have taken her down too.”

  I caught up with Trish as she left the city desk. Pale and slightly disheveled, she still clutched her notebook. “You okay?”

  She nodded, face haunted. “It was horrible, Britt. I tried to hang on, but she was bigger than I am and so strong … I’ll never forget her eyes.”

  She brushed a hand across her face as though wicking away emotion and got down to business. “The desk wants a first-person story—with an investigative piece later on whether the Reach Out staff followed proper procedure and has adequate training and supervision.”

  “They’re usually on the ball,” I said, still stunned. “They save lives.”

  “They sure as hell didn’t save this one. Wish I could have.” Her voice cracked.

  “Whatever you do,” I said quietly, “don’t cry in the newsroom. Can you handle it?”

  She took a deep breath. “I can, if you could sort of look over my shoulder. Never did a story like this one. It’s tricky and I’m still a little wobbly. Will you help me?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The dialogue between her and the woman who died was chilling. I will never forget a word she said as long as I live, Trish wrote.

  Life had not been kind to Magdaly Rosado, who had talked freely to Trish.

  At forty, she had already been through hell without end. Her first husband was in prison. Her second abused her and fought bitterly with her only child, a son, now nineteen. She cleaned downtown offices while her husband drank and her son used drugs. The son wanted his stepfather to stop beating his mother. The stepfather wanted the son kicked out of the house.

  Magdaly was caught in the crossfire. Her own mother had recently died; her ex-husband, nearing release, was writing threatening letters from prison; and the landlord had begun eviction proceedings because of noisy family fights that often involved the police.

  As her world grew darker and more dangerous, Magdaly, treated for depression in the past, stopped taking her medication.

  Trish said that despite a history of suicide threats both husband and son seemed stunned that she had actually done it. They were apparently among those who subscribe to the theory that people who threaten suicide don’t mean it and the ones who do don’t talk about it first. Wrong.

  I pulled up a chair next to Trish’s terminal and we worked together. “The volunteer said she was a regular; he had talked to her before,” Trish said. “He had sent her literature and referrals in the past. He was busy and figured she would be okay, but there was just something in her voice, Britt.” She bit her lip. “I felt scared for her, so I took the address and drove over there. Figured if she wasn’t okay I’d find her some help, and if she was it would be a nice endorsement for Reach Out.”

  She had found Magdaly alone and depressed. They talked, heart-to-heart. Magdaly had promised to seek counseling. As Trish sat in her car jotting some notes on their conversation, Magdaly emerged from her building, crossed to the municipal garage, and boarded the elevator.

  “There was no time to stop and call anybody, and I thought maybe she had a legitimate reason for going over there. But I had to follow and be sure. By the time I got up to the roof she was sitting on the edge with one leg swung over the side. Nobody else was around; only the first four levels were full.

  “I told her she had a lot to live for. She didn’t buy it.” Trish’s eyes glistened. “Too many people kept letting her down. All her life, I think. We talked for about fifteen minutes. I kept hoping somebody would come. But nobody did. That’s when I grabbed her. If only I could have held on to her, Britt. I tried, but she just broke away and went. I ran all the way down eight flights. You should have seen her.” She shuddered. “Head smashed open. I never saw anything like that before.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see it now.” I put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “You did everything you could.”

  The story screamed to be read.

  The copy editor even framed one of Trish’s most compelling grafs inside a quote box:

  “I begged her, but as I reached out, she simply stepped into space. I could see her eyes. She wanted to die. At the very last second she seemed to change her mind, but it was too late. She was gone.”

  A powerful story, stripped across page one with a small photo and a thumbnail sketch of Trish.

  It was the story everybody talked about the next day, including the radio talk-show hosts. The Reach Out counselor was dismissed, not for failing to answer the victim’s cry for help but because he had allowed Trish to monitor a call that should have been confidential. Typical.

  The furor would probably cost Reach Out what little funding it had, I thought, rereading Trish’s story over breakfast the next morning. At the very least, it would cause a major shakeup in administration. Too bad somebody had to die before that happened.

  Chapter Nine

  I can deal with crank letters from total strangers. I resent them from my editors. The interoffice envelope in my mailbox had my name scribbled on one of the neat little lines outside.

  The memo was to: The Staff; Subject: New Expense Report Form.

  Please discontinue using the old expense report forms. Should you have any old forms, please place them in a newsroom recycle bin. The new forms may be obtained in the wire room.

  Be sure your name is clearly printed at the top, not the bottom. Please use INK, not a pencil. Be sure you attach the proper receipts for all charges. The bottom portion, the payment request detail, must be filled out by you and signed, in ink, by you and your supervisor or the designated clerical person in your department.

  On and on it went, for a page and a half, in a pompous style and the cautionary attitude that a first-grade teacher would use on new recruits. “Allow approximately five weekdays for reimbursement, providing the report is not sent back to you for corrections.”

  Given the waste of time and trees and the insult to intelligence, Gretchen’s signature at the bottom was no surprise.

  “Does she lie awake at night dreaming up things like this to torment us?” I asked Ryan, who was also grumbling.

  Her arrogance added to the uneasiness that had plagued me since I awoke that morning. The unrelenting heat on the streets seemed to smolder that much hotter, know
ing as I did that FMJ was out there somewhere, with nothing to lose, armed, dangerous, and fresh out of Prozac.

  The call from Jason Carey did nothing to lift my spirits. “The baby’s home from the hospital,” he informed me wearily. “She cries a lot and misses her mother, but otherwise she’s doing fine. Jenny regained consciousness yesterday, but she didn’t recognize me or her mom.”

  The ache in his voice made me think of Magdaly Rosado, who literally threw her life away, while others, like Jennifer Carey, must fight to survive. If there is a God, I thought, he has a mean sense of humor.

  “How are you?” I asked Carey. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

  “I’m having trouble sleeping,” he confessed. “I think it’s because I hate waking up, that first moment in the morning when I realize again that it’s not a bad dream; it really happened. Jenny isn’t here. Jason isn’t going to go to kindergarten or grow up.”

  Oy, I thought, wishing for some Prozac or a stiff drink myself.

  “There is a victims’ support group you ought to contact,” I said. My right eye began to twitch. It usually does that only when I am exhausted or talking to my mother. “It helps,” I told him. “And what about your family?”

  “There is only one thing that will help,” he said quietly. “That’s the reason I called. The police seem to know who is responsible but haven’t arrested him. I’m afraid they’ve put the case on a back burner, that they’ll forget.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “The detective is good and very committed. They’re working hard.”

  “I’ve heard nothing for days. There hasn’t even been anything more in the paper.”

  “There have to be new developments,” I said.

  “Do you think it would help to offer a reward? I could put together ten thousand dollars. Or should I use it to hire a private detective to go after them?”

  I pressed my fingers against my eyelid as it did the rumba. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Carey.”

  “Jason.”

  “I know it isn’t easy, but I would wait a little. Money attracts a lot of fakes and charlatans and predators. They smell it and come crawling out of the woodwork and from under rocks. You don’t want to expose yourself to them or waste your time. I could see doing it if the police had no name and no leads, but they know who they’re looking for. Same goes for a PI. The police have far more resources. It’s only a matter now of one of them spotting him or stopping him for traffic or some other offense.”

  “Why don’t the police put his picture in the newspaper, on TV?”

  “He’s protected because he’s still a juvenile, a child.”

  There was a silence. “Jason was a child. This creature isn’t.”

  “You’re right. I believe he will be eighteen this week, and I think that once they arrest him the state attorney’s office will move to charge him as an adult. Save your money for medical expenses and Eileen’s education. Give the cops a month, tops, to wrap it up. Then you can reconsider.”

  He sighed and agreed.

  Providentially, the next call was from Howie.

  “Nice to hear from you,” I said. “Where are you?”

  I guess he didn’t like the sound of my voice. I feared for a moment that he’d hung up.

  “Why?” the voice was low and wary.

  “I really need to see you. I have some information you need to know.”

  “Come alone,” he began, “and—”

  “Forget the spy stuff,” I snapped. “You have to trust me. I’m your only friend, Howie.”

  We met on Bayshore, the street that runs behind the Edgewater, between the vertical mall and the bay. A frisky breeze had picked up with what might be the first hint of fall. A good omen, I thought.

  I drove over and saw him standing alone, near Morningside Park, on the bay. He looked stick thin but clean and neat in jeans, a Star Trek T-shirt and, high-top sneakers. I had been afraid he wouldn’t show, but his face lit up when he saw me pull to the curb. I parked and fed the meter as he came loping across the street in long easy strides.

  “Don’t have to do that.”

  “What?”

  “Spend cash money on a meter.”

  I blinked in the sunlight. “Yes, I do. My expense account doesn’t cover parking tickets.”

  “Man, you got an expense account? Cool.”

  “Not so cool, twenty-two cents a mile.”

  “That’s it?” He looked offended. “They should give you a car to drive.” He fished something small out of his pocket, held it up, inserted it into the meter, and flipped the handle. It promptly registered, adding an hour to my time.

  “What was that?”

  “Tab off a Miller.”

  “A beer can tab?”

  “Yeah, some meters, you don’ even need that. Jus’ hit ’em in the right spot, buy you some time. Wanna see?”

  “Some other time,” I said, glancing around to see if anyone was watching.

  We walked, watching the bright sails of a Sunfish regatta bobbing out on the bay.

  He seemed slightly taller than when I had first seen him. Maybe he was in a growth spurt. That happens with teenagers. His voice even registered at a somewhat lower pitch.

  Though his body language was casual, his alert eyes took in everything: passing traffic, parked cars, purses, pedestrians, the wallet bulges in their pockets. Sociopaths do that. Their view of life comes from a different perspective. But so, of course, does mine. I am constantly tempted to warn careless strangers to be more cautious. Don’t carry a purse in a way that asks to be dragged by a thief in a passing car. Don’t leave that handbag in your shopping cart while you browse. Don’t block the windows of small stores with posters that may obscure what is happening inside. Why invite trouble? It shows up often enough.

  To give him the benefit of the doubt, Howie had probably picked up similar insight while surviving on the street. Maybe he was actually a budding reporter, not a predator. Many people swear they are one and the same.

  “Look.” Howie tilted his head toward the corner. “Thought you’d wanna see it.”

  Spray-painted graffiti covered the side of a vacant building that had once housed an Italian restaurant. The number ninety-nine scrawled inside a red circle with a line drawn through it. Ninety-nine is street jargon for the police. Interesting, but not as arresting as the larger display: F M J in gigantic black letters next to the number 784.

  “Know what that means?”

  “Yep.” The Florida State Statute for murder is 784. “Doesn’t seem to worry him,” I said.

  “He bragging on it. He be here last night.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No, but this in a buncha other places round here. Wasn’t there yesterday. Probably all over town.”

  FMJ was taunting the police. I wondered if Rakestraw had seen it. We walked back down to where we had met and sat on the seawall in the shade of a sea-grape tree. We could see Miami Beach across the bay, a distant pastel city shrouded in clouds.

  “Do you know where they sell all the cars they steal?”

  Howie was oddly forthright. “To whoever place the order. A dude in Hialeah’ll pay a thousand for every ’95 Camry XLE you can bring him. The juice man. Sweet deals on stolen wheels,” he chanted softly. “Won’t buy from anybody eighteen or over. I could deliver six a day myself,” he bragged.

  I smiled indulgently. Maybe FMJ was nearing the end of his career. Washed up at eighteen. “If you could, then why don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not greedy, like some dudes.”

  Thinking of my T-Bird, I asked the expert, “What kind of car is most likely to be stolen?”

  “One that is unoccupied.”

  “Cute. Although not entirely true, with FMJ out there.”

  “He always in a hurry,” Howie said. “Toyotas are easy.”

  “Oh?” I said dubiously.

  “Master key the big thing.
Ain’t nothing to cop master keys for Toyotas.”

  “How?” I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “A lotta guys have a contact with a dealer. But actually”—he snorted—“when the key is worn down it’ll get you in any Toyota. Jus’ file it down a little on the curb, no problem. A-course, the older the Toyota, the easier it is.”

  I cut my eyes at him.

  “Want me to demonstrate?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Nah. Want a hot dog?”

  A street vendor with kosher red hots had set up shop half a block away. I hadn’t had lunch.

  He shook his head, looking a bit miffed.

  “Be right back,” I said, slipping off the wall. “Wait here. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  I trotted down the street and ordered up a hot dog with sauerkraut, relish, mustard, and pickles. I ordered two orange drinks, paid the man, grabbed a few extra napkins and straws, and glanced back toward the seawall. Howie was gone.

  Shit! I thought. Did he really take off? I spilled some orange drink on my skirt as I rushed back to where we’d been sitting. He was nowhere in sight.

  Then I realized my car wasn’t either.

  “Goddammit! Howie!”

  I must have looked like the girl in The Exorcist the way my head swiveled around, frantic, hoping I was mistaken, that I had parked somewhere else. A car is stolen every nineteen seconds in this country. I knew that. But that car never belonged to me. Not only was my T-Bird gone, but a woman in a Chevy was backing into my space, with all that free time still on the meter.

  That little bastard. What would the cops say? They’d get a big laugh out of this. I never should have dealt with Howie myself. I should have turned him in to the cops the first time I ever laid eyes on him.