Free Suitable for Framing by Edna Buchanan Page B

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.
    â€œShe’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.”
    â€œWouldn’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.
    â€œShe 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.
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œCan’t try him till you catch him.”
    â€œSomething’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.”
    â€œThey 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.
    â€œWhere do you think they took the stuff?” I stifled another yawn. “Think they stole it on order or spur-of-the-moment?”
    â€œSome 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.
    â€œSon 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!”
    â€œThat’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