Free Garden of Evil by Edna Buchanan

two thousand strong-arms in the past year. There’s been half a dozen in and around that parking lot since Easter. We’ve been meaning to send in CST, the crime suppression team.”
    â€œThe other muggings there—were they by the same guys?”
    â€œHard to say.”
    According to Springer, the getaway car belonged to a college student and was stolen off a South Beach street while he partied there with friends the night before. Other witnesses in the parking lot did confirm that at least one of the muggers was masked.
    â€œIsn’t that odd?” I asked him.
    â€œA little out of the ordinary, but I wouldn’t go as far as to call it odd.”
    â€œAny other recent muggings done by masked men?”
    â€œNot that I’m aware of.”
    â€œI’m just trying to determine her credibility, Randy. I don’t want to run with it and get burned. What do you think?”
    â€œHonest opinion? Two unrelated, isolated incidents. It happens. Remember that tourist, got robbed three times in one day? Hey, the mayor’s car has been stolen twice. Remember the married couple, had both their cars stolen the same day? Shit happens. It was her turn.”
    â€œYou don’t believe anybody’s trying to kill her?”
    â€œHell, no. She’s not the type, doesn’t live the life, far as we know. I mean, we talked to her. Her divorce was no war. No reason for anybody to kill her or have herkilled. And if those jokers were hired hit men, you’d have to admit they were pretty sloppy.”
    â€œShe seems convinced.”
    â€œLike I said, nice lady. Something did happen. Twice. Maybe she’s just taking herself a little too seriously, a little paranoid. Or she’s looking for sympathy from her ex. Gotta go, staff meeting’s about to start.”
    I read through all my notes, wavering on Althea’s story. My cynical mean-spirited self thought: spoiled society wife gets dumped, is lonely, has a couple of bad experiences, thinks life as she knew it is coming to an end, and wants the world to join her pity party. But then I remembered the look in her eyes. Her desperation was real. What if—? My telephone rang.
    â€œHe’s here!” Lottie hissed.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œO’Rourke!”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œTex O’Rourke, my ex-husband.”
    â€œIn Miami?”
    â€œHell-all-Friday, Britt. In the building!”
    I scanned the newsroom for a sinister face. “Where?”
    â€œThe lobby, five minutes ago. Chip from security called. O’Rourke was at the front desk asking to see me. I told ’im not to let him come up, to say I was out.”
    â€œSo he’s probably gone.”
    â€œBritt, the man called from Fort Worth last night. I said don’t come. Told ’im I was engaged, booked up, knocked up, screwed up, had gained seventy-five pounds, and had chicken pox. He’s here anyway. You think our security kin stop him?”
    She had a point. News security guards routinely demand that I present my ID card to enter the building, but their record of challenging suspicious strangers who could be heavily armed mad bombers was not a distinguished one. I recently saw a violent repeat offender, free on bond and awaiting trial, busily using our newsroom copy machine.A stack of legal documents he needed to copy for his lawyer, he said. When I asked how he slipped by security, he looked puzzled. Security?
    â€œWhere are you?” I asked Lottie.
    â€œUnder a desk in the sports department,” she whispered. “Photo is the first place he’ll go.”
    â€œLet’s meet for coffee in the cafeteria.”
    â€œWish I had a disguise.”
    Lottie’s wild and frizzy mane of flaming red hair was hard to hide. “We’ll go to a table back in the corner where the pressmen sit,” I suggested. “Take the freight elevator. Meet you there in two.”
    I arrived first, poured myself