Free Act of Betrayal by Edna Buchanan Page A

had veered away and was dying at sea. Weather watchers were already scrutinizing a new low-pressure wave that had spiraled into the Atlantic off Senegal, on the west coast of Africa. But that was thousands of miles away in the earth’s atmospheric cauldron where the recipe—heated sea temperature, barometric pressure, wind direction, and other variables—must mix just so to spawn a storm. As many as a hundred and twenty-five tropical waves occur during a busy season. About ten become tropical depressions. Of the six that spin into tropical storms, about four escalate into hurricanes.
    My mother called before breakfast. “What have you been doing, darling? Why are you too busy to return my calls?” Without waiting for an answer, she began bubbling over about the new winter fashions. What I yearn for this time of year is a bikini and a beach. Her spirited spiel about skinny belts, saucy patent mules, and forties-styled suits, which would be featured in the fashion shows she was coordinating, failed to interest me.
    My own shop talk, when she did pause for breath, inspired the same nonreaction—until I mentioned the Alex Aguirre bombing.
    â€œI saw it on TV,” she said. “Those awful people, so brutal…”
    â€œDid you see my story?” I sounded too eager, but if my own mother didn’t read my stories, who would?
    â€œYou know how I feel about crime and violence,” she said, skirting my question.
    â€œI cover the police beat, Mom.” I sounded like a child seeking approval, but couldn’t help myself.
    â€œWhen will you be promoted to something more positive?”
    â€œThat’s not how it works. I love my beat,” I explained, for what must have been the ten thousandth time. “That’s where the best stories are, people stories. It’s a gold mine for a reporter. You can expose the bad guys, change things, make a difference.”
    â€œNothing changes, Britt. You can’t save the world. I thought after what almost happened to you, when that other reporter was killed and you were wrongly blamed, you would consider yourself and those who care about you. Common sense says you can’t keep courting disaster,” she cautioned, for what had to be the twenty thousandth time to me, and to my father before me. Some things do not change.
    She heard my sigh and abruptly switched subjects. “You’ll be glad to know that the grunge look is out,” she chirped cheerfully.
    â€œWhat a pity,” I said. “Grunge was me.”
    â€œSome of the new pieces are such fun!” she burbled, ignoring my sarcasm. “Flowerpot purses are going to be very big, they’re clever and kitschy. So is faux fur and thigh-high vinyl boots.”
    I imagined whipping my notebook out of a flowerpot purse after making a grand entrance at police headquarters in faux fur and thigh-high boots. It would get their attention. I bit back a smart remark, suddenly overwhelmed by images of Cassie Randolph and the other mother, the stranger who had wept on the phone about her missing son, and the memory of how in my darkest hour my mother had been ready to mortgage all she owned and more, to save me.
    â€œI love you, Mom.”
    She paused for a millisecond, then rushed on, as though she hadn’t heard. “The new hemlimes are more realistic, right at the knee, but I have serious reservations about the white ankle socks with platform sandals.”
    â€œYou’re absolutely right,” I said. “So do I.” We promised to meet for lunch later in the week. There have been times with my mother when the thought of DNA testing crossed my mind, certain that I was somehow switched at birth—but I am so much like my father. Our simpatico is ephemeral, more a spiritual bond than direct knowledge. Whenever I am in danger or despair, he is with me. Estamos juntos. We are together. My real memories of him are few. I remember peering out from