Suitable for Framing by Edna Buchanan Read Free Book Online Page A

Hell, I did tell ’em. Bastards never did a thing.”
    â€œDoes he know the police are looking for him?”
    She and the girl exchanged glances. “He saw the TV news Tuesday night and took off with some of his friends,” the mother said.
    â€œDid you see the car he was driving?”
    Another exchange. “Hah.” She snorted. “There’s always a car. I don’t know what this one was, but I heard rubber burning.” Her voice sounded hollow.
    â€œHave you heard from him since?”
    â€œHe was here,” she said, “while I was at work. He came by for some clothes.”
    â€œHe said I could have his stereo.” The girl’s face was eager. “He took his laptop.”
    â€œHis computer?”
    She nodded brightly.
    â€œIt is serious this time,” I told the mother.
    â€œIt was serious every time,” she said. “Just because nobody dies doesn’t mean it’s not serious. But it took this to get their attention. Don’t know what he’ll do now. But he ain’t out joining the Boy Scouts.” She stared at me accusingly. “I didn’t see no newspaper reporters interested before. Where were you when I was trying to get help?”
    â€œIt can’t be easy,” I acknowledged, “raising children alone.”
    â€œTell me about it.” Cigarette smoke wreathed her sallow face.
    I took notes, shocked to learn she was only thirty-six, four years older than I am. She looked ten years older, and brittle.
    â€œIf you hear from Peanut, ask him to call me,” I said. “I’d really like to talk to him about what happened.”
    â€œHe don’t want to be called that anymore,” the girl sang out in a warning tone.
    Her mother and I both turned to stare.
    â€œHe tol’ me last night,” she chanted, looking coy from under long eyelashes. “Nobody’s supposed to call him that anymore. He got a new name.”
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked.
    She concentrated, the effort curling one corner of her mouth and narrowing her eyes. “F,” she said slowly, “M, J.”
    I glanced at the mother, puzzled. “Somebody’s initials?”
    She shook her head, face resigned.
    â€œMust stand for something.”
    â€œYeah,” the girl said, smiling. “Like my name is Rings.” She waggled her weighted fingers.
    â€œMirta,” her mother mouthed. “Mirta.”
    â€œRings!” the girl said peevishly. “He tol’ me what it meant.” The teenager screwed up her face. “Then I forgot but that’s what he wants to be called from now on, FMJ.”
    â€œWas he with J-Boy?”
    She glanced at her mother, saw no warning, and nodded.
    â€œWhere does J-Boy live?”
    She shrugged. “Somewheres over on Forty-seventh Street.”
    â€œWhat’s his real name?” I held my breath. It would be neat to ID the front-seat passenger before the cops did. I love that.
    â€œDon’t know, but I know his girlfriend. They call her Gangsta Bitch.”
    Delightful, I thought, sighing. The woman had her eyes closed and a fresh cigarette between her teeth. Lottie should be here, I thought to glimpse the joys of motherhood. I felt blessed at being spared.
    â€œWho else was he with?”
    â€œDinky, Little Willie, Cat Eye.” She ticked them off on her fingers.
    â€œIs he the black guy?”
    â€œCat Eye? No. You must mean Cornflake. He’s a black dude.”
    â€œWhere does he hang out?” I asked, thinking of the backseat passenger.
    She shrugged. “Maybe at the Edgewater.
    â€œCat Eye has green eyes,” she trilled, seeing me to the door. “They call Little Willie that ’cause his daddy is Big Willie.”
    â€œAnd Cornflake, he likes cereal?”
    â€œYou got it.” I was catching on. I stepped into the hall.
    About to close the door, she hesitated. “I remember,” she said, face alight.