Suitable for Framing by Edna Buchanan Page A

in the vicinity of the Beach’s chase. I’m in pursuit.”
    â€œAffirmative,” radioed another city officer. “I heard the shots.”
    Rakestraw smiled wickedly and slid the blue flasher onto the dash. Another siren came up fast behind us. The driver of the oncoming Olds saw us and skidded into a U-turn, sliding sideways for half a block as Rakestraw stood on the brakes. So did the cop behind us as I braced for an impact that did not come.
    The Olds’ tires gained purchase on the pavement, and the car shot across the boulevard like a bullet. I thought I heard shouts and saw a backseat passenger perched high atop what had to be Jordan Marsh merchandise stacked all around him.
    â€œWe’ve got ’em boxed in now!” I saw Rakestraw’s eyes and did not want to be any of those kids.
    The Olds bounced across a sidewalk, ran two stop signs at a flat-out sixty, and accelerated the wrong way on a one-way street, aiming at an expressway entrance ramp. A tire blew and the driver lost it. They crashed into an expressway piling under the overpass, near the homeless encampment. A hubcap soared high into the air, bounced, then clattered across the roadway.
    Smoke rose lazily from the wreck as both doors burst open and three skinny figures hurtled out into the haze. They hit the ground running in three different directions.
    â€œThey bailed!” Rakestraw shouted into his mike. “I’ll take the one in the T-shirt and baseball cap, headed toward Second Avenue.” Police cars skidded to stops all around us, with cops taking up the foot chase.
    â€œStay here.”
    â€œI’ll go with you,” I said.
    â€œNo way. You can’t keep up and you can’t run around out here alone. I can’t watch out for you.”
    I watched him dart up the embankment, scale a fence halfway up, and run surefooted across sloping concrete at a 90-degree angle.
    I hated this part. If I stayed with the car, I’d miss the action. Had FMJ been driving the Olds? Where was he now?
    The busy radio was my only link. Breathless patrolmen reported their locations as they pounded down alleys and checked abandoned buildings. The Grand Marquis had ignored warning signals and roared across the Miami Avenue Bridge as it was about to open for a boat. The pursuing police cars didn’t make it, and the Marquis had vanished on the other side of the river. Overtown, scene of Miami’s last riot, seemed to have swallowed up the Toyota. The suspects on foot had eluded pursuers so far. Nobody can outrun a scared teenager. One patrol unit was called away to check a report of dehydrated Cuban rafters beached at Dinner Key near City Hall. The remaining searchers called for K-9 units and set up a perimeter. The harsh glare of powerful spotlights exposed the barren postapocalyptic nightmarescape of predawn downtown Miami. Chopper blades rent the air, hovering low, as the search focused on an area about four blocks away. Where is the Miami of my memories, the clean and gentle city where I grew up? I wondered. How did this happen?
    Bitsy began to whimper and I stroked her head. Then I saw it. Furtive movement near the still-smoking wreck. Heart pounding, I caught my breath.
    Shadows had come alive. Dark shapes, skittering figures emerged from everywhere, swarming over the Olds.
    Homeless people rousted in the night by the commotion, they were looting the stolen merchandise in the smashed car.
    I scrambled out, leaving the door of the unmarked open. Bitsy stood growling under her breath, eyes watching me expectantly. What would Francie have done? “Hey,” I yelled indignantly. “Hey, you!”
    Nobody paid attention. A wraith in ragged clothes glanced up dismissively, then continued to load his shopping cart.
    I kept shouting until one turned and took a short menacing step in my direction, the way someone would stomp to scare off an annoying cat or dog. Oh, for Pete’s sake, I thought, got back