Jubilee's Journey

by Bette Lee Crosby

  “So you got the guy?”

  “We got one, but it looks like it was a team. Klaussner shot one; the other one got away.” Gomez hesitated for a moment then added, “We’re running the prints now, so we’ll get him.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got this pretty well wrapped up.”

  “Yeah,” Gomez boasted. He was going to add something about not needing Mahoney’s help but was interrupted by Officer Cunningham.

  “Hey, Gomez,” Cunningham called out, “the ID on those prints you’ve been waiting for is on your desk.”

  When Gomez turned and walked back toward his desk, Mahoney trailed along. He knew men like Gomez had a hungry ego, one that needed to be fed. “Impressive work,” he said. “Us Northampton boys could learn a few things from you.”

  Gomez smiled. “Yeah, you could.” He was tempted to remind Mahoney of the erroneous assumptions made on the Doyle case, but given this newfound-respect for his work Hector decided to let that dog stay dead.

  With Mahoney looking over his shoulder, Gomez picked up the lab report. They had a positive match. The prints belonged to a small-time crook out of Pittsburgh. “Hurt McAdams, armed robbery,” Gomez said. “Spent seven years in Camp Hill, released five days ago.”

  “Is this the guy Klaussner shot?”

  Gomez shook his head. “No ID on that one yet. The kid is faking amnesia, but once he knows we’ve got his partner he’ll open up.”

  “Impressive,” Mahoney repeated.

  “Just good detective work.” Gomez gave a grin of satisfaction. When he turned to pull on his jacket he didn’t notice Mahoney eyeballing the open file on his desk.

  Miami Beach

  Minutes after Hurt McAdams stepped off the bus wearing his leather jacket, a river of sweat rolled down his face and his shirt became plastered to his skin. He stuck his hand in the jacket pocket and rubbed his fingers across the cool metal of the gun. Knowing it was there made him feel good; it was comforting.

  Inside the Union Street Terminal, Hurt pushed through the crowd until he found a telephone booth. He pulled the phone book from the rack and began searching. “McAdams, McAdams,” he mumbled as he traced his finger down the listings. Plenty of McAdams, but not one George. Hurt slammed the book shut. Daddy George was here, Hurt could feel it in his bones. He was here but didn’t want to be found.

  Hurt pushed back through the crowd and into the street. The sun was hot, so hot he knew that if he stood there long enough it would burn a hole in his head. Miami was a city, and he’d expected it would be more like…well, like Pittsburgh. It wasn’t. In Pittsburgh the buildings were grey, the streets were grey, even the sky was grey most of the time. He could blend in, get lost, go unnoticed. Here people looked at him strangely. Everything was a glary white and pink, colors so bright it gave him a headache. He tried lifting his eyes, but the sky above wasn’t the sky he knew. It was a garish blue with a sun so fierce he had to look away. He ducked into a drugstore and approached the clerk.

  “You got sunglasses?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said and waggled a finger toward the far side of the store. “There’s a whole rack, right behind the suntan lotion.”

  Without bothering to thank her, Hurt turned and walked in that direction. He picked the darkest pair he could find and returned to the counter.

  “Dollar forty-nine,” the clerk said.

  Hurt pulled two dollar bills from his pocket and laid them on the counter.

  The girl punched $1.49 into the register. “New in town?”

  Hurt didn’t answer. Her words seemed little more than buzzing in his ear. He had one thought and one thought only: find Daddy George.

  When the clerk handed Hurt his change, she smiled. “Ain’t that jacket kinda hot?” she asked laughingly.

  Hurt slipped the change into his pocket, then looked at her with an icy cold glare. Stupid girl, he thought. A stupid girl doesn’t deserve to live. He felt for the gun, then turned and walked out of the store. He should have stolen the sunglasses; that’s what he should have done. You steal something, you don’t have to talk to stupid girls. He had no time now; maybe later.

  Hurt stood outside the drugstore with sweat rolling down his face and splatting onto his jacket. He tried to think of where Daddy George might hide, but everything here was different; strange and unfamiliar. Where were the row-house neighborhoods? Where were the dark gin mills? He turned and walked south on Second Street. On the corner of Flagler he passed a newsstand and a headline grabbed hold of him.

  THUNDERBAY WINS AGAIN AT TROPICAL PARK

  Hurt looked at the front page photo of a racehorse and smiled. The track. For more years than he could remember, Daddy George took money that should have put food on the table and played the ponies. He’d skip work, spend the day at Heidelberg Raceway, then come home rip-roaring drunk and in the foul mood that came from never winning.

  Hurt plunked down a dime and bought the paper, then asked for directions to Tropical Park Racetrack.

  “Union Terminal,” the news dealer replied. “They got a bus that goes direct.”

  Hurt gave a nod and turned back in the direction he’d come from.

  When Hurt stepped off the bus at Tropical Park, he caught the smell of his father—the stink of cigars and sweat mingled with meanness. Then he heard the sounds, the all-too familiar sounds of angry words with hard Ks and an intolerance that slammed against his ears and rumbled through his head with a roar.

  He paid his entrance fee and entered the track.

  Inside there was a crush of people moving, shifting from one place to another. Hurt grabbed a program and moved through with the crowd. Twice someone shoved him in the back, and he slid his hand inside the jacket pocket just to feel the gun. As long as it was there, he’d be okay. A gun was bigger than Daddy George.

  A gun was more powerful too.

  Daddy George could beat a boy into submission, but a gun could put an end to it.

  Hurt’s eyes were open as he moved with the surge of people, but behind those wide open eyes he was picturing his daddy with a blown-out hole in the middle of his chest—a hole where a heart never was.

  As Hurt walked, he shifted his eyes—right, left, forward, right again. Too many people. Faces crowded together, and arms reached across one another. “Gimme two on the Daily Double!” someone yelled. Then another voice echoed the same command. “Five across the board,” a voice called out—a woman, not Daddy George.

  A swirl of confusion began to circle Hurt. Too many people; too many sounds. It was impossible to pick out even one person in the pressed together mass of flesh. How would he ever find Daddy George?

  Hurt opened the program and found his answer.

  King George V, in the fifth race.

  Turner’s Turn

  When Mahoney left the station house, Griffin was waiting in the car.

  “Well,” Griffin said, “how’d it go?”

  “Hard to say.” Mahoney shrugged. “I got the feeling Gomez didn’t want me poking around the Klaussner thing, but I’m not sure why.”

  “You ask about the kid they caught?”

  Mahoney shook his head. “No. I’m thinking there might be more to this than we know. Let’s stop by the Doyle place first and see what she’s got to say.”

  It was close to one-thirty when they pulled up in front of the Wyattsville Arms. After the Sam Cobb incident, Mahoney knew Olivia Doyle would be wary of any tag-along partner, especially one the size of a grizzly.

  “Hang back,” he told Griffin. “Give me ten minutes or so to explain you’re an okay guy, then you can come up.”

  “I’m an okay guy?” Griffin laughed. He was a big man with a big laugh that at times had the sound of thunder.

  Mahoney climbed out of the car and walked into the building. Nothing had changed—at least nothing he could put his finger on—yet a strange sense of foreboding had settled into his stomach. It’s that damn Gomez, he thought. Then he rang Olivia Doyle’s doorbell.

  Olivi
a was half-expecting it to be Jim Turner. She’d had four different friends call and report that he was going door to door asking if anyone had seen kids running through the building. To be on the safe side, she’d told Ethan Allen to use the back stairs for coming and going to school and leave his bicycle in the back lobby mud room. She also kept Jubilee hidden inside the apartment. When the doorbell sounded, she figured for sure it was Jim Turner waving another copy of the building rules in her face or, worse yet, an eviction notice. Olivia shooed Jubilee into Ethan’s bedroom and closed the door.

  “Not a sound,” she whispered, “and no matter what you hear, do not come out of the room until I say it’s all right to do so.”

  When she looked through the peephole and saw Detective Mahoney’s face, Olivia was pleasantly surprised. After her lie about Anita swimming in Chesapeake Bay, she’d pretty much given up on eliciting his help.

  “Come in,” she said in an extremely gracious voice.

  Olivia thought she’d first sweeten things up with a plate of homemade cookies and fresh coffee, but Mahoney said not to bother and they settled on the sofa. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “my partner and I would like to run through—”

  Olivia’s mouth fell open. “Partner? I hadn’t counted on…”

  “I realize that you had a bad experience last time, but Sam Griffin is—”

  “Sam!”

  “This isn’t Sam Cobb.” Mahoney tried to use a soothing tone, but with every word he spoke the alarm in Olivia’s face became more apparent. Finally he fell back on the tactic he’d seen Griffin use.

  “Sam Griffin is godfather to all three of my children,” he said. “I’ve known him for almost thirty years. He loves kids, got five of his own. Every year he plays Santa Claus at the church festival.”

  Olivia’s right eye was still twitching and the look of wariness remained on her face, but at least she was now listening.

  Mahoney went on to detail any number of kind deeds Sam Griffin had done, and by the time the doorbell bonged a second time Olivia had settled into a low level of tolerance—not acceptance, merely tolerance.

  Expecting the large red-haired man Mahoney had described, Olivia opened the door without her customary check through the peephole. Sharp-nosed Jim Turner stood there with a bound copy of the building bylaws tucked under his arm.

  “I’ve had numerous complaints!” he said and angrily tromped into the apartment. “Rumor has it you’re harboring any number of children here.” As Turner spoke his head swiveled back and forth looking for a clue, some indication that what he suspected was true.

  “I am not harboring any number of children!” Olivia snapped. Since “any number” did not mean one small girl, she was certain it could not be considered a lie.

  The exchange went on for a minute or two and then Detective Mahoney, who’d been listening, stood and walked toward Turner. “Is there a problem here?”

  “There most certainly is,” Turner answered. “We have rules in this building, and I’ve had numerous complaints about—”

  “Numerous complaint, huh?”

  “So many I’ve lost count!”

  “If they’re legitimate complaints, we can do something about it.” Mahoney fingered his chin pensively. “Of course, it means that you and all the complainants will have to appear in court. You’ll need to have a lawyer, witnesses to swear to the legitimacy of complaint, and evidence—”

  “What the…what are you, some kind of shyster lawyer?”

  Mahoney pulled out his badge. “No, I’m an officer of the law.”

  “This isn’t a police matter!”

  “Oh, but it is,” Mahoney replied. “Missus Doyle called to report a case of harassment.” He turned to Olivia. “Is this the fellow you were talking about?”

  Olivia smiled and gave a half-nod, not a yes or no, merely a maybe.

  “That’s preposterous,” Turner sputtered. “I’m not harassing anybody!”

  “It looks like you are,” Mahoney said. “You came here uninvited, stuck your nose in Missus Doyle’s face, and tried to intimidate her. That’s considered harassment.”

  “This has gone entirely too far,” Turner said. He began edging his way back to the door.

  “I agree.” Mahoney turned to Olivia. “Missus Doyle, if this fellow agrees to stay clear of you, would you be willing to drop the complaint?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Okay then.” Mahoney looked at Turner. “And, sir, if Missus Doyle is willing to drop the complaint, will you stop pestering her?”

  Turner nodded. Before anything else could be said, he pulled open the door and scooted out with such speed that he ran smack into Griffin who was reaching for the doorbell. Turner looked up at the bearded face towering over him. “Sorry,” he said and kept going.

  Seeing Jim Turner dash off as he did, Olivia felt a weight had been lifted from her chest. Moving past the fact that Griffin was another policeman named Sam, she invited him in with a smile.

  Mahoney took the lead in the conversation. “I understand your predicament, and we’re going to do everything we can to find the child’s missing aunt.”

  Griffin nodded.

  “But there’s a lot of open-ended questions,” he said. “So, if you don’t mind, can we go back over the girl’s connection to the Klaussner robbery?”

  The thought of linking Jubilee to such an event rumbled through Olivia’s head and sat uncomfortably against her brain. Suddenly she felt telling all might not be the best thing. She hadn’t counted on a partner, nor had she counted on a full-scale investigation. The thought of detectives scouring through the child’s history and turning over rocks best left undisturbed made her nerves twinge and tighten.

  “Jubilee has no actual connection to the robbery,” Olivia answered. “Our only problem is locating her aunt.”

  Mahoney gave her a questioning look. “But when we spoke on the phone, didn’t you say she might be related to the boy who was shot?”

  “Perhaps I did, but I was only echoing the supposition Ethan Allen made.” Olivia was now certain she had said too much and added, “You know how imaginative children can be.”

  “That’s true,” Mahoney said.

  “It sure is,” Griffin added. “I’ve got three of my own and they’re always—”

  “Three?” Olivia eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you had five.”

  Mahoney winced, and Griffin caught on immediately. “I do, but the two older ones are from my wife’s first marriage, so I can’t really take credit for them.”

  Olivia looked a bit doubtful but continued. She explained that Jubilee’s parents were deceased and the girl had come to Wyattsville looking for her aunt. After disappearing into the bedroom and returning, she handed Detective Mahoney one of the letters postmarked Wyattsville. In telling the story Olivia simply eliminated the missing brother who might or might not have been involved in the Klaussner shooting.

  “So this girl was alone when Ethan Allen met her?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “And she’s seven years old?” Griffin said.

  Olivia gave a second nod.

  “Seven, huh? That’s awfully young to be traveling alone. How’d she get here?”

  Feeling a bit bottled-up, Olivia simply shrugged. “I can’t say. My primary concern is in helping her find her aunt.”

  “Maybe we ought to talk to the girl and Ethan Allen both,” Griffin suggested. “Let them tell us exactly how this meet-up happened.”

  Olivia glared at Griffin as if he’d gone stark, raving mad. “Absolutely not. The child has been through enough already.”

  Mahoney walked over and put his hand on Olivia’s arm. “I know you’re trying to protect the girl, but hiding from the truth never helps.”

  Perhaps it was the sincerity in his voice, or perhaps she saw the light of truth in his eyes again. Regardless of what caused it, Olivia’s resolve started to crumble. With a quivering voice that edged close to tears, she said, “Expecting a child to ac
cept that her brother is guilty of shooting a man is asking too much.”

  “Maybe he’s not guilty,” Mahoney answered. “We’re not trying to prove anybody did anything; we’re just looking for the truth.”

  Truth. The word landed softly on Olivia’s ear. Truth was okay. It was not always pretty or sweet, but it was okay. “Promise me you won’t turn her over to the authorities,” Olivia said. “Promise me that much.”

  “Okay,” Mahoney answered. “I give you my word.” He hesitated a moment then said, “But please realize, there may come a time when you’re the one who has to do it.”

  “Me?” Olivia gasped. “Why me?”

  “Because it might be the right thing to do.”

  The thought of a child like Jubilee having no one to love her was almost unthinkable, so Olivia pushed it to the back of her mind and finally agreed to let Mahoney question the children. “Just you,” she said, turning her back to Griffin. “No one else.”

  “We’d be more likely to get at the truth if one of us talks to Ethan Allen and the other talks to the girl,” Mahoney argued, but Olivia stood firm on her decision and told him to come back at three-thirty when Ethan Allen got home from school.

  As they left the building Griffin nodded knowingly to Mahoney. “Right,” Mahoney answered. They parked the car in front of the building and sat there waiting to catch Ethan Allen on his way home from school.

  Twenty minutes later Mahoney spotted the boy coming down the street. He stepped out and called to him. After a few minutes of chit-chat about Dog and whether Cal Ripkin could carry the Senators to a winning season, Mahoney said, “This girl you brought home, how’d that come about?”