THE DEVILS DIME (19 page)

Jess shook off a chill and realized the temperature had dropped as they descended below the windowed floors.

Along each corridor he watched for the familiar face of Ford Magee. But it wasn’t until the bailiff finally stopped before a heavy door with a six inch opening at eye level that Jess realized they’d put Addie’s father in the most secure cell they had. The one they reserved for men kept in solitary confinement.

The bailiff drew his gun and pointed it through the barred hole while he unlocked the door.

“That is absolutely not necessary,” Jess bristled.

“Ten minutes,” the jailer growled, and elbowed Jess into the cell and shoved the door closed.

Jess let his eyes adjust to the gloom and realized Ford Magee was sitting on the stone floor to his right. There was no furniture in the cell. No bed or stool. What was left of a mattress lay rotting on the floor, the smell of old urine so strong he thought he might gag.

“Ford?”

Ford raised his head and struggled to stand.

“No, no, don’t get up.”

Jess hunkered down and saw for the first time the black eye and raw, bleeding skin on his neighbor’s left cheek.

“They did this to you?”

Ford touched a hand to his face and winced. “Didn’t do it to m’self.”

“Ford, what the hell is going on?” Jess pulled a clean handkerchief from his vest and handed it to Ford. It was a long moment before the man spoke.

“You think I’m the guy they call the Samaritan, don’t you.” His voice was flat, defeated.

“Are you?”

Ford looked at Jess a long time, but when he spoke, it wasn’t with the answer.

“These idiots think I’m the other one. The guy who tried to kill those girls.”

Jess shifted his knees until he could look Ford directly in the eye.

“Are you?”

Ford slid down and laid his brutalized cheek on the cold stone floor. “What do you think?”

“C’mon, Ford, I’m trying to help you. Tell me what you know.”

“Can’t do it, Pepper. Now leave me be.”

Jess fumed and rose from his crouching position. He walked four paces to the adjoining wall and slapped his open palms on the damp stone. Frustrated, he whirled away from the wall and strode one giant step toward the old man on the floor.

Jess was ready to shout at the man but clenched his teeth and stifled the raw words. He inhaled the putrid air and bent again, saw defeat on the man’s closed face.

“Do it for your daughter, then.”

Ford lay with his swelling cheek on the floor and showed no indication that he’d heard Jess.

“Time’s up,” the jailer barked from outside the door.

The quiet cell echoed with the clatter of keys, and Jess knew he had to leave. He reached a hand to Ford’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. And just as he was about to rise, he saw a single tear slip from Ford Magee’s eye onto the bridge of his nose.

His mouth barely moved as he whispered words only Jess could hear.

“Tell her I...” He swallowed, tried to speak, then just rocked his head in a defeated ‘no’.”

Jess put out his hand and squeezed Ford’s shoulder. He’d go straight to Trumbull. There was no way in hell he was going to leave this good man in this hellhole overnight.

. . .

“I’m telling you, he didn’t do it!” Jess leaned both fists on the gargantuan ebony desk and pressed his case with Deacon Trumbull.

“I know you believe that, Jess, but we just got some new information and it’s...well, it’s all the proof we need,” Chief Trumbull shook his head in sympathy as he rolled an unlit cigar in his fingers.

“I find that hard to believe” Jess straightened and worked to face down his rising panic. He’d promised he’d have Addie’s father home for breakfast. But the Precinct Chief planned a long and very public trial. With no bail.

“What possible piece of evidence could you have after twenty years?” He tried to tamp down his desperation.

“Pieces, son. We have several pieces of evidence. Plenty to convict the bastard.”

“Such as?”

Deacon Trumbull’s face darkened as he brushed off Jess’s probe. “All in due time, son.” He came around the desk and put an arm around Jess’s shoulder. “Meanwhile, I’ll do everything I can, leave no stone unturned, until I can refute this damning evidence. I give you my promise, Pepper.”

Jess stared down the Chief who finally stepped away and began shuffling papers on his desk. The precinct chatter quieted as Jess strode angrily past hordes of men sporting copper badges. But before he made it to the door, the Chief called almost cheerfully, “I can recommend a good lawyer when you’re ready.”

. . .

Deacon Trumbull trimmed his cigar with the silver-plated snippers he kept in the drawer, then took his time lighting it. He rolled it lazily between thumb and forefinger as he tossed the cylinder of matches back into the desk drawer.

Before he closed the drawer, he let his fingers wander across the leather binding of the book that had come into his possession just that afternoon. It was a gold mine. The real piece of evidence that would hang his prisoner.

Trumbull didn’t speculate on how the information came to be in the book. But with it, he could tie the author and the dates together in a way that would be compelling enough for any judge.

Whether or not it was the truth.

This was going to turn the tide for him. If he could break this notorious case, the brass would have to rectify the injustice they’d done to him twenty years earlier, delaying his promotion and costing him a small fortune.

His tobacco-etched lips parted in a sneer. Twenty years he’d looked for this bastard. He’d long ago decided the man had left the city. Now Deacon itched to make him disappear again. Tonight. Still, with a public trial and quick conviction the people would cry for a hanging. It was tempting. Very tempting. One way or the other, though, Magee needed to disappear. He had it coming. Deacon would enjoy playing this one out, playing it just right to get the most mileage out of it.

Hell, this time next year he could even be New York City’s Chief of Police. The precinct chief leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the first calm he’d felt in weeks. After all, he had everything he needed now to put an end to the Samaritan myth once and for all.

And put the final nail in Ford Magee’s coffin. Now that he’d finally found him.

. . .

Jess raked his hands through his hair, frustrated, but somehow not surprised by the news that awaited him at Addie’s apartment.

“They were waiting for us when we got back. Four policemen,” Cherise said. “They wouldn’t even let us in the room until they’d searched it.”

“Look at this, Jess! My music is dumped every which way. They knocked my violin off the desk. My personal things—”

Addie sat on the floor, trying to reunite scattered pages of music with their rightful covers.

“Is anything missing?” Jess asked.

“How can I tell? I—I think everything’s here. It’s just such a mess that I can’t even think str—” Addie broke her thought and scrambled up from the floor. In three steps she was at her dresser fingering the things that were scattered there. Combs, hat pins, the lid to her powder dish. It was clear she was taking swift inventory.

Suddenly she began to open drawers and paw through them.

“Addie, what—”

“Jess! I think it’s gone! Why would they—”

Jess moved behind her and stilled her fluttering hands with his. “What’s gone, Addie?”

Addie turned slowly, a monstrous sadness in her eyes. She brought her hands to his chest and swallowed several times, trying to form the words. Jess put a hand on each side of her face and caressed her temples with his thumbs, trying his best to calm her.

“Tell me, Addie. What do you think is missing? What did they take?”

She weaved her head slowly from side to side and opened her mouth with a small sob.

“They took...my mother’s diary.”

. . .

Ollie Twickenham had just settled back in his office after having chased another gang of crapshooters out of his domain. If these stringers were too stupid to take their paycheck to the bank they could at least keep their noise out of his sanctuary.

He was still grumbling over the fact when a shadow fell across his work and he heard a sound behind him. Irritated, he tapped the spine he’d just glued into place and hoped it would hold until he could get back to it.

The pasting brush slopped messily back into the jar of glue as he turned to see who was standing in his doorway. He settled his spectacles back onto his nose and barely had time to stand as a female form swept in and began to chatter.

“Why, you mus’ be the famous Mistuh Olivuh Twickenham! Am I right?”

Ollie recognized the sassy Southern blonde from the typing pool and became flustered to have been caught with sticky glue all over his hands.

“Why, yes, Miss Tabor, that would be me.”

He grabbed an old towel he kept handy for just this purpose and began to swipe at his hands, making more of a mess than he’d started with.

“Oh heah now, shugah, lemme hep you wi’ that.” She lifted the towel out of his hands and began to wipe slowly across his palms, running her fingers provocatively over each spot as if to check her progress.

Ollie stood eye level with her most impressive bosom and fought for control of his speech. And his eyes.

“What is it that I can do for you, Miss Tabor?”

“It’s jus’ lil’ ol’ me, Ollie dahlin’, you c’n jus’ call me Birdie. All right?”

“All right then...Birdie...what can I do for you?”

“Oh, it’s not for me, dahlin’, it’s for that gorgeous Mistuh Pepper. He said y’all left a message and he sent me t’get whatever it is y’all were holdin’ for ‘im. Ah’ll jus’ run it right up to him, quick as a bunny.”

Birdie fluttered her fingers over his palm and Ollie cleared his throat harshly.

Ollie had indeed left a message for Jess. On his desk, earlier that morning. He was stunned that Jess would regard his urgent message so lightly that he would send this flighty female to fetch it.

“I was just about to take it to him myself, Miss T— er, Birdie.”

Birdie pulled her hands to her bosom as if in shock, and drew his hand with them. “Oh, I couldn’t bear fer you t’ trouble y’sef like that, Ollie dahlin’. You have much more...important... things to do. I’m on my way right now. So where is it, shugah?”

His hand rose and fell as her bosom heaved with each dramatically delivered word. Ollie flicked his eyes to the desk, and pulled his hand from her grasp. He was no fool.

But Birdie saw his darting glance and grabbed at a page that was protruding from beneath the blotter.

“Is this it, dahlin’?”

Ollie tried to hide the truth from his eyes, but she saw it, and a taunting laugh cascaded from her full lips.

“Bye-bye now, dahlin’!”

She whirled toward the door and Ollie leaped after her to grab the paper and came away with just a torn scrap. Her other hand darted back and knocked him just enough to lose his balance and he found himself on the floor scrambling after his spectacles.

“Ooops! Clumsy me!” Her backhanded apology was insulting, though it was her laughter that rankled the most. Ollie was furious as he got to his feet, but when he heard Birdie speaking to someone just around the corner, he strained an ear to catch what she said.

“You can tell that big ‘ol dandy I’m finished. He can do his own dirty work from now on and then he can go to hell.”

“He ain’t gonna like that, Miss Tabor. Chief Trumbull wants whatever it was the old man dug up. Did ya get it?”

“Oh, I got it all right. I’ll take it to him t’night. Just b’fore I tell Mistuh Bigshot his honeypot done dried—Hey! Take y’ hands offa me, ya big galoot!”