“Wha—?!”
He grabbed me by the elbow and escorted me downstairs, through the lobby and out onto the cold street.
“You realize what trouble you’re in, don’t you?” Outside, he looked up and down the street, and placed the cigar back in his mouth. We waited while cars and horse-drawn carts passed.
“I didn’t do it!” I protested. “I mean, I just didn’t know if it was real or not. I got sick, see, and. . .”
Briggs led me up the street to a sandwich shop. Inside, he took me to a back booth, frequently glancing over his shoulder, as if he expected the cops to pounce on us any second. On a normal day, the shop, with its black-and-white-tiled floor and wooden booths, was bright and comfortable, especially with the aroma of chicken soup, which I could smell even through my stuffed nose. When a cheerful serving girl came over for our order, Briggs barked out, “Two coffees. And an ice cream for him. Chocolate.”
After she’d gone, Briggs tapped the table with his cigar-laden hand. “You were seen at the bank talking to Peterson the day of the murder,” he said in a hushed voice.
My mouth dropped open and I stopped breathing.
“Oh, they haven’t figured out it was you. They said it was some kid named Miller.” Briggs leaned his head back and gave out a hearty laugh. “Nice touch, son, using the good officer’s last name.”
“I. . . I. . . is that a crime?” I asked feebly.
Vincent shrugged. “If I were you, I’d worry about crimes more serious than just using an officer’s last name to play some game of detective.”
When I stared at him silently, he continued. “From the teller’s description, I knew it was you,” he said. “And then the cops said they’d found a rosary at the scene of the crime. You wouldn’t happen to be missing one, would you?” He stared at me through dark, skeptical slits, following my hand as I slowly inched it into my coat pocket, searching, searching. . . My mother’s rosary! I must have dropped it that night. And then, when I’d fallen ill, I hadn’t thought to check if it was still with me.
Briggs frowned, as if sad to discover he was right. He lapsed into silence as the serving girl came by with our coffees and my ice cream. But I couldn’t eat it now. I had no appetite.
Briggs took a noisy sip of coffee and stared at me. “Don’t you see, boy? Bernard Peterson’s dead. Your brother’s been targeted for stealing his mother’s heirloom jewelry. You were seen talking to Bernard Peterson the day he went in the river. And now there’s evidence you were at the scene of the crime. . .”
“Holy—” My eyes went wide, and I saw myself in the future, prison-garbed, being led to the gallows.
“Holy is right, kid. This mess is going to get all tied up with local politics. ‘BOY KILLS BROTHER’S ACCUSER.’ And the rosary—Lordy, it’s as if you were crying out for the Klan to rally around this one. They’ll make the Peterson family victims of a Polish Catholic gang of murdering thieves—‘the very thing Oregon needs to rid itself of. So vote for the School Question, folks, and make sure we don’t produce any more of these anti-American Bolshevik killers!’” He pounded the table.
“I didn’t do it,” I said quietly.
He sucked on his dead cigar. “I didn’t figure you did. Somehow, I don’t see shooting a fellow through the heart as part of your repertoire.”
“I didn’t do it,” I repeated as if he hadn’t heard. “But I know who did.”
Vincent Briggs kept me in that sandwich shop for an hour, prodding me for every detail I could remember. My ice cream melted and he ordered me some soup when he realized I was really sick. While I ate, he pulled out a small notebook and pencil and wrote as I talked.
I told him about the bank conversation, as much as I could remember, and how I “stole” a ride on Peterson’s Model T. I told him about Reginald Jones, the argument, and the sounds that convinced me Peterson had killed Jonesy, not the other way around.
“All right,” he said, flipping back through his pages, “what else you remember about Peterson? You said he got upset when you asked to see Jones?”
“Yeah, real nervous. But so was the teller. They didn’t want to talk about him. That’s when I made up the name,” I reminded him. “I didn’t realize there’d be a real Mary Miller in their records.”
“Well, it’s a pretty common name,” said Briggs. “But go on. Anything you can remember, tell me. What else did he say? ‘He asked about her account, said he’d fix it’?” he read from his notes.
“He asked if it had been a loan. And then, when he found her records, he kept telling me not to worry, he’d fix it, the bank had made a mistake and sent her some bills she shouldn’t have gotten.” I hoped that was what he’d said. It was hard to remember after being in bed with a fever all week.
Briggs tapped the notebook with his pencil. “A loan. . . are you sure you didn’t mention it was a loan you were coming to see Jones about?”
I shook my head. “I’m sure. I don’t know anything about banking except savings accounts and stuff.”
“Did Jones work in loans?” he asked, more of himself than of me.
“When he talked to Jonesy at the river, he mentioned loans,” I said. Quietly, I added, “And he said he knew it would come to this—getting rid of Jonesy, that is.”
“But Jones was getting money from Peterson, right?” Briggs looked at his notes again.
“Yeah, Peterson said something about paying Jonesy. And then when Jonesy saw Peterson had a gun. . . he said Peterson didn’t have to pay anymore.”
“It sounds like Reginald Jones was blackmailing Bernard Peterson.” He chewed on his cigar and didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
I finished my soup and sipped at some coffee. “Why didn’t you ever write the story about Jonesy?” I asked after a while.
Vincent Briggs snapped his gaze back toward me and blinked. “Oh, that. I made a call to the bank. They said he’d left for another job. Didn’t seem like anything.”
“But Peterson said something about him taking cash from the bank,” I said in a hushed, excited voice. “And that’s what my brother and his friend told me, too—that Jonesy was in trouble because he was stealing or something.”
Briggs’s mouth lifted into a faint smile. “Hmmm. . . guess that gives me two sources. I could always squeeze the bank president with that.” He rubbed his chin reflectively.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, I call the bank president, see? And I tell him I have two separate people who are willing to go on the record saying Reginald Jones was let go because he was stealing. And if he won’t comment on it, I’ll just print that he refused to comment. And it looks bad for him and the bank.” He smiled broadly now. “Right about then, they usually find something to say.” But his smile faded. “Still, the best thing for both of us is to find Reginald Jones.”
“Why ‘for both of us’?” I asked. A quiver of fear shot through my spine.
Briggs’s voice was serious and sad. “Like I said before,” he said, “once they figure out it was you in that field by the river, they won’t look any further. You’ve got the wrong last name, the wrong religion, and the wrong amount of evidence pointing your way. It won’t matter that you didn’t do it.” He studied me, his brow creased and his long mouth pressed into an unhappy frown.
I did know what he meant, and I told him about the cross-burning in front of Pete’s house. He sighed heavily, then reached over to tap me gently on the arm.
“‘This too shall pass,’” he said softly. His frown lifted into a faint smile. “They’ll find another group soon enough to pin the world’s problems on. And your kind will be off the hook.”
That gave me little comfort. I wouldn’t be “off the hook” until I solved this problem, the one that had started with the jewel theft. I’d certainly bungled that investigation so far. I’d spent so much time following up the Jonesy lead that I’d neglected others, like the Petersons’ servants. Maybe they knew something. Maybe they were responsible for the
theft in the first place. I looked up at Briggs.
“Do you know how I can find out where the Peterson servants live?” I asked.
A weak smile again played on his face. “Always searching, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “I looked into their servants. They’re good people, never in trouble, no debts, and well-paid. They’d hardly have cause to steal from their employers when they’re treated so well. And they won’t say a bad word about anyone in the family. Believe me, I tried to get them to.”
Another possibility gone.
He looked at his watch. “I have to go, kid.” After dropping some money on the table, he stood. “Don’t forget—finding Reginald Jones helps us both.” He peeled off a few more dollars from his billfold and slid them toward me. “Buy your uncle a nice steak or something. Tell him it’s a bonus for your good newspaper work.” With a quick wink and a pat on my shoulder, he left.
After my meeting with Briggs, I was sure I’d be snatched off the street by every passing police officer. Even a dour-looking man glancing my way sent me scurrying into the shadows. I felt like a marked man, wanted for a crime I didn’t commit. But, in a way, maybe I had committed it. I didn’t stop it. No wonder Adam had been so reluctant to pursue the real thief. If you’re wanted by the law for something you didn’t do, you feel like running—especially when you think nobody will believe you, and especially when part of you feels guilty about something. Now his resistance to drawing attention to himself, his reluctance to pursue the case, to lie low instead, all made sense. I felt stupid as well as sad. But I had no choice. I had to keep pushing forward and solve the case or end up in worse trouble myself.
My walk home was slow and roundabout, to avoid as many of Officer Miller’s usual haunts as possible. By the time I arrived, I was too tired to do anything but go up to bed, so I hid the money Briggs had given me under my mattress and fell asleep, still dressed.
When I woke up, I could tell the day’s light was fading and I heard Pete rattling around in the kitchen downstairs. Yawning, I walked down to talk to him. He stirred a big pot on the stove that smelled as good as the soup from the sandwich shop.
“Fish chowder,” Pete said, smiling. “It’ll be good for you.”
Fish—it was Friday, and I’d forgotten! I’d eaten chicken soup at the sandwich shop! A pang of guilt pinched my heart. It seemed like nothing good had happened to me lately.
A few minutes later, as we ate our chowder together, Pete asked me how I was feeling. I told him I was just fine, and we continued on in silence.
“You miss your brother, don’t you?” he asked softly.
“I guess so,” I said without looking at him. I wondered if he’d seen Adam or knew what had become of him.
“Let’s hope and pray he finds his way,” Pete said. “I light a candle for him at church.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he’s guilty, he should make things right,” he said slowly.
“He’s not guilty,” I said. But my usual forcefulness was gone. My illness, Bernard Peterson’s death, and the anti-Catholic feelings running so strong all around me—they had worn me down, and I couldn’t muster the righteous indignation I usually felt when someone accused Adam. I just wanted everything to be fixed. Besides, anything I said would only make matters worse. If I told Pete that I now knew how Adam felt, I’d have to tell him of the crime I could soon be accused of. I didn’t want to cause Pete any more trouble. If I did have to go the police, I’d do it like a man, on my own.
After dinner, I offered to help clean up, but Pete told me to rest. I dragged myself upstairs and lay on my bed, but after my evening nap, sleep wouldn’t come.
I thought of Ma, and Adam and Pete, and that burning cross on our lawn. I thought of the people who’d hang the charge of murder on me once they found out I had been at the river the night Bernard Peterson was killed.
The world was a horrible place. I could be branded a murderer! There were lots of people—angry, anonymous people—who thought bad things about me without even knowing who I was. They wanted to believe both Adam and I were bad, and they wanted us locked away. . . or worse. Sweat coated my body, both from fever and fear. I wanted it all to go away.
Most of all, I wanted to go home to Baltimore and thought, for a few minutes, of simply running away. But no—no, I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t follow Adam’s lead.
Eventually, I fell asleep. When I awoke, darkness covered the room, the only light, from a silvery moon high in the chalky sky, flooding my room with gray shadows. A fever must have broken while I’d slept, because my body was slick with sweat, but it cooled me and calmed me.
“Find Reginald Jones.” That’s what Vincent Briggs had said to do. I’d done a lot already: enlisted Briggs to help, and learned about Reginald and Bernard.
But I was so tired. Not just physically tired, but exhausted on the inside. I now understood how Adam had felt—like he was pushing a big boulder up a steep cliff, with folks above him waiting to kick it back down again—folks like Officer Miller, calling him “papist,” “Bolshevik.”
But there was nothing I could do about the way the world looked at us. I could only muster the energy to fix the one problem that threatened my future and Adam’s. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to find Reginald Jones.
Where would he have gone after the incident at the waterfront? Lillian had said he came from a good family, and didn’t need the bank job. If that was true, his family could afford to hide him, or to send him away. But he had been around that night at the river, even well after being fired. So maybe he was still around now.
One other piece of the puzzle didn’t fit. Why would rich people need money? If Reginald Jones’s family had money, why had Jonesy stolen from the bank? Maybe if I answered that question, I could figure out the rest.
If Reginald Jones was desperate enough to steal from the bank, he might well be desperate enough to steal from a fellow worker’s house. He could have swiped the jewels. Finding him was crucial for both Adam and me.
I knew only one place to look—the speakeasy I’d followed Adam to. I’d have to go there on my own, and with Pete asleep, I had to go now.
Holding my shoes, I crept downstairs in stocking feet so as not to wake Pete. When the cool night air hit my face, I breathed in deeply, feeling determined again—driven and on the hunt.
Still, on the street, I kept looking over my shoulder. My back felt prickly, as if someone were behind me. There weren’t many strangers around at that hour, but I imagined every one wearing a white hood and sheet. Everyone was a potential enemy. And police—the people I used to think of as protectors—I now viewed as thieves, ready to steal away my freedom without a second thought. I had only a narrow road to traverse, with danger on both sides, and I didn’t dare slip or go off course.
Arriving at the speakeasy, I breathed deep and used the special knock. Once inside, I heard the sound of loud jazz music and glistening laughter from the back room.
“I’m looking for Lillian,” I shouted over the din to the dark-eyed woman who’d let me in.
“She’s in the back,” she purred. “With her boyfriend.”
Finding my way, I looked around the dark, smoky room, adjusting to the dimness. There she was, over in a corner, leaning into the table and talking, her face a bright oval of good cheer.
And across from her was a familiar sight—my brother, Adam.
Chapter Eighteen
When I saw my brother in that speakeasy, relief and anger fought each other for control, and anger won out. In the speakeasy again? Would he never learn? The times I’d thought of him running and hiding, I’d also thought he’d improve his life, maybe find some decent work—start a new life while he waited for me to clear his name. But here he was, back to his old ways, at risk of being caught and doing nothing to better the situation.
As I strode toward his table, he spotted me. He didn’t smile, instead pulling his chair back an inch as if about to run away—from me, his own brothe
r!
“What are you doing here?” I asked, standing in front of him and Lillian.
“I’m having fun,” he said in a surly tone. “It’s the one thing I know how to do.”
Lillian glanced at him with sadness in her eyes, then gestured to the seat next to her. “Join us,” she said.
But I tugged at Adam’s shoulder. “Get up and get out of here.”
“Hey!” He shrugged away from me and swiped his shoulder where I’d touched him.
I wouldn’t be dusted off or shoved away! I grabbed the scruff of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. My fists clenched and I was ready to punch him, but before I had a chance to swing, big hands clamped on my shoulders. The strong man I’d seen the first time I was here dragged me away.
“We don’t like trouble,” the man growled as he pulled me toward the door.
“Adam, say something!” Lillian said, looking from me to my brother and back again. “He’s your brother, isn’t he?”
Adam breathed out an irritated sigh. “He didn’t mean any harm,” he said at last. “Let him go.”
The man stopped at the door, paused, and pushed me away. I nearly stumbled to the floor, catching my balance by grabbing a table and knocking over a glass of whiskey. A man sputtered a curse, but I moved away and back toward Adam.
Adam gestured to an empty chair near Lillian and I sat down.
I didn’t waste my time asking how Adam was faring. The whiskey bottle and a deck of cards on the table told the tale. He was drinking, he was carousing, and he wasn’t doing a darn thing to help his cause. I was on my own.
All right. I’d do it. I’d come here for a reason, and it wasn’t to fight my brother.
“I need to find Reginald Jones fast,” I announced, looking from Adam to Lillian. Quickly, I explained the situation—the whole of it. If I didn’t find Jonesy, I couldn’t prove I wasn’t the man who’d killed Bernard Peterson.
The Case Against My Brother Page 14