Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(54)

The whole thing stinks, but I’m not letting it go. Somewhere there’s got to be something, some little piece of evidence that’s been overlooked, something that will prove Paul Jones just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.





I know it’s not in my jurisdiction and I know I may catch hell for getting involved, but at least I’ll be able to look myself in the eye tomorrow morning when I’m shaving.





The Sign



Although Olivia had not entered Paul’s room, she’d stood on the other side of the plate glass window close enough to hear most everything. She’d also heard Mahoney’s conversation with Gomez, and it was troubling to say the least. There was a growing list of “what ifs” bouncing around in her head. What if Paul goes to jail, what if he never remembers what happened, what if they can’t find Anita, what if there’s no other family, what if Jubilee has no one, what if… The list seemed endless. After they’d crossed Monroe Street, she turned to Mahoney and asked, “What happens now?” All of her “what ifs” boiled down to that single question.

Mahoney kept his eyes straight ahead and his expression unreadable. He gave an audible sigh and said, “I guess we keep looking for Anita, and I try to find something that will prove Paul didn’t do it.”

“Do what?” Jubilee asked.

Ethan Allen answered before anyone else had the chance. “Shoot Mister Klaussner.”

Jubilee yanked her hand loose from Ethan’s and turned to him with an angry glare. “Paul didn’t shoot nobody! That’s killing, and the Bible says no killing.”

“I ain’t saying he did,” Ethan countered. “I’m just telling you what that detective was saying.”

“Well, I ain’t interested in hearing it!” Jubilee folded her arms across her chest and scooted to the far edge of the seat looking mad as a bullfrog.

Mahoney glanced into the rearview mirror and saw her expression. It was genuine. There was no pretense, no sneakiness, no covering over. “Jubilee, has Paul ever been in trouble before? Has he maybe stole something, or—”

Mahoney didn’t have a chance to finish what he was asking because Jubilee came back with a loud, “No, no, no, no, no! Stop asking me if Paul does bad stuff, ‘cause he don’t!”

“That’s pretty much what I was thinking,” Mahoney answered. After that the only sound heard inside the car was the din of traffic, and once they turned off of Monroe even that ceased.





Aware that Gomez was most likely still at the hospital, Mahoney drove to the Wyattsville station house after he dropped off Olivia and the kids.

“I’d like to take another look at the Klaussner shooting file,” Mahoney told Pete Morgan.

Morgan handed him a file folder that was only marginally thicker than it had been last time. “Anything new on this?”

“If there is Gomez is keeping it to himself. That’s all I’ve got.”

One by one Mahoney leafed through the pages. A background of Hurt McAdams, the statement from Martha Tillinger, the ballistics reports saying the bullet in Paul’s head came from Klaussner’s Browning, and another report saying the three bullets that tore through Sid Klaussner’s chest and abdomen came from an unregistered 45 caliber handgun. The prints on the cash register were those of Hurt McAdams. Prints on the door handle came from the John Doe shot by Klaussner.

Mahoney set aside the reports and continued looking through the crime scene photos. There were several showing the area in back of the counter and outlining the spot where Klaussner had fallen after he was shot. There were also several showing the area in front of the counter and three outlining where Paul had fallen. The third picture had been taken from a further away spot, and it included areas not shown in the first two.

Mahoney studied the shot carefully. Everything was the same except that on the far edge of this picture, he suddenly saw what looked to be a piece of paper lying a few feet from where Paul had fallen. Probably nothing, but worth checking.

“Have you still got the keys to Klaussner’s store?” he asked Monroe.

Monroe reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a ring of keys. “Be sure to get these back, or Gomez will have a shit-fit.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mahoney answered. He pocketed the keys, then turned and left.





By the time Mahoney reached the store it was early afternoon, and people were coming and going along the street. He parked his car directly in front of the bench Jubilee had supposedly been sitting on and climbed out. He pulled a Polaroid camera and a pair of white cotton gloves from the trunk, then crossed the street, stepped through the Caution tape, and unlocked the door.

With the windows still boarded over, there was only enough light to find his way across the room but not much more. Mahoney made his way to the light panel and flipped the switch. At first there was only an eerie blue flicker; then brightness flooded the room. Everything was as it had been the morning of the shooting. Chalk marks where the bodies had fallen, a cigarette display swept to the floor, several cans of green beans rolled to the far side of where they’d been stacked, and there, partway under the counter, the piece of paper. Mahoney took a Polaroid shot; then with a gloved hand he lifted one corner. It appeared to be a sign, but for what?