Stealing Jake - By Pam Hillman Page 0,100
his client innocent.
Sheriff Carter shuffled some paperwork. “You’ll have to wait. Judge Parker won’t be back until Monday.”
The lawyer stared at them, his eyes cold and calculating. “I’ll be back on Monday, then.”
He turned to leave, and the door opened. A tall man, whipcord thin, stepped inside. The lawyer and the newcomer squared off immediately, the tension so thick, it rippled through the jail like an unexpected blizzard. The newcomer pulled his coat back to reveal a six-gun strapped to his leg. “Sharp, what are you doing here?”
“Meeting with my client.” The lawyer didn’t even try to hide his disdain for the other man. “You got a problem with that, Detective Schmidt?”
“Not as long as you don’t do anything illegal while you’re here.”
“Move aside, then, and let me pass.”
The detective stared him down for a long moment and finally stepped to the side. “I’ll be watching you, Sharp.”
The lawyer laughed. “You do that.”
After Sharp left, Sheriff Carter shuffled toward the hatchet-faced detective and pumped his hand in a hearty handshake. “Smitty, it’s good to see you.” He turned to Jake. “I’d like you to meet my right-hand man, Jake Russell. Don’t know what I’d do without him.”
The detective’s shrewd gaze raked Jake from head to toe and back again. One corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “Looks like you came close to finding out.”
Sheriff Carter laughed. “It’ll take more than a couple of Gibbons’s goons to get rid of Jake.”
The smile faded faster than snow on a hot day. “Gibbons? As in Victor Gibbons?”
“You know him?”
“Know him? His brother’s one of the smoothest operators out of Chicago. Took over from their father. I’ve been trying to pin something on the Gibbons family for years.”
“Sharp’s his lawyer.”
Smitty grunted. “Figures. Two peas in a pod.”
“That you, Smitty?” Gibbons called out.
“Yeah.” Smitty moved to where he could see the prisoner and leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. “Well, Gibbons, looks like we’ve got you this time.”
“’Fraid not, Smitty.” Gibbons laughed. “Like I told the deputy out there, they don’t have a shred of evidence against me.”
* * *
Busy didn’t even begin to describe Emma’s Place on Saturday night. The miners sat shoulder to shoulder, lingering longer than usual, eating and rehashing the fire from the night before. Livy kept their coffee cups full and her ears open.
“I heard Gibbons was using young’uns for labor. Brought ’em in from Chicago and made ’em work day and night. Treated ’em like slaves, he did.”
“How’d he get away with that? Seems like somebody would have talked.”
“They worked, ate, and slept in the factory.” The miner snorted. “Well, mostly worked. I don’t think they got much food or sleep. Nobody knew they were there except for Gibbons and his crew.”
“Gibbons better hope he stays in jail. He might have an accident if he finds his way back to shantytown again, if you get my drift.”
A low growl of agreement ringed the table.
“What happened to them kids? They didn’t die in the fire, did they?”
“No. Sheriff Carter said nobody was in there. Nobody knows where they are.”
The miners kept eating. They were probably trying to wrap their minds around the possibility that Gibbons had silenced the children forever. She’d known some cruel men, but that kind of brutality went beyond her worst imaginings.
Please, Lord, let them be alive.
She hurried to the kitchen to grab two more pots of coffee. She turned away from the stove, both hands full, and spotted Jimmy Sharp at the door. Her knees almost buckled. She retreated behind the curtain separating the kitchen from the eating establishment before he saw her.
What was he doing in Chestnut? She could only think of one reason.
Gibbons might not have the guts to kill a passel of kids, but Jimmy Sharp wouldn’t think twice about it. She’d heard horror stories of how he got rid of his enemies by tying weights to their feet and dumping them into the Chicago River.
He hid behind his position as a lawyer, but he was one of the most vicious crime bosses in Chicago. She couldn’t take the chance he might recognize her. He’d been in court a number of times when she’d been brought before the judge.
“Mary, could you pour the rest of the coffee? I’ll wash dishes for a while.”
Mary grinned and reached for a towel. “Be glad to. I’m purely sick and tired of washing dishes.”
Livy stayed behind the curtain, washed dishes, and kept an eye on Sharp. His presence in Chestnut couldn’t be an