Novel - Half Moon Investigations

by Eoin Colfer

  “That was my first thought, but it only links Red, May, Mercedes, and myself. We’re in the same school. But not the rest.”

  Dominique sat at her desktop, typing in the names one by one. “I’m working on a database for the entire town. People are connected by family, occupation, and residence. Let’s see what these names bring out.”

  Moments later the computer retrieved every occurrence of the eight names. Dominique switched on a DAT projector, casting the computer screen’s contents onto a whiteboard.

  She tossed me a whiteboard marker. “Show me what you’re made of.”

  I stood before the board, staring at the names, willing something to jump out at me. There were twenty index cards displayed on the screen. Most names featured in two cards, some in three. Family, occupation, and residence. In no instance did the eight names all feature on the same card.

  “This is it,” I muttered to myself. “The answer is here somewhere.”

  I circled the victims, then joined them with ragged lines. That didn’t teach me anything except how high I could reach on the board.

  “Four in the school. What about you other people. Where did you meet? Is this a wild goose chase?”

  I tapped Maura Murnane. The chocoholic.

  Behind me, Dominique sighed. “Her mother is a holy terror, but Maura is a lovely girl.”

  I turned sharply. “You know her?”

  “She babysits my grandson. He dotes on her.”

  A piece of the jigsaw thunked into place. Something white flashed behind my eyes. This is the moment investigators live for. I took several deep breaths before talking.

  “Does she babysit for many families?”

  “Yes. Parents love her. I have her client list on file.”

  I didn’t need to ask. Dominique was digging in a cabinet, caught up in the excitement.

  “What is it?” asked Red.

  I ignored him. I had to keep going.

  Dominique handed me the list. I flattened it on the wall, scanning the names. “There,” I shouted triumphantly. “James and Izzy Bannon. Their daughter Gretel is in third grade. Saint Jerome’s.”

  The connection. It was the school after all. We just had to cast our net wider.

  I scanned the remaining names with fresh, enthused eyes. “Isobel French.”

  The young dance teacher’s name appeared on three cards. There were two entries under name. One current and one from when she went by her birth father’s name.

  I ran my finger across to Isobel’s family card. The name on the card was Halpin.

  I thumped the board. “French is her stepfather’s name. She’s a Halpin.”

  Red snapped his fingers. “SeeSaw Halpin is in fifth grade. She must be his sister.”

  “We just need one more.”

  One more. So close.

  Dominique switched on a laser pointer on her key ring, highlighting Adrian’s name.

  “Is that Adrian McCoy? The DJ?”

  I could hear something in her voice. Excitement. Maybe we weren’t so different.

  “Yes. What is it, Mrs. Kehoe?”

  “Adrian does some volunteering at the community center.”

  I knew what was coming. I felt it with total certainty. The same certainty experienced by people who suddenly remember where they left a lost item.

  “Two boys in his group, Johnny Riordan and Pierce Bent, are from . . .”

  “Saint Jerome’s,” blurted Red. “I know them. They borrow Adrian’s decks sometimes.”

  My forehead felt hot. It buzzed like a space heater. “That’s everyone. We got them all.”

  “No. Not everyone,” said Dominique. “Most people don’t report nuisance crime. But I hear about it.”

  “Well?”

  Dominique pointed to a pile of files in her in-tray. “Take your pick.”

  “Come on, Dominique. Does anything stand out?”

  Dominique thought about it for a moment. “Just one. A strange case. Martina Lacey. Someone sent her a paint bomb, in a bunch of roses. Miss Lacey moved back to Dublin after the event. She was too shaken up to stay in Lock.”

  I found the relevant file on the table. There was a cell number listed.

  I handed Dominique the file. “Would you?”

  “Of course.”

  Dominique dialed the number on her desk phone, placing the call on speaker.

  Martina Lacey’s phone was switched on. She answered on the third ring.

  “Yes?” Her tone was wary. Scared, almost.

  “Martina, this is Detective Byrne here, from the Lock station. We heard about the flowers you received from a friend of yours. We’d like to take a look at your case and I wonder if you could help us out?”

  Martina’s breathing rasped over the speakers. “I’m finished with Lock. I’ve put all this behind me. I won’t press charges even if you do find someone.”

  “Just one question,” said Dominique soothingly, a professional. “Then we’re out of your hair. We’re just trying to tie a few cases together; we won’t even need your testimony if it comes to that.”

  “One question?”

  “Ten seconds of your time, then you know you’ve done your civic duty.”

  “Okay, Detective.” Her voice was small, like a mouse. Being a victim could change people forever.

  “My question is this, Martina. When you lived here, in Lock, did you have any contact with pupils from Saint Jerome’s national school?”

  Silence for a moment. Then: “I gave after-school tutoring in mathematics. Preparing students for their entrance exams. One of my girls was from Jerome’s. Julie Kennedy. Her parents were very strict. They promised to ground her indefinitely unless her grades picked up. I hope she got a new tutor. Is that all you need?”

  “Yes, thank you, Martina. You’ve been a great help.”

  Martina hung up first, and the tone droned over the speaker for several seconds before Dominique remembered to do likewise.

  “That’s it,” I whispered. “No question. Saint Jerome’s is the link.”

  Red stepped close to the whiteboard until his shadow blotted out the projected names. “Okay. But the link to what?”

  I didn’t know yet. “I need more detailed information on our new list.”

  Dominique Kehoe checked her files. “If you don’t have more details, and I don’t have them, then who on earth does?”

  I had a sudden vision of knitted cardigans and grinning dogs.

  “There is one person,” I said, and my voice may have trembled slightly.

  LARRY AND ADAM

  I WAS ONE OF THE Sharkey family now, and it was more than skin deep. The Sharkey gene ran through my system like a virus. It bullied my other genes and sent them packing to the darkest corners of my personality. I found myself walking hard and talking tough. It felt good to be the outsider. My previous existence seemed monochrome. Now I was living life to the fullest, appreciating every moment outside the police station.

  Red had loaded himself up with gear: bolt cutters, a length of rope, mini-tool kit, flashlight, and two single egg frying pans.

  “Frying pans?”

  Red grinned, offering me the choice of a pair of tights or a tin of boot polish. “Trade secrets, Fletcher. Watch and learn.”

  I took the polish and smeared the viscous gunk across my cheeks, feeling it sink into my pores. It would take months to scrape off, and underneath it would be fake tan. I offered the tin to Red.

  “In your dreams, Fletcher,” he chuckled, rolling his trusty ski mask over his face.

  Saint Jerome’s seemed different at night. When darkness fell, the school was stripped of its daytime identity and became just another town building. Without murals and hopscotch grids and exuberant children swinging from its gates, the school could just as easily have been an office block, or a prison.

  We were huddled behind the security fence, Red and I, building up to the big break-in.

  Red hefted the frying pans. “I’m trying to get away from th
is kind of life, Half Moon,” he said, looking like a black fish inside his ski mask.

  “I know, Red, but we have to do this. Our giant is still out there.”

  “It’s very early for breaking and entering. Papa says don’t go in until the nightclubs are closed. You never know who’ll be walking home.”

  “We can’t wait. Someone could get hurt.”

  Red sighed. “I’m not used to worrying about people outside the family.”

  He passed the frying pans through the fence, then clambered over.

  “Tell me what the pans are for?” I asked through the bars, hoping this was not a view I would soon be coming accustomed to.

  Red grinned, his teeth shining from the blackness. “You just come in when you hear my whistle.” Then he closed his mouth and disappeared.

  I felt suddenly alone, mainly because I was suddenly alone. But it was more than that. I was about to cross the line between bold and bad. If I actually participated in a break-in, then my face would become another mug shot destined for a police file. There was nothing I could do about it now. I had to get into Saint Jerome’s. I needed to make the final connection before someone else was hurt and my own life disappeared like a sail over the horizon.

  I heard Larry and Adam growling. The noise rumbled across the yard like the revving of two sports cars. I thought it was the most frightening noise I had ever heard, until it was followed by the rapid clicking of their clawed paws on the pavement.

  I stood, grabbing the bars and shaking them, as though I could dislodge the metal poles from their cement beds.

  “Red!” I called, mindless of our supposed stealth. “Get out! They’ll eat you alive, or kill you, then eat you.”

  Then I heard the whistle. Two short notes. Maybe that was my signal to come in, or maybe Red didn’t want to die alone.

  “Red?” I hissed into the blackness. “Are you alive? Can you talk? Do you need stitches?”

  A set of teeth appeared before me. “Will you please shut up? You heard my whistle, didn’t you? So come on.”

  I struggled over the fence, without arguing. Red had faced Larry and Adam, and survived. His hard-man status was assured for life.

  I crossed the yard, using years of memory to guide me. Ahead I could hear Red’s footfalls and a gristly, slurping noise. My imagination, fed on years of murder mystery novels, supplied gruesome explanations for these sounds. When I drew closer to the shadows around the main building, I saw that the slurping noises were in fact slurping, as Larry and Adam licked the grease from the frying pans.

  Red knelt between the dogs, slowly tethering them both to the school oil tank. “Roddy knows every security dog in Lock. They love him. I think it’s because he’s a bit of a mutt himself. You show any dog in a five mile radius these frying pans and they roll over to get their bellies tickled.”

  “Very clever.”

  Red shrugged. “An old trick. We never wash those pans, in case a dog needs distracting.”

  My stomach wobbled. I distinctly remembered Genie serving up sausages from those pans. How many dogs had licked them before now? It was probably wiser not to ask.

  We skirted the hopscotch squares, tiptoeing across to the office window. The blind wasn’t drawn and an alarm sensor squatted buglike on the sill.

  “That’s it,” I said, sighing a whoosh of relief. I couldn’t help it. “We can’t open the window.”

  Red placed his toolbox on the sill. “I don’t want to open it,” he said. “Opening it would set off the alarm.”

  If Red was stating the obvious just to make me feel like a moron, it was working.

  He selected a flat chisel from the box, sliding it under the strip of rubber that held the glass in place. He patiently wiggled the chisel across the bottom of the window, up the side, across the top and back to the beginning, removing each length of rubber as he reached a corner.

  “Knock, knock,” said Red, rapping smartly on the center of the pane; it flexed, then toppled from the frame. He caught it, laying it carefully on the ground. “The sensor is only activated if the window opens. This way, I don’t break the connection.”

  Another nugget of Sharkey wisdom. A hundred and one things you don’t learn in school.

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Red paused, then dropped his head. “Don’t remember it, Fletcher. When this is all over. Forget everything we’ve done. I’m going to try. I’ve been trying.”

  It was dark and Red was wearing a mask, but I knew how his face would look. Pained. This break-in was costing him.

  He took a breath, then vaulted through the window frame into the office shadows. I clambered after him, not quite as gracefully, but I managed to gain entry without jarring the frame.

  Red switched on his pencil flashlight. “Now, what are we looking for?”

  I felt my way across to the desk. This office was making me extremely nervous. The musky odor of two Dobermans still clung to the walls, and the wet-wool smell of Principal Quinn wafted from the chair like a ghost of her presence.

  “This,” I said, hauling her ledger from the drawer. “Principal Quinn keeps a unique record of every student’s school activities. We should be able to spot the final connection from the pictures.”

  The book was covered with velour wallpaper, patterned with paisley swirls. I heaved open the cover with two hands, and it thumped onto the desk. Red pulled the blind and switched on the desk light.

  “Quick as you can, Half Moon.”

  I barely noticed the nickname anymore. It was the least of my worries. To be honest, I liked it now. It was like a battle scar.

  The pupils were recorded alphabetically, and by year of enrollment. I flipped the pages forward until I came to the names I was looking for.

  “Well?” asked Red.

  My pulse began to race. I had seen something. My eyes blurred with excitement and my hands shook. Of course. Of course. Idiot. Moron. Call yourself a detective.

  “Shut up,” I hissed at Red. An offense punishable by a severe Chinese burn not so long ago. “I’m thinking.”

  It was all there in the pictures. The dancer. The karaoke queen. The DJ’s. But I needed to be sure. I flicked back the pages to fifth grade. There was SeeSaw with a little dancer drawn beside his name. Then third grade. There was Gretel Bannon. And after her name a scrawled recorder. She was a musician. I checked the rest of the names. My theory was sound.

  “It’s the talent show,” I whispered, as though speaking aloud would break the spell, shatter my deductions. “You were all in last year’s talent show. May and SeeSaw danced, Mercedes did the karaoke, Johnny and Pierce were DJ’s. Julie Kennedy and Gretel Bannon were musicians. You did your Elvis bit.”

  “Bit?” said Red, miffed. “It was more than a bit. I’ve had offers. Anyway, you weren’t in the talent show.”

  I closed the book. “Don’t you see? We were a two for one. When my attacker got me and blamed you, I was off the case and you were suspended.” I snatched the talent show lineup from Mrs. Quinn’s notice board. “They’re all out of the show except May, even though he burned her lucky costume. He’s probably going to go after her again.”

  “He’d better hurry up,” noted Red. “The talent show started twenty minutes ago.”

  My knees almost gave way, and my voice rose a panicky octave. “Tonight. It’s on tonight?”

  Talent shows were not the kind of thing I kept track of. Bernstein would be disappointed with his star pupil. A good investigator should keep abreast of everything.

  “Yep. I was doing ‘Love Me Tender’ before you came along.”

  I rubbed my forehead, cobbling a plan together.

  “You’re still doing it. May is not safe. We have to get in there.”

  “How? I’m suspended from school.”

  “Technically this is an extracurricular event, not held on school property. Only the community center committee has the power to ban Elvis from the building.”

  We left the office the way we had foun
d it, carefully replacing the pane and rubber. Five minutes after we’d gone over the fence, the only sign that we had ever been there was the confused blinking of Larry and Adam.

  I SEE THINGS AS THEY REALLY

  ARE—FINALLY

  NOTHING IS GUARANTEED to pack ’em in like a kids’ show. The Lock Community Center was jammed with little stars and their extended families. Some of the performers had entourages that would put an A-list movie star to shame.

  Cars were jammed in the parking lot so tightly that it seemed as though they had crashed. Body heat pulsed in waves through the hall’s open windows.

  Red had texted his backup singers, and they met us at the stage door in full sixties regalia. Luckily the costumes had already been prepared, so all the Sharkeys had to worry about were the hairdos.

  Genie’s hair was piled atop her head in a rock-hard beehive. She wore a spangled minidress with elbow-length gloves and heels so high they looked like little ski ramps. Herod was there, too, in black sunglasses and stick-on sideburns.

  “You really look the part,” I said, trying to be friendly.

  Herod swiveled his hips and shot me with two finger guns. “Well, thank you very much.”

  “All you need to do is get me inside; after that, go on with your act as normal. I need to watch May, make sure nothing happens to her.”

  Red frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that, Half Moon—nothing really happened to May.”

  I knew what Red was thinking, and I wanted to nip it in the bud. “Her lucky dress was burned, Red. I call that something.”

  “All that did was buy her sympathy. She’s still in the competition. And that dress never did bring her luck, did it?”

  I put on my best aghast face, which is not easy underneath layers of fake tan and shoe polish.

  “What are you saying, Red? That May did all this to win a competition? She sabotaged her friends and burned her own dress, all for a little trophy?”

  “Maybe. How well do you know her?”

  “Well enough. I study people, Red. That’s what I do. She helped us, didn’t she? She saved Herod.”

  Red stuck his chin out belligerently. “Yes, well maybe you’ve been studying May a bit too hard. Maybe you’re getting romantic ideas.”