Poached

by Stuart Gibbs

  “In part,” J.J. replied. “Though the big piece of evidence Teddy got was that license plate number. Once Summer sent it to me, I passed it on to my security division.”

  “You mean Marge?” I asked.

  J.J. laughed again. “No, I mean the security division for my entire corporation. I often have to deal with issues quite a bit more serious than what normally takes place here: things like embezzlement, fraud, and corporate espionage. That division is staffed mostly by former FBI agents and the like who still have plenty of connections in law enforcement, so it wasn’t too hard to trace the plate. Seems the car was rented by an employee of the Heisenbok Company.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Mom said.

  “No,” J.J. told her. “You wouldn’t have. Because the company’s just a front. It doesn’t make a thing. Its only purpose is to hide the identity of its owner, but once again, my people know how to get through to the bottom of corporate shenanigans like this. The point being, Heisenbok is actually owned by the Nautilus Corporation, which is owned by none other than Walter Ogilvy.”

  Mom and Dad both reacted with surprise. Obviously, they knew who Walter Ogilvy was. I’d never heard the name, though. “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Another billionaire capitalist,” Dad said. “Sort of like J.J. here.”

  “Walter Ogilvy is nothing like me!” J.J. spoke so sharply he even seemed to take himself by surprise. He hopped to his feet and paced around his office. “The man is an unethical, greedy bottom-feeder whose only talent is leeching off other companies. He’s no better than a common thief. In fact, he’s worse. When a thief gets caught stealing, he goes to jail. When Ogilvy gets caught, he just bribes his way out of trouble and gets away with a wrist slap.”

  Mom leaned over and whispered in my ear. “As you can see, there’s some bad blood between J.J. and Walter.”

  “That weasel has stolen dozens of ideas from me over the years,” J.J. was saying. “And then he had the unmitigated gall to accuse me of stealing the idea for FunJungle from him! That man’s less trustworthy than a raccoon in a henhouse—”

  Dad interrupted. “J.J., I think Teddy needs a little more background to understand what’s going on here.”

  J.J. paused in mid-rant and swung back toward us, as though he’d forgotten we were there. “Good point,” he said, and then focused on me. “Even though it is extremely well documented that the idea for this park was generated by none other than my own daughter several years ago, Walter Ogilvy has repeatedly claimed that it was actually his idea. In reality, he was just jealous of the concept and tried to steal it for himself. He made multiple attempts to block the construction of FunJungle while racing to build his own animal-based theme park in New Mexico. ZooTopia, he called it. He filed injunctions, dragged me to court, and cost me an arm and a leg in legal fees—and when that didn’t work, he played dirty, making several attempts at sabotage—”

  “I heard that was never proven,” Mom said.

  “Of course it wasn’t,” J.J. groused. “Ogilvy’s more slippery than a moray eel. The man’s never had an original thought in his life, but he knows how to cover his tracks. I assure you, though, there was definite sabotage of this park during construction—and I know Ogilvy was behind it.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “World of Reptiles mysteriously caught fire,” J.J. told me. “There was an explosion at Hippo River. Someone ripped out all the wiring of two dozen bulldozers. Penny-ante stuff, really. But it all cost time and energy—and it put the lives of innocent workers in jeopardy. And the worst thing is, there wasn’t a point to any of it. Ogilvy knew I was going to finish FunJungle no matter what. He knew his own park wouldn’t ever be finished before mine. He was just being a sore loser, like the kid who sticks tacks in your bike tires because you’re dating the girl he has a crush on.”

  “Is ZooTopia still being built?” I asked.

  For the first time since the subject of Ogilvy had come up, J.J. smiled. “No, Teddy. It’s not. Ogilvy bought a lot of land and started clearing it, but once FunJungle opened and grabbed all the press, Ogilvy’s backers realized they’d never be able to rival us. So the project got canned, leaving the Nautilus Corporation on the hook for all the cash they’d laid out. The whole incident left Ogilvy looking like a fool, and yet he still hasn’t backed down. He’s continued to file suits against me, looking for a cut of FunJungle’s profits. And I’ve suspected all along that he’s not done with his dirty tricks. Teddy, do you recall that in the midst of the whole Henry the Hippo investigation, I’d suggested there might be some corporate interests behind Henry’s death?”

  “Yes,” I said. I remembered the conversation quite well. It was the first time I’d ever met J.J. McCracken.

  “Well, Walter Ogilvy was one of the folks I had in mind,” J.J. told me. “In fact, he was my primary suspect—until the truth came out. Now, Ogilvy might not have murdered Henry, but it seems he’s still determined to cause trouble here.”

  “You think he swiped Kazoo?” Mom asked.

  “I think it’s darned likely.” J.J. circled back behind his desk. “The only way Ogilvy will ever get ZooTopia off the ground is to drive FunJungle out of business. Now, I won’t kid you: We’re having a tough go of things right now. We’re far below where our numbers ought to be in terms of ticket sales. That Henry business didn’t help this summer—and the nasty weather this winter has been a real kick in the knees. Kazoo was proving to be our salvation—not just in tickets, but in merchandising as well—and suddenly he goes missing. Look at what that accomplishes: It takes away a major revenue stream and it makes FunJungle look bad. Coming on the heels of Henry’s death, we look like a bunch of knuckleheads over here. And it’s not like we can get a replacement koala. The Australian government is pitching a fit over this and threatening to sue me for gross negligence. Ogilvy couldn’t have picked a better way to hurt us.”

  A frightening thought occurred to me. “Does this mean you’re going to build those roller coasters through the animal exhibits after all?”

  J.J. looked offended that I’d even posed the question. “I promised Summer I wouldn’t. She convinced me that was a mistake. I’m not about to go back on a deal with my daughter.”

  I glanced at my mother, unsure if I should believe this. She nodded, signaling she thought J.J. was telling the truth. “Okay,” I said.

  J.J. unlocked a desk drawer, pulled out some eight-by-ten photographs, and slid them across the desk. “Teddy, is this the fellow you saw snooping around yesterday?”

  I stood up and grabbed the photos. They were all somewhat grainy, as if they had been taken by a surveillance camera from a long distance away. Astros Cap was in each one of them. He was always wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. “That’s him,” I said.

  J.J. nodded knowingly. “And can you tell me exactly where you saw him?”

  “First, he was talking to Freddie Malloy in KoalaVille,” I reported. “And then he went into Shark Odyssey. Not the main entrance, but the employee area. He knew the code to get through the door.”

  “Malloy must’ve given him the entry code,” J.J. muttered. “That nut job’s still friendly with the shark keepers. He could’ve convinced one of them to give him the day’s code and then passed it on.”

  Mom tapped one of the grainy photos of Astros Cap. “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Hank Duntz,” J.J. replied. “Though in certain circles he’s known as Hank the Tank. He’s an employee of the Nautilus Corporation. Officially, he’s the vice president of internal development. In truth he’s in charge of doing Ogilvy’s dirty work.”

  “You’ve had your eye on this guy for a while,” Dad said.

  J.J. looked at him curiously. “Why do you say that?”

  Dad fanned out the photos. “These have been taken over at least a year. Probably more. The seasons change. Duntz goes from wearing winter clothes to summer ones. His hair changes length. He even seems to have gained about thirty pounds
over the course of them.”

  J.J. was impressed. “I should have known a professional photographer would pick up on that. Yes, I’ve had people keeping tabs on Duntz for a while. We’ve found him in the vicinity of trouble several times—he was lurking around here just before the fire at World of Reptiles—but we’ve never been able to link him to anything. And now here he is again.”

  “Do you know where to find him?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, no,” J.J. replied. “Most likely he’s staying in a hotel under an assumed name.”

  “What about Freddie Malloy?” Mom asked. “He must know something.”

  “I’m sure he does,” J.J. said. “Only, as of this morning, we don’t know where Freddie is either. He called in sick today, but when I sent some of my people out to his house, he wasn’t there. He flew the coop.”

  “Do you think he knows you’re onto him?” Dad asked.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” J.J. replied. “I’m not sure how that happened. Maybe he and Duntz spotted Teddy here while he was snooping on them. . . .”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I tried my best.”

  “No need to apologize,” J.J. told me. “There’s a ton of other reasons Freddie might have gotten wind we were onto him—and the fact is, we wouldn’t have gotten wind if it wasn’t for you. If anything, Freddie’s disappearance now confirms that he and Duntz both had a hand in this Kazoo business. Rest assured, we’ll find them, though. I’ve got some of my top men on the case.”

  There was a knock at the door. J.J.’s secretary poked his head into the office. “I hate to bother you, Mr. McCracken, but your call with London starts in two minutes.”

  J.J. frowned, like he was annoyed he had to do this. “All right,” he sighed, then handed the photos of Hank Duntz to his secretary. “Call Mark Middleman at corporate security right now. Tell him Teddy here confirmed it was Hank the Tank on the property yesterday—and that he was poking around Shark Odyssey.”

  “Do you think we should close that exhibit?” the secretary asked.

  J.J. considered that. “Run it past Middleman. And get Pete Thwacker in on it too.” He turned back to my family. “I’m sorry I have to bring this to a close, folks. But duty calls.”

  We were already on our feet, knowing our time with J.J. was up.

  “We understand,” Dad said. “Thanks for taking the time to listen to Teddy.”

  “My pleasure.” J.J. bent to look me in the eye. “Although this doesn’t give you a free pass to keep snooping—comprende? Hank the Tank is a dangerous man. My people have got this now. So leave it to us and get to school.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “You’ve got a good kid here,” J.J. told my folks, and then ushered us out the door.

  I glanced back at J.J. as we passed through his secretary’s office. The smile was already gone from his face. Instead his eyes were narrowed in my direction. J.J. quickly forced the smile back on, then closed his door.

  J.J.’s secretary saw us to the elevator, and before I knew it, we were out of the administration building again.

  It was cold and raw outside. The sleet was falling even harder. My parents and I paused under the eaves of the building, in no hurry to head out into it.

  The nasty weather echoed my mood. I probably should have been happy, given that J.J. McCracken himself had just complimented me, but I wasn’t.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked. I could never hide my feelings from her.

  “I kind of get the feeling that, well . . . that J.J. was only pretending to be nice to us so he could get the information he wanted.”

  Dad and Mom shared a look, then nodded. “I kind of got that feeling myself,” Dad said.

  Mom pulled my winter jacket tight around me and zipped it up. “And now you’re upset because, after all you’ve done, he’s only giving you a pat on the back and sending you off to school?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “But more than that, I feel like he wasn’t being completely honest with us. Like the deal with him and Walter Ogilvy isn’t exactly what he says it is.”

  Dad grinned. “J.J. was right: You are a smart kid. I can guarantee you J.J.’s version was whitewash. J.J. McCracken’s no saint when it comes to business. Ogilvy isn’t the only one with dirty hands here.”

  “Now, now,” Mom chided. “You’re talking about the man who cuts our checks. The man who has given both of us very nice jobs.”

  “Jobs that he threatened so he could keep Teddy in line,” Dad countered. “And now he’s acting like that never even happened, like he’s been Teddy’s biggest fan all along. I’m thankful for J.J. McCracken’s jobs, but I don’t trust him. And I know you don’t either.”

  Mom frowned, but she didn’t deny this.

  And then Large Marge emerged from the sleet. Bubba Stackhouse was with her. And there were four other police officers with him. They all wore heavy parkas over their uniforms to protect them against the lousy weather, which made Marge and Bubba even thicker than usual.

  “Well, well, well,” Marge said with a grin. “Isn’t this a surprise? I was just on my way to make my case to J.J. to arrest you—and here you are.”

  Bubba Stackhouse nodded to his officers, who surrounded us.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Mom said. “We’re coming from J.J.’s office right now. He knows who’s behind Kazoo’s kidnapping.”

  “No, he only thinks he does,” Marge shot back. “I’m sure you folks fed him all sorts of lies to keep Teddy looking innocent. But J.J. hasn’t seen the evidence I’ve got. And when he does, I can guarantee he’ll change his tune.”

  “What evidence?” Mom asked. Though she was trying to hide it, I could hear she was worried.

  So was I. Marge seemed way too sure of herself. I felt like a young deer that was surrounded by wolves.

  “We just visited your trailer again,” Marge said. “While you were snowing J.J., we were inspecting Teddy’s room. And look what we found.” Marge held up two evidence bags. One of them had a clump of gray fur that definitely looked like it came from a koala. The other held several small, oblong black pellets.

  “Is that . . . ?” Dad began.

  “Koala fur and koala poop,” Marge said. “Meaning your precious son here has been in possession of a koala recently.”

  “I’ve never seen any of that before!” I protested. “Someone must have planted it!”

  Marge ignored me completely and turned to the police. “Arrest him,” she said.

  HANK THE TANK

  Two policemen grabbed me. One forced my hands behind my back while the other whipped out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Get your hands off my son!” Dad shouted. He started toward me, but the other two policemen blocked him.

  “You’re making a mistake!” Mom told them. “Just call J.J. McCracken. He’ll set everything straight.”

  “There’s no mistake here,” Marge sneered. “Your son was the only one at the crime scene—and now we’ve found ironclad evidence he had the koala in his room. Case closed. Now back off or we’ll arrest both of you, too, for interfering with police business.”

  Dad didn’t listen to her. Even though he was outnumbered, I could tell he was only thinking of me. Dad had been in plenty of dangerous places before, and he knew how to handle himself. He made a feint around the police and charged toward me. One of the policemen caught his arm and tried to twist it back behind him.

  Dad swung around and slugged the cop in the chin.

  The cop staggered backward, shaken.

  His partner tackled Dad, knocking him down. “Bad idea,” he snarled.

  Dad did his best to fight back, but the second cop was now on him as well. They overwhelmed him, pressing him into the icy ground.

  The other policemen cinched the cuffs around my wrists and started to lead me away.

  “No!” Mom cried.

  “Teddy didn’t do anything, Marge!” Dad yelled. “He was framed!”

  “Face the facts,” Mar
ge taunted. “Your kid’s a bad egg. He should’ve been shipped off to juvenile hall long ago.”

  Mom came toward Marge, looking ready to claw her eyes out, but Dad’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “No, Charlene! Get back to J.J.’s office. Tell him what these idiots are doing!”

  Mom obviously didn’t want to abandon Dad and me, but realized she wouldn’t be any help if she got herself arrested too. “Don’t worry, Teddy,” she told me. “We’ll get this all sorted out. You’re going to be okay.” Then she raced back toward the administration building.

  Bubba Stackhouse looked to Marge, unsure what to do.

  Marge stopped the policemen who were leading me away. “I can handle the boy,” she said, then handed them the bag full of koala poop. “Run this up to J.J.’s office. When he sees the evidence, he’ll back us over Mrs. Fitzroy.”

  The police seemed happy to get an assignment that took them out of the sleet. They quickly left me with Marge and hurried into the administration building.

  Bubba turned to the two cops pinning Dad to the ground. Neither looked pleased that Dad had called them idiots. “You two take Mr. Fitzroy here to headquarters and book him for assault. Marge and I will run the kid to juvenile hall.”

  Dad stopped struggling, aware it would only get him into more trouble. The cops pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed him as well.

  Then Marge and Bubba marched me around a corner and I couldn’t see Dad anymore. We passed out of the employee area and into the park. Marge and Bubba each held one of my arms, keeping me squeezed in between them. Since my hands were behind my back, none of the tourists approaching us could see the cuffs on my wrists. Instead I probably looked like a kid on vacation with two very overprotective parents. Not that there were many tourists. The nasty weather had kept everyone but the diehards home.

  I started to feel scared. Really scared. Although I’d been worried about Marge for the past few days, I hadn’t expected it would come to this. I figured that I’d have found the real thief—or someone else would have. Or at least Marge would have come to her senses and realized I hadn’t done it. Instead the stakes had been upped against me—and my parents hadn’t been able to protect me.