Murder at the Mall

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “I’m Frank Hardy. This is my friend, Adriana. And you are …?”

  He seemed caught off balance. I think he expected me to come flying at him with both fists—I think he would have liked that. But now he had to think—something he obviously wasn’t used to.

  “Paul,” he said, giving me a little nod. “Paul Burns.”

  None of the others answered. “Well, now that we’ve been introduced,” I said, “what did you have in mind?”

  “Huh?” Burns was obviously the leader, because no one else even tried to answer.

  “I mean, are you looking for a fight? Or did you just come up here to chat?”

  I was already rolling up my sleeves, getting ready to put my martial arts skills to good use, and hoping none of these kids had been to the gym recently.

  “That depends,” he said warily.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “On what you’re doing up here.”

  “Oh. Okay. We’re checking out the scene of the crime.”

  “Crime?” he said, tensing. “I heard it was just an accident.”

  “No way,” I told him. “No. Somebody cut that glass.”

  His eyes shifted nervously. Then he pointed at the graffiti. “It says right there who did it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said.

  “Then who did?”

  “You tell me,” I said. “Maybe it was you.”

  Now they were all looking really, really tense.

  “They did it, Frank,” said Adriana, positioning herself behind an air vent for protection. “Look at their guilty faces. Can’t you see it?”

  I saw it, all right.

  “Says who?” Burns snarled, stepping right up to me and pointing his finger in my face.

  I grabbed the finger, hard, and twisted it around.

  “Yeow!” he shouted, and his friends all surged forward, ready for a fight.

  I held up Paul’s finger, the tip showing, and they all suddenly froze in place.

  “Couldn’t get the silver paint off your trigger finger, could you, Paul?” I asked. “The color matches perfectly—notice?”

  He yanked his hand free and whipped it behind his back. “You can’t prove a thing!” he said.

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Paul Burns

  Hometown: East side of Bayport

  Physical description: Age 17, 6′ 1″, 190 lbs. Tattoos, piercings, buzz cut, ripped cargo pants, dirty T-shirt, mean look in his beady eyes.

  Occupation: Hanging out and making trouble.

  Background: From a broken, abusive home. Has been thrown out of school three times already, and the third time stuck. He now contemplates his future while hanging out at the mall.

  Suspicious behavior: That silver finger says it all, doesn’t it?

  Suspected of: Spraying graffiti implicating STEMM, cutting glass on roof.

  Possible motives: Getting even with the world, maybe?

  “I already have—and I have a witness. Right, Adriana?”

  “Right.”

  They all started looking at one another, desperate for a way out. Finally Paul said, “Look, everybody’s into something, you know? Some people lift stuff from stores. Some people key cars. At least graffiti doesn’t hurt anyone!”

  “And what have you got against STEMM?” asked Adriana. “What did they ever do to you?”

  “Nothin’,” Paul said. “I just added that part on my own.”

  “Wait—what do you mean?” I asked. “The rest wasn’t your idea?”

  “No, man. We got paid.”

  “You got paid?”

  “Hey, everything costs money. If somebody offers you a job for money, you take it, right?”

  “Uh, not really,” I told him. “Not if it’s illegal.”

  He laughed. “I’ll get off. I’m a minor, and I was talked into it.”

  “By who?” I asked. “Who paid you to do this?”

  “Oh, no,” he said, smiling and wagging a finger at me as his buddies sniggered. “None of your business.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe the police can convince you to tell them.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Not a chance,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. “Some things are worse than going to jail, man. Much worse.”

  “Paul, they’ve already arrested somebody else for cutting that glass, and that person may go to prison for it. If you did it, and they find out you tried to make someone else look guilty, you’ll definitely go away—for a long, long time.”

  “We didn’t do the glass!” he yelled. “Just the graffiti, man—not the glass.”

  I blew out a big breath. “Okay,” I said. “Then if it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  Paul looked at his friends, and they looked back at him. “How should I know, man? Like I told you, we just got paid to do the graffiti, that’s all.”

  “And when was that?”

  “I don’t know, around six, I guess. We got done just before it started raining. You can’t paint on a wet surface, you know? It drips.”

  He was right. The graffiti had to have been sprayed earlier. That would have given Steph enough time to come up here and cut the glass, for sure.

  But had she done it?

  “I’ll ask you one more time, Paul,” I said. “Who paid you?”

  He stared me down, but I could tell he was a little shaky. His eyes were darting left and right, trying to find a way out of the mess he knew he was in.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll tell you. It was that lady from In the Groove. She paid us—but I messed her up good.”

  He laughed again, pointing to the word STEMM. It was a mean laugh, but tinged with relief. “Yeah, it was her—the blonde with the funky jacket. You know, with all the buttons.” He nodded, staring at his handiwork sprayed on the wall. “I’ll bet she cut the glass, too.”

  His friends were looking at him in shock, and so was Adriana. “He’s lying, Frank! Can’t you see he’s lying?”

  I shook my head. Paul Burns might have been lying, or he might have been telling the truth. But either way, things sure looked bad for Steph.

  9.

  Murder at the Mall

  “What do you mean, I should still hire you? Where were you yesterday?”

  I felt like tearing my hair out. I mean, my assignment from ATAC was to get a job—any stupid job—at the East Side Mall. Not too complicated. But so far, I seemed to be a complete bust. I couldn’t even give myself away!

  I’d been here at the food court for ten minutes already, trying every excuse I could come up with to convince Clem Bartlett to give me another chance. Too bad for me, he turned out to be a stickler for being on time.

  “But I was on my way here when I heard the glass shattering.”

  “Oh, yeah? That was ten minutes past closing time. You were already ten minutes late! I’ve got a business to run here. I can’t put up with workers who don’t know what time it is.”

  “But—”

  “What time is it?”

  “Huh?”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s, um …”

  “It’s time for me to get back to work. You should try it sometime.”

  “I am trying!” I shouted.

  Everyone turned around. I could see Chet and Iola leaning forward in their food stalls. Everyone and his brother wanted to get a peek at the argument and see whether it would turn into a full-blown fistfight.

  “Hey, I’m offering a week of free labor, remember? And I know how to sell wraps! You give me a chance, and I’ll turn this lousy business around for you.”

  I could tell he was ticked at me, but at least I’d gotten his attention. “Okay, smart guy. I’ll give you ten minutes, starting right now. Let’s see what you can do.”

  “Deal!”

  I leaped right over the counter and grabbed the uniform he handed me. In no time, I was decked out in green apron, orange shirt, and white paper hat, ready to go.

  The only problem was, I’d be
en giving him a load of baloney. I had no earthly idea how to sell a Healthy Wrap.

  “Hey, get your wraps here!” I called out to the passing shoppers. “Healthy Wraps!”

  No one stopped. Once they realized there wasn’t going to be a fight, Healthy Wraps didn’t interest them. If I wanted to keep this job, I had exactly five minutes to come up with something really, really good.

  And then it came to me. Suddenly I knew what to do. I grabbed one of the wraps that was sitting under the glass as a display item and took a huge bite out of it.

  “Mmmm!” I said, nodding happily as I chewed and chewed. “Mmm-mm-mmm!”

  A few of the passing shoppers stopped to watch. None of them had ever seen a food court employee stuffing his face with his own food before.

  “Is it that good?” asked a lady lugging two big shopping bags.

  I nodded enthusiastically, swallowing. Then I tore off another huge bite of what I can only describe as day-old plastic, flavored with wax.

  No, it wasn’t because Clem’s wraps tasted bad. It was because the wraps he’d laid out for display had been laminated by soaking them in plastic!

  Why didn’t he warn me? I thought, too late. Clem was practically rolling on the floor, laughing his head off and pointing at me.

  As I swallowed my second mouthful of laminated food, I promised myself that once this case was over with, I’d come back and make Clem eat one of these too.

  Sometimes, though, you just have to grin and bear it. I bit off yet another mouthful and asked the lady if she wanted one.

  “Sure, why not?” she said. “I’m not much into health food myself. But if the guy behind the counter is eating it, it must be good!”

  I handed her a wrap—a real one, courtesy of Clem—and watched as she bit right into it. “Yummy!” she squealed. “Hey, Irma, you’ve gotta try one of these!”

  Her friend scurried over, followed by a couple of curious onlookers—and by the time my ten minutes was up, half the food court was lined up to try Clem Bartlett’s Healthy Wraps.

  “Eating one myself! I’ve gotta admit, kid, I never thought of that!” He clapped me on the back, laughing some more.

  “I assume this means I’m hired,” I said, thinking thoughts of murder.

  “Oh, you’re hired, all right,” he said. “Keep up the great work. Ha ha ha!”

  I would have hauled off and socked him right there, but—well, what can I say? I needed the job. Besides, I wasn’t feeling so good.

  I worked the stand until closing time. As the mall emptied out, I sat at one of the food court tables with Iola and Chet, waiting for Frank to show up and my stomach to calm down.

  “Plastic—that’s funny!” said Chet, doubling over.

  “Go ahead, laugh,” I said with a groan. “I’d be laughing myself if I wasn’t so nauseous.”

  Frank came walking down the promenade from the direction of the parking deck.

  “Where were you?” I asked him.

  “I wanted to walk Adriana to her car,” he explained. “She’s still freaked out by what happened yesterday.”

  “You guys, I’ve gotta book,” Iola told us. “I have a chemistry test tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Chet said, getting up with her. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car. You guys coming?”

  “Uh, not yet,” answered Frank. “I’ve got to show Joe something here first.”

  “Okay, see you tomorrow, then,” Chet said.

  “Bye,” called Iola, leaving with him.

  “Joe,” Frank said in a low voice when they were gone, “I’ve got some big news.”

  “Fire away,” I said.

  He told me about the poncho belonging to Stephanie Flowers, and about the kids with the tattoos and piercings spraying the graffiti.

  “And you know this how?”

  “They spray-painted the STEMM logo all wrong. Adriana noticed it too.”

  “Dude,” I said, “you’d better leave her out of this. It’s getting too dangerous for spectators.”

  “She’s already in it, Joe. She nearly got killed yesterday, remember?”

  “I guess you’re right,” I replied. “But how’d you get them to confess?”

  “I saw the silver paint on the kid’s trigger finger.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. “What else did you find out?”

  “Well, they said Steph paid them to do it, but they double-crossed her by signing it STEMM. They said they did the spraying before closing time, and they denied knowing who cut the glass.”

  “Seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t she have noticed that the graffiti wasn’t what she’d paid for?”

  “It was raining hard when the glass was cut,” I pointed out. “And she was probably wearing that poncho, with the hood up. She might have missed spotting the word STEMM.”

  “Or maybe it was somebody else,” Frank suggested. “Somebody who wanted Steph to take the fall.”

  “That would mean those kids are lying about who paid them,” I said.

  “Stranger things have been known to happen,” he argued. “You know, at first, when I grabbed the kid’s finger, he said he wouldn’t tell me who paid them. He said some things were worse than going to jail. But then, after that, he changed his mind and decided to tell me after all.”

  “So?”

  “Joe, maybe he didn’t add the word STEMM on his own—maybe he was paid by somebody else to put it there.”

  “It’s possible,” I had to admit. “Hmm. Maybe if the police grill those kids …”

  “They’ll just deny it,” he said. “I mean, the part about being paid. They’re juveniles, so they won’t go to jail just for spraying graffiti.”

  “There must be another way we can get them to cooperate,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ve got an idea who else might have paid them.”

  I told him about my visit to Shangri-La, and my run-in with Bob Meister.

  “Joe, this thing is not over by a long shot,” Frank stated. “Whoever cut that glass is getting ready for round two. And we’ve got to prevent it.”

  “It?”

  “Whatever they’re about to pull. Steph is out on bail, and no one knows where she is. So if she’s the criminal, she’s on the loose. And if she’s not, and someone’s trying to make her look guilty, they’ll try to strike while she has no alibi.”

  “You mean, like right now?”

  “Tonight would be about ideal, wouldn’t you say?”

  I had to agree with him. “So what do we do?”

  “We camp out here at the mall,” he said. “In hiding, of course. We see what happens, and if anything goes down, we get in the way of it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “I just wish I’d gotten something to eat before closing time,” said Frank.

  “Not me.” I shook my head. “I couldn’t eat a thing if you paid me.”

  We took up positions, straggling along with the last of the shoppers as they left for the parking garage. Frank positioned himself by the stairs to the roof, in case that gang of kids made an appearance or someone tried to get up there again.

  It was a good position. There were trees and concrete pillars to hide behind, and he had a good view in three directions out of four.

  As for me, I headed to the area near Mr. Applegate’s office. I’d had luck in that area before, and I figured, why not try it again? It was one of the few parts of the mall Frank couldn’t keep an eye on.

  I found a spot to settle in—a little vestibule fronting a maintenance closet—and waited. It wasn’t five minutes before I heard a door closing nearby. Keys jangled, and then I heard footsteps.

  “Never mind that, where are you? And what have you done?”

  It was Applegate, talking to someone on his cell phone!

  “Of course I’m angry! I know we haven’t been on good terms lately. But as long as I’m alive, this is still my property, not yours! I can do whatever I want with it.
Do you think you can get your way by threats and violence? Well, if you’re trying to scare me out of it, you must have lost your senses!”

  He listened for a minute, then said, “How am I supposed to believe that? You know, I wanted to keep this private, but your outrageous behavior is making it impossible!”

  He listened again, and I could see his shoulders slump and soften. “Oh, very well,” he grumbled. “I’ll hold off for another twenty-four hours. But unless you can prove it, I’ll have no other choice. I have my own future to think of—and yours, too.”

  He flipped his phone shut, took out a hankie, and blew his nose. I got the impression he was actually crying. Then he opened his phone again and punched in another number.

  “It’s me,” he muttered. “Yes, me. I called to say I need more time … twenty-four hours … to clear up some family business.”

  He closed up his phone, stuffed it into his pocket, and hurried off down the promenade.

  Interesting. He’d been talking to two different people, obviously. But who?

  I was curious to know more, so I followed Mr. Applegate at a safe distance. He crossed the empty food court area, then turned right at the fountain and headed for the parking deck.

  As I followed him, I saw that the food court wasn’t quite empty after all—Oskar was standing with his broom, eating a Phrank and chatting with Phil. He seemed to be in a great mood for once.

  “I going be rich, lots money!” he said. “Make lucky break, hah?”

  Phil chuckled, slapping Oskar on the back. “You’re a pretty smart fella, Oskar—I’ve gotta hand it to you. Just be careful, okay?”

  Hmm. I wondered what that was about. I wanted to stick around to find out more, but I figured I’d better keep after Mr. Applegate. I had to run to catch up to him, but I finally caught sight of him, heading for the door to the parking deck.

  I waited till the door closed behind him, and a good ten seconds more, before heading over there. I was determined to follow him all the way to his car—just in case he made another call.

  But before I got to the door, I heard a loud commotion coming from behind me. I ducked into the alcove in front of a store entrance before anyone saw me.

  There were several voices, all of them shouting. Most sounded like kids my age—but the loudest of all belonged to Oskar, no doubt about it. He was roaring in what sounded like part English, part foreign language.