by Marcia Wells
After school I attend my first-ever student council meeting. Last spring I was elected class representative, along with Jonah and two other kids, although Jonah’s not here today because he’s got Hebrew lessons. He’s studying for his bar mitzvah later this year.
I haven’t told Jonah about Mr. Frank’s true identity. I wanted to a thousand times today, but decided I’ll call him tonight. Jonah is 100 percent trustworthy, but if you surprise him with big news, he’s about as subtle as a grenade.
The council meeting is in Señora Luna’s Spanish classroom. I walk in and take a seat in the back. My head is up, my mouth is smiling, and I am numb. Mr. Frank is already up front, leaning against the whiteboard. He glances at me, then looks away, pretending not to watch my every move. It’s been like this all day. He has come to every single one of my classes, and even ate near me during lunch. At one point in math class I had to go to the bathroom and he started to follow me in, then realized what he was doing and stationed himself outside the door.
I’ve studied him all day long, trying to figure out what he’s up to. He’s wearing a horrid teacher outfit, complete with a collared shirt, an ugly plaid tie, a swampy-green-colored sweater, and brown slacks that are a size too small. I drew a picture of him during second-period study hall. There’s a subtle lump beneath his sweater on the left side. It’s a gun, I’m sure of it. And then in Spanish class he was bending forward to help a student conjugate a verb when I noticed a faint circle in his back pocket, suspiciously resembling handcuffs. Handcuffs and a gun? What exactly does he think’s going to happen here at Senate?
A few other kids from my class fill in the seats around me. Jenny Miller, the girl I’ve had a crush on since last year, slides into the chair next to mine and my pulse kicks up a notch. She pulls out a thick notebook with color-coded tabs and flips to the orange section, then fishes an orange pen out of her bag. She’s our class secretary and is known for her killer organizational skills.
I try to look like I’m going to take important notes, fumble my pencil, and drop it. It rolls three desks away.
Jenny hands me a new pencil. It’s white with the word TUESDAY printed in blue letters. Today is Tuesday. Like I said, she’s über-organized.
The president of the eighth grade class, Mateo González, bangs a gavel on a desk and calls the meeting to order. “Welcome, new members,” he says. “We’re going to get right to it. We have two goals this fall. The first is the Fall Carnival, organized by the seventh grade.” He waves his gavel in our general direction. “You have three weeks to prepare. As you know, the carnival raises money for our second goal, the Homecoming parade float.”
A few kids hoot and pump their fists in the air. “Homecoming is in October,” Mateo continues. “We’ll be building a Trojan horse.” More hoots. Someone yells, “Go Trojans!” Our school’s mascot is the Fighting Trojans, so there are cartoon drawings of guys in ancient armor hanging on banners all over the hallways. Don’t ask me what ancient Greeks have to do with New York City geeks.
Jenny touches my hand and I just about fall out of my chair. She hands me a folded piece of paper.
A note from Jenny Miller? Do I open it now? Later? What if it says something like You have spinach in your teeth and I don’t open it and then I walk around with spinach in my teeth all afternoon?
I unfold the paper. Disappointment washes over me. It’s from Milton Edwards. I’d recognize his blocky handwriting anywhere. The six words printed on the page send my head reeling:
HOW DO YOU KNOW
DETECTIVE BOVANO?
I look over at Milton, who’s sitting three seats away. His intense stare pins me like a bug under a microscope. How does he know Detective Bovano? Milton’s a nice kid who I’ve known since kindergarten, but we’ve never been close friends. He speaks in lists and has an odd obsession with condiments. Right now he’s wearing a T-shirt with salt and pepper shakers on it that says SHAKE IT UP!, and last year he brought in a book called The History of Mustard.
Suddenly I remember him mentioning that his mom is a scientist and sometimes does forensic work for the NYPD. I glance at Bovano, who is currently scowling in Milton’s direction. This is a complication I don’t need.
Cheeks burning, I stare at the desk for the rest of the meeting, not hearing a single word about the school carnival or the Trojan horse. After the meeting ends, I hang out in the back of the room and pretend to read the Spanish posters about lunch foods: ME GUSTA UN SANDWICH, ¿TE GUSTA UN SANDWICH? Once everyone’s gone, I tiptoe down the quiet hall. Just two rows of lockers separate me from the front door. I need time alone to figure out what to say to Milton. And Paula said she’d be waiting for me on the steps, so that’s a plus.
“Well?” Milton’s loud and rather obnoxious voice echoes around me. He steps out from the shadows of the front office.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I try to walk past him, but he grabs my arm and pulls me down the hall, away from the freedom of daylight.
“First of all,” he says, “you looked like you swallowed a frog when Mr. Frank walked into art class this morning. Second, he’s watched you all day like he knows you. Third, you’ve been really twitchy, like you’re nervous about something. Fourth—”
“Okay, I get it.” Before I can come up with a lame excuse for my nervous behavior, large hands grab us by the collar and yank us backwards into a small room. The door clicks shut and we’re plunged into darkness. The smell of soapy peppermint surrounds me, and I realize we’ve been stuffed into the janitor’s supply closet.
The light clicks on. “Do we have a problem here, boys?” Bovano says.
“No, sir,” Milton squeaks. “It’s just . . . I know you. You’re Detective Bovano. My mom works with Casey Weston in forensics and I met you at Casey’s barbecue last year. My name is Milton Edwards.”
Bovano furrows his bushy lie-detector eyebrows, squinting as if trying to place Milton’s face. “Right,” he says in a tight voice. “Now I remember.”
“Are you working undercover, sir?” Milton’s voice falls to a hush. “I won’t tell anyone. I was just asking Edmund about it because first of all, it seems like he knows you, and second—”
Bovano puts a big hand up to silence him. “I do know Edmund,” he admits. “I went to college with his father. I’m here because we suspect the mob is laundering money through the school. I can count on you to keep this quiet, can’t I?”
Milton nods, his almond-shaped eyes growing wider. His mom is Japanese, and his dad’s blond, so he has an unusual combination of sandy hair and blue eyes that are tapered at the corners. His nose is long and slightly bent to the left. Details I notice when I’m smooshed between him and a bottle of floor cleaner.
Bovano leans in like he’s about to tell us a big, important secret. The garlic bread they served us at lunch today isn’t doing his breath any favors. “Maybe you can help us,” he says. “I’ll talk to your mother. In the meantime, keep your ear to the ground. Let me know if you hear anything suspicious. Kids talking about their dads’ new cars, things like that. Okay?”
Milton nods again. “Awesome,” he whispers. “I promise I won’t say a word.”
Bovano smiles and opens the door. “I need to speak with Edmund here about a birthday surprise I’m planning for his dad,” he says. “Run along now, Milton. I’ll expect your report next week.”
Milton grins and trots down the hallway. And I’m left alone with Mr. Frank/Detective Bovano/my father’s new best buddy.
Bovano sighs. “Can we trust him not to blow this?”
I’m shocked he’s asking me a question instead of barking an order. “Yes,” I say. “He’s trustworthy.” I may not know Milton super well, but I do know this: When I peed my pants on the playground in first grade, he was the one who took me to the nurse’s office for a change of clothes. He never told anyone what happened, never teased me about it.
Bovano and I stand there a moment, not speaking. I stare at his face, at the stress li
nes by his eyes and mouth. Why is he here guarding me at Senate? If the police feel I need this much protection, then Lars must be in New York, or at least headed this way. Is Lars working with O’Malley? I need more information, but I know Bovano won’t tell me anything. Maybe I’ll sneak into his office and go through his papers like I did last year. The thought makes me queasy.
He sighs again and motions for me to follow him to the front door. “I want you to know that this bodyguard job was not my idea. But the chief wants you protected until Heinrich is caught, so here I am. In the meantime, keep your head down and your mouth shut. Understood?”
We reach the main doors and he turns left, presumably to head back to whatever classroom the school has assigned him as home base. He stomps away, not bothering to wait for my reply.
“And don’t forget to do your homework,” he tosses over his shoulder.
Chapter 4
Pepper
3:28 P.M., THURSDAY
“Let’s go over what we know,” I say to Jonah two days later. We’re having an afternoon snack at Mario’s Pizzeria. It’s a small, cramped restaurant with only three tables, but it’s got the best pizza in the city. The secret is the double cheese, double sauce.
Paula is sitting over by the window. I told her that Jonah and I need to work on an English assignment together, so she agreed to escort us here. She’s reading a magazine and watching the door every few minutes. She’s only ten feet away, but with the loud radio playing eighties music, the whoosh of the pizza oven being opened and closed, and a cook answering the phone yelling, “Mario’s! We bake ’em, you take ’em!,” there’s no way she can hear our conversation.
I pull out my list of strange things that have happened this past week. Are they clues to one case or a bunch of separate cases? Or not clues at all?
A fake bomb
Time on fake bomb—24:11
Note in RED ink: “1—Eddie will know what this means”
Lars Heinrich—Germany
O’Malley—Ireland
Diamonds at Met
Recent jewel robbery—what and where?
Bodyguards for Edmund
“It’s a weird list,” I say.
“Very.” Jonah smears another glob of peanut butter on his red pepper pizza and takes a bite. He glances over at Paula. “Do you think she needs some water? Her glass looks low.”
I roll my eyes. Of course he’s smitten with her. “She’s fine. Don’t engage her in conversation. We can’t snoop on the police if we’re hanging out with the police, remember?” I don’t mention that yesterday I gave her a picture that I drew of her as a thank-you for protecting me. I think she liked it. She smiled the whole way to school.
He shrugs and pops the last bite of pizza into his mouth. “When’s Milton supposed to call?” he says in a sticky voice.
“Any minute now.” Milton is currently checking his mom’s computer for the latest police reports. She receives a weekly email that contains updates on crimes around the city. It’s the perfect solution to spying on Bovano. I told Milton we’d form a secret “police squad club” to help solve Bovano’s case, and then maybe the cops would hire us as kid agents. I feel bad for lying to him and using him for information, but duty calls.
I check to make sure my phone is on. My parents got me a “new” iPhone for school. Translation: I get to use my mom’s old one and she got a new one. It’s great except it has way too many goofy pictures of my dad—wearing a napkin on his head at a fancy restaurant, twirling his mustache while sipping tea at a coffee shop—not to mention a few barfy selfies of the two of them kissing. I can’t delete any of them until Mom finishes her photo albums, which may take all year.
I fiddle with the phone. I hate waiting. I wish I could go over to Milton’s house and look at the files personally, but he said his mom is home and doesn’t like other kids messing around with her computer. I sigh and flip open my art pad, studying the picture I drew of the bomb. The Eddie note is so creepy. It taunts me and my lack of detective skills.
Tap-tap-tap. Jonah taps his pencil on the table. “Lars loves maps and puzzles. What could the time 24:11 mean? Is it coordinates on a map? What’s on Twenty-Fourth and Eleventh?” He types something into his laptop. “That’s near the Hudson River. Oh, there’s an art gallery on the corner. Check it out.”
He turns the computer toward me but stops halfway when his phone starts to vibrate, sending tremors across the table and onto my arms. He frowns. “It’s Milton. I guess he got confused and called me by accident.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t get too confused,” I mutter. We need his focus to be razor sharp.
Jonah grabs my notebook, picks up the phone, and says, “Talk to me.” It’s the strangest one-sided conversation I’ve ever heard:
“Uh-huh. Crown jewels? Whoa. Yeah, I got it—emeralds, sapphires, diamonds. Really? Ireland?” Jonah’s eyes flicker to mine and he raises an eyebrow. “Yep. Cleopatra, like the queen? Oh. Wait, but that’s—” He shifts the phone in his hand and hunches over the notebook. I can’t see what he’s writing. “The tomb, like the actual tomb? No. All right. Yep. Yep. William who? The gold one? No, I don’t remember. Oh. That’s all?” He looks disappointed.
We told Milton that we overheard Bovano talking on the phone about a bomb and a jewel robbery, and asked that he look through his mom’s reports for anything mentioning the words “bomb” or “jewels.” Pretty close to the actual truth, but I trust Milton to keep his mouth shut.
Jonah taps the pencil like a drum and says, “Good work, soldier. We’ll report back tomorrow.” With that, he hangs up.
“Well?” I say.
He shows me his notes. “Two interesting things. Well, five interesting things, but two categories. First, there’s been an increase in security around a bunch of city landmarks.”
LANDMARKS
1—Cleopatra’s Needle—in CP (Central Park)
2—Grant’s Tomb
3—William Sherman the gold dude—in CP
4—Penn Station
I scratch my head. “William Sherman the gold dude?”
“There’s a statue in Central Park of some guy named William. The statue is gilded. You know, covered in gold? Milton says we went there on a class trip in third grade. I must have been sick that day, ’cause I have no idea what he’s talking about.”
I flip through images in my mind. A statue covered in gold? I’m not seeing it.
I know the other landmarks, though. Cleopatra’s Needle is a huge obelisk from ancient Egypt that sits in Central Park, and Grant’s Tomb is a memorial to the Civil War hero General Ulysses Grant. It’s just outside of Manhattan, while Penn Station is in Midtown and is one of the busiest and most famous train stations in the world.
I’m failing to see any connection between these sites. “Another weird list,” I say, dipping my pizza crust into the ranch dressing we ordered.
Jonah nods while typing something into his computer. “Milton said that the monuments have been labeled as a terrorist alert. No mention of the word ‘bomb,’ but that’s what terrorists usually use, right? The sites could be connected with your Eddie bomb.”
“The timing works.” I stare at the list. If Lars is in town, and if he’s working with O’Malley, then these sites are not random. Everything is intentional with Lars. He loves to play with the police and send them hidden messages.
Jonah takes another bite of pizza, still typing away on his computer. “Anyway, the second interesting thing is about the Duchess of Ireland. She’s in New York this month for cultural events, diplomatic meetings, stuff like that. There was a fancy fundraiser banquet she was supposed to attend last week. Her crown was being delivered to her in an armored car when it was hijacked on Fifth Avenue. No one was hurt but the crown is gone. Oh, check it out. Here she is.” He turns the screen around to show me. “I didn’t know Europe still has duchesses, but apparently they do.”
I expect to see an elderly lady in a frilly evening gown, but instead there a
re a bunch of pictures of a young woman, maybe early thirties, wearing a crisp navy business suit. She has high cheekbones and brown hair, with intelligent blue eyes. She’s mostly pictured shaking hands with different world leaders, but in a few she’s in a more formal gown with a small but beautiful crown on top of her head. It’s made of several rows of diamonds that twist in a way that reminds me of a wreath, curving into a heart in the center, where a large emerald sits flanked by blue sapphires.
I give a low whistle. “That’s some crown. She must be pretty upset.”
Jonah pulls out a thick city map from his bag. “Yeah. Her and anyone else with money coming to the city. No wonder the police hired you again. I bet the Met is freaking out about their upcoming diamond exhibit, especially since they’re on Fifth Avenue, right where the robbery went down.”
“This must be the high-profile robbery that Chief Williams told me about,” I add. But if this is the handiwork of Lars, why would he steal a crown? He loves art, not jewels.
Jonah nods and pushes the computer closer to me. “Will you draw the crown? Just a rough sketch?”
“Sure.” I flip my art pad to a fresh page and start sketching. The design isn’t complicated, but there are a lot of diamonds.
“I’m going to look up these landmarks,” he says. “Maybe their locations are significant.” He frowns. “According to the map, there are no monuments over by Eleventh and Twenty-Fourth. Are we reading too much into the time on the bomb?”
I shrug and keep sketching. All we have are more questions and zero answers. Are Lars and O’Malley working together? If they are, did they steal the crown? O’Malley is from Ireland and the duchess is from Ireland. Is that important?