by Marcia Wells
Bovano lumbers toward us, looking extremely unhappy. But Milton’s oblivious. “Sir, would you volunteer to be the teacher in the dunk tank for this year’s carnival? It’s for a great cause, and it’s really an honor to be asked. Only our most favorite teachers are chosen.”
Someone at the table next to us says, “That’s it—Frank’s Tank! Frank’s Tank!” More kids join in with a chorus of “Will you do it, Mr. Frank? Will you?”
Bovano stops his approach, blinking at the students as if he’s not quite sure whether he’s lost control of the classroom. All twenty kids smile back at him, begging him with bright We love you, pleeeease do it grins.
For a brief moment, I imagine Detective Bovano falling into a tank of cold water. The thought fills me with enormous joy.
A muscle twitches under Bovano’s left eye. “Sure,” he says through gritted teeth. The class erupts into loud applause.
This year may hold some promise after all.
Chapter 7
Hacked
5:13 P.M., SAME DAY
Being inside a police surveillance van is not as cool as you might think. Sure, there are gadgets and switches and blinking lights, but I’m not allowed to touch anything. Plus it’s a small cramped space that’s growing warmer and smellier by the second.
We’re parked on Fifth Avenue across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a.k.a. the Met. We’re back on Museum Mile, the same place I went undercover as an art student last year. I pretended to study famous works of art while observing the faces around me. But now I have to do my observing stuffed in the back of a white van that has a FRANK’S FLOWERS logo printed on the side.
At least Paula’s here. She’s sitting between me and Bovano, humming softly to herself. The two of them have a workstation that consists of a small desk, two computers, and three television monitors. I have a seat in the corner with one small TV screen that’s linked to a camera inside the Met, and that’s it.
Paula flashes me an extra-big smile. She watches me with a curious expression as if I’m a zoo exhibit. I guess she’s only seen me in school mode, and now that I’m on the job, she expects something magical and brilliant to happen. I stare at the television screen. I memorize the faces walking by. I blink. Yep, that’s about it.
My memory works differently from most people’s. I can see all the details of a scene clearly in my mind as if I were staring at a photograph. Combine that with my artistic talent, and it makes me the perfect human camera, able to churn out accurate pictures on command.
“I need to know your head’s in the game,” Bovano grunts. It takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to me.
I look over at him. “Of course,” I say. Why wouldn’t it be?
He raises a bushy eyebrow. “Just ask her to the dance and get it over with.”
“What? How . . . who?” I splutter.
He shakes his head. “You’re not the only one who’s good at observation. Just do it. Quick and painless, like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
Only Jonah knows about my crush on Jenny. It feels as though Bovano’s hacked into my brain. I fold my arms and stare at the screen as if to prove that I am fully able to focus on our mission. We will not be discussing girls.
After a painful moment of listening to Bovano get his large body comfortable in the small vinyl seat, we get down to business. “I have two faces for you, Eddie,” he says. Paula leans out of the way so he can hand me some photographs. “These men are known thieves. Real professionals. Our job is to find them.”
I study the mug shots, planning to draw their faces tonight. The first guy I decide to nickname Snaggle because he has really crooked teeth that look like monster fangs. The second guy has the biggest muscles I’ve ever seen, so I name him Rock. With his bald head and gray clothing, he looks like a human boulder.
“And you think they’re planning on stealing something European?” I ask, referring to my monitor’s being linked to a camera stationed in the European Sculpture and Decorative Arts section of the Met.
Bovano eyeballs me a moment. “A diamond exhibit is coming to the Met in October,” he finally admits. “Diamonds of Royal Europeans. There was a recent . . . incident that leads us to believe someone is a little too interested. We think it’s those men.”
The recent incident he’s talking about must be the duchess and her stolen crown. “What have these men stolen before? Jewels? Art?”
He waves me off. “You don’t worry about that.”
Jonah and I knew this would happen. We knew Bovano wouldn’t cooperate, which is why we devised the clever yet highly illegal idea of Operation Hack. But before I go through with it, I try one last time to reason with Bovano. Surely he must trust my skills after how much I helped him last year. Taking a deep breath, I decide to go for it:
“Lars liked European art,” I say. “Are these perps connected to Lars? Part of his new gang?” I hold up the two mug shots he gave me.
Bovano doesn’t answer. Paula bites her lower lip and examines her fingernails.
“What about O’Malley?” I ask. “Are they connected to him? What if I see O’Malley at the Met? What then?”
Bovano shakes his head. “Patrick O’Malley has nothing to do with this. He works alone. And Lars is out of the country. Forget about him.” He jabs a thick finger at my television monitor. “You focus on faces. Got it?”
“Let’s talk about the bomb,” I go on. “It was flashing the time 24:11, but what time was it delivered? Does the department keep track of that kind of thing?” My mouth is firing questions and I can’t stop. “All of these numbers could be important. If O’Malley and Lars—”
“They aren’t,” he snaps. “Need I remind you what happened the last time you interfered with an investigation? You were almost killed. You are a sketch artist and a camera, not a detective.” He points to the monitor again. “Get to work.”
The last time I interfered with the investigation, I solved the crime. Has he forgotten that detail?
He leaves me no choice.
I pretend to get back to work. After a few minutes, I glance over at Paula and Bovano. They’re busy analyzing blueprints of some kind. “Exits should be covered there and there,” Bovano mutters to Paula. He gestures to the prints with a pen.
I slide my cell phone from my pocket and fire off a one-word text to Jonah:
Go
Instantly my armpits start to sweat. Jonah’s working over at the public library so they can’t trace the hack to his house. He’s using a fake ID that he bought at a sketchy mini-mart on the corner near his apartment building.
We got the NYPD’s server name and general password from Milton. Turns out Milton’s mom doesn’t have access to all the police reports we need, due to her lower security clearance. Enter Jonah Schwartz. Once he logs onto the NYPD website, he’ll have to figure out Bovano’s personal password. I suggested Italian foods like “spaghetti” or “lasagna,” or even a full sentence like “Children annoy me.” When I mentioned that to Jonah, he scolded me for being negative about Bovano, claiming that “he’s the coolest teacher ever and a really nice guy.” No comment.
One minute and thirty-five seconds later, Jonah texts me back:
I’m in—Psswrd EddieRed!
I almost drop the phone. I’m Bovano’s password? I don’t know whether to be flattered or alarmed. I try to put it out of my mind.
Suddenly Bovano’s cell phone rings. His ring tone is Darth Vader’s march theme. “Yeah,” he answers. “No, I’m in the van. I’m not logged on. What do you mean?” He types something into his computer. “I’m locked out!” He glances over at me. I force my face into a neutral expression.
Turning so I’m hunched over my TV monitor, I fire off another quick text to Jonah:
Abort!
He doesn’t respond. I peel my shirt away from my sweaty body. What will Bovano do to us if he finds out? Community service? Jail time? Flunk us in chemistry?
Finally my phone buzzes:
5!
> Huh? Five what? Bad guys? Targets? Okay, I know Jonah’s in a hurry to read everything before he has to pull the plug, but I need more info. I check on Bovano again. He’s busy staring angrily at his computer, so I text Jonah back:
5 what?
A minute passes. Two minutes. “I’m telling you,” Bovano snarls at the poor soul on the other end of the line, “I’m not on my account. Someone might be hacking me. Put a trace on. Do it now!” He hangs up and throws the phone onto the desk in front of him. Paula murmurs something. I look over in sympathy. That’s what an innocent person would do, right?
Three minutes. Bovano’s phone rings again and he answers. “Tell me some good news,” he says. “No? Fine. No, I understand. Yeah, I’ll change the password.” He sighs and hangs up the phone. My breath leaves my lungs in a rush. I cover it with a cough.
I stare at the monitor in front of me, pretending to be engrossed by two women walking by a sculpture. My phone vibrates one more time in my hands. I glance down at Jonah’s text:
5 Eddie bombs!!!
Chapter 8
The Fox
1:13 P.M., SUNDAY
How much information have Bovano and Paula been hiding from me? Two weeks ago five fake bombs were found around the city, all with that same creepy message: 1—Eddie will know what this means. According to the police reports, they were exactly like the one I saw at the station, with O’Malley’s twist of green wires and the gluten-free dough strapped to the digital clock. In addition to the one delivered to the precinct, four others were mysteriously reported at those four landmarks Milton told us about: Cleopatra’s Needle, Grant’s Tomb, the William Sherman statue, and Penn Station.
After reading the details on Bovano’s computer files, Jonah wrote down the time that each bomb was phoned in by an anonymous caller, as well as the time that was flashing on the timer itself. I separated them into two lists:
Day
Time called in
Time on bomb
Bomb 1: Mon
9:24
24:11
Bomb 2: Tues
5:16
16:11
Bomb 3: Wed
3:22
12:82
Bomb 4: Thurs
1:16
2:39
Bomb 5: Fri
9:24
16:11
Bombs one and five were called in at the same time, but on different days. Is that important? Yesterday Jonah slept over and we analyzed and reanalyzed the numbers until our brains were a mushy mess. Do the times represent city blocks? Dates? Both could be possible.
I sit down at a computer cubicle at the Bronx Library Center. Dad started working here part-time a few weeks ago, and I asked if I could tag along during his afternoon shift today. He keeps grinning and winking at me from the checkout desk.
Poor Dad. He’s way overqualified for this position, and he’s getting paid less than half of what he was paid at his old job. He pretends not to be worried about money, but just this morning I overheard him and Mom talking about “what if” we moved to a smaller apartment in the Bronx. The Bronx! That’s a really long subway ride away from Jonah and Senate. Can my parents even afford to let me return to Senate next year? That’s the thing about money problems: they don’t go away overnight.
Shoving my worries aside, I read my list of clues and decide to search the name Patrick O’Malley in the library’s special People Database. There are 1.7 million results: Actors, lawyers, politicians. Apparently it’s a very common name. Nothing about bombs or the IRA pops up.
I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. Then I click on the New York Times icon and start scrolling the newspaper site, searching for the Duchess of Ireland. There are a few nice articles about her and her charity work and some public events she’ll be attending this week, but no mention of the stolen crown. My guess is that she’s keeping it from the public. I wonder if she would give me a cash reward if I found it for her.
If Lars is behind this, why would he target her? I decide to search some articles about Lars and his past robberies, looking for a link between him and the duchess. Nothing. I hope Jonah is having better luck. He’s over at Milton’s house, looking through more police reports. Milton’s mom is away on a trip, so we pounced on the opportunity. There has to be more information about those Eddie bombs somewhere.
My phone vibrates. I look at the screen and frown. It’s a text sent from the number 000–000–0000:
Looking for stolen treasure?
I leap to my feet and jerk my head around. Someone’s watching me. Quickly I scan the room. It’s a beautiful September weekend, so there aren’t many people inside. There’s a girl seated at a table, reading a magazine. She’s about my age. Three other kids sit at another computer and giggle quietly together. I squint at their monitor. They’re playing the game Fussy Chickens. An elderly man shuffles by, clutching a thick novel. And a plump woman pushes a cart of books, putting them back on the shelves one by one.
I read the text again and write back:
Who are you?
A moment later, my phone buzzes:
A friend. Call me the Fox. You’re looking in the wrong place.
Before I can think clearly about what I’m doing, I text a super intelligent reply:
Huh??
The Fox: The map. The answer is on the map. Gold. Stolen treasure.
Me: Gold?
The Fox: Old gold. We’d make a good team. Text me when you figure it out. Nice to meet you, Eddie Red.
I almost drop my phone. This Fox person knows my code name! Collecting myself, I write:
Figure what out?
No answer.
“Ready to go?” Dad’s deep voice sounds behind me. This time I do drop my phone. It clatters across the desk and almost lands in a trash can.
“Yep.” I scramble to grab the phone, then stuff it into my backpack along with my notebook and art pad. I force a smile onto my face and follow Dad out the doors and down the steps, glancing over my shoulder one final time. Is anyone following me? Anyone watching behind those big windows?
I take a deep breath and try to calm down, but the hair on the back of my neck feels electrified. Someone out there knows who I am, knows my cell phone number, knows that the cops call me Eddie Red. Lars . . . It has to be Lars. The cops swear that Lars is in Germany and isn’t a threat. But what if they’re wrong? I can’t take that chance.
There’s only one thing left to do.
It’s time to go undercover.
Chapter 9
Irish Jig
4:15 P.M., TUESDAY
“The Fox could be anyone,” Jonah says.
“He knew my code name,” I reply. “The police are the only ones who call me Eddie Red. Lars had a girlfriend who worked for the police, remember?” Last year the police sent an officer, a woman named Alisha, undercover to infiltrate Lars’s gang of thieves. She ended up switching sides and betraying the cops. “I bet she told him all about me. It has to be Lars. Who else could it be?”
I lean forward to pay the taxi driver fifteen dollars out of the measly eighty bucks I’ve earned from the police. Then we slide out of the cab on the corner of Tenth and Fifty-First. It’s showtime.
After school we told Paula we were going to play video games until my parents got home (they’re both working late tonight, but Paula doesn’t need to know that). We promised to lock the door and not open it for any strangers, so she left. When the coast was clear, we jumped in a cab and drove over here.
Our disguises consist of the clothing we wore to school today. Nothing more, nothing less. At first I was nervous about sneaking out, but Jonah assured me that no one ever pays attention to kids on the street. I tested his theory by walking past the cop stationed in an unmarked police car outside my building. The cop didn’t even blink.
“If Lars is the one texting you,” Jonah says as the cab drives away, “then why would he call himself the Fox?”
“I don’t know. To trick me? Make me think he’s som
eone else?” I’ve researched a ton of news articles about Lars the past two days. No mention of the word fox, or any animal for that matter.
We cross the street, heading for a plain cream-colored building with the words IRISH ARTS CENTER written in large green letters. Mom took me here once for a dance performance. There’s a special kid art festival today, a festival that the Duchess of Ireland herself is attending. It’s perfect.
We stand outside, pretending to examine the artwork in the window. The theme is “Two Worlds, One Ireland.” Kids from all over the city painted pictures of both Manhattan and Ireland, sometimes meshing the two landscapes together in a single frame.
The history of the Irish in New York is actually pretty fascinating. They’ve been very influential in shaping the city. Back in 1845 when the Great Famine hit Ireland, millions of starving people fled their country and came to the United States. By 1850, the Irish made up a quarter of New York’s population. Practically everyone I know has a little Irish blood in them. People love to celebrate their Irish heritage, as evidenced by the big turnout for today’s event.
I look up and down the street to make sure we’re not being followed. Jonah clears his throat. “Here comes a family. Act natural.” His leg starts to twitch, which for him is acting natural.