Mystery of the Phantom Heist

by Franklin W. Dixon

  I felt bad for Tony and wanted to cheer him up. So I waved and called, “Yo, Tony! I’ll bet free burgers come with the job, huh?”

  Tony dropped his rag on the table and walked over to our booth.

  “Who cares about that?” he said in a low voice. “After working in this place almost all day, the last thing I want is a Chomp and Chew burger.”

  “Wow,” Chet said, shaking his head. “This place must really be a sweatshop for you to pass up a Chomp and Chew burger.”

  Tony snorted and said, “Working in a sweatshop would be a breeze compared to this place. A kid in the last booth just wrote his name on the table with ketchup!”

  “What was his name?” I asked.

  “Al,” Tony replied.

  “At least it’s only two letters,” Frank said.

  “He wrote his full name, guys!” Tony sighed. “Alexander!”

  “Bummer,” I said. Maybe that sweatshop was a better deal.

  “If you hate it that much, Tony,” Frank said, lowering his voice, “why don’t you just look for another job?”

  “Part-time jobs aren’t so easy to get, Frank,” Tony explained. “And I’m saving up for a new phone, so I can’t quit now.”

  Frank nodded as if to say he got it.

  “Frank and I can’t even have fancy phones yet,” I said. “But this is the next best thing.”

  “What is?” Tony asked.

  “Glad you asked,” I said, pulling out my tablet. “Tony, my man, when was the last time you saw a skateboarding squirrel?”

  “Spare me, Joe,” Frank groaned.

  But Tony finally cracked a smile. “Squirrels on skateboards—no way!” He laughed. “Let me see that.”

  I was about to search for the clip when a voice shouted, “Yo, busboy! Why don’t you start earning your minimum wage?”

  Tony froze. So did we. Who’d said that?

  Turning my head, I saw a bunch of guys in a nearby booth laughing it up. They were wearing polo shirts and khaki pants. One of the guys had on a Bay Academy varsity jacket.

  “Bunch of jerks,” Chet said. “Who do those guys think they are?”

  “They’re Bay Academy kids, that’s who,” Frank whispered. “No doubt they’ll be going to Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen.”

  “Yeah,” I scoffed. “But they won’t be passing around barbecued hot wings and punch.”

  Looking at Tony, I could tell he was trying hard to keep his cool.

  “No problem, guys,” he called back. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “A minute isn’t good enough!” the guy with a maroon polo shirt and wavy blond hair boomed. “This table here is pretty messy.”

  His friends snickered as he picked up a half-full glass of chocolate shake and poured it all over the table!

  Tony’s face turned beet red, but he kept his mouth shut.

  Not me . . .

  “Hey, losers!” I shouted toward the booth. “Why don’t you clean up your own mess?”

  “Yeah, well, why don’t you shut up?” the guy with the biggest mouth snapped.

  “Game over,” Frank muttered as he stood up.

  He looked like he was about to go over to the Bay Academy booth, until we all saw someone in a police uniform heading up the aisle.

  “Sweet,” I said. “Somebody must have called the cops on those guys.”

  As detectives, Frank and I knew all the officers in Bayport. Sometimes we’d ask them for advice on a case we were working on. Sometimes they’d even ask us for advice, which was really cool.

  Most of the officers were great guys—minus one named Officer Olaf. His beef with Frank and me was that we were always trying to do his job. Lucky for us, the cop at the Chomp and Chew was Officer Schroeder.

  I expected Officer Schroeder to stop at the Bay Academy booth. Instead, he walked right past them, straight to us.

  “Boys,” he said with a nod. “The chief wants you to come to the station right away.”

  Frank and I traded confused looks.

  “We’ve retired from investigating, Officer Schroeder,” I said.

  “It’s not about a case, Joe,” Officer Schroeder said. “It’s about the gash on Lindsay Peyton’s car.”

  “Oh!” Frank said with a nod. “Does the chief want to know what we saw?”

  Officer Schroeder’s mouth became a grim line. “No,” he said. “The chief wants to know what you did.”

  MISINFORMED

  3

  FRANK

  THIS DIDN’T LOOK GOOD.

  “Excuse me, Officer Schroeder,” I said. “Does the chief think that we keyed Lindsay’s car?”

  The officer heaved a sigh. I could tell he wasn’t thrilled with the situation. All the cops had known us since we were little kids.

  “You can ask all the questions you want at the station,” he explained. “Come on, guys, pay your bill and let’s go.”

  “Okay,” Chet said. “But can we at least get our burgers to go?”

  “Chet, just pay,” I murmured.

  Quickly and quietly we laid our money on the table before we left. By now all eyes in the Chomp and Chew were on us as we followed Officer Schroeder up the aisle.

  I knew we weren’t criminals, but I sure felt like one.

  “Good luck, guys,” Tony whispered as we walked past him. “Whatever this is all about.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered back.

  I could hear snickering as we passed the Bay Academy booth. I tried not to look at the creeps until one of them sneered, “Bad day, burger boys?”

  Without even looking, I knew who it was—the idiot who’d tipped over the chocolate shake.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Joe said, loud enough for the whole booth to hear. “I thought they didn’t allow animals in here.”

  “Will you quit it, Joe?” I muttered. “The last thing we need is more trouble.”

  Once outside, we followed Officer Schroeder to the squad car. He walked a good few feet ahead of us, giving us some privacy.

  “I knew it,” I murmured. “I knew we should have told Lindsay about her car.”

  “Frank, I just had a weird thought,” Joe said quietly.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What if they dust the car for fingerprints?” Joe squeaked. “I ran my finger along the scratch—about three times.”

  “You think that’s bad?” Chet said. “I snatched a pastry on the way out. What was I thinking?”

  All I knew was that this was serious stuff.

  “Look,” I said. “When we get to the station, we’ll just tell Chief Gomez the truth. He’s known for being fair.”

  “Um . . . FYI,” Chet said. “I heard Chief Gomez retired about a week ago. Some other officer at the station was just promoted to chief.”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “How should I know?” Chet said. “You’re the detectives.”

  “Well, that explains it, then,” I said. “This new chief, whoever he or she is, probably wants to be extra thorough. You know, cover all the bases.”

  “If you say so,” Joe said. “I just hope covering all the bases doesn’t mean fingerprints!”

  We left my car in the Chomp and Chew parking lot, and Officer Schroeder drove us to the station. Joe and I were glad he didn’t run the siren—the last thing we wanted was more attention.

  The ride to the station was only fifteen minutes but felt like fifteen hours. When we arrived, Officer Schroeder led us to the receiving desk. I was almost anxious to see the chief and get this over with. If he or she was as fair as Chief Gomez, we’d be out of here in a matter of minutes.

  “I’ve got the Hardy brothers and the Morton kid,” Officer Schroeder said.

  “Okay,” the officer behind the desk said. “Chief Olaf said he’d see them right away.”

  Chief Olaf?

  I stared at Joe, who looked about as sick as I felt. If the new chief of police was Officer Olaf, we did not have a chance!

  “Yo, Frank,” Joe whispered as we fo
llowed another officer down a long hallway.

  “What?” I whispered back.

  “Do you think they have wi-fi in the slammer?” Joe asked.

  “Whatever,” I mumbled.

  The new chief of police, Olaf, was sitting behind his desk as we filed into his office. He looked up at us and immediately scowled.

  “If you Hardys think you’re off the hook because your father was a private investigator, well, think again!” he barked.

  “We weren’t planning on playing the dad card, Officer—I mean, Chief Olaf,” Joe said.

  “What exactly is this all about, Chief?” I asked carefully.

  “Didn’t Schroeder tell you?” Chief Olaf demanded. “Something nasty was scratched on the door of Lindsay Peyton’s very expensive car.”

  “We know about that,” Chet blurted.

  “You bet you know,” Chief Olaf said. “You boys were at the house at the time of the incident. Someone even saw you hanging around Lindsay’s car in the parking lot.”

  Someone? I wondered who had gone to the police about us. Was it Sanford Peyton? Lindsay herself?

  “We were at the house, Chief, that’s true,” I said. “But we were there to apply for a job, not to make trouble.”

  The chief leaned forward. “And this job would get you into one of the biggest parties in Bayport, right?”

  “Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen,” Joe said with a nod.

  “Well, you didn’t take the job, did you?” Chief Olaf asked. “In fact, you left the place pretty steamed, am I right, boys?”

  “They called me B-list material!” Chet blurted. “How would you feel?”

  I gave Chet a quick but subtle elbow jab. He had a habit of stuffing his mouth—and running it too.

  “Well?” Chief Olaf asked, leaning back in his big leather chair. “So what’s the story?”

  “Chief, you know we’re detectives,” I said.

  The chief raised an eyebrow. “Last I checked, your dad and I discussed that you should concentrate on other things.”

  “Okay, we were detectives,” I said quickly.

  “We solved crimes,” Joe added. “We don’t commit them.”

  “Then what about that guy?” the chief said, leaning over to point at Chet. “Mr. Peyton said he stole a pastry!”

  “Rats!” Chet hissed.

  I took a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. “Chief Olaf, we had nothing to do with Lindsay’s car being keyed,” I said. “We can even prove it if you just give us a little time.”

  “I think this prank had something to do with another one that happened yesterday,” Joe said.

  “Show him the video, Joe!” Chet urged.

  But the second Joe took out his tablet, the chief held up his hand as if to say, Stop.

  “This is nothing new,” Chief Olaf said. “Those pranks have been going on around Bayport for weeks.”

  “Weeks?” I said, surprised.

  “Then you’ll definitely want to look at this, Chief,” Joe said, holding out his tablet.

  “Why? So I can watch Katy Perry, or whoever it is you kids like these days?” Chief Olaf growled. “And as for you guys working on another case—give me a break. My best officers can’t even catch those punks.”

  “Those punks?” Chet said hopefully. “As in . . . someone else?”

  “So you believe us when we say we didn’t key Lindsay’s car?” I asked slowly.

  Chief Olaf narrowed his steely blue eyes straight at us. “Let’s just say I’m letting you go with a warning,” he said.

  I could hear Chet sigh with relief. I, too, was relieved. We were finally off the hook . . . or were we?

  “But just remember that I’m keeping my eyes on all you kids,” Chief Olaf said sternly. “Even you so-called detectives.”

  So-called detectives? Ouch! Technically, we weren’t supposed to do any more investigating after our last adventure (if you call having a crime gang coming after you an adventure), but since we helped put away the Red Arrow, Dad and Chief Olaf made us a deal that if we checked in and made sure to follow a few guidelines, we could still catch a few bad guys every now and then. Most important, we wouldn’t be sent to the notorious J’Adoube School for Behavior Modification. And it looks like we might be catching bad guys sooner than expected.

  When the chief opened the door, we couldn’t get out fast enough. We walked quickly up the hallway, not looking back.

  “So-called detectives,” Joe scoffed. “He’s just jealous because we’re good at doing his job.”

  “Joe, keep it down!” I warned. “The last thing we need is more trouble with the new chief.”

  “But Olaf practically said we’re clean!” Joe insisted.

  “Let’s just get out of here,” I said as we stepped into the waiting area.

  “Are you sure you want to leave?” Chet asked.

  “Yeah, why?” I asked. I followed Chet’s gaze to the long wooden bench against the wall. Sitting on it were an elderly woman, a middle-aged man, and . . . Sierra?

  My eyes widened as the pretty, dark-haired girl stood up and smiled in our direction. It was Sierra, all right. But what was she doing at the station, of all places?

  That’s when it suddenly clicked—and when my admiration turned into anger. The person who’d gone to the cops about us wasn’t Sanford Peyton or Lindsay.

  It was Sierra!

  CLUED IN

  4

  JOE

  I DIDN’T HAVE TO READ FRANK’S MIND TO KNOW he was thinking the same as me—had Sierra told on us to the cops?

  “So you’re the informant,” Frank said as Sierra walked toward us.

  “Informant?” she asked with a smile.

  “Let me put it in plain English,” I said. “Did you come to the cops to tell them we keyed Lindsay’s car?”

  Sierra’s smile turned into a frown. “I saw what happened, and it’s such a bummer,” she said. “Lindsay adores that car.”

  “I believe that,” Frank said. “So why didn’t the chief look totally convinced that we didn’t key it?”

  “I believe you,” Sierra said, tilting her head and looking all flirty. “You’re not gladiator material—or vandal material, for that matter.”

  “Did you tell that to Mr. Peyton?” I asked.

  “How could I?” Sierra said, her eyes wide. “He was already on the phone with the chief.”

  Okay. That explained who’d called the cops, but it didn’t explain what Sierra was doing at the police station.

  “So, do you come here often?” I joked. “Must be the free coffee and doughnuts.”

  “I happen to drink tea,” Sierra said. “And I’m here because Mr. Peyton wanted me to make sure the Sweet Sixteen had the police presence he requested.”

  Frank looked relieved to find out that Sierra wasn’t the snitch. “If you ask me,” he said, “that party is going to need the whole force.”

  “What do you mean?” Sierra asked.

  “With all those kids from Bay Academy,” Frank said, “the place will be oozing with bling, fancy watches, and state-of-the-art phones.”

  “Hey, no fair,” Sierra said, faking at being insulted. “I go to Bay Academy.”

  I could practically hear Frank gulp.

  “Awkward,” Chet said under his breath.

  “Um—you do?” Frank asked, turning red. “I had no idea. You don’t seem like . . . I mean—”

  “It’s okay,” Sierra laughed. “Oh, and FYI, I wasn’t invited to Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen either.”

  “You weren’t invited?” I asked, surprised. “And you don’t mind doing all this grunt work for the Peytons?”

  Sierra shook her head.

  “I’m interning for the head event planner of the party. It’s what I want to do after I graduate college, so it’s really good experience,” she explained. “Although walking Lindsay’s yappy little dog was definitely not in my job description.”

  Frank laughed, a little too loudly. He blushed when the officer behind the de
sk cleared her throat.

  “So you go to Bay Academy,” Frank said, lowering his voice. “I guess that means you don’t date Bayport High guys.”

  Whoa. Frank wasn’t exactly smooth when it came to girls, so for him to make a move, he’d have to be pretty serious.

  Chet and I turned to Sierra for her reaction. She flashed Frank a sly smile before pulling out a pen. Then she picked up Frank’s hand and wrote her name and number on his palm.

  “Why don’t you call me and find out?” Sierra said with a grin.

  Man, I thought. If Frank wasn’t already crushing on this girl, I might!

  Chet glanced at Frank’s scribbled-on palm. “If you do go out with Frank . . . Sierra Mitchell,” he said, “you won’t be sorry, that’s for sure.”

  “What do you mean?” Sierra asked.

  “Yeah,” Frank demanded. “What do you mean?”

  “Because Frank is the best detective in Bayport, that’s what I mean,” Chet said. “Other than his brother, Joe, here, of course.”

  “We’re a team,” I added quickly.

  Sierra tilted her head to study Frank, then me. “Detectives?” she asked. “Seriously?”

  “Not only that,” Chet went on, “Frank and Joe are going to find out who keyed Lindsay’s car if they have to turn this jerkwater town upside down!”

  “We are?” Frank cried.

  It was news to me, too, but the most surprised seemed to be Sierra. Her eyes lit up like headlights as she said, “You are?”

  Frank stared back at Sierra. Then he smiled and said, “Um . . . yeah, sure.”

  “I guess that means we’re on the case,” I said.

  “Okay, kids,” the officer behind the desk snapped. “This isn’t a bowling alley—time to socialize somewhere else.”

  “We were just leaving, Officer,” Frank said.

  “And I’m here on business,” Sierra told her.

  Frank gave Sierra a little wave before we headed out of the station. We had to walk along the road back to Frank’s car, still parked at the Chomp and Chew. It was a long walk, but we were just happy to get out of the station. As for Frank, he looked just plain happy!

  “Who knew getting arrested would be a great way to meet girls, huh, Frank?” I teased.

  “We weren’t arrested, we were just warned,” Frank said. “And all Sierra did was give me her number, so the ball is in my court.”