The Sweetest Heist in History

by Octavia Spencer

  “You think?” Gigi added with a twinkle in her eye.

  “I think it’s crazy that we’re wasting time talking about Pudge when we could be talking about the Prince of Darkness,” Randi said.

  “You mean the devil?” D.C. asked in a hushed voice.

  “No, that’s just what they call ‘Prince’ Andrei Gorchakov,” Randi explained. “He’s not the devil, but they say he’s a pretty bad guy. He grew up in one of the Russian communities in Brooklyn, and now he owns a chain of expensive pastry shops. The police say he’s the head of an organized crime syndicate, but they’ve never been able to prove it. They don’t even know for sure where he lives.”

  “He sounds like a supervillain,” Gigi noted. “Evil on the inside, fancy on the outside.”

  “A supervillain who enjoys eating daffodils,” D.C. added.

  “I almost forgot about the flower!” Gigi said. “The weirdest part is that daffodils are poisonous. And I’m pretty sure they don’t taste very good, either.”

  “Extreme eating doesn’t exactly fit Gorchakov’s profile,” Randi said. “This is a guy who’s known for his expensive clothes and fast cars. And art dealers say he’s put together one of the best collections of Russian art in the world. They think he keeps it in a secret museum somewhere. But nobody has ever seen it. He keeps the art just for himself.”

  “And let me guess,” Pudge chipped in. “He likes Fabergé eggs.”

  “Nope. He loves them,” Randi said. “He’s bought every egg that’s been auctioned off in the past ten years. But there aren’t that many Imperial Eggs—and they don’t come up for sale very often.”

  Gigi sighed dramatically. “Such a shame. What’s an egg-loving supervillain to do?”

  Randi swiveled around in her seat. “I think we all know the answer to that question,” she said. “Andrei Gorchakov hired those men downstairs to steal the eggs he couldn’t buy.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, they were up before dawn. D.C. was stationed by the heating vent in the kitchen, listening to the men downstairs. Pudge was by the window with binoculars, keeping an eye on the museum across the street. Randi was in position in the building’s lobby in case the men made their move. And Gigi was across the street, sitting on a bench in front of the museum, drinking coffee and pretending to read the newspaper.

  “Ninja One, this is Ninja Two.” D.C.’s voice came through Randi’s walkie-talkie.

  “Hello?” she heard Gigi respond. “Is that Pudge?”

  “I’m Ninja One,” Randi told her aunt for the third time that morning. “Pudge is Ninja Two and you’re Ninja Four.”

  “Sorry!” Gigi said. “Still getting the hang of this!”

  “What’s up, Ninja Two?” Randi asked D.C.

  “It’s gone quiet in the apartment downstairs,” Pudge reported. “And I just heard a door shut. I think they’re heading your way.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Randi said, slipping into an alcove by the mailboxes. She heard one of the elevators moving. A minute later, the doors opened and two men stepped out. Both were wearing navy-blue uniforms. One of them was the watcher. The other was his Russian colleague. The German was still upstairs.

  Randi watched as they marched through the lobby and out the front door. “Ninja Three and Ninja Four, subjects are on the move. They’re dressed as security guards. I’m going to give them a head start. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

  “Roger that,” said Pudge.

  “This is so exciting!” whispered Gigi. “I see them now! They’re approaching the pedestrian crossing on Eastern Boulevard. Now they’re waiting for the light.”

  It was time to move. Randi pulled the hood of her coat over her head and hurried through the apartment building’s double glass doors. The men were already halfway across the street. There was no doubt about it—they were on their way to the museum.

  Smart, Randi thought. The museum is probably hiring extra security for the exhibit, so the foxes got a job in the henhouse.

  Both of the men were carrying large duffle bags. Randi could tell from the way the men held them that the bags didn’t weigh very much. Can’t be weapons inside, she said to herself. Those bags must be where they’ll stuff the loot.

  She tailed them from a distance as they headed straight on Washington Avenue toward the back entrance of the museum. Randi stayed close to the fence that circled the museum’s grounds. Strong gusts of wind lifted piles of dead brown leaves in the air. The tree branches that hung over the sidewalk creaked and groaned. One of the men checked over his shoulder. Randi stopped short and hoped her black coat would make it hard for them to see her among the shadows.

  At the back of the museum, employees were filing in and out of the service entrance. The nighttime staff was trading places with those who worked during the day. Randi waited until the two men were inside before she rushed up to a woman who was coming out the door. Randi held her cell phone up for the woman to see and put on her cutest little-girl voice.

  “Excuse me, ma’am! My dad works here. My mom and I just dropped him off and he left his phone in the car! Is it okay if I give it to him?”

  “What’s your dad’s name?”

  “Oscar Gruber,” Randi said, pulling a random name out of her head. “He just started on Friday. He’s a security guard for the new exhibit.”

  The woman gave Randi a once-over. Once she’d concluded that a girl Randi’s age couldn’t pose much of a threat, she held the door open. “Make it quick, kid,” she said with a yawn. “It’s not Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.”

  “Thanks!” Randi trilled. She squeezed past the woman and entered the bowels of the museum.

  The door slammed behind her, and Randi found herself inside a long empty corridor. Security cameras mounted on the walls scanned every last inch of it. The two thieves must have gone into the men’s locker room. Its door lay just to Randi’s right. She didn’t dare follow them inside—but she couldn’t hang out in the hall, either. She had to keep moving or she’d be kicked out in minutes. It would be harder for anyone to find her, she figured, if she was upstairs with the art. The two men would be heading to the egg exhibit eventually. Instead of trailing them, she might as well meet them there.

  A stairwell lay ahead. According to the museum’s website, special exhibitions were usually located on the fifth floor. The eggs hadn’t arrived yet, which meant security wouldn’t be in full force. So Randi scrambled upstairs and opened the door. She stepped into a room that was painted jet-black. There was no furniture, just tall glass boxes. Inside the display cases, empty shelves were covered in black velvet. She’d found the room where the eggs would be shown. It had been designed so that nothing would distract from the eggs’ beauty. Which meant there was nowhere for Randi to hide.

  “Excuse me, little girl?” a haughty voice called out. “Just what in the blue blazes do you think you’re doing?”

  An angry lady in a prim tweed suit was marching in her direction. Randi rushed for the stairwell exit, but the door wouldn’t open. There were no other exits, no escape routes. She was trapped.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Randi instantly recognized the two police officers who’d come to collect her from the museum. They were the same guys who’d driven her home after she’d foiled the burglary on Bergen Street.

  “And look who we have here,” said Officer Cody, elbowing his partner. “Told you it was gonna be her. Pay up.” He put his palm out, and the other man slapped a twenty-dollar bill into it.

  “I should have known better,” Officer Jackson grumbled. “You’re on a roll, and I haven’t won a bet in weeks.”

  The small, grimy room where Randi was being held had no windows and little furniture. There were two rickety folding chairs, a flickering light fixture that hung from the ceiling, and a table with one leg that was shorter than the other three. Officer Cody grabbed one of the chairs, spun it around, and straddled it. “What’s up, Miranda Rhodes? There are a couple of kids loitering outsid
e the museum who look like they’re worried sick about something. They friends of yours?”

  Randi said nothing.

  “You better start talking or we’ll have to take you in. Let’s see if you can make this story as good as the last one.”

  Officer Jackson leaned against the wall. “We thought you were one of the good guys,” he teased her. “Now we’re called out to pick you up for trespassing? Didn’t take you long to turn to a life of crime.”

  The interrogation could have been worse. But inside Randi was seething. She didn’t like to be needled.

  “I wasn’t trespassing,” she corrected them, doing her best to sound as serious as possible. “I was tailing two men who, I believe, are planning to steal the Fabergé eggs that are arriving here at the museum tonight.”

  “Egg thieves, eh?” said Officer Cody, winking at his partner. “I knew this was gonna be good. The guys at the station are going to eat this up.”

  Randi scowled before she continued. “Three men just moved into the apartment below my aunt’s. Two of them are Russian. One of them has a tattoo of a scarab beetle on his forearm. I suppose you know what that means.”

  “That the dude likes bugs?” Officer Jackson asked.

  Randi sighed at his ignorance. “It’s a jailhouse tattoo. In Russian prisons, every piece of body art has a meaning. A scarab beetle tattoo means the man is a thief.”

  “Or it could just mean that the man digs bugs,” Officer Cody pointed out. “My girlfriend’s got a ladybug tattooed on her wrist.”

  Randi chose to ignore the comment. “Last night, I saw the man with a tattoo having dinner with the Prince of Darkness, Andrei Gorchakov.”

  “The devil’s name is Andrei?” Officer Jackson laughed.

  “No, she’s talking about that gangster. You know, the one from Brighton Beach who owns those fancy pastry shops,” Officer Cody said, sounding a little more interested in Randi’s story. “So where does a twelve-year-old kid go these days to see a guy like Andrei Gorchakov eating dinner?”

  “The Russian Tea Room,” Randi said. “My aunt took us there for Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ve always wanted to give that place a try,” said Officer Jackson. “How was the food?”

  “It was fantastic.” Randi huffed. It was getting harder and harder to keep her cool. “But that’s not the point. Andrei Gorchakov likes Fabergé eggs. But the most precious eggs—the Imperial Eggs—almost never come up for sale, so he’s decided to steal a dozen or two. He hired the men I was following to rob the museum!”

  “That’s a pretty serious accusation,” said Officer Jackson. “You got any proof other than a bug tattoo and a fancy dinner?”

  “Isn’t that enough to make the guy a suspect?” Randi argued.

  “It makes him interesting; that’s all,” Officer Cody said. “So far the only crime that’s been committed here is trespassing. And you’re the one who committed it.”

  “I just told you that millions of dollars in Fabergé eggs are about to be stolen, and you’re talking about trespassing?” Randi scoffed.

  “Today it’s trespassing; tomorrow it could be robbing 7-Elevens. You know what they call trespassing, don’t you? They call it the gateway crime,” Officer Cody managed to say with a straight face.

  “They do not,” Randi argued.

  “You know what?” Officer Cody asked his partner. “I bet I know who can settle this argument.”

  “Who?” asked Officer Jackson, playing along.

  “Herb Rhodes. Think I should give my favorite author a call?”

  A chill trickled down Randi’s spine. If the cops called her dad, the jig would be up and the fat lady would start to belt out a tune. He’d already threatened to come get her once. Another conversation with the NYPD, and Herb Rhodes would be on the next plane to New York.

  “Fine,” Randi said. “I give up. You don’t need to call my dad. I was playing a game, and I let my imagination get out of control. But look how easy it was for me to get inside the museum. Don’t you think they could use some extra security?”

  If Randi couldn’t catch the burglars herself, she could at least make sure that there were enough cops on hand to collar them once the crime was committed.

  “I’ll talk to the boss,” Officer Cody said.

  “Promise?” Randi asked.

  “You’re awfully big for your britches, but you’ve got my word,” the cop assured her. “Though the security here is pretty tight already. Just between us, you’re not the only one who’s worried about the eggs. The lady in charge told us that Fabergé eggs have a habit of vanishing. So they’ve got their eyes on every inch of this museum. They saw you on the cameras the second you stepped through the door. How do you think we got here so fast?”

  “Wait a second. Eggs have been vanishing?” Randi asked. “What are you talking about?”

  Officer Jackson gave his partner a disapproving look. “He shouldn’t have said anything,” he told Randi. “It’s time for you to let the grown-ups here do their jobs. They don’t need any help from fifth graders.”

  “I’m in the seventh grade,” Randi said between clenched teeth.

  “I don’t care if you’re in the tenth grade,” Officer Jackson said. “Your investigation is over.”

  “Let us take it from here,” Officer Cody added. “Otherwise we’ll have to call your father. And I sure would hate for the legendary Glenn Street to get grounded.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Well, it’s obvious what our next step should be,” Gigi said when Randi was released into her custody by the police for the second day in a row.

  “It is?” Randi asked, feeling miserable. She was banned from the museum. The police had promised more security at the exhibit, but they hadn’t exactly bought her story. In fact, the entire precinct was probably having a good laugh at her expense. The next step, as far as Randi was concerned, would be crawling under the nearest rock. D.C. and Pudge didn’t seem much happier. Only Gigi remained optimistic.

  “Of course it is!” she insisted. “The four of us did our jobs. We uncovered evidence that a crime was about to be committed. We identified the culprits and alerted the authorities. So what if they didn’t believe you? Tonight, when the eggs go missing, they’ll be pounding on our door.”

  “You think?” D.C. asked.

  “Absolutely,” said Gigi. “Our next step? Wait for the burglars to come back to the building with the stolen eggs in tow. And then prepare to be heroes!”

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  * * *

  THE VANISHING EGGS

  After the morning’s excitement, the next ten hours felt impossibly dull. The museum across the street seemed perfectly peaceful—and the apartment below Gigi’s stayed silent. At eight o’clock in the evening, the ninja detectives finally got their first little thrill when a van from Channel One pulled up in front of the museum and a reporter hopped out. Something newsworthy must have happened, Randi thought. She, Gigi, and the kids waited breathlessly, expecting the police to follow shortly behind.

  A few white delivery trucks came and went. Then they heard the men downstairs return home from work. But the NYPD never arrived. At ten o’clock, Pudge was the first to fall asleep. Then D.C. passed out, and Gigi wandered off to bed shortly after. Soon Randi was the only one awake in the apartment. From time to time, sirens outside made her rush to the window. But the police cars always sped past. A helicopter flew over the museum, its spotlight briefly illuminating the building’s dome. Then it buzzed off into the distance. When the clock struck midnight, Randi knew the delivery must have taken place, but somehow the eggs hadn’t been stolen.

  Randi refused to go to sleep. Instead, she sat at Gigi’s desk, trawling the Internet for information. Back at the museum, Officer Cody had let it slip that Fabergé eggs had a habit of vanishing. Randi expected to uncover news reports of heists or armed robberies. She found nothing of the sort. What she discovered instead was far more interesting. In less than two ye
ars, three Imperial Eggs had literally disappeared under very mysterious circumstances.

  The first egg had vanished from an auction house in New York City. A dazzling creation worth more than ten million dollars, it had arrived one evening with a battalion of guards. Early the next morning, there was a small fire in the building. In less than a minute, the sprinkler system had extinguished the blaze. But when the excitement was over, auction house employees discovered that the egg was gone. Despite the fact that the auction house was filled with expensive art, nothing else had been taken.

  Police assumed that whoever had set the fire had also stolen the egg. But the room from which the egg was taken had no windows, and a guard had been stationed outside the room’s only door. The guard would have been the obvious suspect if it hadn’t been for the security cameras that were trained on the spot. They clearly showed that throughout the fire, the guard had never moved an inch. No one else could have gotten inside the room. The egg had simply vanished.

  The second egg had gone missing from a small private plane that was transporting a shipment of art from Switzerland to Saudi Arabia. The egg’s owner had personally supervised the packing of his treasures and watched them be loaded onto the plane. Somewhere over the Red Sea, the plane had experienced engine troubles. The pilot managed to make a water landing, but the plane and everything else inside it had sunk. Three weeks later, a recovery crew brought the plane to the surface. The art was wet, but not permanently damaged. The wooden crate in which the Fabergé egg had been packed was perfectly intact. None of the nails had been removed. But when the crate was opened, the owner discovered it was completely empty.

  The third and last missing egg had belonged to an aged Belgian countess. The egg had been a gift from one of the woman’s many admirers—though she couldn’t remember which one it had been. For years, the egg had sat on the vanity in her bedroom, alongside a fortune in jewels. One morning, a toilet in the bathroom above the woman’s chamber overflowed. While the servants scrambled to fix the flood, the countess refused to leave her bed. She later swore to the police that she had never once left the room. The ceiling was still dripping when a maid began to clean up the vanity and realized that the countess’s prized egg was missing. There was no sign that the house had been burgled. A diamond necklace and a pair of ruby earrings that she’d left on the vanity had been left untouched.