by Mac Barnett
“Stevie!” Rick said as Steve shut the front door. Lately Steve’s mom, Carol, had been encouraging Rick and Steve to “become better friends.” Since they weren’t friends in the first place, it would be hard to become “better.” Anyway, Stevie was Rick’s new nickname for Steve, and Steve hated it.
Rick wore his boots, and his feet were on the couch while he watched a baseball game. Carol Brixton was always telling Steve to take off his shoes if he was going to lie on the couch. Did his mom not know about what was going on in here, or did Rick have some sort of exemption?
“Get your feet off the couch,” Carol Brixton said, coming in from the kitchen. It took one look for Steve to realize that his mom was tired, and when she was tired, she went looking for arguments.
Rick gave Steve a conspiratorial glance, which was unreciprocated, and swung his legs over the couch’s edge. When Rick turned back to the game, it looked like he was riding the sofa sidesaddle.
“Mute that,” Carol said without looking at the TV. Rick did. “So,” Carol said. “I called Mr. Meyer today to make sure your field trip was real. You know, it would be nice not to have to call your son’s teacher all the time to make sure he wasn’t lying to you.”
Carol was still mad at Steve for inventing a debate team field trip (in fact he had invented the whole debate team) so he could go on an out-of-town investigation for a few days. He’d been caught. And then grounded. And even though Steve wasn’t grounded anymore, the incident had obviously created some lingering trust issues.
“Well, I wasn’t lying, right?”
“Mmm.”
“I mean, I closed the detective agency anyway.”
“Surprise,” Rick muttered.
“Well, I can only hope it stays closed,” Carol said.
Rick laughed at something on the TV. The sound was still off, but the screen showed a small dog being lifted up by a vacuum cleaner attachment. Carol sat next to Rick on the couch and blocked his view of the television. Rick sighed and turned to join the conversation.
“I’ve never even heard of Model UN,” Carol said. “Have you, Rick?”
Rick was leaning back to catch the end of the commercial. Now the vacuum cleaner had picked up a cat, and the dog from earlier had a paw over his face to indicate his dismay. “What?” Rick said, caught off guard.
“Model UN. Have you heard of it?”
“No. What is it? Like a hobby kit thing? UN? Model submarines?” Rick worked himself into a small panic proving his commitment to the conversation.
“Model United Nations,” Steve said. Steve hadn’t heard of it either until about a month ago, when his favorite teacher, Ms. Gilfeather, had left the school abruptly and been replaced by Mr. Meyer. Mr. Meyer had come out of retirement to finish out the school year, and on his first day he’d told the class, “When I taught seventh grade, we did Model UN every year—every single year—and even though it appears that some people didn’t think Model UN was vital, and by the way we’ve seen where those people end up (here Mr. Meyer was clearly talking about Ms. Gilfeather), I’ll be darned if I’m going to break my perfect record. Long story short, and this is good news for you, kids, I made some phone calls and pulled some strings, and we’re going to work hard and put together a delegation for this year’s Model UN in San Diego!” He’d delivered this last line like he expected the class to break into cheers, but nobody knew what he was talking about.
One month later and people still didn’t know what Mr. Meyer was talking about. Steve had no idea what Model UN was—only that his class was representing Iceland (which didn’t seem like a very powerful country; Mr. Meyer was clearly disappointed when he announced it, and mumbled something about “coming into the game late” and “getting last pick”), that they were going to San Diego for two nights, and that they’d spend the day in a hotel ballroom, listening to a lot of speeches and voting on stuff. The only one who seemed to have a real grasp of things was Dana, whom Mr. Meyer had chosen to give a presentation on cod fishing.
“Oh, Model United Nations,” Rick said. “What’s that?”
“It’s too complicated to explain right now,” Steve said.
“Well, Mr. Meyer talked my ear off for a half hour at work today. He kept bugging me about needing parent chaperones, and I kept explaining to him that some parents have to work and can’t just take off to San Diego for three days. And in fact they also don’t have time to listen to an old man talk about Model United Nations for an hour and a half in the middle of the day.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mom.” Carol had developed a lot of guilt about never being able to go on field trips.
“When’s the big trip?” Rick asked.
“Next week. We leave Thursday and come back Saturday.”
Rick tugged on his blond mustache and smiled. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” Steve asked.
“I’ll be a parent chaperone.”
Steve straightened. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because parent chaperones have to be parents.”
“Steve,” Carol said.
“Well, then, I’ll just be a chaperone. I’ve got three days off. It works out perfectly.”
This was not working out perfectly.
“Great!” Carol said. She was clearly pleased with the idea. “I’ll call Mr. Meyer tomorrow. Seriously, he would not stop talking today about needing parent chaperones.”
Chaperone, Steve thought. Rick was just a chaperone, and preferably not even that.
“This will be fun!” Rick said. He pumped his fist in the air. “San Diego, here we come! Woo-woo! Model United Nations or bust!”
It was now official: Steve was not looking forward to this field trip. What he didn’t know now was that he would never make it to the Model UN.
CHAPTER VIII
503 IN PROGRESS
THE NEXT THURSDAY Rick, Dana, and Steve sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench seat of Rick’s truck. Rick, dressed in his “civilian clothes”—jeans, a navy Ocean Park Police Department T-shirt, and a navy Ocean Park Police Department baseball hat—tapped the steering wheel to a smooth jazz tune. Steve was eating his breakfast—dry cereal in a ziplock bag.
“That’s no breakfast,” Rick said, taking his eyes off the road for a second to shake his head at Steve.
Steve shrugged. “I like it.”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Rick said.
“Really? I hadn’t heard that before.” Steve put another handful of cereal in his mouth. Dana disguised his laugh as a yawn.
Rick was driving Steve and Dana to the train station (it had been too short notice, Mr. Meyer had sullenly announced last week, to get buses from the district). San Diego was a seven-hour journey down the coast, and the train was the only part of this fiasco Steve was looking forward to. Lots of the best Bailey Brothers books, including Bailey Brothers #31: The Ghost Train Mystery and #17: All Aboard for Danger, were set on trains. Steve had always wanted to take a long trip on a locomotive.
“Now, what’s your girlfriend’s name, Dana?” Rick asked, and waggled his eyebrows.
“Dana.”
“Wait. Her name is Dana too?”
“Yep.”
“Hmm.” Rick narrowed his eyes.
Luckily, Rick’s truck sat only three, or Other Dana would have surely been tagging along. In the school parking lot that morning Dana and his girlfriend had made plans to sit together on the train.
Rick turned to the boys. “And so when are you going to get a girlfriend, eh, Stevie?” More eyebrow waggling.
“No comment,” Steve said. He’d been thinking about this a lot lately, and given the romantic entanglements of his two favorite people—his mom and Dana—Steve wasn’t sure he ever wanted a girlfriend.
“Man, I remember when I was your guys’s age, I probably had like ten girlfriends. There was this one girl, Holly Larson—”
Rick slammed on the brakes.
Steve and Dana
were thrown forward.
“What do we have here?” Rick murmured. “A little five-oh-three in progress?”
“What’s a five-oh-three?” Dana asked.
“Auto theft,” Steve said. A few yards ahead, in front of the Ocean Park Pawn Shop, a man was working a wire hanger down the driver-side window of a late-model Honda Accord.
Rick pulled a portable police light out from behind the bench seat. He reached out the window and stuck it on the roof of his truck. A siren blared and a red strobe flashed. The man looked up and dropped the hanger. He looked worried.
“Is the siren really necessary?” Steve asked. “The guy is right there.”
“I’m announcing the presence of a peace officer on the scene.”
“I thought those things were only for undercover cops.”
Rick looked defensive. “Wrong. You’re wrong there. Primarily used by undercover police, maybe, but protocol allows a portable siren’s use in any police emergency.”
Rick slowly rolled his truck forward and double-parked next to the Accord.
“Most stolen car in America,” Rick said, shaking his head.
“Unless the guy locked his keys in the car,” Steve said.
“In front of the pawn shop?” Rick said. “Don’t be naive, Steve. Store like that attracts a criminal element.”
“It’s seven thirty-five a.m. The store’s not even open yet.”
“Why don’t we see what the investigation yields?”
“Guys,” said Dana. “Can’t you call for backup? Shouldn’t we be getting to the train station?”
“Duty calls,” Rick said, and hopped out of the truck. Steve slid out after him.
CHAPTER IX
A SLEUTHING TRICK
“SIR, SERGEANT RICK ELLIOT, OCEAN PARK POLICE. Please take a few steps back from the vehicle.” The police light continued to blast red flashes in the gray morning light. The man, dressed in black jeans and a blue button-down shirt, exhaled through his nose and muttered something Steve couldn’t make out.
“Sir, care to tell me what’s going on here?” Rick asked.
The man was matter-of-fact. “I locked my keys in the car.”
Steve gave a victorious look at Rick, who smirked and rolled his eyes. “So you’re telling me that this is your vehicle.”
“It’s my car, yeah.”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Cory Forsyth.”
“And Mr. Forsyth, can you show me some identification and the vehicle’s registration?”
“Well, my registration is in the car, obviously, and my wallet is in my coat pocket, right next to my keys. Which are in the car.”
“Sir, please lower your voice.”
“Look, I’m running late this morning—”
“So are we,” Dana said softly out his open window.
“—and if I was stealing, I wouldn’t use a wire hanger.”
Rick’s eyes flashed. “What would you use to steal a car, Mr. Forsyth?”
“I don’t know! I’m a dental hygienist.”
“And where does a dental hygienist get a hanger at seven thirty-five a.m.?”
“Probably that Laundromat,” Steve said, pointing across the street.
“Yeah,” said Cory.
“Stay out of this, Steve,” said Rick.
While the man and Rick continued talking, Steve walked over to the sidewalk and looked in the pawn shop’s window. It was his favorite window in Ocean Park: A selection of the store’s wares—tubas, wristwatches, and various power tools—was scattered at the feet of a huge stuffed polar bear rearing up on its hind legs. The bear’s name was Rex (there was a wooden sign around his neck), he’d been guarding the window for fifty years (pawned by a crazy hunter strapped for cash), and he was not for sale (Steve had asked). Among the merchandise strewn beneath Rex was a large magnifying glass with a wooden handle. Steve stared at it. The pawn shop was where Steve had purchased most of the equipment for his now-defunct crime lab, which still took up half his bedroom.
Steve turned back and examined the Accord.
“I’m just wondering,” Rick was saying loudly, “how you, Cory Forsyth, a dental hygienist, know so much about what would or wouldn’t make a good tool for breaking into a car.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“Sir, I’m going to have to—”
“Excuse me,” Steve interrupted. “You say this is your car, right?”
The man turned, exasperated. “Yes.”
“Then can you tell me where you got this big scratch on the passenger door?”
The man’s eyes widened. “What? It got scratched?” Cory Forsyth ran over to the sidewalk and looked at the car’s door. “What scratch?”
Steve smiled. He looked at Rick. “This is his car.”
“How do you know?”
“Because there is no scratch. Think about it: If he was lying about owning the car, he would have made up a story when I asked him about the scratch—he’d have no way of know that I was lying too. But instead he freaked out about his car being damaged.”
Mr. Forsyth put his hands on his hips and nodded. “See?”
“Oh, come on,” Rick said.
“You know I’m right,” said Steve.
Rick didn’t say anything, but he turned back to his truck.
“Guys,” said Dana. “We only have thirteen minutes to make the train.”
CHAPTER X
COLLISION COURSE!
“WE’RE GOING TO MISS THE TRAIN.” Dana, distressed, eyed the dash clock.
They were all three back in the truck and speeding through downtown Ocean Park.
The Sunset Coastliner for San Diego was scheduled to leave the station in Santa Lucia at 8:15. It was now 8:02. Santa Lucia was fifteen minutes away with no traffic.
There was traffic.
“We’re going to miss the train,” Dana repeated.
“Oh, no we aren’t,” Rick said. Grinning, he put the police light back on top of the car. “Here we go.” The truck lurched forward.
“And how is this a police emergency?” Steve asked.
“Weird that the famous private detective has suddenly become a stickler for police protocol,” Rick said as they passed a car.
“I’m not a private detective anymore,” Steve said.
“Never were.” Rick snorted, keeping his eyes on the road.
“What do you call what Steve did back there?” Dana said, looking up from the clock. “That was some pretty good detective work.”
“Wasn’t detective work,” Rick said. Steve wouldn’t have called it detective work either, because he wasn’t a detective anymore, but he didn’t like it when Rick said it.
“Then what would you call it, Rick?” Dana asked.
“Reckless. Cheap. Stunt work.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” Steve said.
“We’ll see,” Rick said. Rick had called the station to dispatch an officer to the pawn shop before they’d left the scene, but it was pretty clear he was just saving face.
Dana turned to Steve. “Where’d you learn that trick? Asking him about the scratch? Was that from the Bailey Brothers?”
“No. It just kind of came to me.” Dana smiled and nodded. Steve leaned back. It had felt good out there, solving a mystery before breakfast. Or mid-breakfast, he thought, putting another handful of cereal in his mouth. And he hadn’t even been solving a mystery so much as asking a couple questions. Nothing an ordinary citizen couldn’t—or shouldn’t, for that matter—do to clear an innocent man’s name.
“Come on, come on,” Rick said through gritted teeth. He honked his horn at an old van that was moving slowly. “Pull over. Pull over.”
“What do we do if we miss the train?” Steve asked. Dana grimaced.
“Not an issue,” Rick said. “Not an issue. We’re making the train.” Rick swung into the opposite lane to pass the van.
A black Suburban was coming toward them, fast.
CHAPTER XI
RACING TO THE STATION
THE HORNS OF THE TWO VEHICLES competed loudly for a few slow seconds. Steve cringed in his seat as the SUV hurtled toward them. Rick braked and swerved back into his lane behind the van as the Suburban flew by, its continuous honk distorting into a whine and then a bellow as it passed.
Steve was sandwiched between Dana and the window. Everyone in the car collected himself. The van in front of them had pulled over to the right-hand side.
“Now he gets it,” Rick said, accelerating gently.
“Could you try not to kill us, Rick?” Steve said. His face was hot, and his heart beat quickly. “I know you’re earning big points with my mom for this chaperone thing, but she’d be pretty mad if you killed us.”
“I avoided the crash, didn’t I? You have to admit that was pretty good defensive driving.” Rick’s face was flushed.
“Yeah, after the offensive driving.”
“We are going to miss this train,” Dana said.
“Man, chill out,” Rick said. He was driving fast again, but a little more carefully. “We’re going to make it.”
“Look at the clock.”
It was 8:09.
“You’re obsessing with that thing.” Rick reached over with his right hand and jammed the buttons on the clock until its face read 12:47. “Trust me. Now you’re on Rick time.”
Dana sighed.
They sped down South Street into Santa Lucia. “Grab your stuff, guys. We’re making a left in three blocks and we’re at the station. We’ll run onto that train just as they’re saying ‘all aboard.’” Dana strapped his backpack over one shoulder. Steve put his suitcase in his lap. The suitcase had been his grandfather’s, and Steve’s mom had let him take it on the trip. It was brown and trimmed with tan leather, and it seemed perfectly suited for train travel, although perhaps unwieldy for sprinting. Steve began dreading the run.