Platypus Police Squad : The Ostrich Conspiracy (9780062071675)

by Krosoczka, Jarrett J. ; Krosoczka, Jarrett J. (ILT)

  O’Malley continued, with a slight smile, “Mr. Chase Mercy Superfan, you will be happy to know that it was Mr. Pandini who brokered the deal to get the new film shot here in Kalamazoo City.”

  Pandini’s typically composed exterior showed a small crack. “I worked incredibly hard and put a lot on the line to convince Worldwide Films to shoot on location here,” he said. “And now the studio is threatening to shut down the whole operation and take production up to Walhalla if this Dome is deemed unsafe.”

  Zengo lifted an eyebrow. Walhalla? Interesting.

  “No site in Walhalla can compare to the Dome for sheer scale,” said O’Malley.

  “True, but they have the MegaMall,” said Pandini. “The screenwriters are already rewriting the script, should the Dome prove unsuitable.”

  Zengo knew Walhalla’s MegaMall all too well. That was where he went on his one and only visit to Walhalla. He had been a teenager. The kids who hung out at the MegaMall treated him like scum for being from Kalamazoo City. One of those punks had even knocked the slushie right out of his hand. Zengo had vowed never to go back there.

  “That’s not good,” said O’Malley.

  “No, not at all,” said Pandini. “There’s a lot of dough on the line. A major motion picture brings in a huge revenue boost to a city. Everybody from the actors to the cameramen to the prop masters will need a place to stay—our hotels will be full. And they all need to eat—our restaurants will thrive.”

  Sure. Your hotels and your restaurants will thrive, Zengo thought.

  “Which is why I wanted to come down here personally to see what was going on,” Pandini continued, hitching his shoulders and tugging down the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket. “I’m not used to a business with which I’m involved opening to such disastrous returns. But then, this project is Mayor Saunders’s, not mine.”

  The sKCy Scraper suddenly creaked to life and began to spin around.

  “Whoa!” said Zengo. “Looks like Mayor Saunders decided to open up shop today after all.”

  “A good businessman—or public official, for that matter—knows he needs to get his ducks in a row before he opens a major public facility,” said Pandini, looking around. “Unfortunately, there is nary a duck in sight.”

  Zengo surveyed the scene. Pandini was right. No one had shown up for the Dome’s second day in business, duck or otherwise. At least, not yet. But who would want to go on any of these rides when they could break down at any moment?

  Pandini’s phone rang. He reached into the interior breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and answered. “Carpy, speak to me. Uh-huh. Right.” Pandini looked to both detectives as he spoke. “I’ll be right there.” Pandini hung up and put the phone away. “Sorry about that. Problem down at my nightclub. Listen, please do call on me if you need anything. You’re always welcome at any of my establishments. You know I take care of those who take care of this fine city of ours.”

  O’Malley and Zengo watched Pandini stalk away. When he was fully out of earshot, O’Malley laid into Zengo. “Are you satisfied now? Or am I going to spend the rest of this case listening to your Pandini conspiracy theories, just like last time?”

  “No, you’ve got me there,” Zengo conceded. “That man loves one thing, and that’s money. He needs the Dome to be a success just as much as the mayor does—maybe even more so.”

  O’Malley glanced at his watch. “C’mon, let’s go find Diaz and Lucinni and see if they’ve come up with anything. Because you and me? We’ve got nothin’.”

  “Sure, hold up one sec, though.” Zengo had noticed that the carnival game stations were now open. He moseyed up to one and slapped down a five-dollar bill. The carny working the game station handed over three baseballs in return.

  “Knock down the bottles, yah get a prize of yah choice,” he said, gesturing to the rows of knockoff cartoon plushies.

  Zengo focused on the bottles, stacked in a pyramid. He whipped the first ball, and hit them dead-on. But the bottles didn’t budge. O’Malley took off his sunglasses. Zengo considered the second ball in his hand, chucked it at the pyramid, and made a direct hit. Again, nothing.

  “What gives?!” Zengo asked.

  “Just gotta throw the balls hardah, my friend,” the carny said, leaning back in his chair, barely paying attention.

  Zengo gripped the third ball in his hand, and whipped it with all of his might. Again, he hit the bottles, but they didn’t fall.

  “C’mon, son,” said O’Malley as he grabbed his partner’s arm. “This nonsense isn’t worth our time.”

  “I know a scam when I see one,” said Zengo.

  The four detectives met back up at the front gate. Diaz and Lucinni had succumbed to the concession stands. Lucinni was furiously trying to lick ice cream that was dripping down the side of a waffle cone, while Diaz munched on cotton candy.

  “That security team is nothing but a bunch of hired thugs,” Diaz grumbled as they crossed the parking lot to return to their cars. “They are about as dysfunctional as the rides they were hired to protect.” He looked around for a napkin, his claws covered in congealed sugar.

  “They don’t even archive their surveillance footage,” Lucinni added. “What in the hay is the point of having cameras planted around the park?”

  O’Malley shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “The mayor is always threatening our budget, and yet he doesn’t bring in the Platypus Police Squad to run security for his little pet project. He hires these subpar rent-a-cops.”

  “You get what you pay for,” said Lucinni.

  “Sure do,” added Diaz. “Especially considering that we found something they didn’t even spot.”

  Zengo and O’Malley followed Diaz and Lucinni over to a small, gray shed with a door marked ELECTRICAL CONTROL STATION. Inside, it was easy to see what likely caused the blackout.

  “All the fuses under the control panel here have been bashed to bits,” said Lucinni. “And it appears like whoever did it used this.” He showed them a scarred and battered wrench casually discarded in the corner of the room.

  O’Malley pulled out gloves and an evidence bag, and collected the wrench. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves some foul play, boys. I suppose any security footage of people coming in and out of this room last night wasn’t archived?”

  Diaz shook his head. “Too bad Frank Pandini Jr. isn’t running the place. We’d have five different camera angles on whoever did this.”

  “Speaking of which,” said O’Malley as they walked back to the front gate, “we just saw Mr. Pandini here at the park.”

  “Oh, is that right?” Diaz snickered. “Zengo, did you try and tackle him?”

  Zengo was in no mood for getting ribbed by those fools. He was still a little emotional after meeting up with his animatronic grandpa. And he was more than a little heated about being cheated by the carny. He hitched his shoulders and walked ahead silently.

  “Let the kid be,” O’Malley said to Diaz and Lucinni as he opened his car door. Just then, the radio crackled to life. “Car one-fifty-three, come in.” It was Sergeant Plazinski. Zengo reached for the receiver, but O’Malley snatched it first.

  “Ten-four, sir. O’Malley here.” Diaz and Lucinni shared a sideways look. Zengo was psyched that Plazinski had called their car, not the chuckleheads’.

  “What did you uncover down at the Dome?”

  “It appears someone purposely destroyed the fuses in the electrical control station, which is presumably what caused the blackout. It appears we might have a crime on our hands, Sarge. Unfortunately, because it was amateur night in the security office, we don’t have any footage of anyone entering and exiting the control station. But we did collect a wrench that the perpetrator likely used on the fuses, which I want to bring in for fingerprinting.”

  “Interesting,” said Plazinski. “Okay, given these developments, I want you and Zengo to go talk to Derek Dougherty. His photographs are all over the paper—apparently he was on the scene last night. H
e might have a shot of your saboteur.”

  “Yes, sir. What about Diaz and Lucinni?”

  “Send them back to the station with the wrench for the lab. I want them to sort through the paperwork that’s come in since last night.”

  “Well, you heard the man,” said O’Malley as he tossed the evidence bag to Diaz and Lucinni. Lucinni dropped his cone and caught the wrench. Zengo wondered what was more disappointing to the oaf—paperwork, or the ice cream that was splattered across the pavement. Lucinni hopped into the car next to his partner, turned the key in the ignition, and they were off in a cloud of exhaust.

  O’Malley and Zengo jumped into their squad car, pounded fists, then sped off in the other direction.

  KALAMAZOO CITY KRIER CENTRAL OFFICES, 11:10 A.M.

  Zengo stepped out of the squad car, slamming the door behind him. He looked up at the Kalamazoo City Krier’s iconic logo looming over the ornate front doors of the newspaper’s headquarters. He grinned at his partner.

  “Never thought you’d be knockin’ on Dougherty’s door, did you?” he said.

  “Hmmph,” replied O’Malley as he straightened out his sports coat and fastened its buttons.

  “He does have a good eye; you have to give him that,” said Zengo, holding up the day’s newspaper. Derek’s photo of frenzied carnival-goers filled the top half of the front page, beneath the headline DISASTER AT THE DOME.

  “Yeah, yeah,” O’Malley grumbled. “What gets me is, every time I turn around, he’s poking his snout into our business.”

  “How about if we try to stay on his good side at least long enough to get a look at the photos that didn’t make it into the paper?” said Zengo. He was so hungry for evidence his stomach was rumbling. Or maybe he was just plain hungry.

  “We’ll see,” said O’Malley.

  The detectives pushed open the front doors and stepped into the reception area. Awards filled the walls, going way back into the last century. Classy operation, thought Zengo, proud of his hometown paper.

  “How may I help you?” mumbled the receptionist without looking up from her magazine. She was reading a copy of Wow!, which surprised Zengo. Why read a gossip rag when you could get a free copy of the Krier every day? Then he noticed who graced the cover—Chase Mercy. The headline read MERCY ME! WHO IS CHASE DATING THIS WEEK?

  Before either detective could respond, a familiar voice rang out. “Well, well, well, Detectives! Were you looking for me or should I direct you to the crossword department?” Derek Dougherty swished his tail and smiled at his own wisecrack.

  “How did he know we were coming?” muttered O’Malley. “That runt must have eyes in the back of his head.”

  Derek smirked and said, “I always monitor the police scanners, so I figured you two were on your way here. Plazinski wants to know more about what went down last night, right? I took a load of pictures. Come on.”

  Zengo and O’Malley followed Derek through a maze of cubicles. In spite of his partner’s attitude, Zengo admired the feisty little reporter. He had moxie. Plus, he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

  Derek’s cubicle was a spectacular mess. Stacks of old newspapers teetered in dangerous piles. Camera equipment was heaped in a corner. The walls were covered with layers of photos, all stabbed with thumbtacks. Every other available surface was crowded with used takeout cartons. The overall effect was chaos, and the overall odor was . . . interesting.

  “Please, have a seat.” Derek gestured loosely, as if there were somewhere to actually sit.

  The two detectives remained standing.

  “Let’s just cut to the chase, Derek,” said O’Malley. “No time to lollygag. Get those photos out. NOW.”

  Derek picked his teeth with a letter opener and showed no sign of standing up. “I’m sure they’re around here somewhere. . . .”

  O’Malley tensed up, and Zengo got ready to yank his partner back by the tail. O’Malley was ordinarily a levelheaded dude, but this Dougherty character knew how to slither right under the old man’s fur.

  “Listen up, snoop,” growled O’Malley. “You were at the Dome last night when things went haywire. You got some shots. We’d like to see them. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Derek stared intently into O’Malley’s eyes, not budging. “Why should I show them to you?” he said. “Why don’t you just ask the Dome security guards? I’m sure they got everything there was to see.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Zengo. “Those clowns?”

  Derek pulled out his notepad. “May I quote you on that?” he said, scribbling.

  “What? No!” said O’Malley. “Are you going to help us? Or are we going to have to come back with a warrant?”

  Maybe O’Malley’s outrage was actually getting to the brash little reporter. Or maybe he was tired of playing cat-and-mouse. Derek opened his desk drawer, saying, “All right already, keep your socks on.” He snatched a stack of photographs and offered them to the detectives. O’Malley grabbed them and handed half to Zengo, saying, “Let’s get to looking.”

  Zengo took his pile of pictures and flipped through them. He didn’t see anything unusual at first—a cotton-candy machine, a booth full of the type of cheap and cheery stuff people win at carnivals and then throw away, crowds of people waiting in lines. He stopped to study a photograph of the ScreamerCoaster more closely.

  “Looks like fun,” he said.

  “You couldn’t pay me enough money to ride that thing,” Derek scoffed.

  “Afraid of heights?” Zengo asked.

  “No, I’m afraid of poorly constructed rides,” Derek replied. “That’s the coaster that stopped for two hours upside down when the Dome broke down.”

  Zengo put down his stack of photographs. “What do you know about the team behind the construction of the Dome, Derek?”

  “You mean the mayor’s Dream Team?” said Derek with a sneer. “Saunders talked about it like he had made the deal of the century for the city. But if you ask me, I think it’s Saunders who’s getting the best of this deal, taking money for himself.”

  “What makes you say that?” Zengo asked. O’Malley stopped rifling through his pile of photos and looked up.

  “Let’s see . . .” said Derek. “He made no-bid sweetheart deals with contractors from out of town; he dodged tax codes; he pushed his own agenda through city council to build this thing. The whole situation stinks.”

  Zengo couldn’t help but agree, but wondered if Dougherty would still pick up such an odor if he took his trash out from time to time.

  “I think the guy has something to gain from this—beyond the glory of his legacy,” Derek continued. “And I’m going to get to the bottom of it!”

  “That’s quite the accusation,” O’Malley said.

  “It’s a free country. I can say whatever I want.” Derek leaned back against the wall of his cubicle. “Obviously I won’t print anything until I have proof. I’ve tried to get interviews with the members of the Dream Team, but I’ve been completely shut out. Something ain’t right at City Hall. And Corey, you of all people should know what I mean.”

  “It’s Detective O’Malley to you,” snapped the senior detective.

  Derek shrugged, indifferent to O’Malley’s bluster. “Whatever. All I’m saying is, this whole situation makes me dizzier than a busted Tilt-A-Whirl.”

  As O’Malley and Derek sparred, Zengo kept flipping through the photos. He stopped to study a picture of the ribbon-cutting ceremony. The mayor was flanked by three smiling faces. They had to be Audrey Davis, Maurice Robertson, and Frederick Treeger. The Dream Team. Zengo narrowed his eyes. Why had the mayor brought these three characters on board? What was their connection? His brain began to churn.

  “Derek, would you mind if we kept a few of these photos?” he asked.

  “Knock yourself out, Detective. I can print more.”

  “What do you have there?” O’Malley asked.

  “I’m curious about this Dream Team.” Zengo held
up the photo to his partner. “They’re all a bit of a mystery, and I have a feeling we’re looking at our culprit in one of those three.”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, kid,” O’Malley huffed as he continued to flip through photographs. Zengo was used to the O’Malley brush-off. He and his partner often reached the same conclusions from different directions.

  Zengo noticed O’Malley’s eyebrows lift. “What is it?” he asked. He stood up to look over his partner’s shoulder. In O’Malley’s hands were scenes from the blackout.

  “My infrared lens captures pictures in the dark,” bragged Derek.

  The photographs were terrifying. People clung to malfunctioning rides, their faces frozen in horror. Throngs of people desperately shoved one another aside, trying to get to the exits. There was even a photo of a heartbroken girl who had dropped her fried cupcake on the ground. Man, that looked tasty, thought Zengo. Each picture offered clues as to what took place in the disaster. But what—or who—had caused it?

  O’Malley and Zengo pored over all the pictures, hoping for any sort of lead. Then they found one. It was a photo of a small figure who appeared to be running. The photo was too blurry to see the person clearly. The only thing they could see was that in one hand, the figure carried a wrench. From the looks of it, it was the same one they had found in the amusement park by the busted fuse box.

  The detectives shared a silent glance. Derek leaned forward to peer at the photo, but O’Malley quickly buried it among the stack.

  “We’ll be taking all of these photographs back to the station,” O’Malley said.

  “At least let me see the ones you’re interested in,” said Derek, reaching his hand out to grab for the photos. O’Malley intercepted his hand and shook it firmly.

  “Derek, you have been an invaluable asset to this investigation, and I thank you for fulfilling your civic duty.”