“July twelfth,” groaned Ralphie. “About a million days from now.”
“Have you tried begging?” Bobby Solofsky suggested.
Nicole Rodriguez piped up. “Bobby’s right. Begging works. I learned that from our dog, Zippy. The trick is to try to look as much like a puppy as possible.”
“Been there, done that,” scoffed Ralphie. “I’m an expert.” He dropped down to his knees, bent his hands before his chest like a hungry pooch, and whined, “Nnnnn, nnnnn, nnnnn!”
We all laughed. Ralphie brushed himself off. “Begging doesn’t work with my dad. He just throws me a doggy snack.”
At recess, I fooled around on the monkey bars with Eddie Becker and Bigs Maloney. “We don’t get it,” Eddie Becker said, hanging upside down by his knees. “Why would anybody steal Ralphie’s bike?”
“It’s a piece of junk,” Bigs noted.
They were right. Why would anyone want a junker like Old Rusty? There’s never a crime without a reason. What was the motive? Who would want an old, broken-down bicycle?
“Ralphie says he locked up both bikes,” I said.
Bigs jumped to the ground. His big feet crashed like thunder. “No way,” Bigs said. “The bandit would have taken your bike, Jigsaw. Your Cobra Daredevil is awesome.”
I thanked Bigs for the kind words. The bell rang. We lined up to go inside. But a voice in my head kept repeating: What if Ralphie was right about locking up both bikes? It was a piece I couldn’t fit into the puzzle.
Ralphie had to be wrong, I concluded. No robber would unlock the bikes, take Ralphie’s, then lock mine back up. It made no sense.
We had art with Mr. Manus on Mondays. Today, he encouraged us to draw whatever we wanted. I drew a picture of Rags.
Mr. Manus says we all have unique talents. Some people, like Joey Pignattano, are good at drawing flowers and trees. Kim Lewis is good at cars and trucks. And Geetha Nair, well, she can draw faces. That day, she drew an awesome picture of Bigs Maloney. It looked just like him.
Mr. Manus held it up for everyone to admire. “This goes up on the board,” he announced.
That’s when Mila came up with a terrific idea. She whispered to Geetha, “Do you really want to help on the case?”
Geetha rarely spoke. She was very shy. Instead, she silently nodded.
Yes.
Chapter
7
Geetha and Mr. Pickles
Yap, yap-yap! Bark-bark, barkbarkbarkbark!!!
I groaned into Mila’s ear, “Mr. Pickles, I presume.”
The door opened. The witness from the library, Mrs. Flint, smiled at Mila. Mr. Pickles jumped up and down by her feet, yapping loudly.
Bark-bark, grrrrr, barkbarkbarkbark!!!
Geetha stepped behind me.
“Don’t worry about Mr. Pickles,” Mrs. Flint said cheerfully. “He’s just excited.”
The little furball jumped up and down.
Mrs. Flint bent down until she was nose to nose with Mr. Pickles. “No, Mr. Pickles! NO!” she screamed.
“We don’t mind,” I lied. “Mr. Pickles is just, er, lively.” I bent down to pet Mr. Pickles. He snapped at my hand like a hungry wolf.
“Down, Mr. Pickles! DOWN!” screamed Mrs. Flint. “I’m so sorry,” she fretted, shoving Mr. Pickles away with her foot. “I’ll put Mr. Pickles in the basement.”
I thought that was a terrific idea.
Mrs. Flint led us to a screened back porch. It was filled with plants and strange flowers. “Welcome to my jungle,” Mrs. Flint said, offering us lemonade and cookies.
“This is Geetha Nair,” I explained, gesturing to Geetha. “She’s an artist.”
Geetha smiled politely at her shoes. She rested a large artist’s pad on her lap. In her fist she clutched a bundle of colored pencils.
Mila explained the plan. We wanted Mrs. Flint to describe the skateboarders. While she talked, Geetha would try to draw a picture of them.
“Oh, how thrilling!” Mrs. Flint said, snapping into a cookie. “Just like on television!”
I coughed. “This is for real,” I reminded her.
We already knew the identity of the first skateboarder. That was David Chang. Mrs. Flint described him perfectly. I winked at Mila. Mrs. Flint was a good witness.
“What about the others?” I prodded.
Mrs. Flint gobbled down another cookie. A few crumbs fell to her lap. She closed her eyes and spoke: “Bright red hair … very curly … freckles … a little pug nose, like a piglet.…”
Geetha asked a few questions. She wanted to know the shape of his head, his eyes, his mouth. I looked at her sketchpad. “Wow, that’s him!” I said, remembering the boy at the library.
“Great,” Mila said. “Now we can show the picture around. Somebody is bound to know his name.”
“What about the third skateboarder?” I asked.
Mrs. Flint frowned. “He wore a sweatshirt with a hood. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
The sweatshirt was dark green, she told us. And the boy was taller than the other two. That was all she knew. We gobbled down the last of the cookies and left.
Once outside, I turned to Mila. “We’ve got to find the third skateboarder.”
Mila pointed at Geetha’s picture of the red-haired boy. “Let’s find him first. I think he’ll lead us to the boy with the green sweatshirt.”
“Great work,” I thanked Geetha. “You’ve been a big help.”
Geetha stared hard at the ground.
Slowly, ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile.
Chapter
8
The Hooded Rider
We made ten copies of Geetha’s picture. Mila printed the words. Danika Starling and Kim Lewis hung up the posters all over town. Everybody in our class chipped in for the reward—even Ms. Gleason.
I got a phone call the very next day.
It was from a third grader named Shirley Hitchcock. “I know the kid in the poster,” she announced.
“Keep talking,” I said.
“His name is Snarky Smithers. Everybody calls him the Snarkster.”
“What’s his address?” I asked.
“Do I get the reward?”
“Yes,” I answered. “After you give me the address.”
Shirley told me where he lived.
“How do you know him?” I asked.
“He lives on my block,” Shirley explained.
“What else do you know?”
“He’s a grease monkey,” Shirley said.
“A grease monkey?”
“Yeah. The Snarkster loves building things. He takes things apart and puts them together again. Old radios, toasters, bicycles, go-carts…”
“Bicycles?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
Shirley told me that Snarky Smithers ran a little business. He bought old, junky bikes at garage sales—cheap. Then he fixed them up and sold them. “He’s very talented,” Shirley added.
I ate a bowl of Frosted Flakes in the kitchen. They tasted grrreeat! While I ate, I wrote in my detective journal. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the case was coming together. The clues were starting to fit into place.
THREE SUSPECTS
1) David Chang
2) Snarky Smithers
3) The Hooded Rider
I put a star next to number two. I asked myself, What do I know about Snarky Smithers?
I wrote down:
• Snarky builds bicycles.
• Motive? Spare parts!
• He could have used Old Rusty!
I began to wonder if it was a three-man job. I thought back to the day of the robbery. David Chang was inside the library. Snarky Smithers was outside the library. A witness saw David and Snarky together. But someone else took Old Rusty.
Maybe they all worked as a team.
Maybe David and Snarky were the lookouts.
It all depended on the hooded rider. We had to find him—soon.
I called Ralphie Jordan’s house.
No one was home.
I had no luck at Mila’s, either.
Oh, well. I’d have to go alone.
I went to the basement and spilled out my box of detective supplies. There it was—the Super Spy Scope X-2000. I pulled my cap down tight and left the house.
I was on my way to 211 Coconut Grove.
It was time to spy on Snarky Smithers.
Chapter
9
The Stakeout
There was a tree across the street from 211 Coconut Grove. I pulled the straps on my backpack tight. Then up I climbed. A squirrel chittered angrily from a nearby branch. He didn’t like sharing the tree, I supposed.
The X-2000 was the ultimate spying machine. It worked like binoculars. But it also had “special extender action.” I could use it to see around corners.
In the detective business, we called this a stakeout. You watch and wait, hidden from sight. Twenty minutes later the hooded rider rolled up on a skateboard. I couldn’t see his face. He rang the doorbell. The door opened and there was the red-haired boy, Snarky Smithers. They walked together around the front of the house, opened the garage door, and went inside.
The door closed before I could get a good look inside. But I saw enough—bicycles, lots of bicycles. I saw that the garage had a side window. I counted to thirty. One banana, two banana, three banana … Then I jumped from the tree.
I made my way across the street. There were bushes on the side of the garage. I ducked down behind them. Ouch. Prickers. Slowly, silently, I pulled the X-2000 to its longest reach. I pointed the scope at the window.
The Snarkster faced the hooded rider. They were talking. Snarky was frowning, gesturing with his hands. The hooded rider’s back was to me. I wanted to put my ear to the windowpane to listen, but I didn’t dare.
I felt something brush against me. I quickly spun around and lost my balance, tapping the X-2000 against the window. Meow. A black cat sat nearby, licking its paws. Bad, bad luck. I froze and held my breath.
Thirty bananas later, I peeked inside again. The Snarkster was gone! My eyes searched from side to side. Did he hear me? Was he coming after me?
A door leading from inside the garage to the house opened. It was Snarky, coming back into the garage. He had something in his hand. The hooded rider held out a hand. One, two, three, four. Snarky counted out four dollar bills. They might have been ones, fives, or tens. I couldn’t tell which. But one thing was sure: Snarky was paying him for something.
They shook hands and turned to leave. I made myself small behind the bushes. Crawling across the ground, I slid the scope of the X-2000 beyond the wall. The Snarkster yawned, scratched himself, and went into the house.
The hooded rider skateboarded down the driveway. Arms stretched out to his sides, he zigged and zagged, leaning hard to his left and right.
It hit me like a brick.
I knew the hooded rider.
Chapter
10
Trapped!
I lay still for a few more minutes. Maybe I was waiting for the coast to clear. Maybe I was playing it safe. Or maybe I was just plain scared.
The garage was empty.
But the door was still open.
I knew what I had to do.
I took a deep breath and entered the garage.
It was cluttered with tools and bicycles. There was a pile of old tires. Spray-paint cans. Old bicycle parts strewn on the floor. It was more like a workshop than a garage. There wasn’t room for a car.
I crept up to the door that led into the house. I pressed my ear against it. I heard muffled sounds. The shuffling of feet. A chair scraping on the floor. The clink of a spoon against a dish. The kitchen, I decided. Snarky Smithers was in there, eating a snack.
I turned my gaze to the bicycles. I noticed one that looked familiar. Could it be? It might have been Old Rusty. But this bike wasn’t rusty anymore. It had a new seat, new handlebars, new pedals. The spokes seemed shiny and clean. The frame was a shiny, sparkling blue. I sniffed it. Fresh paint. Still wet.
I was just about to get out of there when I heard a faint clomp, clomp. The sound of footsteps, coming closer, just on the other side of the door. I froze in place—and watched the doorknob slowly, slowly turn.
The Snarkster. He was coming into the garage!
I dove into the darkest corner and ducked down behind a few boxes. I heard the door open. Snarky entered the garage.
“Hmmmm, what’s this?” he wondered aloud.
My heart beat faster. Thumpa-thump, thumpa-thump, thumpa-thump. I peeked around the box. Snarky was holding something, turning it over in his hands. It was my Super Spy Scope X-2000! I’d left it on the ground beside Old Rusty. Snarky was suspicious. He looked around the garage. “Hello?” he called out. “Anybody here?”
He took a step toward me.
Then another.
Now my heart was a bass drum. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! I closed my eyes and …
… Bbbrrring. Bbbrrring-bbbring!
The phone!
Answer it, I prayed. Go on, Snarky. Answer the phone!
Snarky paused. He looked toward the kitchen door. Bbbrrring-bbbring. He took another step toward me, muttered, then tossed the X-2000 onto a shelf. He went inside to answer the phone.
I didn’t stick around to see what happened next. I jumped up—whoops, CRASH!—and knocked over a bicycle.
“Who’s that?!” Snarky called out from the kitchen.
I grabbed the X-2000.
And never looked back.
I just ran. And ran. And ran.
Chapter
11
Confess!
My first stop was Mila’s house.
We sat together on the steps of her front stoop. I told her about my adventures.
“Are you absolutely sure it was Justin?” Mila asked.
“Almost,” I said. “All the clues point to him.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “First, the way he rode the skateboard. It was just like Justin.”
Mila went, “Hmmmm.”
“Second, we already know that he’s friends with David Chang. Third, I think Ralphie was right all along. He did lock up both bikes. But it didn’t matter.”
“Explain,” Mila said.
“Old Rusty was a hand-me-down,” I said. “A hand-me-down bicycle with a hand-me-down lock. Justin knew the combination!”
“I get it,” Mila said. “That’s why your bike was still there. Justin locked it back up. He only wanted Old Rusty.”
I flicked a pebble with my thumb. “Exactly.”
“But … why?” Mila asked.
“Why?” I echoed.
“Why take his own brother’s bike? Why not your bike? If he was going to sell it to this Snarkster fellow, wouldn’t he get more money for a new bike?”
I frowned. “Please, Mila. Get real. I’m a detective. Nobody wants to steal from a detective.
“Anyway,” I said glumly. “It has to be Justin. But we need more proof.”
We found Ralphie and Justin at home, watching television. I asked to use the bathroom. I went into the bathroom and flicked on the light. I turned on the water to make it sound like I was washing my hands. Then I snuck across the hall into Justin’s room. I found what I was looking for in his closet. A green hooded sweatshirt—with grease stains. The loose bike chain, of course! It was all the proof I needed.
Now I had to confront Justin. I went back and challenged him to a wrestling match. “Nah, too busy,” Justin replied, staring at the TV.
“Chicken,” I said, flapping my arms like wings. “Bawk-ba-bawk.”
That did it. Ten seconds later, we were out on the front lawn. Mila and Ralphie followed us out. Justin put my head into a hammerlock. Wham! He flung me to the ground.
I whispered into his ear. “I know you stole it.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed. He tightened the hammerlock.
“Don’t say another word,” he threatened. “Or you’ll ruin everything.”
I wa
sn’t exactly having a wonderful time.Hammerlocks have that effect on me.
Justin leaned close to me. “You don’t understand,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Trust me.”
I did what I had to do.
“Confess!” I screamed. “Tell Ralphie the TRUTH!”
Chapter
12
Big Blue
“Tell me what?” Ralphie asked. “What are you blabbering about, Jigsaw?”
Justin stood up. He glared down at me. I didn’t care. I was too busy fumbling around on the ground, making sure my head was still attached to my body.
Justin held up five fingers. “Give me five minutes. First I have to make a phone call.”
“What’s going on?” Ralphie asked.
“Just wait,” I said, rubbing my neck.
A minute later, Justin wheeled down the driveway on his skateboard. “I’ll be right back,” he shouted. “Jigsaw, don’t say another word.”
Poor Ralphie looked totally confused. He asked, “What’s going on, guys?”
“Mmmmmmrrrrrrffff, mmmmmrrrrrfffff,” I mumbled.
“He can’t talk,” Mila observed.
Five minutes came and went. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Finally, Justin rode up on a sparkling blue bicycle. It had a new seat, new handlebars, new pedals. The spokes were shiny and clean.
Even the paint was dry.
Justin climbed off the bike and handed it to Ralphie. “Here,” he said. “Call it an early birthday present.” Justin glanced at me and smirked. He didn’t seem angry.
Ralphie’s jaw dropped open. “A new bike? For me?”
“Look closer, little brother. It’s Old Rusty—new and improved. I paid someone to fix it up.”
My eardrums almost burst from Ralphie’s wild, happy screams.
Justin explained everything. “I wanted to surprise you,” he told Ralphie. “I thought it would be cool if you thought it was stolen. That would make you even happier when you got Old Rusty back.”
The Case of the Bicycle Bandit Page 2