Doom at Grant's Tomb

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Frontispiece

  Dedication

  Boom

  Mr. Frank

  The Fighting Trojans

  Pepper

  Little Red

  Frank’s Tank

  Hacked

  The Fox

  Irish Jig

  Horse Butt

  Grant’s Tomb

  Elemental, My Dear Watson

  Junior

  What Did the Fox Say?

  Sweet Potato Pie

  Code Crunching

  Banshee

  Taking Stock

  Retirement

  The Horse

  Boom at the Tomb

  Fallout

  How to Be a Cryptographer

  Acknowledgments

  Read More from the Eddie Red Undercover Series

  Middle Grade Mania!

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by Marcia Wells

  Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Marcos Calo

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Wells, Marcia. | Calo, Marcos, illustrator.

  Title: Doom at Grant’s tomb / written by Marcia Wells ; illustrated by Marcos Calo.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2016] | Series: Eddie Red undercover ; [3] | Summary: “Elusive art thief Lars Heinrich returns to New York City looking to settle a score. Super sleuth seventh-grader Edmund Xavier Lonrrot will need not only his photographic mind and artistic talents, but any skill he possesses with cracking codes as a string of the city’s historical monuments become potential clues in what could become one of the greatest heists in history.” —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015018547 | ISBN 9780544582606 hardcover

  Subjects: | CYAC: Ciphers—Fiction. | Drawing—Fiction. | Memory—Fiction. | Art thefts—Fiction. | Stealing—Fiction. | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / Native American. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.W4663 Do 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015018547

  eISBN 978-0-544-78770-4

  v1.0416

  For Team Eddie:

  Ben, Ann, Kristin, Beth,

  and of course

  my mom

  Chapter 1

  Boom

  10:42 A.M., MONDAY

  The first bomb arrived the week before my twelfth birthday.

  It was delivered to the police station on a Monday, in a brown package. They told me the whole block shut down for a solid hour until the bomb squad determined that it was a dummy. The worst part is that there was a note taped to the side:

  1—Eddie will know what this means

  “I have no idea what this means,” I say for the millionth time. I’m sitting in a hard wooden chair in Chief Williams’s office. The chief sits across from me, tapping a pencil on his desk. He’s the man in charge who hired me eight months ago. A stern-looking man, but a nice one. He waited a week to call me in. Happy birthday to me.

  “There must be other people named Eddie in the department,” I add. “An Edward, maybe?”

  “We’re looking into it” is the chief’s only reply.

  Last spring I worked for the NYPD because of my photographic memory and ability to draw almost perfect character sketches. They gave me the code name Eddie Red and had me stake out some of New York’s most important art museums. Despite being kept in the dark about the real guts of the operation, I managed to stop the international art thief Lars Heinrich before he carried out a major robbery. Unfortunately Lars took off before the police could capture him.

  I thought my life would go back to normal, but here I am, right back in the hot seat. I stare at the so-called bomb in front of me. It’s a digital clock with bomb wiring and a timer that flashes 24:11 over and over again. My mind starts snapping pictures as I try to understand what this all means. Click—green wires poking out of the back in a coiled twist. Click—the Eddie note scribbled in red ink. Click—a white lump of explosives wrapped in clear plastic.

  Detective Bovano clears his throat behind me. He hasn’t said much since I arrived, just sort of hovered by the door like a dark fog. He’s lost some weight since I last saw him. I heard he won a medal for exemplary police work—a.k.a. getting shot while protecting me.

  “Have you ever heard of the IRA?” Bovano asks.

  “Uh . . .” I search my brain. “Is that the group that collects people’s taxes?”

  They both chuckle and the tension in the room deflates. They’re laughing at me as if I’m a dumb kid.

  “That’s the IRS.” Chief Williams rubs the back of his neck. “The IRA stands for the Irish Republican Army. They’re a terrorist group that fights to make Ireland an independent republic. One of their operatives from the nineties, a fellow named Patrick O’Malley, built bombs just like this one.” He shifts forward and touches the frayed ends of the wires with a pencil. “His calling card is this twist of green wires. The luck of the Irish.” He removes his hand quickly, as if the bomb just stung him. “This bag of white clay was attached to the wires, made to look like the explosive C-4. Our forensics lab tells us the clay is actually gluten-free baking flour mixed with water. Does that mean anything to you?”

  I shake my head. This is getting stranger by the second.

  The chief opens a file and pulls out a mug shot of a middle-aged man. “Here’s our latest picture of O’Malley. Do you recognize him in that filing system of yours?” He taps his forehead.

  I glance at the picture, mentally noting all the details so I can draw them later. O’Malley is a bit heavy, with saggy skin and a receding hairline. Everything about him is gray: gray clothing, gray hair, gray eyes. The date on the picture reads 1994, so I’m guessing he’d be in his seventies now. “No, sir,” I say.

  “Well, it was worth a shot.” He puts the picture away, slides on a pair of latex gloves, and gently places the bomb in a blue evidence bin. “I don’t want you to worry about this. We think the Eddie note is just a coincidence.” He snaps off the gloves and shoots me a meaningful look. “No need to worry your parents, either.”

  I nod. There’s no way I would tell my parents about this. Mom would have us signed up in a witness protection program faster than you can say Moving to Australia.

  “What about Lars?” I ask. “Did your men find any record of him in New York?” I open my art pad and hold up the picture I drew of Lars Heinrich. I saw him a month ago in the airport when I was coming back from a vacation in Mexico. Judging from his sneer and the way he narrowed his eyes at me, he knew exactly who I was, and was very angry. It’s not a good combination.

  A terrible thought occurs to me. “What if he was the one who sent the bomb? He definitely knows who I am. What if—?”

  “No,” Bovano interrupts. “This is O’Malley’s work. And I already told you, Lars never knew you existed. I questioned his gang members myself. I have a built-in lie detector.” He points to his temple. “Hasn’t failed me yet.”

  Considering I lied to him for a solid four months when we worked together, I’d say his detector needs a tune-up. “But—”

  “O’Malley always works alone,” the chief adds gently. “And Lars was
seen entering Germany two weeks ago. He’s not in New York. You’re safe.” He glances at Bovano, then quickly looks away. Warning bells sound in my head. They’re not telling me the whole story.

  The chief shuffles through some papers on his desk. “We need your help on another matter. There was a high-profile jewel robbery last week. We’re worried the thieves’ next target might be a diamond exhibit coming to the Met. I already spoke to your parents about hiring you for surveillance work. Does twenty dollars an hour sound good?”

  They want me back on the force? Really? “Okay,” I say. I should be thrilled about this, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s not adding up.

  “Frank, get Eddie here another contract,” the chief instructs Bovano. “Short term.” He stands up and puts on his navy blue jacket, part of his chief’s uniform. “Your mother made me promise you wouldn’t be out in the field. You’ll be stationed in a surveillance van.” He smiles. “She drives a hard bargain.”

  If Mom agreed to this, we must really need the money. Dad still doesn’t have a full-time job, and Senate Academy (my private school for gifted kids) is expensive. The police are paying my tuition this year as part of my reward for stopping the art heist, but I still have to buy books and supplies.

  I stand up. “If I solve this case, will you pay for Senate again next year? Or maybe hire me on full time? You know—salary, benefits, all that stuff?”

  The chief blinks. “We’ll see. There are tight budget restrictions.” He shakes my hand. “Good to have you back, Eddie. Detective Bovano will contact you in a few days. I trust you know your way to the elevator?”

  I nod and slowly leave the office, closing the door behind me. Walking past the familiar rows of desks and ringing phones and busy cops, I position myself by the water cooler and pull out my art pad while I wait for Detective Bovano. He was my partner last year, and I want to talk to him about the case. No time like the present.

  While I wait, I sketch a picture of O’Malley, remembering how his long nose ended in a point, how the skin bagged beneath his eyes. He looks older than Lars—of course, Lars has had a ton of plastic surgery, so I can’t be sure. Could they have met? Do bad guys get together over bagels and coffee to chat about evil plots together?

  Bovano walks out of the office and down the hallway. He doesn’t see me.

  I snap my art pad shut and call out, “Sir! Detective Bovano!” I catch up to him by the elevator.

  He presses the Up button with his thumb, and frowns. “What are you still doing here?” His bushy eyebrows move up and down as he scrutinizes me.

  “I was thirsty.” I point to the water cooler over my shoulder. “I thought we could chat about the case. It seems like you guys aren’t telling me everything. I can handle the truth, Detective. Are Lars and O’Malley working together? And I’d like to know more about the jewel robbery. We should meet about this, discuss possible theories.” Last year Bovano and I had our differences, but in the end we sort of bonded (stressful alleyway shootouts tend to bring people together). I think he’ll be more open to working with me this time.

  “No.” The elevator door opens and he steps inside, holding a hand up to block me from entering. “Take the next one. I’m going up.”

  “Just tell me,” I practically shout. “What if Lars and O’Malley are working together?”

  Bovano doesn’t respond, just shakes his head and looks away. As the door swooshes shut, I swear he whispers one word:

  “Boom.”

  Chapter 2

  Mr. Frank

  7:48 A.M., TUESDAY

  “No way,” I say to my father the next morning. I drop my backpack on the floor for emphasis. “I am not starting seventh grade with a babysitter.” Dad just informed me that I am to have a police escort to and from school “as a safety precaution only.”

  Dad scratches his mustache. “Look, your mom and I just want you safe until this Lars fellow is caught. The police say he’s in Germany, but what if he returns to the city? An escort is a good idea. I’d take you to school myself but—”

  I gasp. “This was your idea?” No wonder my mom was acting nervous before she left for work this morning. She knew I’d be upset.

  “Not entirely. We simply voiced concern about your safety. The chief thought that an escort was the best course of action.”

  I guess I don’t blame my parents for being worried about Lars. He’s wanted in at least five countries for grand theft, fraud, and assault. I read in the newspaper that he’s cost those governments more than thirty million dollars in stolen goods. Infamous for leaving clues that create geometric patterns on a map, he plays games with the police while setting his sights on the city’s treasure. He’s cold and ruthless and obsessed with winning. Last year I stopped him from stealing some priceless paintings by Picasso. As far as I know, I’m the only person who’s ever ruined his evil plans.

  I shake my head. “If you’re so worried, why are you letting me work with the cops again?”

  Dad smiles. “We’re proud of the work you’ve done on the force. And you’ll be safe in the surveillance van. No place safer, I imagine.” He pats me on the shoulder. “This is no big deal. Either you cooperate or Mom moves us to Canada. You know she will.”

  “Fine.” Smelling defeat, I grab my backpack off the floor.

  “Wait,” Dad says. “I need to take a picture. Your first day of middle school, I can’t believe it.” He pulls out his phone and snaps a quick shot.

  “Just don’t take a picture of my escort,” I mutter. Knowing Dad, he’d post it on Facebook and blow our cover the first day.

  I open the door to our apartment, prepared to jog down the stairs and meet my police contact on the sidewalk. A woman is standing in the hallway, adjusting the front of her black dress as if she’s uncomfortable wearing girly things. She’s got dark caramel skin, long curly black hair, and huge brown eyes that are speckled with gold. The word goddess comes to mind.

  “Oh,” Dad says. “Hi. I mean, hello. G-good morning,” he stammers. I go for a much smoother approach by grinning and waving at her like an excited first-grader.

  She tilts her head and blinks her golden eyes at me. “Hi, Eddie,” she says in a soft southern accent. “I’m your new Aunt Paula.”

  An hour later, I’m sitting in art class, the first class period of the day. “I can’t believe you have a bodyguard,” my best friend, Jonah, whispers. “You never used to need a bodyguard. Why now?” His foot taps so hard, it bounces the curly red hair on his head.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” I straighten my glasses. “At least Paula’s nice. She’s supposed to be my mother’s sister who just moved to the city and has some ‘free time’”—I air-quote the words—“to take me to and from school. She’ll be here this afternoon. You can meet her if you want.”

  “Do you think she’s FBI?” he asks. “I bet she has a lot of cool weapons.”

  I shrug. “She didn’t say.”

  When I took the bus with Paula, she told me she’s from a southern state that cannot be named, working for a government agency that cannot be named, and I’m pretty sure her real name’s not Paula, either. It was a strange conversation of noninformation, but she’s smart and funny and I think our arrangement is going to work out just fine.

  Our art teacher, Mrs. Smith, claps twice to get our attention. “Take your seats, everyone,” she says. “You’ll find a fresh canvas and paints under each desk. I’d like you to paint how you feel right now.” She points to a big color chart on the wall. “What do the colors say to you? Yellow for an imaginative mood? Blue for relaxed? It can be totally abstract. It’s up to you.”

  Jonah scampers to his spot four seats over, which is for the best. I’ll never get any work done if he’s beside me. Lately he’s been obsessed with the cartoon Walter the Flying Cow, so when he giggles and grabs two jars of black and white paint, I know where he’s headed.

  It’s a new year, a new classroom, even a new section of the school.
The seventh- and eighth-graders make up the middle school of Senate Academy, and we have a whole wing of the building to ourselves. It was remodeled a year ago so everything is new and über-fancy.

  I crack open a bottle of red. I am bold today. Adventurous. I am Eddie Red, and I am invincible. I streak thick red lines across the canvas, then dab some orange in the middle. The rest of the class is chatting in a quiet hum, the slightly sweet smell of paint in the air.

  “Okay, quiet down, people,” Mrs. Smith says after about ten minutes. “According to an email I just received, there will be a new student teacher this fall. He’s due to arrive any minute.”

  Student teachers have a weird history here at Senate. Legend has it that one guy who taught senior math made the kids eat a pickled herring (a gross fish in a jar) whenever they came late to class. And about five years ago, another teacher named Rita Renson fed her seventh-graders candy and let them wrestle in the classroom. She got busted after a kid broke his nose.

  There’s a knock on the door. “That must be him,” Mrs. Smith says. “Please welcome Mr. Frank.”

  The door opens. A familiar heavy-set figure with bushy eyebrows and sagging jowls is standing in the doorway. His dark eyes sweep the room until they settle on me. His nose wrinkles as if he smells bad cheese.

  And my seventh grade year is officially ruined.

  Chapter 3

  The Fighting Trojans

  3:20 P.M., SAME DAY

  All day long I smile and laugh and pretend to be the happy kid who’s back in school with his buddies, but my mind keeps repeating: Why is Detective Frank Bovano a teacher at my school? Why? Why? Why? My performance is Oscar-worthy. During lunch I send my mom three angry texts demanding she tell me why she decided to destroy my life. She writes back and promises she never requested in-school protection. Which means my instincts are correct: The police are definitely hiding something.