Mystery on Museum Mile Read online

  “Jonah, I—”

  “Okay, maybe a bit of a stretch. Still cool to think about. I think we should call ourselves the White Knights. Or the Black? Or the Black-and-White? What do you think?” He starts to drum on his desk and giggle.

  I ignore him and inspect the map. I see the chessboard. I get it.

  And I think he’s right.

  April 24

  “I’ve got binoculars, a map, a phone directory, cell phone, duct tape, two peanut butter sandwiches . . . Do you want food? ’Cause those are for me,” Jonah says as he packs up his camouflage backpack. He isn’t groggy today, thank goodness. The meds have kicked in, his mood is stable, and we’re back on track.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “Duct tape?”

  “Yeah. Don’t leave home without it. Let’s go over the plan.”

  Our first real recon job. We have to assess the checkmate block, make sure there actually is a Picasso in one of the buildings before I go and assault Bovano with outrageous theories about chess and the green-eyed-lady-who-is-a-bad-guy. But even after a good night’s sleep, I still don’t think it sounds so farfetched. It feels right.

  The task: Track every face, note every apartment. Figure out who owns a Picasso. As if it’s going to be that simple.

  It’s a beautiful spring day in Central Park. Birds are flying around and kids are running by. The smell of fresh-cut grass lingers in the air. But despite the city life around us, it’s eerily quiet as we march toward our destination. All I hear is the slap of our shoes on the pavement and Jonah’s weird breathing noises involving some snuffles and a wheee-snort every now and again. Does he always breathe this loudly and I’ve never noticed, or is he getting sick? Or am I just nervous about doing this?

  I try to focus my mind into a chess framework, think how Lars thinks. Get inside his head. Here we are, two brave foot soldiers pushing forward, two connected pawns commencing our counterattack, establishing our outpost . . . to bind the enemy, squeeze them, pin them for a capture. I may be getting carried away with my chess metaphors here.

  Think like Lars . . . think like Lars. It’s hard to put yourself into the mind of a madman. Plus now I’m craving croissants and an espresso like the ones I saw in the café photos of him. Just shoot me if I start wearing black turtlenecks.

  We cross Fifth Avenue (a.k.a. Museum Mile) and head over to Lexington, with its impressive glass-paned apartment buildings and expensive BMWs. Jonah nods to me and we get into position, ready to walk the block.

  He clears his throat. “Black-and-White Knights, recon mission number one. Lexington side, left to right, door one has a doorman. Door two, brownstone, private entrance. Door three, apartments, no doorman. Buzzer system.”

  Jonah is making me as jittery as a caffeinated cat. He stole a voice recorder from his dad and is taking “mental notes.” Loudly.

  I keep looking over my shoulder to see if anyone has noticed. I swear people are staring. It’s like we’re the robbers, casing the houses, registering each soul on the block. I’m waiting for the cops to show up any second.

  Before I can rip the recorder out of his fingers, he grabs my arm and stuffs me behind a garbage can. He crouches down low next to me and pulls out a sandwich. Chomping away, he peers over the top of the can to get one last good look at the road. Does he think this is “undercover”? I roll my eyes. It’s eleven in the morning, broad daylight. At least we just look like a couple of dumb kids.

  He contemplates the street as if he’s pondering the mysteries of the universe. Munching noises combined with his clogged breathing produce a symphony of squishy, moist sounds. Just when I think my nerves can’t take any more, he swallows the voluminous mass of gummy butter and white bread and turns to me.

  “Edmund,” he says in a sticky voice. “We’re going to need to go door to door. Get inside people’s apartments.”

  There are at least five hundred families on this block, if not more. Impossible. How he’s going to pull this one off, I have no idea.

  Chapter 27

  Girl Power

  April 30

  I might have known Jonah’s plans would involve me making an idiot out of myself. He borrowed a Girl Scout uniform from a girl who goes to his temple, and is now shoving me into my parents’ room to get changed.

  “It’s the only way, Edmund. You can totally pull it off. You’re a much better actor than I am. And you’re thin enough to fit into the dress. All you need is a wig, which I know your mother has from last Halloween. People love the Girl Scouts. You’ll be inside their apartments in no time!”

  “Why can’t we do your pizza idea?” I whine.

  He gives me an incredulous look. “And buy five hundred pizzas? Cookies are where it’s at. It’s the promise of future cookies that gets you in the door. Chocolate, mint, coconut, peanut butter . . .” His eyes glaze over, fantasizing about peanut butter cookies. He’s a total addict. Shaking the image from his head, he stuffs the uniform into my hands and firmly closes the door. “Now, change!” he demands.

  I groan and strip out of my clothes. The dress slides on easily, a perfect fit. It’s unbelievably itchy and hot. What cruel person decided wool was a good idea? I have a newfound respect for girls and their wardrobe sufferings.

  From behind the door Jonah jabbers at me about our mission. He’s made a list of the properties we’re going to hit, prioritizing them on probability of success: “The wealthiest-looking buildings first. Apartments with a buzzer system. Then brownstones. Doormen are last. Avoid doormen at all costs.”

  He claims it’s a system based on statistics, but I know it’s because he’s scared of doormen. He broke a vase in his building’s lobby once, and Grigore the doorman went postal on him. Now whenever we walk through to get to Jonah’s apartment, Grigore starts muttering in Romanian and gesturing to the new vase in the lobby. Post-traumatic vase syndrome.

  The Girl Scout uniform is on and the mirror tells all: Right now I look like a skinny cross-dresser who was attacked by a swarm of mosquitos. I can’t stop scratching at the horrible material.

  Itching away, I dig through my mom’s stuff in the closet, locating her long brown wig under some sweaters. Last year she went as Beyoncé to a costume party, and literally stopped traffic.

  “Are you done yet?” Jonah’s muffled voice calls from the other side of the door.

  “Just a minute,” I grumble. Why do I have to be the guinea pig? Then I see myself with the wig on. Jonah’s right; I do look like a girl.

  Terrific.

  I pin the hair back with one of my mom’s hairclips. Not bad, I think, turning to the side and checking out my new look. I am innocent. A sweet, geeky girl, perfect to let into your house and catalog your most expensive possessions.

  I open the door. Jonah stands there, eyes bulging out. A strange noise gurgles in his throat. Clutching his pants, he turns on his heel and sprints down the hallway. I hear the bathroom door slam, followed by peals of laughter. He better not have peed on the floor mid run.

  As his laughter continues, I sigh and take off the wig. Back to the drawing board.

  May 7

  “Did you switch meds?”

  “No,” Jonah yawns in a cotton-filled voice. “I think I’m getting sick.” He puts down his binoculars to blow his nose. We’re out on Lexington Ave. again, crouched behind the same stupid trash can.

  Great. The clock is ticking, he’s getting sick, and we have an über-lame plan to find the Picasso. Of course, I couldn’t come up with a better idea, so I can’t complain.

  We’re pretending to be students doing a survey about art in the city, complete with questionnaires, clipboards, and paper coffee cups. (The last prop is for effect. According to Jonah, people who do surveys are up all night performing caffeinated number crunching.)

  Jonah thinks it’s a brilliant plan. “Why not just ask people, point-blank, Do you own a Picasso?” he says as we begin to walk the block. “They’ll think it’s normal. Why would we, two young kids, be checking out their homes
for robbery? They won’t think of it. They’ll believe us, trust me.”

  This is getting us nowhere fast. How many people live on this block? Eight hundred? A thousand? And who wants to talk to some coffee-drinking kids about art?

  After climbing a set of stone steps, Jonah rings the first apartment on the list, pressing the buzzer with purpose. I stay back a few stairs, my heart beating fast. We’re actually doing this. No turning back now.

  “What are you boys doing?” An elderly lady with purplish hair and a turquoise silk scarf is glowering at us from the sidewalk. Her wrinkled face is pinched with suspicion.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Jonah says in a smarmy voice. “We are students doing an art survey for our history class. May we have a moment of your time, please?”

  “No, you may not. Now leave these steps at once or I will call the police!” She huffs by me up to the landing, brandishing a key like she’s holding a knife. Jonah touches her arm. Big mistake.

  “Unhand me, you ruffian!” she screeches, whapping him over the head with her purse.

  “Ow!” he yelps, stumbling down the stairs. The woman slams the door with gusto. This time I’m the one who loses it laughing.

  “What are we going to do now?” asks Jonah, rubbing his head, a pout forming on his face. He sits down on the bottom step like a dejected puppy dog.

  “I don’t know,” I manage to pant out. Tears are running down my cheeks. I can’t stop laughing.

  Jonah glares at me.

  A middle-aged brunette woman is strolling toward us on the sidewalk. She pauses, and tilts her head to one side. “Is there a problem, boys?” She has a pleasant smile and is wearing large pearls that could probably pay for Senate. One for every year.

  I collect myself, for Jonah’s sake. “My friend and I are trying to do an art survey for class, and a lady from this building just hit him with her purse.” I gesture in the direction of Jonah, who’s still massaging his curly red dome. Looking quite pitiful, I might add.

  She chuckles. “You must have met Matilda Swayne. Mean old bag, isn’t she? No pun intended. I live here as well.” She gestures to the fancy apartments. “What sort of survey are you doing? Maybe I can help.”

  Jonah brightens. “We’re doing a project about private art ownership. Asking people if they have any famous works in the family, like a Picasso for example.”

  “I don’t own anything like that,” she says. “But the lady that hit you? She’s got three Picassos. So I hear. She doesn’t ever let anyone in her place. Just yells at us if we dare to walk by her door.”

  Jonah turns to grin at me.

  Three Picassos?

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: If you’re a kid and you want to solve a police investigation, you need a boatload of dumb luck.

  Chapter 28

  Clogged

  May 9

  I have to wait two whole days to see Bovano, since yesterday was Sunday and we went to my grandma’s for a Mother’s Day lunch. She makes the best chocolate cake in the world. I start salivating even thinking about it.

  But now it’s back to work, back to reality. Back to the police station.

  “I need to speak with him,” I tell Marilyn. “Please tell him it’s urgent.”

  Bovano is in his office with the blinds drawn and is refusing to see me. Marilyn isn’t cooperating either. She’s standing at her desk, edging toward Bovano’s door as if she’ll block it if need be. I guess she’s still a little wary about the time I ran by her and barged into his office. I hope Bovano didn’t yell at her about it.

  “Eddie, he’s in a meeting right now, hon. Just leave your message with me and I’ll make sure he gets it.” She pulls a pen from behind her ear, ready to jot down a note.

  What do I say? Hey, Detective Bovano, I snuck a peek at your case files and I think you’ve got it all wrong. And I still think your cop friend Alisha is in on it. And there are three unguarded Picassos where you’re not looking.

  He’ll kill me for sure.

  “Thanks, Marylin,” I mumble, turning away. “I’ll try him again tomorrow.”

  One week till it’s all over. End game.

  May 10

  Jonah’s mom calls before school on Tuesday. He’s über-sick and is on antibiotics. She wants me to get his schoolwork.

  Unforeseen Problem #4: Best friend and codetective is down for the count with a sinus infection.

  At school I’m lonely and itching to talk about the case. Plus I’ve come to realize that not only does Jonah provide entertaining dialogue and amusing antics, but he is also my own personal bully buffer. It’s not something I’m proud of.

  The strike comes sixth period, just outside the science classroom.

  “Hey, Edmund, where’s your girlfriend?” the troll grunts, grabbing the cap off my head.

  “Hey!” I yell in my firm voice. The one my dad taught me.

  “Hey, what?” Robin steps closer. The kid is a wall of beef. My dad didn’t tell me what to do after the firm voice thing. That was supposed to take care of the situation, not make it worse.

  Up close, I can see that Robin Christopher has really weird facial hair, tufts of blond accentuating the red blotches on his skin. I can’t believe he’s got a beard at our age. Must be eating too many hormone-injected hamburgers.

  I have no plan. I tremble a little and eyeball my hat in his hand. I want that cap.

  Mr. Pee rescues me. “Robin, is that Edmund’s hat?” he asks as he hustles us into the classroom.

  “Yeah. I was just checkin’ it out.” Robin sneers at me and throws the hat by my feet when we’ve lost Mr. Pee’s attention.

  I understand now why Jonah hasn’t told anyone about the abuse. Intimidation stinks.

  I walk to the station after school, bully aggravation churning in my veins. I’m not sure why, but now seems like the right time to confront Bovano. Blitz chess is on. I have nothing to lose.

  I catch Bovano by the water cooler.

  “What do you want, Eddie?” he grumbles at me while lumbering back to his cave with windows. “The case is being dropped next week.”

  “I know, Detective, and I really need to speak with you. And I need you to listen.”

  I follow him into his office. He sees me enter, and sighs. “You have two minutes. Don’t test my patience.”

  We both sit. I’m happy that his large desk is between us. Where to begin?

  “I have proof that Alisha is part of the crime.”

  “Eddie, no. Get out. Do your parents know where you are?”

  “I know about the geometric shapes on the map, Detective. I know that Lars Heinrich is planning a crime like the one in Paris.”

  “How did you . . . Have you been looking through my files?”

  “The map is in plain sight.” I gesture to the wall with my hand. “And you used the name Lars Heinrich at dinner.”

  He starts to speak and then stops, mouth opening and closing like a confused guppy’s. He wants to yell at me, but realizes he may have slipped up. Of course, I don’t mention that he only used the name “Lars.”

  When he finally speaks, his voice is low and shaky, stifling the anger he desperately wants to unleash on me. “Eddie, there are things going on that you have no idea about. We have a lot of people working the situation. You gonna be a Boy Scout and try to solve it? I’m going to call your parents right now. You are way past overstepping your role here.”

  “I know that the markers on the map form thirty-, sixty-, and ninety-degree angles with the Guggenheim. And that all vectors lead to the Guggenheim. That’s where you think the robbery will take place.”

  “What? That is confidential information! Did you break into the chief’s office? How—”

  “I have my people too. We figured it out. And we think it’s a setup.” I pull out my crinkled peanut butter map and smooth it out on his desk to show him the proof. “But the angles pattern is wrong. The real crime is on a civilian block. It’s a chess game, Detective. Involving Alisha
and the Winston Café . . . she’s a part of the Picasso Gang.”

  Bovano goes nuclear with rage. “That gang name was in a CLOSED FILE. NOT ON A WALL OR INVENTED IN SOME TWEEN THINK TANK. YOU HAVE BEEN SNOOPING IN MY DESK!!!”

  He stands and clumps toward me, hands shaking like he will choke the life out of me right here, right now.

  “No, you can’t prove that,” I stammer, leaping from my chair and hustling backwards until my back presses against the office door. My panicked fingers grapple to find the doorknob. I make contact.

  “YOU STEAL FILES FROM ME, TELL YOUR BUDDIES ABOUT THE CRIME, ABOUT BEING EDDIE RED! YOU’RE FIRED!” he thunders. “GET OUT!!”

  I twist the knob, shove my shoulder hard into the wooden panel, and run. This definitely qualifies as an “always run” Nike defense situation.

  I can’t call getting fired an Unforeseen Problem. I guess I saw it coming a mile away.

  So much for a blitz.

  Chapter 29

  Friday

  May 13

  It takes me three days to work up the courage to go back to the station. I need Bovano to listen to me, and I’m hoping he’s cooled down by now. Jonah agrees it’s a good idea— although he’s still really sick and spaced out from the cold medication he’s taking, so he may not be thinking clearly.

  In hindsight, I should have just stayed in bed. Today is Friday the thirteenth. Never do anything on that day.

  All day in class I pump myself up to have the guts to enter the station after school, all for nothing. Frank Bovano isn’t here; his office is dark and abandoned.

  I need to try one more time to reach him. Maybe if I leave him a voice message, he’ll actually listen. He needs to know Matilda Swayne’s address. I don’t think it was legible on the map I left for him. If I give him the information, then my conscience is clean. He’ll be the one at fault if something goes down.