Doom at Grant's Tomb Page 5

  I glance over my shoulder in time to see a mom and dad strolling with two kids a little younger than us. We wait until they open the doors, then slide in behind them as if we’re a part of their group.

  Shuffling past an information desk, we enter a large white room crawling with kids. There’s amateur artwork all over the walls, with a few framed paintings by famous Irish artists in the center of the room. I stop in front of a really funky painting by Louis le Brocquy. He’s known for doing portraits that capture the person’s face beneath the face, making them almost appear skeletal. Totally cool and creepy.

  Jonah pulls me away. “She’s over there,” he whispers, gesturing with his head. The duchess is by the far wall, shaking people’s hands in a receiving line. Flanked by two security guards, she’s wearing a peach suit and large set of pearls, her brown hair swept high into a regal bun. She’s smiling as she talks to a lady and squirming toddler. She seems like a people person, which bodes well for our mission.

  Jonah gets in line to meet her while I stroll the room, searching for a guard to speak to. When I asked Jonah why he should be the one to meet the duchess, he said, “I have red hair. She’ll think I’m one of her people. And you’re used to working with cops, so you should be interviewing the guards.” I guess he has a point.

  Scanning the crowd, I find a guard standing by an emergency exit, his navy blue uniform crisp and sharp. All the guards here must know what happened with the stolen crown on Fifth Avenue. Squaring my shoulders, I pull out a notepad like a kid reporter and stride up to him. “Sir, may I—?”

  “No,” he says, his face tense and stern. He points over my shoulder. “The exhibit’s that way.” He opens the emergency door and slides inside, closing it in my face.

  These guys are as friendly as Detective Bovano. I look over to see if Jonah’s having more luck. He’s reached the duchess and is currently doing a little dance for her. An Irish jig?

  The duchess laughs as Jonah bows. He starts talking, his hands gesturing wildly the way they do when he gets excited. The smile fades on the duchess’s face. She touches her hair as if thinking of the stolen crown. The guards frown and stride forward as if they’re going to remove Jonah. Uh-oh, this visit might be a lot shorter than we planned.

  I’m not going to get anywhere with these stressed security guards. I need to find someone else knowledgeable about what goes on around here, someone who’s the eyes and ears of the IAC. My gaze settles on a short figure pushing a cleaning cart on the other side of the room where the exhibit ends. Bingo.

  I pass by a wall covered in landscape paintings of Ireland, glancing at a particularly pretty one with fields of purple and white flowers. Stay focused, I scold myself. Slipping between two tall women, I call out to the janitor, “Excuse me, sir?”

  He stops and looks at me in confusion. His dark hair is trimmed almost to the scalp, and he has tired brown eyes. I flash him my very best grateful-kid smile as I approach. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “You should be with your parents.” He takes a cloth from his pocket and wipes his brow. “Security’s tight. You can’t wander past the exhibit.”

  “I’m doing a special report for my school newspaper,” I explain. “You must hear a lot of what goes on here.” I’m not just sweet-talking this guy; it’s a true fact that janitors have a ton of information. Henry, the janitor who works at my school, knows everything that goes on there, from who stuck gum on the ceiling to the name of the delivery guy who stocks the vending machines. I’ll bet he even knows Mr. Frank’s true identity.

  “We heard that the Duchess of Ireland had her crown stolen right on Fifth Avenue,” I say. “Does that ring a bell?”

  He puts the cloth back in his pocket, his eyes darting nervously around the room. At first I don’t think he’ll talk, but then he says, “Is this off the record? Because I could get fired.”

  “I understand,” I say. “It will be totally anonymous.”

  He nods. “Okay, then. Yes, her crown was stolen.” He leans in closer. “The thieves left a message when they robbed the truck. ‘Tell them the camera is next,’ they said.” He waves a hand in the air. “We had all the security cameras replaced two months ago. Now everyone’s worried that the thieves want to steal them.”

  The camera? A chill slides down my spine. That’s what the police call me. Bovano’s always saying, “You are a camera, not a detective.”

  “Was there anything else unusual?” I ask. “Did they say what the robbers looked like?”

  “Very bad teeth.” He starts to push his cart. “That’s all I know. Better go back to your family.”

  My family? Oh, right. “Thanks for your time.” I smile and quickly locate Jonah. He’s being escorted out of the building by two beefy blond men.

  I find him out on the sidewalk. The guards are scolding him for upsetting the duchess. He hangs his head like a sorry kid, but when his eyes meet mine, they’re alive with excitement. I know that look. He’s just figured something out, an important clue.

  As soon as the guards leave, we start walking in the direction of a bakery we saw on the way here. Going undercover works up an appetite. Quickly I tell Jonah what the janitor said. “The guy with bad teeth has to be the same guy from the mug shot that Bovano showed me,” I say. “We have to find him.” We cross the street. “What did the duchess say?”

  Jonah flips on his sunglasses. “She got really upset when I asked her about the crown. She started muttering, ‘The robbers sent a message: No royal is safe in New York. She repeated it three times: No royal is safe in New York. I felt kind of bad for her.”

  We hang a right down Tenth Avenue. “The ‘royal’ comment must refer to the royal jewels exhibit coming to the Met,” Jonah continues. “Lars robbed the duchess to get the cops’ attention. He wants them to know what he’s up to. It’s much more challenging and fun for him.”

  “Just like last time,” I say, referring to how Lars sent his men to specific meeting places, knowing the police were watching him. He wanted the cops to understand that he was playing a chess game with them, using the city blocks on the map as the game board. I pause to tie my shoe. “What do you think about the ‘the camera is next’ comment? What if it’s me?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a long shot, but if the robbers know you have a photographic memory, then they might be talking about you. And if that’s true, then the police would be nervous for your safety. It explains why you have so much police protection.”

  That same chill shivers on my skin again. The camera is next. Nervously, I look over my shoulder. No one’s following us on this sunny day. I decide that it must mean something else, an expensive camera of some kind needed to complete their heist. I refuse to live in fear.

  “What’s our next move?” Jonah asks. We stop in front of the bakery window. A warm buttery smell drifts in the air and my stomach growls.

  “Chocolate-filled croissants. And then—”

  A man on the corner of the block catches my eye. He has tan skin and looks like he’s from India. I blink. Why does he seem familiar? Quickly I flip through a bunch of pictures in my head. I think I saw him at the Met four days ago, dressed as a museum security guard.

  He glances at me over his shoulder and shakes his head, as if saying no to me. Then he turns the corner and disappears from view.

  “Wait!” I call out. I run down the street, Jonah hot on my heels. Rounding the corner, the sunlight momentarily blinds me. I look up the block and down the block.

  He’s gone.

  Chapter 10

  Horse Butt

  10:35 A.M., SATURDAY

  On Saturday, Paula comes to the school gym with me to paint a horse’s butt. The eighth grade made a gigantic Trojan horse out of papier-mâché for Homecoming in a couple of weeks. It’s so huge that it’s sitting in parts and can only be assembled outside on the day of the parade.

  “You okay, Eddie? You seem distracted,” Paula says.

  I open my mouth, ready to tell her every
thing: the texts from the Fox, my theory about “the camera” and how it’s another message for Eddie Red. But it all sounds so unbelievable: I’m worried that a famous criminal is stalking me and texting me about gold and stolen treasure and maps.

  “I was just thinking about that Indian guard I saw,” I explain. I drew a picture of him yesterday and gave it to her, telling her that I saw him while strolling the street with my father. I said we were out searching for a birthday present for my mom. Obviously a major lie, but I don’t think she’ll mention it to my parents. She trusts me.

  “I’m looking into it, I promise,” she says.

  I nod and get back to painting. Here’s the weird thing: the Indian man kind of, sort of, looks like the Irishman O’Malley. He’s a lot younger and has mostly Indian features, but his nose is long and his lower lip is fuller than his upper lip, just like O’Malley. I thought about it all night long. A lot of Indian people live over in Great Britain. What if O’Malley married an Indian woman and they had a son? An O’Malley junior? The guy I saw would be the right age, maybe midtwenties.

  At home I stared at the two pictures side by side for hours. Could they be related? It’s so hard to say. I think I’m losing my edge. And why was the guy staring at me like he knew me? Why did he shake his head?

  Paula brushes a piece of curly hair out of her face and keeps painting. My parents couldn’t come out with me today so they called Paula to see if she’d mind being my protection for a few hours. I think she’s really enjoying herself. She keeps laughing with the other kids, teasing them about the big brown lumps that are supposed to be a horse. Why couldn’t she be the undercover chemistry teacher assigned to my school?

  This morning I gave her a thank-you present for being such a good guard. I called it a New York City survival kit, complete with a whistle for hailing cabs, a waterproof street map, an I ♥ NY keychain, and a small umbrella that Mom had from her real estate firm’s gift sets. And since Paula must get bored waiting around for me during school, I also included a list of my favorite bagel and deli places, as well as cool parks to check out around the city.

  Paula glances up, distracted by something behind me. With a mischievous smile, she moves away toward the horse’s stomach. I turn around. Jenny Miller is coming over with a Trojan costume in her hand.

  “Hi, Edmund,” she says. She’s wearing a long patchwork skirt with tiny bells on it that jingle when she walks. She doesn’t dress like the other girls in my class, which is one of the reasons I like her. She’s not afraid to be different.

  “Hi.” I stand there like an idiot, the brush in my hand dripping brown paint all over my sneakers.

  “I’m working on the costumes and I need to see if this fits you.” She unfolds the shirt and holds it up to me. It’s a plain brown tunic that we’re all wearing under our “armor,” which consists of cardboard and duct tape.

  Now’s my chance. Nine simple words: Jenny, will you go to the dance with me? I put my paintbrush down, take the shirt from her, and slide it on. “It fits,” I say lamely. I pull the shirt off and fold it back up.

  “Good. That was easy.” She flips through a few color-coded pages. Pink, yellow, orange, green. I wonder what it all means. Finally she lands on a red page. “I’ll file you under red because, you know . . .” She points to my red baseball cap, then writes something down. She clears her throat. “I saw that you’re working the first shift at the carnival. I am too. Maybe we could hang out after?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yes. That would be great.” I take a deep breath. “Jenny, will you go—”

  “Hey, Jenny, Mrs. Smith needs you.” Milton’s voice is a sledgehammer destroying the moment. Jenny looks at me as if she wants to say something more. Instead she says, “See you later,” and quickly walks away. I ignore Milton and start painting the horse butt again, biting the inside of my cheek so I don’t say anything I’ll regret.

  “Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Mrs. Smith was having a cow about the shields. Jenny’s the only person who has any idea what’s going on.” He picks up a paintbrush to join me. “Where’s Jonah?”

  “At temple.” It’s probably a good thing Jonah’s not here. He and I have been whispering together a lot at school, and people are starting to think we’re antisocial.

  “I found those names you wanted.” Milton hands me a folded piece of paper. Yesterday I told Milton we overheard Bovano talking about some guy named Fox, and asked him to investigate. “Eight people with the last name Fox have been arrested in the past six years,” he says. “That’s as far as my mom’s computer files go. There was one interesting arrest made about a year ago. A woman named Paulette Fox was caught stealing diamond rings from that fancy jewelry store Tiffany’s.”

  A woman named Paulette? That’s a strange coincidence. I glance over at Paula, who has stepped away from the horse and is now frowning down at her phone. She looks as upset as she did that day on the subway. How much do we really know about her? The police trust her, but they’ve trusted other cops who ended up betraying them.

  I shove the paper in my pocket and pop open a new container of brown paint. “Thanks,” I say to Milton. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem. We make a great team.”

  I pause. Those are almost the same words that the Fox texted me last week. Is Milton the Fox? I glance at him. He’s wearing a red T-shirt with a ketchup bottle on it that reads, I put ketchup on my ketchup. There’s no way this kid is a mastermind criminal. Right?

  “Something’s going on,” he whispers after a moment.

  I stiffen. “Oh?”

  He nods, dipping his brush in the paint can and slopping on more brown. He’s messing up a patch of my careful brushstrokes. I know it’s just a horse butt, but still. An artist must keep high standards.

  “It’s Bovano’s story about the mob laundering money at Senate,” he says. “It doesn’t add up. First of all, there’s no mention of Senate Academy in any of the police reports. Second of all, I’ve been paying close attention to the kids at school. There’s no way the Mafia is involved here.” He stops painting and stares at me.

  My mouth goes dry. “Is there a third of all?”

  “You,” he says quietly. “I don’t understand you and Bovano. He follows you everywhere. The other kids don’t notice, but I do. He tracks you.”

  I force a shrug. “I’ve known him forever. He’s like an overprotective uncle.”

  Milton rests his paintbrush on the tray and wipes his hands on a rag. “You missed some,” he says, pointing to a spot of white newspaper on the horse. Then he squints at me as if trying to pry into my brain. “You can trust me, you know.”

  “I know,” I say, and I mean it.

  But I can’t tell him about Eddie Red. I just can’t.

  Chapter 11

  Grant’s Tomb

  2:23 P.M., SUNDAY

  “Who is buried in Grant’s Tomb?” Dad says. “Now, that is an interesting question.” He giggles. He’s asked me the same question five times since we arrived at the General Grant National Memorial (a.k.a. Grant’s Tomb).

  “Ha ha, Dad. Very funny.”

  Apparently there was a famous quiz show that used to ask that question for laughs. The answer is “no one.” It’s a riddle. General Ulysses Grant and his wife are entombed here, but they aren’t buried. Their bodies rest side by side in two stone coffins called sarcophaguses that sit aboveground. Hence, no one is “buried” here. Hilarious, right?

  Dad and I just walked out of the dome-shaped memorial and into the warm September air. I look around for any unusual activity, but nothing seems out of place or suspicious. It’s hard to believe there was a fake bomb with my name on it delivered here a couple of weeks ago.

  We sit down on the stone steps and Dad pulls out a bottle of water. The monument is set in a tree-lined plaza next to the Hudson River, which makes it a very peaceful but windy spot. We used to come here a lot with my Grandma Lucille before she died. She loved Grant, call
ing him “a hero who freed our people.” It feels strange to be here without her. I wonder if Dad feels the same way. She was his mom, after all.

  “I’ve never understood that joke about Grant,” an elderly lady says behind us. “Do you work here?” She’s speaking to my dad, who is dressed in a navy suit coat and bow tie and looks like he could work here as a guide. When I objected to his fashion choice this morning, he said, “You never know when you’re going to meet a future employer.” I guess I can’t blame him for wanting to find a better job.

  “Why no, madam,” he says, rising to his feet and giving her a quick bow. “But I know a lot about this place. Allow me to explain.” He launches into an explanation about the game show and Groucho Marx and other random factoids about how Grant was an important general in the Civil War who eventually became the eighteenth president of the United States. The lady nods and smiles, obviously thrilled.

  I ignore them and pull out a map of the city. After analyzing the clues all morning at home, I’ve decided to take the Fox’s advice and look at a map.

  I’ve circled the police station plus the four landmarks where the Eddie bombs were delivered. I told my dad I was doing a project on the effects of weather and acid rain on New York’s monuments for chemistry class. He was psyched to take me on a father-son outing. The plan is that I’ll hit Grant’s Tomb while Jonah covers the Sherman statue in Central Park. We’ll visit Penn Station and Cleopatra’s Needle next week.

  Looking at the map, I don’t see how the sites form a pattern. But if Lars is behind the bomb scares, then it all has to mean something. Everything he does involves puzzles and games. But what? What do Grant’s Tomb and Cleopatra’s Needle have in common?

  A man walks up the wide staircase, his face turned away. He’s thin and wiry and dressed head-to-toe in black. Alarm bells ring in my head. Lars? I can’t be sure. He walked by too fast and now he’s entering the door of the mausoleum.