Mystery on Museum Mile Page 6

  “My parents aren’t home” is my lame excuse. I look at the stack of disks Bovano gave me. “I’d come to your place but I have to watch at least four more hours of surveillance.”

  “All right.” There’s a long pause. “Hey, Milton’s having lunch here tomorrow,” he says. “Can you come?”

  Milton? We’ve had classes with Milton forever, but we’ve never hung out with him outside of school. Jealousy surges in my chest. Stupid, I know. “I can’t. My grandma will be here all day.” And then there’s more exciting film to watch.

  “Oh.” He’s disappointed, I can tell. So am I. “Okay, well, see ya Monday,” he says.

  “See ya.” I hang up the phone and stare at the frozen black-and-white television screen. Is this what next year will be like if I don’t return to Senate? No Jonah, no social life?

  Solve the case, soldier, and everything will be fine. As if it’s that easy. I toss my drawing pad onto the coffee table and go make popcorn in the microwave, trying to fool my brain into believing that I’m at the movie theater with Jonah and we’re watching an action-packed spy thriller. I plop back down on the couch, press Play on the remote, and take a bite of salty, buttery kernels.

  But all I taste is stale museum air.

  Chapter 14

  Glasses

  March 1

  I guess the videos aren’t a complete waste of time, because yesterday I handed in a picture that got the whole office buzzing. During Saturday’s thrilling film festival I saw a man on the Jewish Museum’s camera that could have maybe been a long-lost cousin of the fluffy-haired guy from the mug shots Bovano showed me. There was something about his nose that seemed familiar, so I decided to draw him just in case.

  A lucky guess. Turns out it was the actual perp. Of course Bovano didn’t come out and tell me I’d done a good job. I had to find out on my own after a brief insider’s moment yesterday at the precinct.

  A short blond officer approached me, a friendly grin on his face. He was stout, and resembled a garden gnome. Minus the pointy red hat.

  “Eddie, this is unbelievable!” He waved the picture that I drew of the old man. Different hair, reading glasses, a bushy beard. But that nose of his . . . long and crooked, as if broken in several places.

  Bovano sprinted out of his office, alarm radiating from his reddening jowls. The gnome saw him and waved.

  “Hey, Frank! This kid is amazing! What a picture of Jackie Vincent! Did we know that Jack was hanging around the museums? I thought he had retired . . . Do you think he’s still part of the Pic—”

  “That’s enough, Andy,” Bovano snapped, grabbing him by the elbow and shoving him into his office.

  After that, Bovano must have held an emergency meeting about me, because now no one will speak to me at the station. They nod or wave politely, but then briskly move away. All conversations cease when I am around. Bovano rules are to be obeyed.

  Message clear. I am just a camera. No information whatsoever.

  March 2

  My mother has lost interest in playing chaperone. She stopped coming to our “sessions” two weeks ago, because it’s obvious that 1) I am fine, 2) I haven’t been maimed or crippled on the job, 3) I am safe in the custody of the police, and 4) we are working in art museums, not violent gang areas. If only she could hear Detective Bovano growling at me on the IPODICU.

  Today I’m at the Neue Galerie. “All clear,” I whisper into my sleeve. I stroll up and down the all-too-familiar rows of glassware and decorative antiques. The place is deserted.

  “Copy,” Benson replies in my ear bud. He sounds groggy. Maybe he’s napping in the van.

  I walk back to my easel and draw a little. Today’s goblet is slightly more interesting, with crystal leaves curling around the base and up the stem.

  Someone in the room sniffs. I turn and see a man with long black hair hunched over one of the display cases, examining antique metal doorknobs. Wait, where did he come from? There are two doors, one on each side of the room, and I thought I was doing a good job monitoring them.

  He coughs into a gloved hand. His trench coat collar is turned up, covering the side of his jaw. I can’t see his face from where I’m standing.

  Long black hair . . . long black hair . . . stringy and pulled back in a sloppy ponytail.

  Just like Marco.

  My pulse picks up speed. Is it him? The man shifts away from the case and heads for the door. Only one narrow hallway, a twisting staircase, and the main entrance foyer until he reaches the museum exit. He walks by me to leave the room, but the display case between us blocks me from getting any closer. His head is bent down low, fingers pulling his collar up tight around his ears. A very suspicious posture.

  I catch a glimpse of the side of his face. The curve of his chin, the length of his nose . . . identical to Marco. No weird beard, but it’s him, it has to be. Marco in disguise!

  “Detective,” I hiss into the microphone on my sleeve. “Detective, I see Marco. Er, the guy with the knife. From the alley.” I hate not knowing the names of the suspects. Will Bovano understand what I’m talking about?

  Nothing. No response.

  I stare down at the blank screen of my IPODICU. Where are the irritated growls? The furrowed eyebrows of death?

  I have a bizarre feeling that Bovano is in the bathroom. It’s like I’ve developed a sixth sense about his bodily functions, and that is NOT okay.

  I am the only line of defense here. The police are counting on me. Time to take action.

  “Marco! Marco!” I call as I run after the man. He’s up ahead a good thirty feet, moving fast down the fancy stairs toward the large glass exit doors and the free world beyond.

  “Marco!”

  I don’t yell Stop! or Thief! or Help! because my mouth has disconnected from my body and my brain jumped ship back by the glassware.

  The suspect is picking up speed. He’s landed on the main floor, now just ten feet from the door. He throws a nervous glance over his shoulder. I squint. He’s still far away but it’s him. And I’m gaining on him.

  I start down the stairs, being careful not to trip and fall. “Marco!” I sound like the lunatic kid at the city pool who’s playing the Marco Polo game, except no one’s yelling Polo back and people are just staring. As I reach the landing, a museum guard steps out of the gift shop on my left, watching me with angry eyes. I ignore him and barrel toward the glass exit. Can’t he see I’m chasing a thief? And where the heck is Bovano?

  Marco is at the door, his gloved hand on the handle. I wish I had something to hurl at him to slow him down. A stick, my canvas, maybe a boomerang. I’m clutching my IPODICU with sweaty fingers and I think about huzzing it at Marco’s head, but my aim is terrible and breaking the IPODICU would put me on Bovano’s TBK (to be killed) list for sure.

  Strong hands grab my shirt and yank me backwards. “What are you doing?” Bovano hisses in an angry whisper.

  “The perp, the Marco guy,” I say between gasping breaths. I point to the man who is now on the other side of the glass, out on the street, where he’ll disappear in a matter of seconds if we don’t act now.

  “It’s not him,” Bovano growls.

  As if on cue, the man outside turns and looks back at the museum, the winter sky lighting his face. His blue eyes blink at me. Eyes that are not almond shaped. Cheekbones that are not high or pronounced.

  He’s not Marco. Not even close.

  The silence of the Neue Galerie tightens around me like a noose. Could also be the pressure from Bovano’s grip, the shaking tension of his fingers sending tremors of I should strangle you right here and now down my spine.

  He releases me. “You need your eyes checked. And clean your glasses,” he snarls as he stomps away, dragging a long piece of toilet paper on his heel. Yep, he was in the bathroom, just like I thought.

  The lady from the gift shop is scowling at me over her wire-rimmed reading glasses, and two guards are glaring, arms crossed.

  With defeated steps, I climb th
e stairs back up to the crystal room, back to my stupid sketching charcoal and the stupid goblet.

  I don’t think we’ll be returning to the Neue anytime soon.

  Chapter 15

  Kitty Barbecue

  March 11

  All week I’ve been paranoid that I’m going to get fired because of the False Alarm Marco Incident. Every time the phone rings at home I think it’s Chief Williams calling to kick me off the case. But the chief is as pleasant as ever at the station, and Bovano is business as usual. We even went back to the Neue yesterday and the only thing he muttered was “Don’t do anything dumb.” It’s as if it never happened. He’s messing with my mind.

  “Ready, Eddie?” Officer Grant says, bringing me out of my thoughts with his usual greeting. He’s the older cop who started driving me a few weeks back when my mom stopped chaperoning my museum trips. He’s black and thin like me, and looks like he could be my grandfather, so I guess that’s why they chose him. We are working undercover, after all.

  “Hi, Officer Grant,” I say as I settle onto the shiny leather seat of his unmarked police car. I stifle a yawn. Tonight’s shift at the Jewish Museum was painfully boring. I think I may have actually fallen asleep while standing up.

  Officer Grant shifts the car into gear and slides us into the busy traffic. He’s an über-nice guy who lets me ride up front with him right next to the cool knobs and dials, even if I can’t touch any of them. And he didn’t even yell at me when I got his radio cord all tangled up by accident and set off his siren in the process. He just motioned for me to get in the back. A day later I was riding shotgun again. I’m not sure if he’d forgiven me or just forgotten. He seems pretty old.

  I watch the museum fade in the distance behind us. It’s getting late, the evening winter sky lit orange from the city lights.

  “You catch those bad guys?” he asks with a grin. Another part of our routine. He asks me that question, I smile and shake my head no, and then we drive to my apartment in friendly silence.

  Sometimes he stops and buys me candy when he picks up a copy of the New York Times. You know things are bad when the only thing you look forward to at the end of a shift is a possible bag of M&M’s.

  “Just a quick stop,” he says as he puts on the blinker and pulls up in front of a convenience store. Looks like tonight is one of those lucky nights.

  Opening his car door, he gives me a nod as if to say, Keep your hands to yourself. I nod back. I watch as he heads inside the brightly lit store, first pausing to hold a door open for a couple of teenagers. Always kind and polite.

  I’m resting in my seat, contemplating new and unusual ways to get even with Robin Christopher, sitting on my hands so I don’t touch the shiny buttons on the dash, when a masked man comes running out of the convenience store. Black ski mask, straight from Robbers R Us.

  I bolt up, riveted to my view out the windshield. Officer Grant goes running out after him, shouting. The guy heads into an alley (of course!). Officer Grant follows, but slips on some ice, his arms flailing wildly for a brief moment. He loses control, bangs into a trash can, and falls. As I wipe the window that is rapidly fogging up, I can see that he is motionless on the ground.

  “Officer down! Officer down!” I scream. No one hears me. The car is closed up tight. I fumble with the radio to try and call it in, but who am I kidding? I have no idea how this thing works. I start to wildly jab at the buttons, setting off the flashing emergency light (which is on the inside of the car since we’re undercover), and blinding myself.

  Quickly I try to stuff the red globe under the seat, but the pulsing glow is bouncing off of everything, including my brain, announcing my presence to all criminals within a two-block radius: Here I am! Worst undercover cop in the world!

  I grope for the door handle and stumble out into the cold night air, banging the door into the truck parked next to us with a loud thunk. I hope the owner isn’t watching this.

  Running toward where he’s lying on the pavement, I yell “Officer Grant!” while attempting not to kill myself on the slush and ice. I skid to a panicked halt by the trash can while warily eyeing the dark entrance of the alleyway just a few feet in front of me. I kneel by Officer Grant’s body. It appears he has knocked himself out.

  I poke him. “Officer Grant?” I think he’s breathing. Is that steam coming out of his mouth? Hard to see in the dim light from the store. All of the first aid I’ve learned this year is failing me at the moment, so I poke him again.

  A clanging noise echoes in the alley, a hollow machine clank like a robot zombie is coming. My hand grabs Grant’s arm and tugs on him urgently. He’s not much help. More rattling. I peer down the dark path; something is definitely there. The robber? A zombie? Or worse? I curse the red strobe light shining behind me from the car, which is clearly calling the attention of whatever evil is stirring in the darkness beyond.

  Bang!

  Now I’m shaking Grant with both hands, gripping his jacket and yanking him upright and awake for all I’m worth. Which isn’t much, because he’s not budging.

  Do I run? Adult assistance would be good. I’m about to sprint into the store when something black and shiny catches my eye. A Taser attached to Grant’s hip. I unsnap it quickly. It’s shaped just like a gun so I point the nose into the dark corridor of death and pull the trigger.

  Nothing happens.

  More banging in the alley. My adrenaline spikes, scouring my brain to get it to figure this out. Think, Edmund. Think! There’s a switch on the side of the Taser. A safety. I flip it up and digital numbers come to life by the handle, a red pinprick of light shining out from the front of the barrel. A laser for aiming?

  Pointing the weapon into the alley once more, I wrap my finger around the trigger, and squeeze.

  Wires on springs shoot out of the gun. The lines must connect with a target, because the whole thing is rigid and pulsating with a current that I can hear.

  There’s a horrid, ungodly sound of demons being released from hell, a stench of burnt hair, and a flurry of knives that comes at me and slices my arm.

  Heroically, I pass out.

  “Eddie! Eddie! You all right?” Officer Grant is kneeling over me, his face full of concern.

  How long was I out? An hour? Maybe two? My parents must be so worried!

  I look at my digital watch. More like eleven seconds.

  “That sure was somethin’ to see that alley cat take off!” Grant says as he touches the bump on his head and winces. “You went down like a ton of bricks. I was just coming to and was able to grab you. Otherwise you’d have banged yourself up pretty bad.”

  He stands and helps me up. We’re both a little wobbly. Nothing hurts except my arm. A quick check reveals three slash marks, no doubt inflicted by a fiendish feline.

  “We need to get you fixed up,” he says, examining the wounds with his reading glasses.

  I politely pull away. “It’s fine,” I say. “My cat Sadie scratches me all the time.”

  We hobble back to the car like two old men, slip-sliding on the ice and holding each other by the arm. Officer Grant opens the car door for me. The back door of shame. Demoted yet again.

  “Sorry, Eddie. I gotta call for backup. An attempted robbery.” He points to the mini-mart and then turns off the red light with the flip of a switch. “I’d go and interview the clerk myself, but I can’t leave you here alone. Certainly can’t drag you in there to talk with witnesses. We’ll have to wait until another unit shows.”

  “I’ll tell them I had to use the bathroom,” I say, trying to help him out. I have a feeling he’ll be in trouble for the chocolate pit stops.

  “No need, son,” he replies, picking up his radio. “We’ll be all right.” He calls in the incident. When another police car arrives, he steps out to talk to the cops a moment, then climbs back in. With a loud rev of the engine, he pulls out of the parking lot and turns left instead of right toward my street. My heart lands in my stomach as I realize that he’s taking me back to the
station. Back to Detective Bovano.

  “Can you drop me off first, sir? I’m really tired.”

  “No chance, Eddie. You were a witness. We won’t be long, I promise.”

  A pang of doom. “We don’t need to say anything about the Taser, do we?”

  His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, kiddo. You discharged my weapon. Not the gun, thank goodness, but we still have to report it. Don’t worry . . . it looks a lot worse for me than it does for you. I’m the idiot who knocked myself out.”

  “Oh,” I manage to whisper.

  My eyes dart around; my brain whirls to come up with a plan. There’s no door handles back here, no escape. No plausible excuse as to why I need to go home immediately, if not sooner.

  If Jonah Schwartz were in my shoes, he’d jimmy the door open with a pen and jump out of the car at the next traffic light. No exaggeration. By the time we were seven, he could pick the lock on his parents’ bedroom door and the safe in their office. Amazing what that kid can do with paper clips and some bubble gum.

  I go for a different tactic. Much braver and more manly. I bite my fingernails, holding back tears the whole way to the station, knowing one simple truth:

  Detective Bovano is going to crucify me.

  Chapter 16

  Bovano’s Barbecue

  I can’t repeat the exact words that Bovano screams at me, but suffice it to say there are several swears and a whole lot of Italian mixed in.

  It’s strange, but when he starts to shout I actually feel a little better. It’s like the words give me strength. Or maybe I’m just so scared, my mind goes bye-bye.

  Regardless, after he gets the yelling out of his system, we come up with four points of agreement from our little “discussion”:

  1. Eddie Red is never, ever, ever again to touch ANY weapon of ANY kind. Ever.