Doom at Grant's Tomb Read online

  My pulse quickens. I click on the link and a ton of hits pop up: buried Confederate gold, Civil War hidden treasure, missing Yankee cash, and lost gold on a train.

  Lost gold on a train. A creepy feeling curls around my neck. “Penn Station,” I whisper.

  “Well?” Jonah says. “We’re alone. Can you tell me now?”

  I’ve been dying to tell Jonah my new theory all day, but we had to wait until after school because we had stupid “Senate standard testing” in every class.

  I look around the quiet plaza. We’re sitting on a park bench, surrounded by beautiful autumn leaves in Central Park. Cleopatra’s obelisk towers above us. There are cool Egyptian hieroglyphics running up each side, although they’re hard to see because of all the weather damage.

  “I found something.” I pull out the map I sketched last night. “A link between the monuments. I think the person who left the bombs is showing us a treasure map using the New York City landmarks as a key. Check it out.”

  “South Carolina?” Jonah says.

  I nod. “South Carolina during the Civil War.”

  He stares at me, his forehead wrinkling. “You’re going to have to explain.”

  “Okay. We have four landmarks that had the fake bombs, right? Grant’s Tomb, the William Sherman statue, Penn Station, and Cleopatra’s Needle.” I motion to the enormous obelisk in front of us. “What if they all represent something? Cleopatra’s Needle is old. Like, three thousand years old. Penn Station represents a train. Grant stands for the Civil War since he was a major hero during that time, and Sherman’s statue is covered in gold. Sherman also fought in the Civil War, so that’s an added bonus of meaning.”

  1—Cleopatra = old

  2—Penn Station = train

  3—Grant = Civil War

  4—Sherman = gold (and Civil War!)

  “What about the police station?” he says. “A bomb was delivered there, too.”

  “That was just to get our attention. It’s exactly the kind of game Lars loves to play. He wants to be noticed. He made direct contact with the police, and then he showed them the game. It’s just like last time with the chess moves!”

  Jonah doesn’t speak, just frowns at the list of clues I’ve made. I continue. “Taken together, the symbols could mean Civil War gold on a train. Old Civil War gold.”

  I point to my map. “Last night I Googled those clues and found an old map of a Civil War battlefield in South Carolina. Get this—a hundred and fifty years ago, a train carrying Confederate gold derailed into a swamp, right near the battlefield. They never recovered the treasure. I found it! Old gold on a map, just like the Fox said!”

  Jonah sighs, as if my investigation is what’s derailed. Or maybe he’s tired of hearing about the Fox. “If Lars is the Fox,” he says, “then it might be a trap. Maybe he’s deliberately distracting you so you’ll look the other way while he robs the Met. Or blows it up.”

  “If Lars is the Fox,” I shoot back, “then he might be tricking the police into watching the Met while he steals Civil War gold.”

  Jonah’s nostrils flare and his cheeks turn red. “You think Lars is going to search a swamp in South Carolina? Seriously?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I take back my map and cross my arms. Jonah’s right. Lars isn’t going to muck around in swamps.

  “I think you should tell Bovano about the Fox,” Jonah adds quietly.

  “I will,” I say. “But not yet. I need to figure this out. Once the cops know about it, they’ll take over and keep me in the dark as usual. The Fox texted my phone. My phone, my life.”

  He stares at me with big blue eyes. “I know,” he says. “That’s what worries me.”

  That night I dream about maps. Old treasure maps, yellow and wrinkled. Modern city maps with their crisscrossing lines and subway tunnels. I even dream that Bovano’s chasing me in the chemistry classroom with a map. Somewhere around two a.m. I wake up in a cold sweat, wondering if I need to go see a therapist.

  Images flood my mind. Trains, old gold, Grant and the Civil War . . . What’s your game, Lars? What are you trying to tell me?

  I turn on my computer and start to search. This time, I add one more clue: the name Fox.

  The answer leaps off the screen and practically smacks me in the face. Alexander Fox, a treasure hunter from the 1950s. Jewels. Ancient treasure. And gold . . . lost Civil War gold recovered by Fox in 1958. All of which will be displayed at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, D.C., on October 28. Just a month away!

  “Oh!” I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle my slightly crazed laughter. I did it. I beat the Fox!

  I pick up my cell to call Jonah, but pause before dialing. There’s no way to get in touch with him at this hour. He’s not allowed to keep his cell phone in his room after an incident involving a three-hour phone call to a guy in Taiwan and an online game of Demons and Warlocks.

  Should I take Jonah’s advice and tell the police about this? Or do I text the Fox—who might possibly be Lars—and lure him to a meeting spot where the police can grab him? Lars is a wanted criminal in at least five countries. If I help catch him, I bet there will be a huge cash reward, enough to pay for Senate until I graduate. Last I checked, I’ve made just two hundred bucks from this case. It’s time to up my game.

  With slightly shaking fingers, I unlock my phone and text the Fox:

  I figured it out.

  The screen sits empty. He’s probably asleep. Suddenly the phone buzzes. His reply is one word:

  And?

  I take a deep breath:

  The Alexander Fox treasure exhibit at the Smithsonian.

  I leave it at that. Again the screen is blank. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe my theory is totally out there. Then he writes:

  Good boy.

  My breath leaves me in a rush. I was right. But before I can respond, he sends me another message:

  You passed the test.

  Test? What test? Whatever—it’s time to hook him in. I type:

  This is very interesting to me. We should meet up and discuss further.

  The phone sits quietly for more than a minute. Finally it vibrates:

  We will. Soon.

  Now I’m confused. And flustered. He was supposed to agree to meet me at a specific place and time, and then I’d tell Bovano, and then we’d catch him. I write back:

  When?

  There’s a pause, and then:

  Soon.

  Chapter 15

  Sweet Potato Pie

  4:42 P.M., FRIDAY

  More bizarre things happen. Yesterday in the surveillance van, Bovano had me watch some security tapes from the Met, footage of the Indian guy O’Malley posing as a museum guard. He stopped and stared at the camera as if he wanted to be seen. And he spent a lot of time looking at Picassos. Does that mean he’s working with Lars? I shared my theory with Bovano but he dismissed it immediately, telling me to “focus on the concrete facts.”

  I also noticed that O’Malley kept returning to the same painting in the Renaissance section, a small portrait of a man with wings. I couldn’t see it clearly on the video footage, so I asked Bovano to take me inside the Met to check it out (with my mother’s permission, of course). It was a painting of the Angel of Death, smiling and holding a human skull. The Angel of Death!

  “But . . . what . . .” I started to splutter. Bovano dragged me away, saying, “Don’t get jittery on me. You’re safe. I need you to focus.”

  I almost told him about the Fox right then and there. Almost. I’m still deciding what to do. I showed Jonah the texts about the upcoming treasure exhibit at the Smithsonian. He was shocked and agreed we’d come up with a plan when he sleeps over after the school carnival tomorrow.

  Today is Friday and I should be glad it’s the weekend, but when I get home from school, even more bad news is waiting for me. Mom is in the dining room, pulling out china plates and a lace tablecloth, setting up the table as if the Queen of England is coming for a visit.

  “We’re
having company?” I ask.

  “Yes. Can you reach those crystal glasses for me? Second shelf.” She gestures to the hutch.

  Carefully I pull them down a glass at a time. They’re tapered crystal goblets that my parents got on their honeymoon in Prague. Jonah broke one when we were in fifth grade, and I thought my mom was going to have a heart attack. “Who’s coming?”

  She doesn’t answer, just slides into the kitchen, where her famous lasagna and garlic bread are baking. I narrow my eyes. She’s ignoring my question, which means she knows I’m not going to be happy with the answer. Lasagna and garlic bread . . . it doesn’t take a genius detective to figure out who our mystery guest is.

  I push open the kitchen door. “Why?” I demand.

  She doesn’t look up, just continues to pull salad ingredients out of the refrigerator. “Frank and Paula have done a lot for our family these past weeks. I thought I’d thank them with a nice meal. They live on hot dogs and cereal bars in that surveillance van, you know.”

  I lean against the counter, letting her words sink in. Detective Bovano and I have been getting along on the job, and I like his chemistry class, I really do. But I see him about ten hours a day. I need a break.

  The door buzzer sounds. “That’s them,” she says.

  “What, now? But it’s so early!” I need time to prepare for this mentally.

  “I’ll get it,” Dad calls from the living room. I head out to join him. Might as well get this awkward greeting part over with.

  Bovano is in khaki pants and a blue knit sweater, and Paula is wearing a black pantsuit, with her hair pinned up in a bun. She’s holding a pie plate. “Sweet potato pie,” she says, lifting it up for me to see. “It’s my specialty.”

  She gives me a quick hug before handing me the pie. Then my father hugs both of them. I shuffle back a step. There is no way I am hugging Detective Bovano. He’s obviously not thrilled with the idea either. He gives me a simple nod, then beelines to the other side of the room, where my father’s Revolutionary War artifact collection rests on the hutch. He and Dad discuss the Battle of Trenton for the next twenty minutes while our cat, Sadie—who hates everyone—rubs against Bovano’s legs and purrs.

  Dinner is surprisingly fun. Bovano and Paula entertain us with police stories, including one about the time Bovano went undercover as a woman to infiltrate a group of bank tellers who were embezzling funds. He tripped in his high heels and sprained his ankle the first day. Paula tells us about the first arrest she ever made. She was so excited that she handcuffed the guy to her belt by accident. We laugh all through the meal. But then the pie is served and suddenly all eyes are on me.

  “I can escort you to the dance tomorrow,” Paula mentions casually as she adds a dollop of whipped cream to my pie (which looks über-delicious, but suddenly I lose my appetite). “I have the night off, and I don’t know anyone in town. I might as well be your date.” She winks.

  Dad’s grin is as wide as the Brooklyn Bridge. “Edmund’s first dance. I wanted to chaperone but he won’t let me.”

  I take a bite of dessert. “This pie is really good,” I say to Paula, desperate to change the subject. “What’s in it besides sweet potatoes?”

  “I start with a cup of sugar and a stick of—”

  “So, did you ask the girl?” Bovano interrupts. He’s leaning on his elbows with an alarming lack of table manners, his dark gaze examining me.

  “There’s a girl?” Mom’s eyes go wide. She reaches for her crystal water glass and almost knocks it over. “What girl?”

  You know in the cartoons when a character cuts a hole in the floor around the chair of another character, causing him to fall through? I would like that to happen to me right now.

  “No one,” I say quickly. “It’s our little joke from chemistry class.”

  Bovano’s phone rings. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ve been expecting this.” He gets up and leaves the table.

  “As I was saying, I start with a stick of butter and a cup of sugar,” Paula says in her soft southern accent. She winks at me again. She and Dad begin to discuss the ins and outs of the high-cholesterol content of southern cooking while I stare at my half-eaten piece of pie.

  Bovano returns a minute later. “Great news, everyone.” He sits down in his chair with a plop and digs into more dessert. “There was an explosion in an abandoned factory in Germany. Two bodies were found, and one is believed to be Lars Heinrich. They won’t know for sure until they run some tests, but they’re about ninety-nine percent positive it’s him. So this”—he waves a fork at me—“bodyguard arrangement can come to an end. Probably by next week.”

  All of the adults start chatting excitedly about what great news this is. Bovano points to my pie and says, “Are you going to finish that?” I push the plate toward him and pretend that it’s not really weird that he’s eating my leftovers like my dad does.

  I try to smile and join in the conversation, but I can’t escape the doubts nagging at my brain. Lars is brilliant and meticulous when planning his crimes. He’s the ultimate control freak. I just can’t picture him being so careless as to die in an explosion. Plus, he isn’t in Germany; he’s in New York. It might be all in my imagination, but I swear I see him everywhere: walking on the street, slipping around the corner, hopping off the city bus. Not to mention that he’s texting me under the code name Fox. But I can’t tell them that. What would I say? Hey, guys, I’ve been text buddies with Lars for two weeks now. I kept that information from you because I want to catch him myself so I can prove my skills and land a full-time job on the force . . .

  Somehow I don’t think that would go over very well.

  Chapter 16

  Code Crunching

  8:35 A.M., SATURDAY

  The next morning I wake up with a cold. Detective Bovano had one a few days ago. Not only are we sharing pie and awkward conversation, but we’re sharing germs. And to make matters worse, today is the school carnival and I still haven’t asked Jenny Miller to the dance.

  I sneeze and turn the page of my math book. Jonah backs his chair up, nervously eyeballing me in my germy state. He came over early this morning to help me with math since I’m way behind in class from all our investigating. Our textbooks and papers are spread out all over the kitchen table.

  “More cereal, boys?” Mom asks as she bustles around the kitchen, scrubbing the countertop like a madwoman. She has to go downtown to show two apartments, then come back here so we can go to the carnival just after lunch.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, grabbing the box from the counter. I sneeze and reach for a tissue as I sit back down.

  She puts a hand on my forehead. Usually I don’t like it when she does that, but her hand feels nice and cool on my skin. She frowns, as if her palm senses Major Illness. “You sure you want to go today?”

  Gently I shake her off. “I’m fine. I have to go, Mom. I’m on student council.”

  “All right.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll get some of Madame Ling’s wonton soup for you, no wonton. Sweet and sour chicken for you?” she asks Jonah. When he nods, she smiles. “See you at twelve. Behave yourselves.” She grabs her keys from the table and leaves.

  “Thanks,” we call after her. Madame Ling is a Chinese lady who married a French man, hence her unusual restaurant name. She thinks it’s hilarious that I always order a bowl of wonton soup without the wonton, claiming I’m the only person she knows in all of New York City who likes it that way. I love the broth, but the wonton freaks me out. Something about the slimy noodle with a lump of meat in it reminds me of a tadpole.

  Jonah taps his pencil on the math book. “Where do you want to start? Matrices?”

  “Sure.” This week we’re doing matrices, systems of numbers arranged in brackets. It’s tricky. I stare down at the rows and columns of numbers. They make me think of the bombs and the times they were called in. I pull out the list to take another look:

  Day

  Time called in

  Time on bomb
/>
  Bomb 1: Mon

  9:24

  24:11

  Bomb 2: Tues

  5:16

  16:11

  Bomb 3: Wed

  3:22

  12:82

  Bomb 4: Thurs

  1:16

  2:39

  Bomb 5: Fri

  9:24

  16:11

  Jonah taps again on the textbook. “The chapter test is Tuesday, remember? You need to focus.”

  A hissing sound startles us both. Sadie jumps onto the table, knocking over the box of cereal. She hisses again in case we didn’t hear her the first time. I don’t know how she got into the kitchen, but I swear that cat is opening doors.

  “Thanks a lot, Sadie,” I say in disgust, looking at the cereal flakes spilled all over my notebook. I scoop her up carefully so she can’t claw me, and put her out in the hallway. She arches her back until the fur sticks out in angry, electrified spikes.

  When I return to the kitchen with the door firmly closed behind me, I find Jonah holding the box of Oat Crunchies. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

  “Look.” He points to the back of the box. It’s covered with cartoon kids and the words Be a Code Cruncher. There’s a letter and number key to help you decode a secret sentence, which is probably an advertisement to buy Cinnamon Oat Crunchies.