Mystery on Museum Mile Page 7

  2. Eddie Red’s parents do not need to know about this little incident because no harm was done, he meant to help, and his parents might misunderstand and pull him from the job. (Translation: They are close to cracking the case, and Bovano needs me.)

  3. Detective Bovano will now be the one and only driver of Eddie Red.

  4. Effective immediately, Eddie Red will begin self-defense lessons as a precautionary measure.

  I’m not so thrilled about numbers one and three, but two and four make up for it, so I figure I’ve come out fifty-fifty.

  It’s about a hundred degrees in Bovano’s office from all the hot angry air. The papers are curling on the bulletin board behind his head. Even his hair has wilted. He mops his brow with his sleeve and takes a slow breath. I think we’re finally done hashing this out. Maybe he’s out of oxygen. I’m feeling a bit lightheaded myself.

  “You know,” Bovano grunts, leaning back in his chair, shirt buttons straining against what I can only imagine to be a very pale and hairy belly underneath. “I never wanted to take on this mission in the first place. Too much liability. Things get out of hand when a kid is involved. I see that I was correct.” He nods his head toward the claw marks on my arm.

  I shrug, pulling my shirtsleeve down over the wounds. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. My cat does it all the time.”

  “Is that what you’re gonna say when a bullet grazes you? Or maybe it will be just a scratch when a knife punctures an organ? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!”

  Round two, here we go.

  He drives me home in silence. When we arrive at my building, I barely manage a “Thanks” before I jump out and scurry over to the protection of my apartment. Eight stairs up to the outer door, a turn of a key, and I’m safe.

  Halfway up the staircase, I hear a car door slam. I turn to see that Bovano has left his car in the middle of the street, blue strobe lights on. Abuse of his police privileges, I’d say.

  He’s coming up the stairs.

  I pull out my key but his meaty arm slides past me, a thick finger squashing the buzzer to my apartment.

  “Hello?” My mother’s voice is tinny over the speaker.

  “It’s Frank Bovano. I’ve got Eddie with me.”

  A weird static scramble resonates over the intercom, as if she’s ripping the chain off our apartment door with her teeth. Before you can say Mother Is Panicking, she’s standing in front of us. We only live on the second floor, but seriously. It’s like she strapped on a jetpack.

  “Frank?” she says, in a tone that’s a combination of What have you done now, Edmund? and Oh my God, my son has been murdered even though I’m standing right in front of her. My dad joins her in the doorway, no doubt concerned after she clawed the door open and flew down the stairway. I don’t know what her problem is. I’m only about thirty minutes later than usual. Is it because Bovano is here?

  “Evening, Joyce, Herb,” Bovano says as I try to squeeze through the entrance and flee the scene. The hulking mass that is my father blocks me. His mustache twitches the way it does when he knows I am up to something.

  I realize that I am not playing it cool like we discussed at the station. I sense Bovano’s dark eyes burning into my back. He clears his throat. I turn back to peek at him, positioning my body as close to my father as humanly possible.

  “Sorry he’s a bit late,” Bovano says, hat in hand. “We had to talk about the case. That’s why I drove him tonight. Eddie’s been a big help, and I find it’s good to bounce some ideas off him, so I’ll be driving him home from now on.”

  “Oh,” my mom says brightly, beaming down at me as if I just won the Nobel Prize. Then she smiles at Bovano and says, “Frank, would you like to come in for coffee and pie?”

  I just about die on the spot. Detective Bovano having a snack in my kitchen is beyond my wildest nightmares. Great, Mom. Let’s have him over for movies and popcorn. Maybe he can snuggle up on the couch, too. Don’t be surprised when I end up in therapy, crazy lady.

  “Thanks, but I’ll have to pass. Busy day tomorrow. Oh, and one more thing. We’re trying out a new ‘Safety for Kids’ program, teaching them about self-defense. We were hoping that Eddie here could be our test model. Help us fine-tune the program. Plus they’re great skills to have for any kid living in the city.”

  He’s good. A little too good.

  My parents are ecstatic and start to blather on about how wonderful it will be for my self-esteem. They don’t know it’s so I can fight off alley cats because I am the lamest undercover cop ever.

  Detective Bovano says good night: a handshake for my dad, a mushy smile for my mom, a grizzled look of death for me, and he’s gone.

  I shoot my mom a glare and sprint for the apartment. My arm is on fire.

  Four Band-Aids and a whole lot of disinfectant later, I head for the kitchen. Crime-fighting works up quite an appetite. I just pray I don’t get some kind of weird alley cat infection. Maybe I’ll ask about the signs of rabies in science class tomorrow.

  I load my plate with a turkey sandwich, grapes, yogurt, and two brownies, then join my parents on the sofa. They’re cuddling and watching a police detective movie (not my favorite type at the moment), oblivious to the evening I’ve just had. Mom doesn’t even comment that I’m eating on the couch or having double dessert. When I’m done, they kiss me and send me to bed, business as usual. No suspicion whatsoever.

  Sadie knows.

  Instead of hissing her usual greeting as I approach the stairs to my room, she freezes, the hair rising on her back. Maybe she smells singed fur on my clothing. She moves away from me slowly, never taking her eyes off me, and then zooms down the hallway, her marshmallow fluff tail tucked between her legs. A small victory in an otherwise awful day.

  I never do see Officer Grant again, which is too bad because I enjoyed his company. I hear he’s taking an early retirement this May.

  Chapter 17

  Pizza

  March 18

  “Edmund, it’s time to stir things up,” Jonah announces to me on our bus ride home from school. We both take the city bus over to the Upper West Side.

  “They need you. It’s obvious. They’re getting closer to cracking the case. Otherwise they’d have fired you by now. Especially after the Taser.” Tap-tap-tappity-tap. He’s tapping a pen on the window. The lady in front of us shoots him a dirty look.

  I can’t focus on police work right now. Not because it’s über-boring, which it is (alley cats and Marco chases aside), but because we’ve started a unit on hands in art class, and my universe is imploding.

  Jenny Miller is my “hands partner.”

  All during art class I was on the verge of throwing up from nerves, and I don’t know how I’m going to do this for the next few weeks. Of course I can’t tell Jonah about it because he would be unbelievably embarrassing about the whole thing. So I suffer in silence, my hands a sweaty mess. Even now just thinking about it.

  The hand is one of the most difficult things to draw. There are so many lines and textures and veins that no matter how you do it, it rarely looks lifelike. It just flops down on the page, flat and fake.

  We took turns today. I had to study and draw Jenny’s hands, and then she did the same for me. In both scenarios, my stomach was ready to exit through my mouth, and I could barely breathe.

  I have my mother’s hands. Thin and delicate, no strength whatsoever. You can imagine how psyched I am about that. My parents tell me that I have artist’s hands, and that if they were big and awkward then I couldn’t draw well.

  It’s not very reassuring.

  At one point Jenny shifted my hand, actually making contact with it. She might as well have used a cattle prod, because I jumped about ten feet. I have to relax or she’s going to think I’m a major head case.

  “Earth to Edmund!” Jonah says while tappity-tapping on my baseball cap with his pen.

  “Quit it, Jonah!” I smack his hand away.

  “We need to break in to B
ovano’s office.” His leg jiggles up and down, banging my knee and sending tremors of hectic Morse code down into my shoes. “And I have a plan.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” I say quickly. “I know Bovano’s routine. After I give him my reports he always leaves to make photocopies and—”

  “We buy some pizza,” he continues as if I haven’t spoken. “I go in dressed as a delivery boy, luring all the cops, including Bovano, away from their work with the promise of stuffed crust goodness. You zip into the office and steal the info off the board. A smash-and-grab job with a pizza decoy. How much money do you have in the bank? The whole operation will cost about a hundred bucks. No problem. I have twenty in my sock drawer. I can ask my dad for at least twenty more. Now draw me a picture of the station and Bovano’s office so I know how to get around.”

  I ignore the request. “Give me a week,” I say. Jonah showing up in that office would be a major disaster. But I do agree it’s time to take action and search for more information. I’m only up to a measly $703.25 in earnings (an über-awesome amount of money on a normal day, but Senate costs waaaay more) and the first tuition payment is due next month. My parents said they could cover it for now, but time is running out.

  “My stop is next!” Jonah says, throwing on his backpack and nearly clipping my ear. “Promise you’ll make something happen. Be all you can be, soldier! Promise, or else I’m ordering the pizza uniform on eBay. I found a good one. Operation Pepperoni is on the horizon!”

  I sigh. “Fine.”

  I pity George Gyukeri, who is Jonah’s hands partner, because Jonah literally can’t stop moving, especially his hands. All through class I heard George yapping at him to stay still, which actually helped with my Jenny-nerves.

  As the bus pulls away, I watch Jonah on the street. He reminds me of a dancing leprechaun with that red hair of his, jumping over lines, trying to make it home without stepping on any fateful cracks. He gives me a huge wave seconds before he collides with an old man, sending them both tumbling into a street lamp. Jonah turns neon red and wraps his arms around the man’s torso as if to steady him, but he’s just knocking him more off-balance. The poor guy must feel like he’s being groped by a hyper chimpanzee.

  The man seems fine. He holds on to the post and waves Jonah away, probably to prevent further harm. I start to laugh in wheezing gasps. It feels like I haven’t laughed with Jonah in forever. We need to hang out this weekend, have a sleepover and forget all about police business. A chance to be regular kids and build couch cushion forts, or dare each other to drink orange juice mixed with milk.

  As my laughter turns into snorting chuckles, the same disapproving woman on the bus raises a shame-on-you eyebrow at me.

  I snap my mouth closed, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. I wasn’t laughing at a senior citizen in dire straits; I was laughing at Jonah’s ridiculous spaziness. Is that bad karma?

  I sure hope not, because between the Taser incident and Jonah’s pizza plan, I need all the good karma I can get.

  Chapter 18

  Spy

  March 23

  My mom is dragging me to an art opening tonight, which I am not thrilled about. I spend way too much time in museums these days. It’s actually becoming unhealthy. I need some sun, or I’m going to come down with scurvy or leprosy or whatever disease you catch when you need more vitamins.

  Mom’s not buying my excuse. Her office is sponsoring a photography show at the Winston Café, and it is crucial that I be there, or else clients may abandon the company and the earth might stop spinning. I can’t complain, though, since she did let me become Eddie Red and I guess I owe her big-time.

  At the exhibit, I weave my way through the city coats, designer purses, and tacky comments like “What an inspired angle!” so I can check out what everyone is raving about. The artist (and I use the term lightly here) has taken black-and-white photos of body parts, blown them up so you barely know what they are, and then scattered the shots along two walls. It looks like a giant was sucked into a lawn mower, chopped into pieces, and then spit out into a tunnel for all to admire.

  “Have you ever seen such artistic vision?” a too-thin woman gushes.

  It’s an arm, lady. And an ugly one at that.

  My mom gives me an enthusiastic wave from across the room. She’s stunning in a red wool suit and knee-high black boots. One of the guys from her office clearly thinks so too, the way he keeps offering her a drink. My dad swoops in to rescue her, directing her to the dance floor.

  I wave to her and head for the food table. They always serve super-tiny food at these things, as if dinner in miniature is supposed to taste better. A feast fit for Stuart Little.

  I pick up a mini pie that has melted cheese on it. Looks promising. After popping it in my mouth, I nearly gag. Über-gross. Pretty sure it’s stuffed with cat food. As I discreetly spit it into a napkin, a woman with green eyes catches me in the act and grins. I duck my head in embarrassment and toss my napkin into a garbage can, then beeline for the table of sodas. My mom can’t complain this time. I need calories.

  It’s a little bizarre how the lady continues to watch me, like she really knows me. She seems familiar too, but I can’t place her. Her emerald gaze is freaking me out.

  When I get back home, I draw her.

  I inspect the picture for an hour, poring over every inch of it, willing myself to find her in a scene from my mind. Nothing fits. It’s like flipping through a database at high speed and then the computer crashes. My brain is fried. Those green eyes are unforgettable, and yet I’m forgetting. I wonder: Is it possible to get Alzheimer’s at age eleven?

  I have to remember that I am an undercover spy. A lame one, to be sure, but being a spy involves a whole new world of awareness. People may recognize me and I may be in danger. I need to prepare myself.

  March 24

  Armed with this new paranoia and the pizza peer pressure from Jonah, I go to Bovano’s office the next day. Don’t take no for an answer. You are Eddie Red. Don’t take no for an answer.

  “I need more information,” I announce, handing him my report.

  The typical sneer starts to curl the corner of his mouth. “Tell me you’re talking about the Yankees’ preseason schedule, kid. Tell me you’re not asking about the investigation. I cannot and will not give you more information about the case. You are a camera only. You’re in and you’re out. Now, out!” He stabs a finger through the air, motioning to the door.

  I am not going quietly. “Detective Bovano, I have all these pictures in my head, and it would be so much better if I knew why we were looking for these guys. Are there crime scenes from the past I could analyze? Maybe I could study some clues to see where they’ll strike next. There’s this woman I saw last night, and I swear I know her from the case, but I just can’t piece it together. If only—”

  “No, Eddie. That’s my job. To piece it together. We’re done here.” He opens the office door and gestures with his head.

  Plan B.

  I walk out of his office and over to the water cooler on the far side of the room, pretending to get a drink until Bovano lumbers out of his cave a minute later. He always goes to the fourth floor to make copies of my pictures, so I know I have a few minutes.

  “Marilyn, I forgot my jacket. Do you mind?” I ask his secretary, who smiles and waves me back into the office, her head buried in paperwork.

  My heart is hammering in my ears. Act casual!

  I go up to the papers on the wall and start to take mental pictures. A map with thumbtacks in it. Click. Museum Mile. Click.

  I peer out at Marilyn, who is busy typing. I open the files on Bovano’s desk. The Picasso Gang. Click. More pictures of the blond guy from the mug shots. Click. A book on geometry. A book on ancient Egypt. Huh?

  Click-click-click.

  I am there for thirty seconds, my pulse racing the entire time. “Thanks!” I practically shout at Marilyn as I flee my crime scene. She gives another wave, not noticing my jittery behavior.
>
  It’s not until I’m out on the street that I relax.

  You did it, Eddie Red. You did it! He didn’t catch you. You’re not such a loser spy after all. Now go home and start writing it all down.

  Unforeseen Problem #1: None of it makes any sense.

  Chapter 19

  Kung Fu Rocks

  Unforeseen Problem #2: My grades are starting to slip.

  March 25

  I completely spaced my science lab report, and Mr. Pee won’t give me an extension. He may still be bitter about the cafeteria puddle incident.

  I failed a spelling quiz in English, which is pathetic, because one glance at the list of words and I’ve got it. I just forgot to look at the stupid list. And then I used the word über in math class and Mrs. Reed got mad and threatened my participation grade. Report cards come out in three weeks, and I have to seriously get it together or my mom will yank me from the police force.

  Art class is no longer my place of peace, mostly because I’m fighting a losing battle with the barf-knots in my gut.

  Jenny studies my hands for a while, this time in a position like I’m holding a pen. We’re learning about Escher’s Hands piece today, the one of the hands drawing each other. I watch as her blue eyes dart from my hands to the page, her brow wrinkled in concentration. I can count her freckles from where I’m sitting. Not that I would do that. When did I become such a lovesick idiot?

  She chews her pencil pensively, her lips a candy shade of pink. I wonder if Happy Kat Cat pencils contain lead or other toxins. I hope not. But it seems like something an evil cat company might put together.

  Suddenly she speaks and I almost slide off of my chair. “I have something for you, Edmund,” she says, smiling and reaching into her bag.