“Absolutely,” said Joe. “That was way too close.”
“I’ll grab them after last class,” I volunteered. “During the Friday after-school rush.”
“Good thinking,” said Joe.
Since we’d used up most of our lunch break on the investigation we weren’t supposed to be conducting, we had to wolf down our lunch. After that, we went back to class as if everything was normal. But it was everything but normal. I found myself glancing around to see if I was being watched. Would another friend slip us more stolen pages?
When the last bell finally rang, I headed straight for the bulletin board near the main gym entrance. I turned the corner and was relieved to see the stack of papers still hanging from the page clip. I casually set my backpack under the board, unzipped the top, and unhooked the petition.
I had just unclipped the manuscript pages and crouched down to slip them into my pack when a hand clamped onto my shoulder. I just knew it was Lieutenant Wolfe catching me red-handed.
“I didn’t peg you as a vegan, Hardy,” said a man’s voice.
I slid the pages deeper into my pack as I turned and looked up. It was Coach Smith.
“I’m not, Coach,” I said, “I, uh . . .” I fumbled for a pen in my pack. “I just support everyone’s right to, uh . . . eat what they want.”
“I’m a carnivore myself,” said the coach. “My food eats their food.”
I forced a small chuckle. “Good one, Coach.” Old one, I thought.
I flipped open the petition and found the last signature. I signed my name at the bottom of the page . . . right under Harry Potter.
10
THE BAYPORT IRREGULARS
JOE
I’M JUST SAYING,” I SAID. “If this guy is like Moriarty, and we’re like Holmes and Watson, then I’m Sherlock in this scenario.”
Frank shook his head and laughed. “No way.” He flipped another page in one of his journals. “I’m older. I’d be Sherlock.”
I pointed to the stack of journals on his desk. “You keep all the notes on our past cases. Watson wrote stories about their cases. Enough said.”
Frank ignored the debate and turned to the next page in the journal. Each page listed out the details of a past case: criminal name, clues, date of arrest. It was the Hardy Archives. “What about the Wilcox brothers?” he asked. “It may not have been a coincidence that we were led to that construction site.”
“I thought of that,” I said, thinking back to the bank robbers who had tried to make us a permanent part of the building’s foundation. “But they went away for a federal crime. There’s no way they’re getting out of prison anytime soon.”
Frank sighed. “Wish we could find out for sure, though.”
If an irate crook was targeting us, it wouldn’t be the first time. In the past, we had checked in with a couple of contacts in the Bayport PD. The police had access to databases that let them know who was still locked up and who had been released. Unfortunately, we couldn’t reach out to any of those contacts without word getting back to Lieutenant Wolfe.
While Frank continued his search, I peeked through the window blinds again. The street looked empty, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. So far, the culprit had been in our house and had manipulated our friends. He knew all about us and we knew nothing about him. I had never felt so helpless during a case before.
“There has to be a better way to get a lead on this guy,” I said. “What would Holmes do in a case like this?”
Frank closed the journal and got to his feet. “He’d call on his Irregulars.”
In the stories, Sherlock would often get help from a group of street kids called the Baker Street Irregulars. They would blend into the background of Victorian London and follow people or keep their eyes and ears open for suspicious activities. They were named after Baker Street, where Holmes and Watson lived—221B Baker Street, to be exact.
“That sounds great and all,” I said. “But there isn’t a group of homeless kids running around Bayport. And if there was, they certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed by the police.”
Frank shook his head. “No, but I have an idea for the next best thing.” He fished out his phone. “Does Dillon’s little brother still run around with that skateboard crew?”
I smiled. “I think so.”
After a quick text exchange with our friend Dillon, Frank and I pulled our bikes out of the garage and snuck them through the house. We wheeled them through the backyard and into the alley behind the house. Since the police (and our mystery Moriarty) seemed to be watching for Frank’s car, we thought it best to leave from the back on bicycles. Good thing Aunt Trudy was too busy watching her favorite prime-time reality show to notice. We didn’t want to explain why we couldn’t just ride our bikes out of the garage. Plus, she would have an absolute fit if she spotted us hauling our dirty bikes through her clean house.
We pedaled through the night, carefully sticking to alleys and side streets whenever possible to avoid running across any police patrol routes. It took awhile, but we pulled into the parking lot for the old Save Market grocery store. The place had been closed for several years, and weeds had begun sprouting through the cracks in the pavement. The store itself wasn’t our last stop. From what we’d learned from Dillon, our destination was in back.
I followed Frank behind the store and saw, as promised, a group of young skaters hanging out on the abandoned loading dock. We pulled up just in time to see one of them skate off the lip of the dock. His skateboard spun beneath his feet as he soared through the air. The board righted itself just as the boy neared the ground. He landed on the board’s deck flawlessly.
“Nice,” I said, impressed with the board flip.
Dillon’s little brother, Drew, skated down the side ramp and skidded to a stop beside us. “Hey, guys.” He flipped his auburn bangs away from his eyes. “Dillon texted that you were coming by.”
“Yeah, we have a strange favor to ask,” said Frank. By this time, the other four skaters had gathered around. “We were wondering if you guys could keep your eyes open for a couple of days. Look out for anything suspicious around town.”
“We do that already,” said one of the skaters. “That’s why we find the best places to skate.” He exchanged a fist bump with another skater.
“Well, maybe you can hang out in our neighborhood and see if anyone is watching us or our house.” Frank gave them our address. “We think someone is pulling some kind of prank on us.”
Drew eyed us suspiciously. “Dillon said you guys solve mysteries and stuff. Is this for a case or something?”
“Yes,” I told him, figuring it was best to just tell him the truth.
“No,” said Frank, glaring at me. “Well, yes and no. But you can’t tell anyone about it.”
Whoops, guess I was wrong.
“I don’t know,” one of the other skaters chimed in. “I know that neighborhood. It’s pretty boring. No places to pull any tricks.”
“We could build a ramp or a grind box,” another kid suggested.
Drew held up a silencing hand. “What he means is, how much does this job pay?”
“Pay?” I asked. I hadn’t thought of paying them.
“How about a couple of my brother’s video games?” Frank asked.
“What?” I asked. He had the answer too handy not to have thought of it beforehand.
The skaters began throwing out the names of popular video games. I had a lot of those games, but I wasn’t finished with them and certainly wasn’t ready to give them up. My dear brother simply nodded in agreement.
“Borrow,” I said, trying to save my games.
“Entire collection,” said Drew. “For six months.”
“Everything?” I may have squealed.
“Three months,” countered Frank.
“Deal,” said Drew. He shook my brother’s hand.
I stared at Frank in disbelief. “What just happened?”
He patted my shoulder. �
��Thanks for your sacrifice. I’m sure your homework will be very grateful.”
I sighed. I guess I could live without video games for a couple of months. I just wished my brother would’ve warned me before offering them up as payment.
Frank and Drew exchanged numbers so they could text us with any news. Then we climbed back on our bikes and began the ride home.
“I’m not thrilled with your technique,” I said. “But you did it. Now we have our own Bayport Irregulars.”
Frank gave a sly smile. “Elementary . . . my dear Watson.”
11
ANOTHER ESCAPE
FRANK
THE NEXT MORNING, I CHOSE my seat in the bleachers very carefully. Drew and his friends were watching our house, and we guessed the next place to strike would be at Joe’s Saturday track meet. If this crook knew us as well as he seemed to, then he would know about my brother’s extracurricular events. I planned to stay extra vigilant while Joe ran with his team. My seat on the end of the bleachers let me keep an eye on both locker room entrances along with my parked car in the distance.
I stayed in the stands so it would appear as if I was just watching the track meet, in case anyone was watching me. And after the past few days, it seemed as if everyone was watching me. Not a great feeling. Every passing glance seemed suspect. Every time a classmate greeted me, I expected him or her to pass along another manuscript page. Joe and I have been on a few stakeouts in our day, but I’d never felt like the one under surveillance.
So far, the morning had been uneventful. No one had been near the locker room or my car. I started to think that maybe this wasn’t the right play. Maybe the crook wasn’t going to strike.
Of course, that’s just when I saw him.
At least I thought it might be him. I spotted a custodian moving toward the locker room. He wore a cap and gray overalls and pushed a cleaning cart toward one of the entryways. At first I didn’t think anything of it. But then I wondered why a custodian would clean the locker room before the meet was over. Wouldn’t he wait until after the runners had finished, showered, and cleared out with their gear?
I was already making my way off the bleachers when the mystery worker disappeared through the open doorway.
I made my way down the bleachers and onto the walkway. I resisted the urge to run; I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I had seen a couple of police officers working security, and the last thing I needed was to run into one of them.
As casually as possible, I strolled through the small crowd of spectators, glancing around as I neared the locker room. A custodian might not draw any attention going into the team’s locker room, but I might.
I was lucky. I slipped into the open doorway unnoticed.
Once inside, I picked up the pace and jogged down the hallway. I almost immediately slammed into the cleaning cart. It had been abandoned in the middle of the short hallway. Now I knew this guy was an imposter.
I squeezed by the cart and eased toward the main locker room. The guy definitely didn’t know anyone was following him; the sounds of locker doors slamming shut and gym bags falling could be heard down the hallway. Still, I kept my back to the wall as I reached the doorway and carefully peered inside. The custodian’s back was to me as he searched the lockers. At worst, this was a real custodian looking to raid the athletes’ valuables while they were on the field. At best, this was our guy, searching for Joe’s locker to plant a manuscript page there. Either way, he didn’t belong there. I just needed to see his face.
“Hey!” I shouted.
Okay, not my best plan. He didn’t even turn to look. He knew he was busted and took off sprinting into the shower room.
I ran after him, but he was through the opposite side of the building by the time I got to the showers. The double doors on the other side of the room swung shut as I entered.
I made a break for the doors. Unfortunately, they didn’t open and I just ran into them.
I caught my balance and pushed them again. The heavy wooden doors gave a little but didn’t budge. The custodian—or whoever he was—must have barred them with something on the other side. That’s when I remembered the other doors that opened onto another short hallway, leading to the other locker room entrance. I spun around and ran back the way I had come. I slipped past the cart again and ran outside. Slowing my pace so I wouldn’t draw any attention, I made my way around the building. From where I had been sitting all morning, I knew that this second entrance, the one closest to the field, was in full view of the spectators. I couldn’t look like I was the one who was up to no good.
Trying to act as nonchalant as I could, I walked toward the other entryway. I rounded the corner and hoped to run into the crook coming the other way.
The hallway was empty.
Undeterred, I stepped inside and saw why the doors to the showers had been impassible. A field hockey stick was jammed through both door handles. There was also a pile of clothes on the floor. I knelt and picked up a pair of gray overalls and a baseball cap. The crook had slipped out of them and out of the building before I got there without ever showing his face. Now he would be able to blend in with the rest of the spectators. In other words, he had gotten away. Again.
12
BACK TO WORK
JOE
OKAY, THIS IS GETTING TO be ridiculous,” I said after Frank finished telling me what happened during my track meet. We sat in his car, watching everyone else leave the event. “I’m not blaming you for losing the guy,” I went on. “I’m just sick of waiting for this guy to make the next move.”
“Yeah, me too,” Frank agreed. “Another wasted day with nothing to show for it.”
I pointed to the two medals hanging around my neck. “What about these?” I had won second place in the hundred-yard dash, and our team had come in first during one of the relays. We were going to regionals.
Frank smiled. “You know what I mean.”
“Anything from the Irregulars?” I asked.
Frank may have lost sight of the bad guy, but he’d been able to check in with Drew and his fellow skaters.
“All quiet back home,” Frank replied.
“You know, having the Irregulars was a great idea and all,” I said. “But maybe we’re going about this the wrong way.”
“What do you mean?” asked Frank.
“Instead of asking ourselves what Sherlock Holmes would do,” I explained, “maybe we should be asking what the Hardy brothers would do.”
“We’re doing it,” said Frank.
“No, we’re not.” I shook my head. “What if this was happening to someone else? What if someone else was being taunted like this?”
Frank’s eyes lit up. “We would try to solve the original case.”
It was true. Since that first night, Frank and I had been so preoccupied with being framed that we had only recently tried to figure out who would target us in the first place. We were all defense and no offense.
“We still have Lieutenant Wolfe to worry about,” Frank pointed out.
“True,” I agreed. “But if we end up being ‘detained’ ”—I made air quotes as I said the word—“then at least it’ll be after my track meet.”
“And we could fill the police in on what we’ve learned so far,” added Frank.
“Say, what about the lieutenant?” I asked. “Do you think she could be setting us up?”
Frank thought for a moment. “How so?”
“She could warn us not to investigate and then get someone to plant the pages so we have no choice but to investigate,” I explained. “Busting us might make her look good to the chief when he gets back.”
“That’s a good motive,” said Frank. “But that’s still playing defensive. Let’s put that on the back burner for now and figure out how the pages were stolen in the first place.”
I pulled out my phone. “I know someone who can help with that.”
I shot a text to Hector and had him meet us at the Meet Locker. Fifteen minutes later an
d we were all at our favorite booth in the back.
“Hey, guys,” Hector said as he sat down. “What’s up?”
“We’d like you to tell us more about the manuscript,” Frank said.
Hector glanced around. “I told you that I’m supposed to call that lieutenant if you start asking questions about the case.”
Frank leaned in. “Are you going to?”
Hector raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to?”
“No,” Frank replied. “At least not yet. Not until we figure this thing out.” He glanced over at me. “Then I think we’ll have to tell her what happened.”
I leaned back. “And get some time off from school while we’re locked up for investigating a case.”
“No kidding?” asked Hector. “She said that?”
Frank nodded. “In so many words.”
“Okay,” said Hector. “What do you want to know?”
“When did the manuscript arrive?” asked Frank.
“Was it in a crate or a regular box?” I added.
“Who had access to the manuscript once it arrived?” Frank pushed.
Hector held up a hand. “Whoa, slow down. Slow down.”
“Sorry,” I said. I think Frank and I were a little excited to be back doing what we do best—getting to the heart of the mystery. I had to admit, it felt good to be on the offensive for a change.
“The manuscript arrived last Monday,” Hector explained. “I was there when Josh signed for it. It came through a special courier in a small wooden crate.”
“Was the crate sealed?” Frank asked.
“Yeah,” replied Hector. “I watched Josh open it. The crate was filled with foam packing peanuts, and the manuscript was wrapped tight in bubble wrap.”
“Who else had access to it before we saw it?” I asked.
Hector thought for a moment. “Just Josh, I think.” He shrugged. “And me, I guess.”
“Are you sure?” asked Frank.
“Pretty sure,” Hector replied. “After Josh unwrapped it, he put on some white gloves and took it into his office. He wanted to read it. Like he said that night, he’s a big Sherlock Holmes fan.”
Stolen Identity Page 5
