by Jenn Bennett
Oh.
God.
So what? He’s attractive and has a certain damaged charm about him. It’s just chemical attraction. Perfectly natural. Means nothing.
And because I’m on my break and it’s cold in the museum, I’m wearing the cardigan, and that covers up the majority of the headlight problem that is now happening in my breast locale. Disaster averted. And the thought of it being a near miss is enough to throw a proverbial bucket of cold water onto the situation. God, this is ridiculous. It’s just dumb old Porter. What am I afraid of? Nothing.
To prove it to myself, I move back and lift my head, meeting his gaze and his challenge. “Radio Grace and tell her I’ll be late.”
His smile could power a lighthouse. He quickly radios Pangborn and briefs him on the situation, giving the older guard a description of the boys and instructions to track them on the security monitors. But before he can notify Grace, our thieving boys are on the move.
The falcon is gone. I didn’t see them take it. But the boys are huddled and the backpack’s being swung from the shorter kid’s shoulder. They’re stashing the bird.
“Porter!” I whisper heatedly, tugging his sleeve.
“I see it,” he says, keeping the palm frond bent to peer into the room. He radios Pangborn again, who saw it too.
“Got it all on tape,” the old stoner confirms, his words coming from the tiny black box on Porter’s shoulder. Apart from losing keys, this is probably more excitement than the two of them have had in months. “Go smoke ’em out, Porter. I’m watching from heaven.”
Heaven. The security room. I wonder if Porter really does watch me from there, or if that’s just him talking big.
The dopey-eyed kid zips up the backpack and slings it over his right shoulder, looks around, and then the two little robbers make their way beneath the bridge, strolling like it’s Sunday and they didn’t just commit a crime. The nerve!
“Time to follow,” Porter says, nudging me out of our hiding place with a tap on my wrist. “We’ll hang back at a safe distance, but not too far. There are a lot of exits, and they likely know that. Main entrance and gift shop are the fastest escape routes, but the easiest for us to track. Fire exits will set off alarms, but they could run and lose us—that’s how the cuff-link bandits beat me last summer. And then there’s the delivery door and the employee entrance.”
“They’re turning right,” I say. “Heading toward the lobby.”
“That kills three of the fire exits. Don’t stare too hard. Just act like we’re having a friendly chat. It’s good that you’re not wearing your vest. You look like you’re asking me for help. Maybe you’re just my girlfriend, visiting me for lunch.”
I nearly choke. “Dream on.”
“What? I’m not good enough for your champagne tastes?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
He snorts. “You prance around here, trying to look like a movie star in your expensive clothes, driving a Vespa, lawyer mom back in Washington, DC—”
His tone is light, almost teasing—not like our usual arguments—but it’s what he’s saying that surprises me. I stop in my tracks, but he pushes me forward. “Do you want to catch these guys? They’re turning into the Egyptian Room. Might have just seen me too. We need to be careful.”
We hang back for a second while Porter glances into the room. As he does, I say, “How did you know my mom’s a lawyer?”
“Gracie told me.”
Oh. “My clothes aren’t expensive, they’re vintage. I can’t help it if your sense of style doesn’t register anything higher than stoner chic and beach bum.”
“Ooaf,” he says, feigning offense. “You wound my tender sensibilities, Rydell.”
“And my dad bought me the Vespa. It’s restored. It’s not like it’s new or anything.”
“That model’s worth more than a new ride. Anyone who knows wheels knows that. The Cove’s a collector’s paradise for scooters. You need to keep that thing locked up at all times.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I tell him.
“Crap!”
“What?” I angle to see around him.
“Polo Shirt definitely spotted me. They’re circling around to the main hallway.” He radios Pangborn again. “You still see them?”
“Yeah, I got ’em on the overheads in the main corridor,” Pangborn’s voice says over the radio. “Looks like they’re heading for the lobby.”
The museum closes at six, and it’s past four, so at this time of day, the main hallways on both wings begin to fill up with guests making their way back out to warm sun and fresh air. Our miscreant boys duck into the crowd and for a few seconds, we lose them in the flow. My pulse speeds as I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to see over the heads of the slow-moving herd.
“Stop that,” Porter says. “You’re going to blow our cover. I can see them. They’re hugging the south wall, so I don’t think they’ll break for the main gate or the gift shop.”
“Employee hall?”
“Maybe. Or they could head straight to Jay’s wing and try to use a fire exit there.”
Porter’s legs are longer than mine, and it’s hard for me to keep up with him without doubling my pace. “I don’t have champagne tastes. Just because I have style doesn’t mean I’m a snob. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not living with my mom anymore; I’m living with my dad. And I’m working this job, probably making a whole heck of a lot less money than you, Mr. I’m Eighteen; I Can Work Full-Time and All My Sexual Activity Is Legal.’ ”
“Unless it’s with someone like you, then it would be illegal, because you’re underage.”
“Right.” Before I can think of a wittier comeback, we’re at the end of the corridor, and our suspects have taken a sharp right. Porter was right: They aren’t headed to the main gate or the gift shop. But they aren’t going to Jay’s wing or the employee hall either.
“What the . . . ,” Porter murmurs. “The brats are going spelunking?”
Sure enough, the two boys stride through the back of the lobby, making a beeline to the gaping mouth of the cave. Why they’d head there, I don’t understand. There’s no exit inside, just a dark, looping path that ends up right back at the mouth of the cave. . . .
“Any cameras in there?” I ask.
“A few. The image quality isn’t great,” Porter admits.
“They’re trying to lose us.”
He thinks about this for a second and swears under his breath. We race to the mouth of the cave, where the boys have jogged down the stone steps and disappeared under the stalactites lit by creepy orange spotlights. Only problem is, the steps go two ways: left and right. The main route snakes through the cliffs, crisscrossing in the center like a pretzel where they open up into the center cavern. And the boys have split up.
“You go left,” Porter tells me. “I’ll go right. Whichever one of them you find, don’t take your eyes off him.”
“Meet you in the center.” I take off down the stairs, cool air drafting up as I jog. It’s dark and creepy down here, and the metal handrail that’s been here since the museum opened has a clammy feel to it that gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I can’t touch it. This makes running difficult, because caves are dark and damp, and the low lights around the walkway might be great for setting a mood, but they don’t provide much in the way of illumination when you’re chasing someone. Luckily, there aren’t too many people lingering in the cave—and even fewer racing through it. I spot White Polo Shirt a few yards ahead, on another landing.
There isn’t much to see in the cave, especially compared to the rest of the jam-packed museum, just a few info plaques with facts about caves in California and animals that live there, and the occasional bench for hot-blooded people to rest and enjoy the dark and gloomy view. I sail past a woman leaning against one of these benches and head around the pretzel turn toward the red-and-green glow of the main cavern.
Rocky walls lined with organically formed crevices and holes separate
the cave into multiple chambers. It’s a great place for hiding, and those little bastards know it. Several people mingle around the main plaque, marking the spot where Jay and Vivian found their pirate gold. A cheesy chest overflowing with carnival doubloons sits atop a flat rock. It’s ridiculous. I’m embarrassed for everyone who has to gaze upon it, including myself.
But more than that, I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost the stupid kid I’m supposed to be trailing. I finally spot Porter, and he acknowledges me with a chin nod, but I can tell by the angle of his brow that he can’t find the backpack kid either. How could this be? I glance around one more time, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot something: two white sneakers slipping through one of the larger hole formations in the rocky cave walls. Not Polo, but the backpack kid. Sneaky little monkey is doubling back up the stairs.
Porter’s attention is elsewhere, and I’m not losing this kid again, so I take off after him. Up I go, back the way I came, twice as fast, pounding the stone steps.
The backpack kid tosses me a glance over his shoulder. He knows I’m chasing him, and he’s not stopping. Too bad. Neither am I.
When he reaches the mouth of the cave, he hesitates long enough to spot his cohort, slamming up the steps on the other side. Then they’re off, racing together through the lobby.
Porter said not to make a scene, but what about now? Do I just let these jerks get away? I quickly decide: No, I don’t.
I book it as fast as I can go, giving chase. They nearly bowl over an entire family, who startle like ducks on a pond, jumping out of their way.
“Someone stop them!” I yell.
No one does.
I think about Porter surrounded by people that horrible day on the beach years ago, when no one would help him save his dad from the shark. If strangers won’t help when someone is dying, they’re definitely not going to stop two kids from running out of a museum.
Pulse swishing in my temples, I race around the information booth, pumping my arms, and watch them split up again. Polo is heading for the easy way out: the main exit, where there’s (1) only a set of doors to go through, and (2) Hector, the laziest employee on staff.
But Backpack is headed for the ticketing booth and the connecting turnstiles. Freddy should be there, but no one’s entering the museum, so he’s instead chatting it up with Hector. The turnstiles are unmanned.
Like a pro hustler who’s never paid a subway fare, Backpack hurdles over the turnstiles in one leap. Impressive. Or it would have been, had his backpack not slipped off his shoulder and the strap not caught on one of the turnstile arms. While he struggles to free it, I take the easier route and make for the wheelchair access gate.
I unhitch the latch.
He frees the strap.
I slip through the gate, and just as he’s turning to run, I lurch forward and—
I jump on his back.
We hit the ground together. The air whooshes out of my lungs and my knee slams into tile. He cries out. I don’t.
I freaking got him.
“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” He squirms below me, elbowing me in the ribs. I clamp my hand over his arm to hold it down. A breathless, evil laugh comes out of me in fits. I can’t even say anything; I’m too winded.
“Oh no you don’t,” a triumphant male voice says nearby.
I twist to the side and spit hair out of my mouth. Porter is dragging Polo by the arm. He doesn’t look half as winded as I feel. Stupid surfer genes. But now Freddy and Hector are coming—to gawk, I guess. And here’s Grace, too; finally, someone with sense.
“What in the world is going on?” she asks.
“Watch him,” Porter tells the three of them as he parks Polo on the ground. Then he pulls me off Backpack.
“She’s crazy,” the boy repeats. “I think she broke my leg.”
“Whatever. She’s got the strength of a tater tot,” Porter says, pulling the boy to his feet, who protests and hobbles, but manages okay.
“Oww,” he whines.
“Shut the hell up, you thieving-ass rat.” Porter grabs the boy by his shirt, wrenches the backpack off his arm, tosses it to me. “Check it.”
I unzip the pack. Nested in a wadded-up hoodie is the statue. I hold it up like a trophy.
The boy groans and tries to wriggle out of Porter’s grip. “Nuh-uh,” Porter says, urging him down next to Polo and pressing the button on his sleeve. “You and your punk-ass friend aren’t going anywhere right now. We’re going to sit tight while my buddy Mr. Pangborn makes a little phone call to our friends at the CCPD. Got that, Pangborn?” he asks into his radio.
“Got it,” Pangborn’s voice answers.
While the boys exchange panicked looks, a small crowd is forming. I brush off my skirt and notice that a small trail of blood runs from a nasty scrape on my knee. I don’t even care. I’m still on an oh-so-sweet adrenaline high.
Porter grins, eyebrows high. “Damn, Bailey. You took him downtown. Full-on atomic drop body slam. I had no idea you had it in you.”
Me neither, to be honest. “No one steals from Sam Spade and gets away with it,” I say.
He holds his hand up, and I slap it, but instead of it being a simple high five, he laces his fingers between mine, squeezing. It’s probably only for a second, but it feels longer. When he releases my hand, I’m a ball of chaos: fingers tingling from where his just were, mind trying to make sense of it. Is he just being friendly, or is this maybe some sort of surfer handshake?
Now he’s crouching in front of me, inspecting my knee. “Ouch,” he says. Gentle fingers prod the skin around my wound. “You busted that up pretty good.”
“Yeah, stop poking it,” I say, but I’m not mad.
“You okay?” he asks in a softer voice.
“It’s fine.”
He nods and stands, then gestures for the falcon, gimme-gimme. When I hand it over, he turns to the two punks.
“You know this thing is worthless, right? If you ding-dongs would’ve just hustled a little faster, I suspect all you’d get for it on eBay would be ten lousy dollars, and we’d just order a new one online the next day. But now you’re going to start your teenage lives with criminal records.”
“Screw you,” Polo Shirt says. “My dad’s a lawyer. A hundred bucks says he’ll get you and the bitch fired.”
Porter laughs and tugs a thumb in my direction as Mr. Cavadini rushes toward us through the gift-shop exit. “Nice try. Her mom’s a lawyer too.”
Uh, divorce lawyer living all the way across the country, but who cares? We both share a secret smile. Who knew that my archnemesis could make such a good partner? A crime-solving partner—that’s all. No other kind of partner. I really need to wipe all those other thoughts out of my head, especially the confusing lusty thing that happened before we chased down these two kids. And the hand-holding. And the secret smiling.
Ugh.
Must rectify this tangled mess quickly, and I think I know how.
LUMIÈRE FILM FANATICS COMMUNITY
PRIVATE MESSAGES>ALEX>NEW!
@mink: I have a horoscope for you.
@alex: Do you? Lay it on me, because I’ve had a REALLY confusing day, and I need some guidance.
@mink: Okay, here it is: If life suddenly gives you a choice to say yes to a new experience, you should accept.
@alex: What if that experience might be a pain in the ass?
@mink: Why would you assume that?
@alex: Instinct. I’ve been burned before, remember?
@mink: Instinct is no match for reason.
@alex: At this point, I’m not even sure I’ve got either one of them on my side.
“Story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.”
—Marilyn Monroe, Some Like It Hot (1959)
10
* * *
I’m doing this. I’ve got the day off, and I’m heading toward the Killian’s Whale Tours booth. It’s eerily gray and foggy this morning. So foggy, it’s nearly noon and I still can’t see muc
h of the ocean. This is okay by me. Fewer tourists running around. It’s like I have the boardwalk to myself.
So what if I’ve changed my mind twice? I’m really doing it this time. I mean, come on. It’s Alex. At least, I hope it’s Alex. And if it is, I’ll know, because I know him. I should, shouldn’t I? I’ve been talking to him online for months. We’re practically soul mates. Okay, maybe that’s a little much, but we’re at least friends of some sort or another. We have a bond that stretches beyond our common interest.
Then there’s the whole Porter situation. After the cops came and picked up the thieving kids yesterday—two run-of-the-mill officers, not my dad’s Sergeant Mendoza—Porter was involved in paperwork to do with all that, so I didn’t really see him again. Which is good, because all these crazy feelings I was feeling about him . . . they were just a byproduct of adrenaline and elation over capturing those two boys.
Anyway, I’m not thinking about Porter Roth right now. I’m especially not thinking about his fingers twined through mine after the victory high five. That’s banned from my brain. As if to underscore the matter, a low foghorn bellows offshore, making me jump. Here be dragons, Rydell. Keep away, if you know what’s good for you.
I clear Porter from my head and continue walking. The orange and blue of the Killian logo appears. We’ll show you a whale of a good time! Gee, if this really is Alex’s family, I already see why he hates working here. Lame-o. The business is situated between two others, Shoreline Bicycle Rentals, and the booth that sells tickets to the Ferris wheel. I hover by the bike rental place until I spot Patrick’s blond hair.
He’s working. And it looks like he’s alone.
I wait while he points someone down the boardwalk, giving them directions through the fog somewhere, then before I can lose my nerve again, I take three long strides and slow near the carved whale bench outside the ticketing window. A couple of seagulls scatter when I approach.
“Hi,” I say. “Remember me?”
“From the Shack,” he says. He’s wearing an orange Windbreaker and white shorts. His sideburns are cropped shorter than they were in the diner, and the morning breeze is blowing blond hair across his eyes. “I never forget a film buff. But I do forget names. Remind me . . . ?”
