Who Killed Darius Drake?

by Rodman Philbrick

  “Um, thanks, I guess.”

  “We always knew you had potential, Arthur, if only you would apply yourself. Naturally there will be paperwork to sign, but parental permission has already been granted—as soon as Darius came to me with the request for an independent project investigating the history of the public housing projects, I contacted your mother. Once I explained, she expressed enthusiasm for the idea.”

  The idea, as explained by Principal Bamberger, is an advanced placement project in which Darius and I will be allowed off campus to conduct research at the nearby city hall and public library complex. Words like data and statistics make me wince, but she doesn’t seem to notice. In the end I mumble and nod my way through the interview without saying much of anything, which makes sense because I don’t have a clue what Darius is really up to.

  Next thing I know we’re outside the main entrance, waving bye-bye to the security guard. Free to go. On a school day! Excused from class to “pursue research in the public sector for advanced placement activity.”

  “Dude,” I say. “Am I dreaming? What does that even mean?”

  Darius grins, highly pleased with himself. “It means Ms. Bamberger hopes that your association with me will improve your academic standing. Also, educators love it when students reach out to the community. I knew all that, of course, and simply provided what she wanted to hear.”

  “You made it up?”

  “No, no. Not exactly,” he says. “For instance we really are headed to the city hall archives, where we shall, with any luck, solve an actual mystery.”

  He strides off without a backward glance, as if fully expecting that I’ll follow in his footsteps. And like a moron, I do.

  You might expect the clerk at the city desk to blow us off. A couple of kids on a school project? Forget about it. But much to my surprise, the clerk, Mrs. Ferrini, is really helpful and nice, and she tells us how to get to the Registry of Deeds so we can do our research. Then she gives me a look like she’s got tape measures and scales inside her head, and she’s measuring me up. “You’re quite sturdy for your age, young man. I suppose you play sports?”

  “Um, not really.”

  “Well, don’t be surprised if my husband attempts to recruit you one of these days. He’s the varsity football coach.”

  I nod and try to look happy, but the idea of going out for football makes me feel a little sick. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out what a big fat coward I really am.

  As we head down to the Registry of Deeds, Darius says, “You’ll notice she didn’t suggest I should play sports.”

  “Do you want to?”

  He laughs. “Not in the least. Smelly locker rooms? Towel snapping? I think not. My talents lie elsewhere.”

  In the lower level of the registry, in the cool dimness of a big basement area, we find a place they call “the stacks.” Probably because there are stacks and stacks of books on metal shelves. Large books made up of bound maps, covering every inch of land in the county. Those are the map books. The deed books are smaller but thicker, and so heavy it takes the two of us to lift one onto the reading desk.

  The air smells of leather and old books. I must be some kind of weirdo, because to me that’s a good smell.

  Anyhow, we get to work finding the deed books that interest Darius and pulling them from the shelves. To be honest, I’m not sure what a deed is or why we should care about them. Darius explains: “Each time a piece of property changes hands, a new deed is issued and entered into these ledgers. I want to find the deed that shows who owns 123 Rutgers Road. I want to know if the owner sent me that letter written in blood, and if so, why. Maybe his identity is right here,” he says, tapping a skinny finger on the stack of deed books.

  “Huh. So you’re thinking Mystery Man not only lived at the house, he’s also the registered owner?”

  “Quite possibly. There’s only one way to find out.”

  First we find 123 Rutgers Road on the land map—easier said than done, but we do finally locate it—and then we start flipping pages in the deed books until we get a match.

  What we find, neatly typed and pasted into the book, is so shocking that for once in his life Darius Drake is at a loss for words. He doesn’t have to speak, because his name is right there on the page:

  Pop Pop LLC in Trust for Darius Edgar Drake

  “Dude,” I finally say. “Does that mean you own the house?”

  YEAH, OKAY, I intended to quit working for Darius. And I really meant it, too. Until he found a cool way to get us out of school for the day, so of course I went along. Who wouldn’t? And I admit it was exciting when we found his name on the deed for that spooky old house because it raised so many other questions that my brain was spinning like a hoverboard with a blown battery.

  But I never, ever intended to go back to that house. No way. Didn’t matter whose name was on the deed, it was still Stomper territory, and I’m afraid of Scar Man because, well, because I’m not crazy. You’d have to be insane not to be afraid of a human bulldozer, right? Which means Darius Drake is certifiably insane. And maybe me, too, for going along with him.

  “Be assured we are in no danger. According to my calculations there’s a ninety-three percent chance that Scar Man will cooperate.”

  It’s the next day after school. I’m supposed to be on my way home, but somehow I’m sitting on the steps of the house at 123 Rutgers Road. I’m hoping Selma isn’t going to drive past and tell my mom. We’re waiting for a known criminal to deliver us the keys.

  Really? I mean, what are the chances? Just because Darius managed to call the lawyer for something called Pop Pop LLC, which is holding the property in trust for him until he’s an adult? The lawyer refused to discuss the identity of the trust holder. That was confidential, and protected by the lawyer-client privilege, but he agreed to contact Scar Man and inform him that Darius had a right to inspect the property that would one day be his.

  “Pop Pop LLC,” I say. “Sounds like a hip-hop producer.”

  “LLC is ‘limited liability corporation.’ Sort of like ‘incorporated’ but more private. Who it truly represents remains a mystery.”

  “Pop pop. The sound of gunfire. Last sound we hear.”

  Darius chuckles. “Have a little faith, Bash Man.”

  I’m keeping a sharp eye on the street in the vicinity of the Stompanado projects, figuring that’s where Scar Man will appear. Catch sight of him first and maybe I’ll have time to grab Darius by his scrawny neck and drag him away before the big man reduces us to ground hamburger.

  But as usual I’m focusing on the wrong thing, because it turns out he’s already here. Inside the house. Probably listening to every word we say. My heart just about stops when the lock clicks and the door creaks open and suddenly he’s looming over us like some sort of human tornado.

  “This a bad idea,” he says in his raspy, swallowed-a-bucket-of-nails voice.

  I couldn’t agree more.

  “You spoke to the owner?” Darius asks.

  “If you call him that. Told you, that crazy old man is out of it.”

  “What’s his name? His current location? Who is he?”

  The big man sighs. “You find out soon enough. He knows who you are, that’s all that matters.”

  Scar Man opens his massive fist. In his callused palm is a shiny new house key.

  He hands the key to Darius and leaves, muttering to himself.

  First thing Darius does when we get inside is settle down on the recliner. He looks around like the chair is his new throne and this is his kingdom. Which in a way maybe it is.

  “I still don’t get it. Why would someone you don’t know leave you a house?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

  We decide to search for a safe. We check behind some old paintings on the wall. Roll back the rugs to see if maybe there’s a floor safe, or at least some loose boards. Nothing.

  I open every drawer in the kitchen. Nothing but the usual utensils, inc
luding a hand-crank eggbeater so old it probably arrived with the Pilgrims. Nothing in the cupboards but a few plates and bowls and a coffee mug from the 1964 World’s Fair.

  I even check in the oven. Nothing but cobwebs and dust.

  “Doesn’t look like he used the kitchen much,” I say.

  Darius has stopped searching and has taken a seat in the small living room. His eyes are red and watery from all the dust, but he doesn’t seem to care. Nothing matters but solving the mystery. “If I were Mystery Man, where would I hide my secrets?” he says. “Not in a safe, because safes can be cracked or carted away. File cabinet? Too obvious. Computer file? There seems to be no computer. No tablets or cells, no devices of any kind. I don’t even see evidence of a landline phone.”

  “He was off the grid.”

  “Certainly appears that way,” Darius says with grudging agreement. “So where did he hide stuff?”

  “Inside the walls?”

  He shakes his head. “Too hard to retrieve. No, if I was living in a place like this, and I required the protection of someone like Scar Man, there’s only one place.”

  “We already checked for loose floorboards,” I point out.

  “In plain sight,” he says, rising from his throne.

  He goes to one of the crowded bookshelves, picks out a book, and begins leafing through the pages. “What does this place have the most of? Books. And what are thieves least likely to steal? Books.”

  I shrug and pull out a dusty book and flip it open. Page through it. Put it back, pick up another. The third book I pick up opens on an old photograph, which flutters to the floor. The faded image shows a dorky-looking guy with a ponytail and a big grin, holding hands with a little girl with a similar smile.

  I hand it to Darius. “Father and daughter?”

  He studies it. “Quite possibly,” he says, then tucks the photo into his shirt pocket.

  “We could quit, come back another day.”

  “No way. Let’s do this.”

  Over the next hour we find about two dozen photographs hidden in the books. The same dorky guy and the same girl are in many of the pictures, in various combinations with other people, including someone who looks like the girl’s mother. It’s as if a family album was taken apart and scattered among the books. But there are no names on the pictures, and no way to know whose family it is, although I’m voting for Mystery Man, whoever he is.

  I mean, who else can it be?

  I mention my theory to Darius, but he just shrugs and keeps searching through the books, so I go back to doing the same thing. And I find something, too. Not a photograph. A small, yellowed newspaper article clipped out and used as a bookmark. Or maybe, as Darius had suggested, to hide in plain sight.

  “Huh,” I say, scanning the clipping. “The Dunbar diamonds.”

  Darius is suddenly beside me, craning to see the article. “What?”

  “The Dunbar diamonds. They’ve never been found.”

  It’s obvious from the puzzled and irritated look on his face that Darius hasn’t got a clue.

  Wow. I know something a genius doesn’t.

  THE DUNBAR DIAMONDS are a local legend from almost a hundred years ago. I first heard about them in fourth grade when one of the kids in my class gave a report called “Interesting Facts About Our City.” Supposedly Donald Dunbar, the owner of Dunbar Mills—the factory, not the city—had a million-dollar diamond necklace made for the young woman he loved, but she died before he could give it to her. It was like this sappy, sad love story, where a zillionaire businessman falls for a beautiful brainy girl and she dies tragically, ruining the rest of his life. He never sold the necklace, but years later, when he finally croaked, it was nowhere to be found. Some think it was stolen, others that it remains hidden where the mill owner left it. Possibly in a grave. Others say it never really existed, that the Dunbar diamonds are no more real than a unicorn. Nobody knows anything for sure, so people are free to believe what they want to believe.

  Which is pretty much what the newspaper clipping says, before announcing a “new development in the case.”

  AMATEUR ARCHAEOLOGIST AND PART-TIME TREASURE hunter Winston Brooks has announced a joint venture with financial mogul Jasper Jones, in search of the famed Dunbar diamonds.

  “I have developed a new line of inquiry that we feel confident will lead us to the necklace,” said Brooks. “Mr. Jones is providing financial backing and manpower. I will be in charge of the research. And to those who doubt the necklace still exists, let me remind them of one fact we can all agree on: Diamonds are forever.”

  Based on photographs taken when the necklace was originally created, and documentation from the original jeweler, experts estimate that the Dunbar diamonds might currently be worth as much as fifteen million dollars … if, as Mr. Brooks suggests, they still exist.

  After reading the article and muttering to himself, Darius holds the yellowed paper up to the light and examines it from every angle.

  “The age of the paper can easily be confirmed in the lab, but my preliminary conclusion is that this appears to be genuine.”

  “It’s just an old clipping, probably used to mark a page. Why would it be fake?”

  Darius lowers the piece of newspaper and studies me instead, as if deciding whether or not he should share something. Eventually he says, “Because he was known to fake documents.”

  “Who?”

  Darius looks away. “The amateur archaeologist, Winston Brooks. He went to prison for forgery, financial fraud, and tax evasion. I knew that before we started. I assumed he had forged checks and failed to pay his taxes, but if this article is correct, it seems likely that his crime had something to do with the search for a long-lost necklace.”

  Something about the way he speaks, his flat, unemotional tone, gives me a sinking feeling. “Dude, why do you already know about this guy going to jail?”

  Darius has no expression on his face. No know-it-all smirk, no smile or frown. Nothing.

  “Because according to my birth certificate, my mother was Eleanor Brooks, later Eleanor Drake when she got married,” he says. “Winston Brooks was her father. Therefore he’s my maternal grandfather. And given the photos we found, and this clipping, it’s probable that he’s our Mystery Man—the man who until recently lived here, and who quite possibly sent me that letter written in blood.”

  Now it’s my turn to sink into the creaky old easy chair.

  “Whoa. You knew this when you hired me?”

  He stares at the floor. “Some. At the time it was more like a guess, that the letter might have had something to do with what happened when my parents died. Then we discovered this house was left to me. Whoever asked the question ‘Who killed Darius Drake?’ wanted me to put it all together, to figure it out.”

  “You think it could be about the accident? The one that killed your parents?”

  “Maybe.”

  Without really thinking about it I blurt out, “I heard you died, too. That your heart stopped beating.”

  His head whips around and suddenly he’s staring at me, his eyes enormous behind the thick lenses. “Where did you hear that?” he demands.

  “I have a sister who knows everything. Deirdre. My stepsister.”

  He goes back to staring at the wall. He’s embarrassed, and I’m embarrassed, too. Because I know what it’s like, having people talk about me behind my back. What names they call me. Arty Farty. Biscuit Butt. Even Bash Man, which sounds cool but isn’t if you think about it. Whatever they call me, one thing is certain: They’re all really glad they’re not Arthur Bash, the fat whale who scares kids for candy bars.

  “What else did she tell you?” he snaps.

  “Nothing. But she’s one of those girls who knows everybody’s business. She doesn’t mean any harm by it; she’s just curious about everything.”

  “Evidently,” he says in an angry tone.

  “Do you care what people think?” I ask.

  “No,” he says.

  �
��Me neither.”

  I’m pretty sure we’re both lying.

  Darius doesn’t say much for the rest of the afternoon. We search through all the books and magazines methodically. Leafing through pages, shaking them out. There are no other newspaper clippings, but we find another dozen or so photographs, similarly faded, of the same family. Darius Drake’s family; I get that now. The dorky-looking guy with a ponytail must be his grandfather, the one who was sent to prison. I assume the little girl is Darius’s mother, although he never exactly says so. The reverent way he handles those old photographs makes me think maybe he’s never seen a picture of his mom, at least not from her childhood.

  Before leaving we tidy up, returning all the books to the shelves and restacking the magazines.

  “Maybe we can come back another day,” I suggest. “See if we can find more evidence. Something to prove this is your grandfather’s house.”

  Darius won’t look me in the eye.

  “I think I figured it out,” he says.

  “You did? Figured what out?”

  “That name on the deed, what it means. Pop Pop LLC.”

  “What are you talking about? What haven’t you told me?”

  Darius stares at the floor again and speaks without expression.

  “I don’t remember much of anything from before I went to Stonehill. Nothing about my parents. But I do remember a little bit about my grandfather. I think he took care of me after the accident, before he went to jail. And when I looked at these pictures? The guy with the ponytail? I’m pretty sure I called him Pop Pop.”

  NORMALLY WHEN I put my head down on the pillow, I’m sound asleep in about two minutes. But after searching that old house and finding out about some crazy treasure hunt for diamonds that might not even exist, and how Darius is convinced that the Mystery Man is his jailbird granddad, it all keeps swirling around in my head.

  What does it all mean? And what am I doing, hanging with a totally whacked brainiac like Darius Drake? Okay, maybe it isn’t his fault that he’s weird, what with his parents dying and him being raised in an orphanage and all that. But that doesn’t mean I should be part of it. Not with a human bulldozer like Scar Man involved, even if the big man is acting sort of friendly at the moment.