Framed!

by James Ponti

  “But when he was in the gallery with the Van Gogh and the Degas, he was asleep,” I replied. “What could he see with his eyes shut?”

  “He had a camera,” said Margaret. “He had a big, bulky camera. He could have been shooting video the whole time he was pretending to be asleep. Then he could go back and look at it later.”

  Rivers smiled at Margaret and then her parents. “I guess only smart kids go to Alice Deal Middle,” he said. “That’s a very good theory.”

  “And we know he spent days in the other gallery while he was painting the copy of Woman with a Parasol,” I added.

  “Eight days total according to the copyist office,” he said. “So now that we know Novak was the one you saw, we can start searching his known associates in Washington and among EEL.”

  “What’s EEL?” asked my mother.

  “The Eastern European League,” he said. “It’s a crime syndicate with strong ties in the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Romania, and Bulgaria.”

  Margaret and I shook our heads in total disbelief. What had started out as a game, practicing TOAST, now involved the FBI and an international crime syndicate.

  “What do we do now?” asked my dad.

  “We just have to wait here for another twelve minutes,” said Rivers, checking his watch. “Then we’ll go up to the admiral’s office. He keeps an exact schedule. Not a minute early, not a minute late.”

  I poked around the bullpen while we waited and looked at the case boards, including one where a man was taking down the pictures.

  “Solved it?” I asked.

  “More like decided it wasn’t for us,” he replied.

  “This is Agent Crosby from Jewelry and Gems,” Rivers said by way of introduction. “We go way back.”

  “If you’re trying to catch someone smuggling diamonds from Sierra Leone, I’m your guy,” he said to everyone.

  Three pictures were taped to the board and numbered “1,” “2,” and “3.” A date was written beneath each. There was also a map of Washington with corresponding locations marked with the same numbers. None of the locations were near each other.

  “What’s the case?” I asked.

  “Three B and Es,” said Agent Crosby. “That’s breaking and entering. A sapphire ring was stolen from one. A pearl necklace from another. And we’re not sure if anything was stolen from the third.”

  “A ring and a necklace?” I asked. “I know you’re Jewelry and Gems, but that doesn’t sound big enough for the FBI.”

  “It’s not,” he replied. “But all three victims are employed by the CIA. They asked us to look into it to make sure the cases weren’t related. They aren’t, so we’re returning them to our friends in the Metropolitan Police Department.”

  I looked at the pictures and something caught my eye.

  “Uh-oh,” I heard Margaret whisper to my mom.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He just saw a clue they missed,” Margaret said. “Watch this.”

  It wasn’t really a clue yet, but there was something. All three photographs were taken in apartments. The first two in kitchens and the third in a bedroom.

  I pointed to the open window in one of the kitchen shots. “Is that how the burglar got into the apartment? Through the window?”

  Agent Crosby gave me a confused look, not sure why I cared.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I studied the picture, and then the other kitchen shot.

  “Can I see a picture from the third victim’s kitchen?” I asked.

  Now Crosby was annoyed. He was about to tell me it was none of my business when Agent Rivers joined the conversation.

  “Why don’t you show him?” he instructed. “Just for fun.”

  “The kitchen’s not relevant,” Crosby told us. “In that robbery, the burglar entered through the bedroom window.”

  “I’d still like to see it,” I replied.

  Rivers looked at me and smiled, which was the exact opposite reaction to Agent Crosby’s.

  “Show it to him,” Rivers said a bit forcefully. That’s when I realized he outranked him. Crosby dug through a file, pulled out a picture, and handed it to me. I saw exactly what I was looking for.

  “Do any of these victims have anything to do with China?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, two of them do,” he said, surprised. “They work at the Chinese counterintelligence desk.” He thought for a moment. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I think you better tell the CIA that the Chinese government is trying to spy on these employees,” I said.

  Rivers laughed and Crosby looked like he’d just been punched in the gut. Margaret walked over and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. He does that to everyone. You just got TOASTed.”

  11.

  The Admiral

  I USED TO THINK THE principal’s office was intimidating.

  Then I got called to the office of the director of the FBI and developed a whole new understanding of the word.

  The reception area had dark paneling, antique furniture, and three massive paintings on the wall. The names beneath the paintings formed the motto of the FBI. There was Fidelity, featuring an eagle soaring over the Grand Canyon; Bravery, which showed a Civil War battle scene; and Integrity, with George Washington taking the oath of office.

  This was the room where Mom, Dad, Margaret, and her parents sat waiting under the watchful eye of a man who politely offered everybody bottled water but also looked like he knew seventeen different ways to kill you with a pencil.

  Agent Rivers led me into a room with a large desk and a conference table. In here, one wall was covered with a map of the United States. Another was filled with photographs of the director with various world leaders. And a third contained a hidden door that opened onto a smaller, secret office.

  That’s where the director and Rivers talked while I waited nervously, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

  “I thought I was just supposed to thank him?” the director asked. “I didn’t realize we were involving him in other cases.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rivers. “But I think you should listen to his theory. It’s compelling. Especially when you consider that his last theory helped us recover more than sixty-five million dollars in stolen art.”

  They lowered their voices and I couldn’t hear much more until the end of the conversation when he asked, “How old is he again?”

  “Twelve,” responded Rivers. “But not like any twelve-year-old you’ve ever met.”

  They walked into the room and I was surprised by how tall the director was. He stood at least six foot four and wore his silver-gray hair in a crew cut. He had a thin mustache that curled up ever so slightly at the ends, and his imposing presence was softened by the hint of a Southern accent.

  “Florian, it’s nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Admiral Douglas.”

  “It’s an honor, sir,” I replied as we shook hands.

  “Agent Rivers says that you’re some sort of superdetective. Would you say that’s an accurate assessment?”

  “Well . . . sir,” I replied, flustered, “I don’t know if I’d—”

  “Son, in this room there’s no need for modesty,” he interrupted. “Just answer the question.”

  I took a breath and replied as confidently as I could manage, “I notice things that other people miss.”

  “What sort of things?” he asked.

  It felt like a test. I knew Agent Rivers had put his reputation on the line and I wasn’t about to let him down. I decided to show off.

  “Well, sir, I know that you have a chronically sore back,” I said. “And that you’ve owned that tie for more than a decade.”

  He checked to see which tie he was wearing and then looked at Agent Rivers for a moment before turning back to me and asking, “What makes you say that?”

  “The only nongovernmental item in this room is the small pillow you keep on the bottom shelf of the bookcase behind your desk,�
�� I responded. “I assume you use it to give your back relief when you sit for long periods. Also, your laces are tied along the inner edge of each shoe rather than the middle. Instead of leaning over and tying them while they’re flat on the floor, you put your foot up on your knee to ease the strain. Finally, there is a model of a submarine on the corner of your desk with an engraving thanking you for your service as its captain. Considering your height and the low ceilings on a sub, I imagine you had to bend over much of the time, which is probably when your back troubles started in the first place.”

  He smiled. “And the tie?”

  “There’s a photograph on the wall behind me of you meeting the former prime minister of France,” I said. “You’re wearing the same tie in the picture and he died twelve years ago. That means the tie is at least twelve years old.”

  Douglas laughed and turned to Agent Rivers, who flashed a huge smile.

  “Not like any other twelve-year-old indeed,” he said. “Florian, why don’t we have a seat and talk about what the Chinese government is up to?”

  We sat at the conference table and Rivers pulled three photographs from a file, placing them in front of the director and me.

  “Three apartments, each the home of a CIA employee,” said Rivers. “And each also the scene of a relatively small break-in.”

  Douglas looked at the pictures for a moment and asked, “And you think each of these was committed by a spy working for the Chinese government?”

  “I can’t be certain he’s working for the government,” I replied. “He could be working for a corporation or some other organization, but the government seems most likely.”

  “And what makes you think this?”

  “TOAST, sir.”

  “I see three kitchens, son,” he replied. “But no toast.”

  “TOAST is the Theory of All Small Things,” I told him. “It’s how I . . . well, for lack of a better term . . . it’s how I solve mysteries.”

  This made him smile. “Seeing as I’m just the director of the FBI and not a superdetective, why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “TOAST considers small, seemingly insignificant details that when added together reveal hidden truths,” I said. “In this instance, the three apartments are located in entirely different parts of the city. Each is at least four miles from the other two. Yet all of them have a menu from the same Chinese restaurant on the refrigerator. That’s what caught my attention.”

  The admiral smiled at this detail. “That’s interesting, but I hardly think that—”

  “It says ‘Free Delivery’ on the top of the menu,” I continued. “Do you know a Chinese restaurant that has free delivery throughout the entire city? Normally they only deliver in a one- or two-mile radius, a mathematic impossibility for these apartments.”

  “Good point,” he replied.

  “And if you notice, identical coupons have been torn off the bottom of each menu. You can still see part of one here. It says ‘half off your first order.’ ”

  I handed the admiral the picture for him to examine.

  “Imagine that you’re a spy who wants to infiltrate the CIA. You can’t break into headquarters. You can’t hack employee records on the agency’s computer servers. You can’t follow workers when they head home. All of these are overt acts that run the risk of getting caught. But you’re completely safe if the employees invite you to their homes.”

  Admiral Douglas shook his head in amazement. “You get them to order food.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Somehow the spy got these menus into CIA headquarters. Maybe he made a delivery to the building and just stuck a bunch of menus in with the food. Maybe he got someone to innocently bring them in. But somehow they made their way into a common area such as a break room where they were left out for anyone.”

  “And if only those menus have the coupon,” said Rivers. “That means whenever anyone places an order and mentions the coupon, the person taking the call knows it’s someone who works for the CIA.”

  I nodded. “So our spy delivers the food, and the person opens the door, allowing him to look inside the apartment, maybe even secretly take a picture or two. Later on he breaks in, makes it look like a burglary, and sneaks a listening device into a purse or briefcase.”

  Admiral Douglas looked at it all for a moment in total disbelief. “That’s brilliant.”

  “He really thought of everything,” I said.

  He laughed. “I wasn’t talking about the spy, Florian. I was talking about you.”

  This made me blush.

  “How long have our men been working on this case?” he asked Agent Rivers.

  “A couple of weeks,” he replied.

  “And how long did it take Florian to crack it wide open?”

  Rivers smiled. “A couple of minutes.”

  “Mrs. Jenkins, can you come in here for a moment,” Douglas called out to one of the secretaries. “Take-out Chinese,” he muttered to himself as he waited for her to come in. “Unbelievable.”

  A woman appeared at the door with a notepad in her hand.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “I need you to schedule an appointment with the director of the CIA and tell him it’s urgent,” he said. “And please ask Florian’s parents to come in here. I’d like to discuss something with them.”

  I looked at Agent Rivers and he just shrugged, unsure why the director wanted to speak to my parents.

  “Florian, just for fun, why don’t you close your eyes?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “What color are my socks?” he asked. “Black or blue?”

  “Neither, sir,” I said with a smile. “They’re burgundy.”

  He laughed again. “Thought I might trick you on that one.”

  Just then Mrs. Jenkins walked my parents into the room. Admiral Douglas jumped up from his seat and greeted them, giving each an enthusiastic handshake.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said. “This is some boy you have here.”

  “We think so,” said Mom.

  “Please have a seat,” he said, motioning toward the table. “I’m going to be honest. I have to go to the White House this evening, and now, thanks to Florian, I also have to squeeze in a quick chat with the director of the CIA. So if you’ll pardon me, I don’t have time for any small talk. I’m just going to cut to the chase.”

  “Certainly,” said Dad.

  “I would like Florian to work with us here at the Bureau.”

  My eyes opened wide. “You want me to be an FBI agent?”

  “Actually, I was thinking more as a consultant,” he replied. “Not often. But every now and then we might call and ask you to do that TOAST thing. I still don’t fully understand it, but I’ve only dedicated thirty-plus years to intelligence gathering.”

  “Mom? Dad? Can I?” I asked excitedly.

  “He’s joking,” my father said.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” he replied. “The only thing crazier than me asking a twelve-year-old to join us would be me not asking. In two days he’s helped us locate over sixty-five million dollars in stolen art and quite possibly uncovered a clandestine spying operation being run by the Chinese government. Imagine what he could do if we gave him another two days.”

  My parents were speechless, which I took as a sign that they were at least considering it.

  “Would I get paid?” I asked.

  The director chuckled at this. “We’d have to figure something out,” he replied. “We can’t put a twelve-year-old on the payroll without attracting congressional attention, but I’m sure there’s a way we can compensate you for your services.”

  “In a college fund,” blurted my mom. “We’ll create a college fund and you can pay him there.”

  “That’s a fantastic idea,” said the director.

  “But he can only help you when he’s done with his homework,” she continued.

  “What’s that?” asked the director.

  “He can help save the country,” she
said. “But only after he finishes all of his schoolwork. I won’t let this hurt his grades.”

  The director laughed. “Sounds reasonable to me. What do you think, Florian? You want to join us?”

  It was the easiest question I ever answered.

  12.

  The New FBI

  IT WAS WEDNESDAY MORNING AND my parents were at work. I’d just poured the milk on my cereal and was about to savor that perfectly crunchy first spoonful when the doorbell rang.

  “This is going to change everything,” Margaret announced as she entered the room tornado-style, midway through a conversation that had apparently started without me.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “My big idea,” she answered as though it was obvious. “It’s epic.”

  “Something tells me this isn’t a brief conversation,” I replied. “Can you explain it in the kitchen? I don’t want my cereal to get soggy.”

  “Kitchen it is,” she said, trying to seem as accommodating as possible.

  We sat at the table and I ate while she kept talking.

  “I’m just going to say three words,” she said. “The New FBI.”

  “What’s the New FBI?” I mumbled, my mouth full of Alpha-Bits.

  “Florian Bates Investigations.”

  I swallowed the cereal and smiled. “I get it. That’s funny.”

  “It’s not funny, it’s brilliant,” she said. “You’re already a consultant to the actual FBI. This just takes it to the logical next step. As soon as word gets out about you, people will start knocking on your door looking for everything from stolen property to missing persons. Senators, ambassadors . . . spies. They’ll come when they’ve run out of options because . . . Florian Bates Investigations is solving the mysteries of the world, one case at a time.” (That last part she said with a ta-da kind of feeling.)

  “You even came up with a slogan?”

  “I told you it was epic.”

  “Except no one’s going to come because word’s not going to get out,” I countered. “The only ones who’ll know about me are the FBI, my parents, and you. Admiral Douglas and Agent Rivers didn’t even want me to tell you, but I told them it was deal breaker. I said that you’re my best friend and I wouldn’t lie to you.”