* * *
STUNT DOUBLE
“No answer?” Randi asked.
“Nope.” D.C. handed Randi’s phone back to her as they followed Gigi down the sidewalk toward the site of the tournament. “It just goes straight to my dad’s voice mail.”
“He’s probably busy,” Pudge offered.
“Yeah.” D.C. sounded unconvinced.
“Maybe it will be better this way,” Randi assured him. “Now you get to surprise your dad!”
D.C. managed a weak smile. “I just hope he’s glad to see me.”
“Are you kidding?” Gigi asked. “Who wouldn’t be glad to see a kid-sized ninja like you? Now, hurry up! We’re almost there.”
D.C. nervously reached under his coat and tightened the belt of his black dobok. He’d let out the hem of the dobok’s pants, but they were an inch too short and his bare ankles were red from the cold. Then his fingers adjusted the headband holding back his unruly thatch of hair. When Randi had first met D.C., he’d worn the headband every day—not to keep his hair under control but to cover the hearing aid he wore in his ear. Since they’d solved their first case together, D.C. had stopped hiding his hearing aid. But now the headband was back—and Randi wasn’t happy to see it.
Randi crossed her fingers for D.C.’s sake. She hoped his reunion with his father was everything he hoped it would be. Then she turned her attention back to her surroundings. Gigi was leading them through a neighborhood filled with old factories, workshops, and warehouses. There was a faint stench of sewage in the air. According to Gigi, it came from the canal that ran through the area. As soon as she mentioned the canal, Randi noticed that a short blue bridge lay just ahead of them. The wooden boards of the deck creaked as they clomped across.
The slate-gray surface of the canal was like a mirror. When they stopped to gaze down at the calm waters, Randi could see the four of them staring up at themselves.
“The canal is kind of pretty,” Pudge said when the sun hit the surface and turned a patch of oil into a glittering rainbow.
“Yep,” said Gigi. “And completely disgusting. Whenever there’s a big rainstorm in New York, the sewers fill up and they have to let sewage out. This is where they do it.”
“So that smell . . . ,” Randi started to say.
“It’s the real deal,” Gigi told her.
“This is where the tournament is being held?” D.C. marveled. “Next to a canal filled with . . . poo?”
“Aside from the poo, it’s a really cool neighborhood,” Gigi assured them.
~ ~ ~ ~
Two blocks from the bridge, they found the entrance to the warehouse where the tournament, or she-hahp, was being held. The space inside was massive—it stretched for as far as the eye could see. The floor was covered with a giant gray rubber mat with bright orange squares. The squares were the rings where tournament participants would be going head-to-head, foot-to-foot, and fist-to-fist. Everywhere she looked, Randi saw people of all ages dressed in Tae Kwon Do uniforms. It was, in her opinion, as close to heaven as she would ever get.
“It said online that my dad’s judging the male sport poomsae. His group is fifteen- to seventeen-year-olds,” D.C. said. “So look for teenagers.”
“What’s a poomsae?” Gigi asked.
“It’s a sequence of Tae Kwon Do moves,” Randi explained. “It’s for training purposes, but putting the moves together can be an art. You’re supposed to go through the moves very quickly but with perfect control and precision. Look over there. A kid’s doing one now.” She headed to a corner of the room where a boy was practicing a poomsae made up of punches and kicks. A small group of judges was watching. One of them in particular seemed to be really enjoying the show.
“Excuse me, sir,” D.C. said when the performance had finished. The man turned to face him, and D.C. bowed.
“What can I do for you, son?” he asked in a Southern accent so thick that you couldn’t cut it with a chain saw. Randi tried not to stare. The man was extremely good-looking. He was in his midthirties, she estimated. His dark blond hair was cut very short—almost military style—and he had a set of twinkling green eyes. He looked better in a Tae Kwon Do uniform than anyone else in the room.
“I’m trying to find Hector Cruz,” D.C. said. “He was supposed to be judging the poomsae.”
“You got your days switched around,” said the man. “He’s here tomorrow.”
“Oh,” D.C. said. His chin fell to his chest.
“You fight, son?” the man asked D.C.
“Yes, sir.”
The man gave D.C. a good once-over. “You look like you’re right about twelve or so.”
D.C. smiled. It was the first time anyone had ever guessed his age correctly. Because of his size, people usually thought he was much younger than he actually was. “I just turned twelve.”
“Well, when you come back tomorrow, be sure to wear your regulation white uniform. I can’t put you in the ring with a black dobok on.”
“Thanks for the offer, sir. But I’m not signed up for the tournament. And I don’t have enough money for a new dobok.”
“Don’t make a difference,” the man said. “There’s a table selling doboks by the front door. Tell ’em Jake said to give you one.”
“I probably shouldn’t compete,” D.C. said. “I have some health problems.”
The man named Jake frowned. “Like what?”
“Asthma.”
Jake looked unimpressed. “I had it too when I was your age. Tae Kwon Do helped me kick it. Anything else?”
“This,” D.C. said, showing the man his hearing aid.
“Son,” Jake said, with an arched eyebrow and a shake of his head. “There’s a boy here with one arm and a girl who’s completely deaf. As long as that hearing aid doesn’t get in the way of your kicks, I can’t see it causing too many problems. And as for signing up, I’m running this show, so I can put you on the list for tomorrow. As long as you give me your name.”
“D.C. D.C. Cruz.”
The man held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, D.C. My name is Jake Jessop.”
Pudge lit up. “Jake Jessop? The Jake Jessop?” He sounded almost breathless with excitement.
“Dunno if I’m the one you’re thinking of, but I’ve never met another,” said Jake.
Randi and Gigi both stared at Pudge as the boy began frantically searching through his backpack. Finally, he pulled out a Sharpie and thrust it at the man.
“Can I have your autograph? Please?”
The man laughed. “Not sure I’m used to this kind of treatment. What would you like me to sign?”
Pudge rifled through his backpack but couldn’t come up with a suitable piece of paper. “How about my backpack?” he asked.
As the man signed, Gigi stepped forward. “Pardon me for asking,” she said sheepishly. “Are you famous?”
“No,” said Jake, turning a bit red.
“Are you joking?” Pudge nearly shouted. “He’s the best stunt man in Hollywood. Whenever you see a movie where some big shot actor is doing martial arts, it’s almost always this guy who’s doing the moves for them!”
“That’s amazing!” Randi cried.
“I can’t believe I just shook your hand,” D.C. said, looking down at his palm.
“These kids sure know how to butter a guy up,” Jake joked to Gigi.
Another judge tapped Jake on the shoulder.
“Oops. Looks like it’s time to get started. Come back tomorrow, D.C. Cruz,” he said. Then he gave Gigi a quick wink. “And be sure to bring your friends.”
~ ~ ~ ~
To celebrate meeting a celebrity, they ate pie for lunch at a sweet little restaurant they’d discovered near the warehouse. Gigi and Randi both had slices of peach. D.C. would have gone for “anything but apple,” but ended up settling on a slice of “salty honey.” Pudge ate a slice of all five of the pies available.
“You sure you want to do that?” Gigi had asked when she heard his order.
“Yup,” he’d
answered. “Way I see it, I’m never going to have a chance like this again.”
“You know there’s a pretty good reason why your parents would never let you eat five slices of pie in one sitting,” Gigi said.
“Yup,” Pudge had responded. “My dad says his rules are for my own good. They’re supposed to keep me from getting in trouble. But you know what, Ms. Daly? I think I’d like to make some mistakes. There are a few things in life a guy like me should figure out on his own.”
“Well put,” said Gigi. “That’s the best excuse for eating like a pig that I’ve ever heard. Be my guest.”
Randi watched in amazement as Pudge ate every crumb. He didn’t even seem to enjoy the last couple of slices, but he forced himself to keep chewing and swallowing. When the last bite had been consumed, he lay down on the restaurant’s bench.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk back to the subway,” he announced.
“I should think not!” Gigi said. “That’s why I called a cab ten minutes ago. He’s waiting for us outside.”
“Arrrgh.” Pudge groaned as the three of them helped him to his feet. “I’m never eating pie again!”
“I bet you won’t,” Gigi said. “Please try your best not to throw up until we get back to the apartment. It would be cruel to ruin pie for the cabdriver, too.”
~ ~ ~ ~
When the taxi pulled to a stop in front of Gigi’s building, she handed Pudge the keys to the apartment. Without saying a word to anyone, he leaped from the car and sprinted for the elevator.
“I really hope he makes it in time,” Randi said.
“Me too,” said Gigi. “ ’Cause in my house, there’s only one rule: You spew it, you clean it.”
D.C. and Randi were still laughing when they reached the building’s landing. Suddenly D.C. went silent. He tugged gently on the back of Randi’s shirt and subtly gestured toward a group of men who were cramming luggage and boxes into one of the elevators.
“That’s the watcher!” he whispered in Randi’s ear.
“The who?” she almost asked. Then she noticed the binocular case atop one of the bags. The man D.C. had seen watching the museum through binoculars seemed to be moving into Gigi’s building.
There were three men, and there wasn’t a swatch of black leather among them. They were wearing regular clothes. Khakis, sneakers, T-shirts, and Yankees baseball hats. Too regular, thought Randi. And all of it new. The clothes were pristine, and the sneakers didn’t have a scuff on them. More interesting, the baseball hats hadn’t been broken in. The bills were as flat as they would have been in the store.
Two of the men were serious types, with posture and haircuts that suggested they might have once been in the military. Their impressive biceps bulged as they heaved the boxes. The third was tall and thin, with curly black hair and an impressive nose. He smiled nervously at Randi and her friends.
“Moving in?” Gigi inquired casually.
The two burly men stood up. Randi took note of the boxes they’d been moving. They contained enough kitchen equipment to stock a restaurant. And all of it appeared to be brand-new.
“I am,” said the man standing closest to the elevator. “My friends are here for the weekend to help me be settled.” His manner was polite but not friendly. Something about it made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t in the mood for socializing. And who said be settled? Randi wondered.
Gigi didn’t seem to get the man’s message. “Welcome to Brooklyn,” she said, holding out a hand and flirting with abandon. “I’m Georgia Daly. But everyone calls me Gigi.”
The man hesitated. “I’m John.”
“And who are your charming friends?”
“Bob and Jim,” he said quickly with a note of irritation in his voice. He pushed up his shirtsleeves, exposing the part of a tattoo on his forearm. It looked like the bottom half of a beetle.
The curly-headed man stepped forward and shook Gigi’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke with a thick German accent.
The man with the tattoo who called himself John did not seemed amused. As soon as the handshake was over, he stepped between Randi’s aunt and the German man. “Now, please excuse us. We have a large van to unpack.”
“Of course!” Gigi trilled. She pressed a button, and the doors to the building’s second elevator opened. “Good luck with your move!”
As soon as the elevator doors closed in front of them, Gigi began tapping away at her smartphone while D.C. immediately lost his cool. “Did you see him? That was the guy!”
“I know,” Randi said. “And you were right. There’s something weird about him and his friends. Did you see their clothes? None of them knew how to wear a baseball hat. They hadn’t even broken in the brims. The tall one spoke with an accent, too. I don’t think they were American.”
“The one with the curly hair was German. The other two were Russian,” Gigi announced, looking up from her phone. “But Brooklyn is filled with people from other places. Their accents aren’t what make me think they’re up to something.”
The kids stared at the small blond woman. “What was it that made you suspicious?” Randi asked.
Gigi grinned. “The tattoo on the main guy’s arm.” The elevator stopped. Gigi stepped into the hall, and the kids poured out behind her.
“The bug tattoo?” D.C. whispered, following Gigi to the door. She put a finger to her lips as she opened the apartment door. Then she ushered them inside and quickly closed the door behind them.
They found Pudge lying on the living room sofa. One arm was wrapped around his belly. He had the other arm thrown over his face.
“Did you make it?” Randi asked.
“I made it,” Pudge replied.
“Did you see the guys downstairs in the lobby?” D.C. asked.
“What guys?” Pudge groaned.
“The man I saw spying on the museum is moving into the building. He’s got two friends with him. We talked to them, and Gigi thinks they might be up to something!”
Pudge sat up, looked disgusted with himself. “You guys got to talk to a bunch of crooks, and I wasn’t there? I swear. I’m never touching a piece of pie ever again.”
“You still haven’t told us how you know about tattoos,” Randi said to her aunt.
“The head guy has a tattoo of a beetle,” Gigi said, bringing Pudge up to speed. “A scarab beetle. Right after medical school, I worked at an emergency room at a hospital in Brighton Beach, another part of Brooklyn. There’s a big Russian community there. And one time, a guy came in with multiple bullet wounds. We had to cut him out of his clothes, and when we did, it turned out his entire body was covered with black tattoos. There were skulls and cats and ladies and knives. And I distinctly recall seeing a scarab beetle on the man’s arm. One of the nurses at the hospital told me that they were jailhouse tattoos. In Russia, prison inmates often give themselves homemade tattoos. Every tattoo has a special meaning, and together they tell a story about their owner.”
“What does a scarab beetle mean?” D.C. asked.
“I just looked it up,” Gigi said, flashing her phone’s screen at them. “It’s a good luck symbol that’s used by professional thieves.”
“May I see?” Randi asked, putting her hand out for Gigi’s phone. It was feeling way too good to be true. Randi had a hunch that Gigi was exaggerating—making the situation seem more thrilling than it was. But when Randi looked down at the screen, she found an image of a scarab tattoo that looked a lot like the one on the forearm of the man they’d met downstairs. The photo was on a website devoted to Russian prison tattoos.
D.C. gasped. “Those guys downstairs are thieves?”
“The beetle is evidence that one of the men may have been a thief,” Randi said, trying to play the voice of reason. “We have no proof that any of them were ever criminals.”
“Nope,” Gigi said. “But I think I know how to get that proof. There’s only one apartment in the building that’s empty right now—the one directly
below this one. That’s got to be where the guys were going with all of those boxes.”
“Great!” D.C. said. “We can stake out the hallway downstairs.”
“Or listen in at their door,” Pudge added.
“That would be dangerous—not to mention unnecessary,” Gigi said. “We can eavesdrop without ever leaving this apartment. Let me show you a little trick my sister taught me.”
Randi watched Gigi hurry off to the kitchen. She returned in seconds with four plain glass mixing bowls. She handed one to each of the kids and kept one for herself. “It’s not very high-tech, but it works like a charm.”
“What are we supposed to do with this?” Pudge asked, turning the bowl over in his hands.
“Find a vent,” Gigi said, pointing at a metal heating grate on the floor. She dropped down to her knees and placed her bowl upside down over the vent. Then she pressed one ear to the top of the bowl. “Nothing,” she announced.
“You almost had me going,” Randi said with a laugh. “I thought that was actually going to work.”
“It will,” Gigi said. “Conversations from downstairs travel through the heating ducts. The bowl magnifies the sound. There are two reasons I might not hear anyone. Either no one down there is talking—or they’re in another room. Pudge, check the rest of the vents in here. D.C. and Randi, try the kitchen.”
They all rushed off, some with more enthusiasm than others. Try as she might, Randi just couldn’t get excited. Gigi was trying too hard to keep them entertained.
When Randi reached the kitchen, she put the bowl on top of the floor vent, the way Gigi had showed them. Then she placed her ear against the bottom of the bowl. Suddenly, she heard two men talking. The voices were soft, but perfectly clear. Still, she couldn’t understand a word they were saying. The men downstairs were speaking in Russian.
“Hey, guys,” she called out to her friends. “I got something.”
Everyone rushed into the kitchen and took their turns listening through the crude microphone. D.C. and Pudge were captivated. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t understand a word they were hearing.
“Does the apartment downstairs have the same layout as this one?” Randi asked.
The Sweetest Heist in History Page 6
