by Stuart Gibbs
“Start with that and then, heck, you might as well get anything that seems of interest. There’s no such thing as too many crime-scene photos.”
Dad nodded in agreement, then set to work. The inside of the truck flickered with the blasts of his flash.
Back on the loading dock, Marge was still pleading her case to Pete. “I don’t see why everyone’s so angry at me. What about the drivers? They were right there with me the whole time.”
“Their job was to drive the truck,” Pete informed her. “Your job was to protect it.”
“Even so, they didn’t hear anything either,” Marge pointed out. “I’m not the only one.”
This was a somewhat valid point. There had been two other people in the cab so that the drive could be made in one shot; a single driver would have to stop to sleep. There was a space in the back of the truck’s cab for whoever wasn’t driving to sleep or relax. It was eight feet long and four feet wide, with a narrow bed and a little TV with a DVD player and headphones.
Both drivers were sitting on the edge of the loading dock. Greg Jefferson, who’d driven the first shift, was a big, bearded bear of a man. Juan Velasquez, who’d driven the second half, was small and wiry. Both looked considerably more upset about the missing panda and veterinarian than Marge did. Now that Marge had pointed the finger at both of them, they had very different reactions. Juan grew even more upset, as though he blamed himself. He nodded and said, “That’s true. We didn’t hear anything.”
Meanwhile, Greg got angry at Marge. “We had other things on our minds,” he snarled. “Driving this truck ain’t as easy as you think. And we had an awful tight schedule to follow. You were supposed to be keeping an eye out for any trouble, not us.”
“I was keeping an eye out for trouble,” Marge said, getting her dander up. “I’m just saying, there were three of us, and none of us sensed anything was wrong. So I don’t understand why I’m the one getting raked over the coals here.”
“Because you screwed up!” Pete screamed. “In the history of epic fails, this is up there with steering the Titanic into an iceberg! We have spent the last three months telling the entire world to come here to see our panda and now we don’t have a panda for them to see!”
“We’re also missing a person,” Mom pointed out quietly.
“Yes!” Pete said quickly, in a way that indicated he had actually forgotten Doc was missing too. “There’s that as well. Do you have any idea how upset his family is going to be?”
“Speaking of which, has anyone told them?” J.J. asked.
There was an uncomfortable silence as we all realized no one had.
J.J. looked to Pete. “As our head of PR, perhaps it’d be best if you took care of that. Pronto. I believe by now Marge is aware of how badly she’s screwed up.”
Pete realized this wasn’t a suggestion so much as an order. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then found the closest reflective surface—a window—and smoothed his hair and tightened the knot on his tie. “You’re right, J.J. Something of this nature needs to be handled by someone competent.” He gave Marge one last nasty look and stormed off.
Behind his back, Marge made a face at him.
Hoenekker moved farther into the trailer of the semi, past the panda cage. Dad and I followed him, Dad snapping pictures the whole way.
Just beyond the cage was a full-size refrigerator. While the truck had been driving, the refrigerator had run off the electrical system, but even now it hummed, powered by a separate generator.
Hoenekker snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and opened it.
There was bamboo inside. Several sheaves of it.
“They have to refrigerate the bamboo?” I asked.
“To keep it from wilting,” Dad explained. “From what I understand, Li Ping was a picky eater. They wanted to keep her as content as possible en route.”
Hoenekker closed the refrigerator and we moved on. Since we were far from the rear doors now, there was less light, though we could still see all right. Doc’s quarters were much nicer than I’d expected. The space was about twelve feet long and eight feet wide. On the wall of the semi farthest from the rear doors—the reverse side of the truck’s cab—a flat-screen TV was mounted with a couch facing it. To the side of the couch was a small table with a lamp bolted to the top so it wouldn’t topple off if the truck made a sharp turn. Between the couch and the panda cage was a twin bed. The furniture was better quality than ours back home and seemed comfortable enough.
The only thing that looked unusual was the bed. The sheets weren’t merely rumpled; they were twisted up and partly pulled off the mattress.
“Looks like Doc was yanked out of the bed,” I observed.
Hoenekker gave me a sidelong glance. It seemed like he might have been either annoyed or impressed by my statement, but I couldn’t tell which. “Why do you say that?”
“Er . . . ,” I hemmed, now on the spot. “Because most people don’t kick the sheets off like that when they sleep. Or I don’t, at least. But if Doc was sleeping in there and someone pulled him out, maybe the sheets might have come off too.”
Hoenekker gave the tiniest of nods. “It does appear he was forcibly removed. Although, given the state of the rest of the surroundings, it doesn’t look like he put up much of a fight.” He knelt by the bed, then carefully ran his gloved hands over the sheets.
“Are you looking for something?” Dad asked.
“This,” Hoenekker said suddenly. He removed a white washcloth from the snarl of sheets and stood, holding it at arm’s length from his face. I got a faint whiff of something kind of like alcohol from it.
Dad quickly snapped some photos of it.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Chloroform,” Hoenekker replied. “It appears that whoever took Li Ping drugged Doc in his sleep, then made off with him, too.” Hoenekker removed a large plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket, dropped the cloth inside, and sealed it.
Dad swept in to get some photos of the bed. I stepped back, taking everything in.
Hoenekker was right; there didn’t seem to be any signs of struggle. Doc had been moved out as easily as a sack of laundry. Besides the rumpled sheets, nothing was upset or overturned. The TV area looked as though Doc had barely used it. Someone had provided plenty of brand-new DVDs for him to watch during the long ride, but the only one he’d unwrapped was a National Geographic documentary about lions in the Okavango Delta.
In the glare of a camera flash, I spotted an oddly shaped hunk of metal on the floor near the TV. Then the light faded and the object was swallowed by shadows again. “There’s something over there,” I told Hoenekker, pointing.
The next flash illuminated it again. Hoenekker saw it, then flipped on a flashlight so we could get a better look.
It was a few interlocked pieces of metal, charred and twisted, about the size of my fist.
“It’s the dead-bolt lock from the rear doors,” Hoenekker said.
“What’s left of it, at least,” Dad added.
“The explosive blew it all the way over here?” I asked.
“That’s not too surprising,” Hoenekker told me. “C-4 is awfully powerful. Even a small bit could have sent that lock a dozen yards.”
I looked down the length of the truck, toward the rear doors. “Would an explosion like that be dangerous?”
“It could be,” Hoenekker agreed. “But the explosive would have been on the other side of the doors. The biggest threat to them would have probably been getting hit by the lock as it flew out.”
“Would it have been loud?”
“Of course.” Hoenekker sounded like he was getting annoyed with my questions. “What’s your point?”
“They grabbed Doc out of bed,” I explained. “Why didn’t the explosion wake him up?”
Hoenekker and Dad looked to each other, like they were surprised they hadn’t thought of this. “Maybe Doc had earplugs in,” Dad suggested. “It probably would have been awfully lo
ud in here while the truck was moving.”
“Or maybe . . . ,” Hoenekker began, but then seemed to think better of finishing the sentence.
“Maybe what?” I pressed.
Hoenekker mulled over whether to share his idea with us for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Maybe Doc knew the explosion was coming.”
“You mean, you think Doc was involved in the crime?” Dad asked, incredulous.
“No way,” I said. “Doc would never do anything like this!”
Hoenekker held up his hands, signaling us to calm down. “I didn’t say he did. I’m just thinking out loud. That’s all.”
“It sounded like you were accusing him,” I said. I would have gone on, but Dad put a hand on my shoulder, indicating I shouldn’t.
“I’m not accusing anyone,” Hoenekker told me. “Not yet. However, the evidence clearly indicates that whoever committed this crime had inside information. This truck was designed to look like ten thousand others. The timing of the delivery was kept top secret. And yet, our thieves knew exactly what truck to hit, when to hit it, and how to hit it. There weren’t very many people with that information, and Doc was one of them.”
“So was Marge,” I pointed out.
To my surprise, Hoenekker didn’t defend her. Instead, he simply admitted, “She was.”
“I still can’t imagine Doc being involved,” Dad said. “Why on earth would he help steal a panda?”
“Why would anyone steal a panda, period?” Hoenekker’s voice trailed off as he noticed something in the beam of his flashlight. A white envelope poked out from beneath the couch. It looked like it had been placed on the small table but had slid off while the truck was driving.
Dad knelt and took some pictures of it.
Then Hoenekker carefully picked up the envelope. It hadn’t been sealed, so the flap hung open, revealing a single sheet of paper inside. Hoenekker removed it, read it, then said, “Guess this answers my question.”
He then held it out so my father and I could read the message typed on it:
Dear J.J. McCracken,
If you want your panda back alive, it will cost you ten million dollars. Cash.
Start getting it together.
More details to come.
THE SECOND BATHING SUIT
The moment FunJungle’s front gates opened that morning, hundreds of PandaManiacs, unaware that Li Ping was missing, surged through and stampeded for the panda exhibit, each hoping to be the first to see her. It looked like a black-and-white tidal wave coursing through the park. In their rush, the fanatics flattened thousands of freshly planted flowers, knocked over a hot dog cart, and nearly trampled an unfortunate groundskeeper. (Luckily, he was able to avoid being crushed by climbing a jacaranda tree.)
The new exhibit was called Panda Palace, and it was modeled after the Forbidden City in Beijing, with red walls, intricate decoration, and a curved tile roof. The PandaManiacs overwhelmed the two guards stationed there for crowd control and crammed into the viewing rooms, severely violating the official capacity and piling up thirty deep against the glass. Then they began chanting for Li Ping again.
Pete Thwacker knew he couldn’t let this go on all day: After a few hours without a panda, the crowd would get angry, and an angry crowd was a mob. So he reluctantly went out to the exhibit to face the PandaManiacs.
I was still at the crime scene, but I watched the whole thing with Summer on her phone. The local news stations all had cameras in position and were live-streaming the event.
Inside the truck, Hoenekker was dusting for fingerprints. I was with Summer because, frankly, watching someone dust for fingerprints was boring. No one quite knew what to make of the ransom note yet. J.J. McCracken had gone off to his office to discuss it with his lawyers.
Pete couldn’t even get inside Panda Palace. Instead, he had to speak to the hundreds of people crowded outside, still waiting to enter the exhibit. He stared them all down—and lied to their faces. It would have been horrible PR to reveal that the panda had been stolen—and J.J. probably would have killed him. So instead, he told them what would have been the truth, had Li Ping actually arrived as planned. “Hello, panda fans!” he said cheerfully, doing an incredible job of acting as though nothing had gone wrong. “We at FunJungle are thrilled to see so many of you here today to welcome Li Ping. However, federal law mandates that, for her safety—as well as the safety of all the other beloved animals here—Li Ping must remain under quarantine at our medical facility for the next thirty days.”
This was met with a chorus of boos, and then Pete was pelted with everything from balled-up napkins to stuffed panda toys.
“It’s for the health of the panda!” Pete added, somewhat desperately. “You don’t want Li Ping to get sick, do you?”
This was followed by a lot of disgruntled muttering as most of the crowd realized Pete had a point. “Why’d you even announce that the panda was here if you weren’t going to put her on display today?” someone shouted.
“We didn’t announce the panda would be here!” Pete protested indignantly, even though it was partly his fault that word had leaked out. “You all just showed up! However, to show our appreciation for all of you, everyone here today is entitled to a free large soft drink and a commemorative Li Ping cup.”
To my surprise, this appeared to quell most of the crowd. They were still upset, but most of them quickly made a beeline for the closest soda stands.
“That actually worked?” I asked Summer. “What’s a large soda cost your father? Five cents?”
“If that,” Summer said. “Including the cup. But he charges $7.99 for it normally, so everyone probably thinks they just got a great deal. Daddy always says the quickest way to win over your enemies is to make them think they suckered you out of something.”
I was suddenly aware of a commotion around the corner of the building. One of Hoenekker’s guards was telling someone they couldn’t approach the loading dock. “It’s for the safety of the panda,” he insisted. “Li Ping has had a very long trip and she needs her privacy.”
“I’m not trying to approach the loading dock,” the other person said. “I need to talk to Teddy Fitzroy.”
I recognized the voice. Olivia Putney.
“Hey, Olivia!” I called. “Hold on!” I jumped off the loading dock and ran around the corner. Summer came with me.
There was a wide alley between the veterinary hospital and the administration building, the seven-story tower where all of FunJungle’s administrators and lawyers—and J.J. McCracken—had their offices. I recognized the guard with Olivia. His name was Kevin Wilks, he was young, and he wasn’t exactly the sharpest member of the force. In fact, there were probably several animals at the park that were smarter than Kevin. He stood directly in Olivia’s path, legs and arms splayed, to keep her from getting past him.
If I hadn’t heard Olivia first, I might not have recognized her. I saw Olivia in her swimsuit so often, she looked strange in regular clothes. I’d also never seen her with dry hair. It was lighter than I’d realized, and it was frizzed out from the humidity. She was carrying a plastic gift bag from the FunJungle Emporium.
“What’s going on?” Summer asked.
Kevin seemed starstruck by Summer. “Er . . . Ah . . . This woman claims she knows Teddy.”
“She knows both of us,” Summer told him.
“Oh,” Kevin said, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. But Chief Hoenekker told me to keep all unauthorized personnel away from the loading dock.”
“I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble,” Olivia said, then looked to me. “I needed to talk to you about the dolphins and I heard you were over here. How’s Li Ping, anyway?”
She tried to make this last question sound casual, like it had only occurred to her at that moment, but she didn’t quite pull it off. Which made me suspect that Olivia was using the dolphins as an excuse to find out what was going on with Li Ping. After all, if she had really needed to talk to me, she could have called me.
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br /> I also noticed that Olivia wasn’t the only curious FunJungle employee around. Despite Hoenekker’s attempts to keep the panda’s disappearance under wraps, it appeared people were beginning to suspect that something was wrong. By now, it must have been clear to all the employees at the hospital that neither Li Ping nor Doc was anywhere to be seen.
Behind Olivia, at the far corner of the administration building, a small crowd of employees milled about, trying to act casual, but obviously intrigued by what was going on. It was an odd assortment of people: a few keepers, some members of the janitorial staff, two lawyers (they were the only people at FunJungle who wore suits besides Pete), and three actors dressed as mascots. Or, at least, partially dressed as mascots; the ones who played Eleanor Elephant and Zelda Zebra had popped their heads off. Meanwhile, the actor dressed as Li Ping remained fully suited up, probably to avoid damaging the brand-new costume. They were all paying close attention to us, as though hoping for news about the real panda.
I wasn’t going to be the one to spill the beans about what had happened, though. A glance from Summer indicated she wasn’t going to either. Instead, both of us played dumb.
“Li Ping’s fine,” we both said at once.
“Really?” Olivia asked. “Then why’s there so much security around?”
“They’re just here to keep everyone away from the panda,” Summer said quickly. “Pandas aren’t like dolphins. They get sick really easily around people.”
Olivia seemed unsure whether or not to believe that. But before she could pose any more questions, I asked her, “What’d you need to talk to me about?”
Olivia seemed to realize she couldn’t press the panda issue any more. “We got your bathing suit back.” She dug my wet suit out of the plastic bag. “Sorry, but it’s a little chewed up. It took me a while to get Snickers to give it up.”
“A little chewed up” was an understatement. Thanks to Snickers, my suit now had more holes than a golf course. “Thanks,” I said.
“That was your big emergency?” Summer asked skeptically. “You could have just texted Teddy about that.”
