by Mac Barnett
“How?” asked Fairview. “Your only clue just turned out not to be a clue.”
“Oh, I’ll find a way. Rick Elliot always gets his man.”
“You could set up a plant,” Steve said.
“What’s that?” asked Fairview.
“Well, the thief doesn’t know we’re onto him. So take the drill back to the station with a decoy diamond in it. And put a tracking device on the decoy. Let the thief take the drill, then follow him to his hideout. That’s how the Bailey Brothers tracked down the gang of tomb raiders stealing antiquities in Fiasco in Cairo.”
“Brilliant!” said Fairview.
“Yeah, we probably would have done something like that anyway,” Rick said.
“But what will you use as a decoy?” Fairview asked.
Rick stroked his mustache.
“You could use a red Jolly Rancher,” Steve said.
Rick scoffed. “We’ll come up with something better than some cherry candy.”
“Red could be cherry or watermelon,” Steve said. Who thought of gross cherry first? Only Rick.
“Whatever,” Rick said. “We’re not using hard candy.”
Steve shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Well, if the Ocean Park Police Department needs your help, we’ll ask for it.”
“Okay,” Steve said.
“Steve,” said Victor Fairview, “can I speak with you for a moment?”
“Sure,” said Steve, and followed Fairview into an adjoining hallway while Rick looked on.
“Steve,” said the old man, “I don’t feel safe having the diamond in this house until the thief is caught. I know detectives will often protect valuables for a client. Do you have a hiding place where the diamond will be secure?”
Steve didn’t even have to think. “Yes,” he answered.
Fairview nodded. He pulled the diamond out of his pocket and placed it in Steve’s hand. Steve took a closer look at it. It was translucent and glittered marvelously in the light. He took out his backpack and put the diamond in his zippered pencil case for the time being.
“How much do you charge, Steve?” Fairview asked.
“Two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses,” said Steve. “Although on weekdays it’s seventy-five percent off, since I’m in class most of the time. And for a job like this, which doesn’t require any real investigating, I’d be willing to give you a discount, so maybe like—”
Victor Fairview reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and handed Steve a single green bill. When Steve looked down at it, he thought it was counterfeit money. He didn’t recognize the man in the portrait.
“It’s a portrait of Madison,” said Mr. Fairview. “Consider it a reward for finding the diamond and some money to get you started.”
Steve looked closer. It was a five-thousand-dollar bill.
CHAPTER VIII
UNIDENTIFIED FLYING OBJECT
“HEY, CHUM,” said Steve to his best chum, Dana.
“Don’t call me chum,” said Dana to his best friend, Steve.
It was Monday, one week later, after school. Steve and Dana had met up on the road that wound along the ocean. They walked home with their hands in their pockets, like they always did.
“Do we have any math homework?” Steve asked.
“No—just the worksheet that we finished in class.”
They watched a pelican swoop low and skim, open-mouthed, along the water.
“Did you know Dana Powers’s parents got her her own phone line?” Dana asked.
“Yeah,” said Steve.
Dana Powers was a girl in their class. When their new teacher, Mr. Meyer, had shuffled the seating plan last week, her desk was moved next to Dana’s, which was completely confusing. Whenever their teacher called on Dana, both of them would start talking at once, and everyone in the class would laugh.
Now Dana talked about her every day.
“I wish I had my own line,” Dana said.
“Why? I’m the only person who calls you.”
“Yeah.”
“You just wish you had Dana Powers’s phone number,” Steve said.
“Yeah,” said Dana, grinning.
The pelican, its mouth drooping, flew upward.
Steve hesitated before speaking again. “Don’t you think it would be weird if your girlfriend’s name was Dana?” he asked.
“Why?” Dana replied, too quickly.
Steve shrugged.
Dana looked at the ground.
The boys walked a little further.
“Well,” Steve said, “aren’t you going to ask me how my case is going?”
“No,” said Dana.
Dana was what Steve called a “silent partner” in the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency. Being a silent partner meant that Dana didn’t carry a business card, that his name didn’t appear on the company letterhead, and that he wanted nothing to do with the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency.
Dana sighed. “How’s your case going?”
“Not great.” Steve shook his head. “Chief Clumber called me this morning to say the fingerprints on the drill didn’t match anything in their database. I expected that, since the drill was just a decoy. After school I told the nurse I needed to call my mom, but I called the police station instead to see if anyone had taken the drill. They hadn’t. But that’s all right—the thief’s probably waiting for the case to get cold and the police to lose interest. And even then, he’ll probably break in at night.”
Dana nodded, but Steve could tell he wasn’t really paying attention.
Steve stopped in front a blue mailbox and took an envelope out of his backpack. It was his letter to MacArthur Bart. Steve paused and rubbed the envelope against his chin. “I wrote Bart about my case,” Steve said. “Maybe now he’ll write back. Although it’s not like guarding a diamond is as exciting as a Bailey Brothers adventure.”
Dana frowned. “Steve, maybe being a detective isn’t always like the Bailey Brothers books.”
Steve felt the skin on the back of his neck get tight. “What do you mean?”
“Just that in real life, being a detective might not always be big clues and danger at every turn and stuff.”
Just then, something whizzed past Steve’s head, missing his temple by inches and hitting the mailbox with a large clang. Dana dropped to the ground and yanked Steve down with him. They both lay like snakes with their bellies on the road while more stones rained down from above.
Steve covered his head with his arms. “We’re under attack! Someone’s trying to kill us!”
CHAPTER IX
DEATH THREAT
A BARRAGE OF ROCKS HIT THE GROUND, throwing up dust all around Steve. He crossed his fingers on one hand and used the other to dig The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook from his backpack. He opened it to a section called “Falling Rocks!”
When rocks fall from the sky, it can only mean one thing: rock slide! Every detective runs into a landslide or two on the job, so the Bailey Brothers are experts at avoiding them. You can be too! When rocks fall from above, it’s a good bet the ground underneath you is about to slide away. But Shawn and Kevin have a nifty trick to avoid going splat—if you’re swept over a cliff, all you need to do is grab on to a tree or sturdy weed and hang there until help arrives! Oh, and one more thing: Don’t get walloped on the noggin by a boulder.
Steve was pretty sure this wasn’t a landslide, since they were on a flat stretch of land next to a beach, but he grabbed a dandelion patch with his left hand, just in case. He used his right hand to place the handbook on top of his head, and just in time, too. A stone ricocheted off the shiny red cover and bounced on the ground.
“Are you crazy?” Dana shouted. “You almost hit him on the head!”
Suddenly the rocks stopped flying. Dana and Steve stood up and brushed the dust off their shorts, squinting in the direction of the attack. A bulky form emerged from behind one of the cardboard trash cans that lined the beach road.
It was
Nate Rangle.
Nate Rangle had transferred into the seventh grade three years ago, and he’d stayed there ever since. Nate’s greasy hair hung over his eyes, and his arms hung at his sides like giant sunburned sausages. As he walked up to Steve and Dana, they could see that he was grinning. His braces gleamed in the sun.
“Well, if it isn’t Sherlock and Watkins,” said Nate.
“Watson,” said Steve.
“Shut up,” said Nate, and Steve did, but only because he didn’t have anything else to say.
Dana was angry. “What’s your problem, Nate?”
“You. You guys were in the way of my rocks.”
The three boys stood on the road by the water. Steve and Dana glared and Nate smirked. The wind blew lightly. Then, suddenly, Nate lunged forward. Steve flinched, but Nate just bent down and snatched Steve’s envelope from the ground. He’d dropped it in the commotion.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a letter, Nate. Give it back. I dropped it.”
“I think I’ll keep it.” Nate put it in his back pocket. “The Case of the Disappearing Letter. Think you can solve it, detective?” Nate took a step toward them.
“Shut up, Nate,” Steve said. He thought about throwing a Shawn Brixton haymaker punch into Nate’s solar plexus but figured it would be easier just to rewrite the letter when he got home, especially since he didn’t know where Nate’s solar plexus was.
Nate pulled a fake yawn. “Hey, Steve, why don’t you and your girlfriend get going?”
Steve looked at his chum.
“I’m not a girl,” Dana said quietly.
“What?” asked Nate.
“I’m not a girl.”
“Then why do you have a girl’s name?” said Nate, except he didn’t quite finish the word “name,” because Dana had punched him in the jaw.
Steve and Dana ran hard. Years of living with a girl’s name, or at least a name that girls had too, meant that Dana had learned to punch hard and run fast. Years of being friends with Dana meant that Steve knew when to get a head start. But Nate didn’t chase them. He just screamed, “You’re dead, Dana Villalon!” And he meant it.
CHAPTER X
A MYSTERIOUS LETTER
ONE WEEK PASSED without much incident. Dana faked a bad flu to avoid facing Nate at school. Whenever Nate saw Steve in the hallway, he ignored him, but Steve figured that meant that Nate was just planning something big, probably waiting till Dana came back. Nobody had tried to steal the drill from the police station yet, and Steve was getting bored waiting. He wished his new case were more exciting.
When Steve got home from school on Monday, his mom was getting ready to leave. On Mondays she worked the night shift at the hospital.
Steve’s mom grabbed her tote bag and opened the front door. “Bye,” she said. Then she turned back around. “Oh. I almost forgot. You’ve got some mail up on your bed.”
By the time the front door closed, Steve was already running upstairs. He swung around the corner and into his room. There on his pillow was a copy of Highlights magazine. He slumped his shoulders and picked it up. Underneath was a letter.
CHAPTER XI
A CALL FOR HELP
Dear Steve,
First, I must apologize for not having written you. I’m afraid I am not in the habit of corresponding with my readers. But I did receive your letters. And I enjoyed reading them all, and the article you sent a couple of weeks ago from your local newspaper. Well! A real-life Bailey Brother!
Now I must confess to you that I write under distressing circumstances. I am currently in Ocean Park, staying at the Sea Spray Waterfront Hotel. Steve, I have recently received threats that lead me to believe that my life is in danger. I have come to Ocean Park because I am hoping I can hire you. Steve, I need your help.
I would have come in person to your home, but I have reason to believe that I have been followed to Ocean Park, and I would hate to lead the criminals to your family (you and I both know what kind of trouble this can lead to--I’m sure you remember the trained gorilla that broke into the Bailey home in Bailey Brothers #12: The Big Top Caper). Moreover, I fear it may be dangerous for me to appear in public. There is a mailbox around the corner from the hotel. I will post this letter and return to my room. Please come meet me as soon as you receive this letter. I am staying under the name of A. C. Snuffley.
Most gratefully,
MacArthur Bart
Steve grabbed his notebook, magnifying glass, flashlight, and the rest of his detective kit and tossed them all in his backpack. He ran downstairs and wrote a note telling his mom he had gone to Dana’s. (Steve figured she wouldn’t like it if he was going off to meet some stranger. Of course, this was no stranger—this was MacArthur Bart.)
Steve slammed the front door, ran to the side of his house, and hopped on his bike. He was going to meet his hero.
CHAPTER XII
AN INTERROGATION
THE SEA SPRAY WATERFRONT HOTEL overlooked a quiet beach. Its roof was red and its walls were so white that Steve squinted as he walked up to the entrance. Far away, seabirds whined, and somewhere nearby a leaf blower droned.
What did MacArthur Bart look like? Steve had never seen a picture of him. Would he have glasses? Would he be funny, or very serious? Maybe his hair would be blond, like Steve’s. No, it would have to be white, or gray—MacArthur Bart must be pretty old. The Bailey Brothers books were written back in the fifties.
A bored and burly doorman saw Steve hurrying up the path and opened the big glass door. His old-fashioned suit was deep maroon and at least three sizes too small, so it made him look like the rhesus monkey that danced for tourists down on the boardwalk. When the doorman’s arm was outstretched, his sleeve rode up and revealed a string of tiny letters tattooed on his forearm. Steve’s eyes snapped on the marking—it was his detective’s instinct—and made out the words “rage will always be my last refuge” before the doorman quickly pulled down his sleeve. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Brixton,” he said, raising his little hat.
“How did you—,” Steve started, but then caught himself. A good sleuth is never caught by surprise. Steve made a deduction instead. “Let me guess. You’ve seen my picture in the papers.”
“No—I saw it on your backpack.”
Right. His name was indeed written in permanent marker, in his mom’s handwriting, on his backpack’s green fabric. At the beginning of the year she’d written his name on all his stuff—on his water bottle, on his binder, on the tags of all his clothes—so he wouldn’t lose them. Steve exhaled through his nose and turned the corner into the lobby.
The dark wood of the lobby floor had a waxy shine. It was the kind of floor that would be fun to slide across in socks. A huge window looked out on a deck with white wicker furniture, and past that, the Pacific Ocean. The place was quiet—Ocean Park’s hotels didn’t get busy till summer. Smooth jazz played softly from speakers you couldn’t see, but Steve was so excited as he walked up to the reception desk that he was only a little irritated by the music.
“Rage will always be my last refuge.”
The man behind the counter had a wispy mustache and glazed eyes. Steve knew from his name tag that his name was Lewis.
“Can I help you?” he asked after Steve had been standing there for a few seconds.
“Yes. I’m here to see A. C. Snuffley. Can you tell me his room number?”
“No,” said the man behind the counter. Steve had seen something flash in his eyes when he’d said Snuffley’s name.
“Why not?” Steve asked.
“We don’t give out guests’ room numbers.”
“Well, could you call him and let him know Steve Brixton is in the lobby?”
“No,” said the man behind the counter.
“Why not?” asked Steve, clenching his teeth and baring them a little, too.
“Who do you think you are? Do you really think I’m just going to give out private information to some kid off the street?”
; “I’m not just some kid.” Steve held the clerk’s gaze while he removed his detective’s license from his wallet and slid it across the table. The man picked it up like it was an old sardine and gave it a cursory glance. Then his eyes widened.
“A detective …,” he murmured.
“That’s right,” said Steve. “Steve Brixton, of the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency.”
“The Brixton Brothers Detective Agency,” Lewis repeated quietly. Then his eyes snapped back to Steve’s. “Where’s your brother?”
Steve sighed. “I don’t have one.”
“What?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Then why are you called—”
“You know, it’s like the Bailey Brothers.”
“The Bailey Brothers?”
“Look, the point is I’m a detective, okay?”
The clerk looked surprised by Steve’s ferocity.
“Okay.” He flung Steve’s card back across the counter. Then he said, almost to himself, “I knew that guy was trouble.”
“What guy?”
“The guy you asked for, Snuffley.”
“What about him?” Steve asked.
“He’s had a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on his door ever since he got here. Weird, but, hey, a lot of these rich folks are strange. But apparently he told room service to bring him the same thing—a bowl of caviar, a plate of smoked salmon, and a cheese platter—three times a day as long as he was staying here, and to leave it outside the door.”
Steve felt a twinge of disappointment. There was one difference between him and MacArthur Bart. Steve hated fish—the way they tasted, the way they smelled, and the cold, accusing way they looked at you, even when they were dead and on a bed of ice in the supermarket.
“So here’s where things get really odd. Yesterday he didn’t eat his lunch. It was just sitting in the hallway, untouched. Same with his dinner. And today his breakfast and lunch just sat there, too. I’ve been calling his room, but nobody’s answering. I don’t know if the guy’s died in there or what.”
