Fireworks at the FBI

by Ron Roy

“We need to investigate?” Marshall said. “KC, in case you haven’t noticed, the FBI is on the case!”

  KC watched a long string of cheese droop down onto Marshall’s chin. That cheese reminded her of something … what was it? Suddenly she jumped up.

  “Marsh, I just remembered something!” KC said. “There was no pizza in that box!”

  “What box?” Marshall asked.

  “The box in the trash can in the FBI office,” she said. “The inside was totally clean. No tomato sauce, no sticky globs of cheese. You said it yourself!”

  Marshall stared at her. “So why was a never-been-used pizza box in the trash can?” he asked.

  KC took a bite of her slice. “I don’t know.” She chewed slowly and concentrated hard.

  “Maybe a pizza guy came to the FBI pretending to make a delivery,” Marshall said. “Only instead of a pizza, he had fireworks inside the box!”

  “But why?” KC asked.

  “Beats me,” Marshall said.

  He reached for another slice. “But whoever it was went to a lot of trouble. For one thing, there was a guard there.”

  “Yes, Joe Cellucci,” KC said. Her eyes opened wide. “Marsh, he might know who brought the pizza box into the FBI!”

  KC jumped up again and cleared the table, sticking the leftover pizza in the fridge. She grabbed her backpack and rushed out of the president’s residence.

  Marshall ran after her, gulping down the rest of his pizza slice.

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the FBI building, out of breath.

  A guard in a dark uniform was sitting behind the counter, staring at a TV monitor. The doors were locked, but he looked up when KC tapped on the glass.

  He walked over while pulling a wad of keys off his belt. He chose the right key, unlocked the door, and held it open. KC glanced at his name tag. It said JOE CELLUCCI.

  “Hello, miss,” Joe said to KC. “I saw you here earlier today. Er, what brings you back? Is the president with you?” He leaned out the door and checked down the street.

  “No, not this time,” she said. “But he’s real worried about those rockets that went out the window last night. We want to ask you some questions, okay?”

  Joe Cellucci looked at the two kids. He pulled on his nose and scratched his chin. “I guess,” he said. “But I don’t know anything about any rockets.”

  The kids followed Joe into the lobby. They sat in a couple of chairs meant for visitors.

  “The president and the fire chief think someone in that office last night shot the rockets,” KC said.

  Joe shook his head. “That office was locked. No one was in the building but me and Mr. Rinkel,” he said.

  “Who’s he?” asked Marshall.

  “Lawson Rinkel, on the third floor, room 303,” Joe said. “He’s here every Friday night, working late.”

  “Did he order a pizza, by any chance?” KC asked.

  Joe opened his eyes wide and nodded. “Now how’d you know that, miss?” he asked. “He gets one every Friday night, right at nine o’clock.”

  “Who delivers it?” asked Marshall. “I mean, which pizza shop?”

  “Red’s Pizza,” Joe said. “They have a red truck, and all their workers wear red shirts and caps.”

  “The boxes are red, too, right?” KC asked.

  Joe Cellucci nodded.

  “What did the delivery person look like?” KC asked Joe.

  Joe closed his eyes for a second. “A guy about my height,” he said. “Red shirt and baseball cap. Tinted glasses. Oh, and a tattoo of a leopard on his arm right here.” Joe touched his right forearm.

  “What color was his hair?” Marshall asked.

  Joe grinned. “It was blond, and really long,” he said. “In those braid things. Not braided braids like girls wear, just long and stringy-like.”

  “Dreadlocks?” KC asked.

  Joe nodded. “That’s it,” he said. Then he chuckled. “By nine o’clock, I’m usually pretty hungry. When I smell that pizza, my stomach goes crazy. Mr. Rinkel always saves me a couple slices and drops them off for me when he leaves.”

  KC remembered the empty pizza box in the trash can. “Did he save you any pizza last night?” she asked.

  Joe tugged on his nose. “Nope. Mr. Rinkel called on his cell and said he was waiting for an important call from London, so I should send the pizza guy up. Guy gets here, signs in, and I send him up. A little later, Mr. Rinkel calls my phone again. This time he says he never got his pizza.”

  “So the guy went up with a pizza box, but he never delivered it?” KC said. She stood up and started pacing back and forth.

  KC looked at Marshall. “I’ll bet the pizza guy set off those rockets,” she said.

  Joe shook his head. “That room was locked,” he said.

  “Do you know his name?” KC asked.

  Joe shook his head. “Red’s has a lot of delivery folks,” he said. “I never saw this one before.”

  Joe snapped his fingers, then hurried over to the counter. He picked up the sign-in clipboard and carried it back to his seat. “He signed in,” Joe said, flipping a page back. “Oh rats!”

  “What?” asked KC.

  “He didn’t write his name,” Joe said. He turned the clipboard so KC and Marshall could read what was there.

  The sheet was laid out with a long line

  for a name, then two short spaces to write what time you signed in and signed out. On the line for July 4th, someone had scrawled the words RED’S PIZZA.

  “He signed in at nine o’clock, but he didn’t sign out again,” Marshall said.

  Joe set the clipboard on his lap. “So you think this pizza guy came in just to set off those rockets?” he asked. “But why?”

  “That’s what the president wants to know,” KC said, standing up. “Thanks, Mr. Cellucci. Come on, Marsh.”

  “Where are we going?” Marshall asked as he hurried down the FBI steps after KC.

  “To Red’s Pizza,” she said. “I want to talk to the dreadlocks guy.”

  4

  The Disappearing Pizza Guy

  KC stepped into a phone booth and found Red’s Pizza in the directory. “It’s only a few blocks from here,” she said.

  They hiked it in less than ten minutes. The small pizza shop was easy to spot. It was painted bright red.

  “Look,” KC whispered as she and Marshall walked through the door. On the counter, dozens of red pizza boxes were stacked. On the front of each was a drawing of a pizza that had been turned into a smiley face. Under the picture were the words A SMILE IN EVERY BITE!

  “Can I help you?” a woman behind the counter asked. She was wearing a red shirt and red baseball cap and had a plastic badge hanging around her neck with her picture. Her name tag said NIKKI.

  KC had planned her story during the walk. “I’m trying to find one of your drivers,” she told the woman.

  “Why, was something wrong with a delivery?” Nikki asked.

  “No, the pizza was perfect,” KC said. She smiled at Nikki. “It’s sort of a surprise. I don’t know his name, but he has blond dreadlocks.”

  “And a tattoo of a leopard on his arm,” Marshall added.

  The woman looked at the kids. “None of our drivers has dreadlocks,” she said. “And I don’t remember a leopard tattoo on any of the guys, either. Are you sure it was a Red’s Pizza driver?”

  “Yes, I remember the box,” KC said. She nodded toward the stack of boxes near the cash register.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but your guy doesn’t work here,” Nikki said.

  “I guess we were wrong,” KC said, puzzled.

  “By any chance, did you sell an empty pizza box to anyone?” Marshall asked.

  “An empty box? Not me,” Nikki said. “But I guess another cashier could have sold one. None of them are here right now, though.”

  The kids thanked Nikki again, then left.

  “Something is weird,” KC said. “Whoever brought a Red’s Pizza box into the FBI building does
n’t work for Red’s Pizza. But he pretended he did by wearing the uniform.”

  “Well, he fooled Mr. Cellucci,” said Marshall.

  They passed the post office. “Let’s go in here for a minute,” KC said, pulling an envelope from her pack. “I have to mail that letter to my dad.” KC’s real father lived in Florida. She wrote to him or called every week and went to visit him a couple of times a year.

  They walked up the steps and into the post office lobby. While KC dropped coins into a stamp machine, Marshall checked out the posters on the wall.

  “Look,” Marshall said. He pointed to some pictures. A small sign said that these men and women were the nation’s Ten Most Wanted criminals.

  “It’s the Ten Most Wanted list,” he said. “They’re pretty creepy-looking. Mr. Smiley told us they put the list together in the FBI building, remember?”

  KC studied the ten faces, looking for some guy with blond dreadlocks. All the faces looked mean and sad. She turned away from the pictures and slid her stamped letter into a mailbox. “Okay, Marsh,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  The kids left the post office. In the distance, they could see the White House.

  “Wait!” KC said, startling a woman taking a picture of her family. “Who knew that Red’s delivered a pizza to the FBI building every Friday night?”

  “I don’t know,” Marshall said.

  KC looked at Marshall with raised eyebrows. “Joe Cellucci knew!” She pushed a street-crossing button and waited for the light to change.

  “So maybe there was no pizza guy at all,” KC said. “Joe Cellucci could have made him up. Maybe Joe Cellucci was the one who shot off those rockets!”

  “Why would he do that?” Marshall asked.

  “Who knows?” KC said. “But that would explain why Mr. Rinkel never got his pizza.”

  Marshall nodded. “And Joe has keys, so he could’ve got into that room that was locked,” he said.

  The light changed and the kids crossed. “Joe Cellucci could’ve made up that whole story!” KC said. “No dreadlocks, no pizza delivery, no pizza at all!”

  “I don’t get why, though,” Marshall said.

  “I don’t, either,” KC said. “But I have a sneaking suspicion Joe Cellucci was up to something. We have to tell the president!”

  5

  Threatening Phone Calls

  President Thornton and KC’s mom didn’t get back until late that evening. KC and Marshall were in the kitchen playing Go Fish when they rushed in. They looked upset.

  “What’s going on?” KC asked. She dropped her cards on the table.

  The president sat down alongside KC and raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe this!”

  Lois sat in the fourth chair. “Kids, there’s a problem,” she said. “Do you know anything about the Witness Protection Program?”

  KC and Marshall nodded. “Mr. Smiley told us about it this morning. It’s where people get a new identity,” KC said.

  “Right. Each person who goes into the program has the name of an FBI agent they can call if they have a problem,” Lois explained. “Well, a few hours ago, one of the agents got a call from a man who’s in the witness program. The man told his agent that someone called him, making threats. The witness had to come up with one hundred thousand dollars or the caller would reveal his new name and address.”

  “What that means,” added the president, “is that, somehow, someone has managed to get that witness’s phone number and real name. That information is top-secret!”

  “The witness is in danger,” Lois went on. “He’s being protected in the first place because he took part in a trial against someone who committed a crime. If this criminal finds out where the witness is, and his new name, he’ll have someone go after him!”

  The telephone rang and the president answered. “Yes?” he said.

  When he hung up, his hand was trembling. “Another witness has been threatened,” he said. “A woman who has been in the witness program for three years got a call an hour ago. A person told her to pay one hundred thousand dollars or the whole world would learn where she is, and her real name.”

  “But how did this information get out?” Lois asked. “Only the FBI knows who’s on that list, right?”

  “I think I know how,” KC said quietly.

  The president looked at KC with raised eyebrows.

  “I think the person who set off those fireworks in the FBI building last night stole the phone numbers,” she said. “And I think it’s Joe Cellucci, the guard.”

  Then KC and Marshall told the president and Lois what they learned from Joe Cellucci earlier that day. And how they went to Red’s Pizza to talk to the man who delivered the pie.

  “But we found out there is no such man,” KC said. “So we think Joe Cellucci is lying, and he set off those fireworks.”

  “And in the confusion, he hacked into the computers!” Marshall added.

  The president didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know,” he said. “Those computers

  are complicated. The hacker would have to have a lot of computer knowledge.”

  “Joe Cellucci could know a lot about computers,” Lois said. “The building would have been empty, so no one would bother him when he did his dirty work.”

  “Well, not quite empty,” Marshall pointed out. “Mr. Rinkel was there.”

  “Who?” the president asked.

  “He works there,” KC said. She explained to the president about how Mr. Rinkel stayed late on Friday nights and always ordered pizzas.

  “That’s interesting,” the president said. He picked up the telephone and called the FBI director. “Please bring in Joe Cellucci, the guard in the FBI building, first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “And a Mr. Rinkel, who also works there.”

  The president looked at his watch. “I want to see them in the Map Room at nine o’clock sharp!” he said.

  While the president was on the phone, KC grabbed Marshall by the arm. She pulled him to a corner of the room.

  “Marsh!” she whispered. “We have to find a way to hear that conversation!”

  6

  Two Suspects

  At ten minutes to nine, Marshall and KC were hiding behind the velvet drapes covering the Map Room’s tall windows.

  “What are we doing here?” Marshall hissed.

  “Don’t you want to hear what goes on?” KC made a crack between the drapes and peeked out.

  Marshall shook his head. “We’re spying on the president!” he whispered. “We could be sent to Siberia or something!”

  KC grinned. “He might send you to Siberia, but not me,” she said. “I’m his stepdaughter.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not go—”

  KC put her finger over her lips. She pointed toward the door as it opened. The president entered, followed by the FBI director, Joe Cellucci, and another man.

  KC nudged Marshall. When he looked at her, she mouthed, “That must be Mr. Rinkel!” The president sat first, then Joe and the other man took their seats.

  “Go ahead, please,” the president told the FBI director.

  “Mr. Cellucci, were you on duty the night before last?” the FBI director asked.

  “Yes, sir, I was,” the guard said. “From three until eleven.”

  “Good. Now tell us, how many other people were in the building during those hours?”

  “Just me and Mr. Rinkel,” he said.

  “No one else came in at all?” the FBI director asked.

  “Well, the pizza guy came at nine o’clock,” Joe Cellucci said.

  “Who was the pizza for?” the president asked.

  “It was for me, Mr. President,” Lawson Rinkel said. He was a short man with a round belly. His gray suit matched his gray hair. He had a thin nose and small dark eyes that darted around.

  Mr. Rinkel explained that he stayed late in his office every Friday, writing a novel. He always ordered a pizza at nine o’clock, when he took a short break to eat. Then he’d keep worki
ng on his book till around ten, when he left the building.

  “I was waiting for an overseas call from London at nine o’clock,” Mr. Rinkel went on. “I didn’t want to tie up the phone, so I called Joe on my cell phone and told him to send the pizza guy up when he got there.” Mr. Rinkel shrugged his shoulders. “The pizza never showed up.”

  “But the delivery guy came in at nine o’clock,” Joe Cellucci said. “I checked his ID, he signed in, and I waved him toward the elevators. After about fifteen minutes, my phone rang, and it was Mr. Rinkel, asking where his pizza was. I told him I had sent the guy up. Next thing I knew, the fire department showed up. They said someone was firing rockets out of one of the upstairs offices!”

  KC gave Marshall a look. “There was never a pizza!” she whispered in his ear.

  “Mr. Rinkel, why do you work on your book in the FBI building?” the FBI director asked.

  Mr. Rinkel blushed. “My house is too noisy, so I stay late after work. But just on Fridays. I use my own laptop, so I didn’t think anyone would mind.”

  “What’s your job?” asked the president.

  “I’m a computer technician,” Mr. Rinkel said. “I fix problems for the other computer workers.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone on your floor while you were busy on your laptop?” the president questioned.

  Mr. Rinkel shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “And what time did you go home?” the FBI director asked.

  “About ten-fifteen,” he said.

  “Did Mr. Cellucci see you leave?”

  “No, he wasn’t at his desk, so I just left,” Mr. Rinkel said.

  The FBI director looked at Joe Cellucci. “You were away from your desk?” he asked.

  “I guess I must’ve been in the rest-room,” Joe Cellucci said. “I don’t remember.” His face had turned red. He stared at his shoes.

  There was a silence, and then the president nodded at the FBI director. The director turned. “Mr. Cellucci, I’d like you to come back to my office,” he said.

  “But I have to get back to work,” Joe Cellucci protested. His face turned even redder.