Hurricane Joe

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The receptionist let out a loud sigh and picked up a phone. “Hello, Lenny? I got a kid out here who thinks he knows something about the burglars. Can you take care of this?”

  A few minutes later, two young officers strolled out to greet us. One was dark-haired, the other blond—and neither one of them was smiling.

  “I’m Officer Welch,” said the blond one. “And this is Officer Warner.”

  “I’m Frank, this is Joe—and Chet,” I said, pushing him forward a little.

  The darker one nodded grimly, looked at Chet, and said, “So whaddya got for us, kid?”

  Chet cleared his throat a few times. Then he told them about finding his stolen Zbox at Velma’s Pawnshop.

  The two policemen looked at each other and shrugged. “It doesn’t prove anything,” said Officer Welch. “The burglar probably sold it to her.” He shrugged again and turned to walk away.

  “Wait,” I said, shocked by their lack of interest. “Shouldn’t you guys follow up on it? Ask Velma where she got it?”

  Welch stopped and sighed. “Look, kid. Don’t tell us how to do our job. We have a lot on our minds right now.”

  “Yeah,” said his partner. “Thanks to this hurricane, we’re pretty tied up. And your Zbox is pretty low on our to-do list.”

  Chet’s mouth dropped open. “But—”

  “We’ll get back to you if there are any breakthroughs in the case.”

  Then Welch and Warner strolled off, slamming a big steel door behind them.

  Joe shook his head. “They have to be the worst detectives on the force.”

  I had to agree. “We’ll have to ask Dad about those two.”

  We walked out of the lobby and back to the car. Chet complained every step of the way.

  “I can’t believe what just happened in there,” he said. “You would think they’d be happy about getting a lead in the case. But no, they just wanted to get rid of us.”

  “They must be overworked,” I said, even though I didn’t really believe what I was saying.

  Chet opened the car door. “Now what, guys? Want to hang out, see a movie or something?”

  “No, thanks, Chet,” I said. “Joe and I need to get something at the store. You go on without us. We can walk home.”

  “We can?” said Joe.

  I kicked his foot. “We promised Aunt Trudy. Remember, Joe?”

  “Oh. Oh, yeah.”

  Chet seemed a little disappointed and tried to change our minds. Eventually he gave up, then started the car and drove off.

  Joe looked at me. “Okay, what’s up, bro? What do we need to get from the store?”

  “Velma’s confession,” I said.

  “Really? You think she’s guilty?”

  “I think she knows who sold her the Zbox. And I think we can get her to talk.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “We can threaten to turn her in to the cops for selling stolen merchandise.”

  “But the cops don’t seem to care.”

  “No, they don’t,” I said. “But Velma doesn’t know that. And I bet she’s not anxious to go back to prison.”

  I knew it was good idea—but Joe didn’t say anything.

  (He hates it when I’m right.)

  The sun broke through the clouds as we crossed the town square. Even though the water had drained from the streets, the buildings were badly stained from all the flooding.

  “What a mess,” I said. “I hope the town is forming some sort of cleanup committee.”

  “We should volunteer to help.”

  “Good idea, Joe,” I said, slapping his shoulder.

  “Thanks, man.”

  Joe took a deep breath.

  “Yours is a good idea too, Frank,” he said. “Getting Velma to talk. It’s brilliant.”

  I raised my chin. “Yes, I know.”

  Joe pushed me into a puddle.

  “I’ll get you for that!”

  I started chasing him across the square until we reached the alley. Then we stopped in our tracks.

  “Dude! Check it out,” said Joe.

  The whole alley was littered with waterlogged merchandise from Velma’s Pawnshop.

  “I guess she hasn’t come back yet,” said Joe.

  “Or maybe she left town before people started asking questions.”

  Without another word, we stepped into the alley and approached the little store.

  The door was wide open.

  Slowly we walked inside—and gasped at what we saw.

  Velma Carter was lying on the floor, clutching her throat. Her chest heaved up and down. Her eyes rolled around in their sockets.

  Joe and I rushed to her side.

  With a stiff, trembling hand, Velma reached up toward us.

  Then she uttered one simple word.

  “Poison.”

  9 Death in a Bottle

  Poison?

  I stared down at Velma, stunned and helpless.

  “What happened?” I asked her.

  She looked at me with pain in her eyes and nodded at a half-empty soda bottle on the floor.

  Someone put poison in her soda.

  I reached for the bottle, but Frank stopped me. “Don’t touch it, Joe! There might be fingerprints on it!”

  Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. “We need an ambulance at Velma’s Pawnshop on Southside Alley,” he told the operator. “Velma’s been poisoned.”

  Velma grabbed my hand and squeezed.

  “Who did this to you?” I asked her.

  She raised her head and tried to speak. I leaned in closer, tilting my ear toward her mouth.

  “W …”

  That’s all I heard—a W sound.

  Then she closed her eyes and slumped back.

  No!

  I was starting to check her pulse when someone yelled from the doorway.

  “Step aside, boys!”

  It was Officer Welch and his partner, Officer Warner. They rushed into the tiny shop, practically knocking Frank and me to the floor. Warner, the dark-haired one, knelt down over Velma’s body. Welch picked up the soda bottle.

  He’s touching the evidence.

  I was ready to point out his faulty police work when an ambulance came roaring down the alley. Lights flashing and siren blaring, it screeched to a stop in front of the store. Two paramedics jumped out and rushed inside.

  “Hurry,” I said. “We think she’s been poisoned.”

  Officer Warner stood up to let the paramedics examine the body. Then he turned and stared at Frank and me.

  “What were you boys doing here?” he asked.

  “We wanted to ask Velma about the stolen Zbox,” I said without hesitation.

  Frank smacked my arm.

  Officer Warner frowned. “That’s our job, boys.”

  “Really?” I said. “It seems to me that you and your partner aren’t very interested in the case.”

  Warner’s face turned red. “Look here,” he said, scowling. “I understand that your father used to be some big-time detective back in New York. But this is Bayport, and it’s our beat now. So butt out.”

  I started to protest, but Frank grabbed my arm.

  Then Officer Welch stepped in. “Okay, enough is enough. You boys should go home now,” he said. “Leave the police work to the professionals.”

  Frank pushed me toward the door and into the alley. As we started to go, one of the paramedics stood up over Velma’s body and announced something to the officers, who turned to us.

  “Too late,” he said. “She’s dead.”

  When we got home, we told our father everything that had happened at the police station and Velma’s Pawnshop. He leaned back in his office chair and listened carefully.

  “What were the names of the two officers?” he asked.

  “Welch and Warner,” I told him.

  Dad made a face and rolled his eyes. “Oh, those guys. They’re fresh out of the police academy, and nobody on the force likes them.”

  “Do
you think they could be involved?” asked Frank.

  Dad shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt it. They’re just a couple of jerks who think they know everything.”

  We talked a little more about Velma and the stolen Zbox. Dad thought she probably knew the merchandise was stolen—and that’s why she was silenced. The burglars were afraid she would identify them to the police.

  “Nobody likes a squealer,” said Dad. “Especially lowlife criminals who have everything to lose if the squealer talks.”

  We thanked Dad and headed upstairs to Frank’s bedroom. Playback greeted us with a loud squawk. I fed him a parrot treat and flopped down onto Frank’s bed.

  “I want to check my e-mail,” he said, turning on the computer.

  I stared up at the ceiling. “You know what, Frank? I think we should add Welch and Warner to our suspect list.”

  My brother sighed. “But they’re cops, Joe. What are the chances that they’re burglars, too?”

  I sat up. “You’ve never heard the expression ‘good cop, bad cop’? Those two are definitely bad cops.”

  Frank stared blankly at the screen as the computer warmed up. “Well, I agree that they’re bad detectives. But that doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No, but I didn’t tell you what Velma whispered right before she died.”

  Frank turned away from the screen and looked at me. “What?”

  “W …”

  Frank seemed confused. “Huh?”

  “She started to say a word that began with the letter W,” I explained. “As in Welch or Warner.”

  Frank thought about it. “Maybe she was trying to say something like ‘Why me?’ or ‘What happened?’”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I still think those guys should go on our suspect list. We know there’s more than one burglar because of the voices we heard at Chet’s house.”

  Frank turned back to the computer and logged on to check his e-mail. He was greeted by the cheerful sound of “You’ve got mail!” Clicking the mouse, he leaned forward and read the new message.

  “Joe.”

  “What?”

  “Come here. You’ve got to read this.”

  I stood up and walked to the desk. Leaning over Frank’s shoulder, I read the e-mail on the screen.

  I reread the message a few more times, then looked down at Frank.

  “It’s signed W. See? Now do you believe that Welch and Warner are guilty?”

  Frank gazed at the screen. “It could also stand for WorstNightmare@AddressUnknown.”

  I threw my hands into the air. “Give me a break, Frank. Those cops wanted us out of that pawnshop as soon as they laid eyes on us.”

  Frank still wasn’t convinced. “It’s a crime scene, Joe. That’s what the police do—they make everyone leave the crime scene so no one tampers with the evidence.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, but how did they get there so fast? Welch and Warner showed up at the shop barely two minutes after you called 911.”

  Frank took a deep breath. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Finally he looked up at me and said, “Okay, Joe. Add them to our list.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. As local police officers, Welch and Warner would know which neighborhoods were being evacuated. They helped people on the way to the emergency evacuation center at the high school. Nobody would ever suspect them.

  Nobody except me.

  I sat down again on Frank’s bed. Playback flew across the room and landed on the headboard behind me. “What do you think, Playback?” I said. “Are they guilty?”

  The parrot looked at me and flapped his wings. “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”

  “See?” I said to Frank. “Even Playback agrees with me.”

  My brother leaned back in his chair, chewing on a pen. “I just wish we had proof.”

  “I know where we can get it.”

  “Where?”

  “Velma’s Pawnshop.”

  Frank stopped chewing.

  “Think about it,” I continued. “The e-mail told us to stay away from the pawnshop. That’s where we’ll find our proof.”

  “But it’s a crime scene, Joe. The police probably sealed it off.”

  “So?”

  “So how do we get in?”

  “Simple,” I said. “We break in. Tonight. At midnight.”

  He gave me a look, which I knew all too well: We’re supposed to enforce the law, not break the law.

  “Someone has to make sure justice is served, right?” I reminded him.

  He knew I had a point.

  We waited until Mom, Dad, and Aunt Trudy went to bed. Then we tiptoed downstairs, trying not to disturb Playback, who was fast asleep in his covered cage in the living room. When we got outside, I started walking toward our motorcycles, but Frank stopped me.

  “The engines are too loud,” he whispered. “Let’s ride our bikes.”

  I wasn’t thrilled with the idea. My ten-speed was a little rusty—and permanently stuck in fourth gear. But hey, it still worked, so I followed Frank to the garage.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

  Ten minutes later we were zipping along silently on our bikes, zooming across the town square. A police car was circling the fountain, so we ducked behind a van and hunched down until it passed. Then we rode quickly and quietly to Southside Alley.

  Velma’s Pawnshop was totally dark. Yellow ribbons of police tape—labeled CRIME SCENE: DO NOT CROSS—were stretched across the doorway.

  But that wasn’t going to stop Frank and me.

  We hid our bikes behind a small Dumpster and walked to the front of the store. In the dim light of the streetlamp, I could see that the police had secured the door with a heavy steel bolt and padlock.

  “Looks like we’re locked out,” I said.

  Frank squinted his eyes. “No. Check it out. The lock’s been broken.”

  I stepped into the shadowed doorway and examined the padlock. It had been cut with a heavy-duty bolt cutter.

  “Someone’s already been here,” I said.

  Frank didn’t say anything. Removing the padlock, he grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. Then, ducking down, we slipped beneath the yellow police tape.

  Inside, the shop was pitch-black. “I can’t see a thing,” I said.

  “That’s okay I came prepared,” said Frank. He pulled a small LCD flashlight out of his back pocket, gave it a few shakes, and turned it on.

  “Frank! Look over there!”

  He pointed the beam at the checkout counter. The cash register was open, the drawer empty. The counter was totally covered with papers and receipts that spilled onto the floor.

  “Somebody was looking for something,” Frank whispered.

  “Do you think they found what they were looking for?”

  Frank shrugged. I went behind the counter and started poking around, while my brother examined the rest of the store. Feeling my way in the darkness, I reached beneath the counter and ran my fingers across the wood until—

  “Hey. What’s this?”

  Frank turned around, flashing the light in my direction. I showed him a secret drawer under the counter. After I jiggled it a few times, the drawer popped open. Then I reached inside and pulled out a large black ledger.

  “It’s Velma’s record book,” I said, flipping through the pages.

  “Let me see.” Frank shone the flashlight over the rumpled, handwritten pages. “It’s full of shipments, and dates, and deliveries—and clients.”

  “So we can see who sold her Chet’s Zbox,” I said.

  “There’s just one problem.” Frank sighed. “All the ink is smudged. The floodwater must have gotten to it.”

  “Can you make out any names?”

  Frank leaned over and studied the book carefully, examining page after page. “I can’t read any names,” he said. “But wait—here’s a shipment of electron
ics dated last week, right after the fake hurricane.”

  I moved closer. “Who sold it to her?”

  “I can’t read the name,” said Frank. “But there’s a pickup address.”

  “Where is it?”

  My brother looked at me, his eyes glowing from the flashlight. When he told me the address, I started to laugh—because it sounded like something out of a bad horror movie.

  “Warehouse Thirteen.”

  10 Warehouse 13

  Joe and I decided to take the water-stained ledger with us—for evidence. As we left the pawnshop, I made sure to replace the broken padlock and wipe off my fingerprints. Then we walked to our bikes hidden behind the Dumpster.

  “Let’s go check out Warehouse Thirteen,” said Joe.

  “Two break-ins in one night? Sure. Why not?” We hopped on our bikes and started riding toward the docks near the bay. The moon was full and bright in the night sky. We could see the old warehouses that sat on the piers over the water. Some of them had been damaged by the recent storm, but most were in pretty good shape.

  “Four, five, six.” I counted the warehouses as we rode our bikes down the boardwalk.

  Finally we reached Warehouse 13.

  “Here it is,” I said, stopping my bike and pointing at a small sign.

  “Looks spooky,” said Joe.

  “Are you scared?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m anxious to catch these creeps.”

  We jumped off our bikes and stashed them in the shadows beneath the boardwalk. Then we started walking down the pier toward the warehouse entrance.

  “I just thought of something,” I said. “When Velma was dying, she might have been trying to say ‘Warehouse Thirteen,’ not the burglar’s name. It starts with a W.”

  “You just don’t want to believe that cops could be criminals.”

  “No. I just don’t want to believe that you could solve a crime before I did.”

  “Get over it, Frank.”

  We had a little chuckle, then grew quiet as we approached the warehouse. A bare lightbulb hung down over a huge doorway, casting an eerie glow across the weathered planks of the pier. The waves from the bay lapped gently against the dock, and somewhere in the distance a foghorn let out a long, lonely wail.