“Not if I can help it,” I said. “We’re gonna go check out the car show.”
“I thought you guys weren’t here for that,” Ashley said.
“We’re not,” Joe replied. “But, uh, we don’t really golf and the tennis courts are all full, so we thought we’d check it out.”
“Be careful,” said Ashley. “I tried going yesterday, but they’re really strict about who gets in. You need a pass and everything.”
“So you never made it inside?” asked Joe.
“I didn’t say that,” Ashley replied, as she went back to her knitting. “It’s not hard to sneak in. There’s no one guarding the exit.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I told her.
“Anytime,” Ashley said, as she waved good-bye. “See you two later.”
“Definitely,” Joe replied.
I stifled an eye roll until we’d turned around and walked away.
“You know, we should have told Ashley we were here for the car show,” I said to Joe, once we were out of earshot. “We do have passes.”
“You’re right,” said Joe. “We’ll figure something out next time we see her. So what’s our cover from now on?”
“We’re high school students,” I said.
“We’re always high school students,” said Joe. “In real life and when we’re working for ATAC. Isn’t that getting a little old?”
I thought my brother was joking, but I wasn’t positive. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with him. “Maybe. But now we’re local high school students. There’s a suburb nearby called Scottsdale. Langston is their biggest high school, and that’s where we’re from. We shouldn’t pretend we’re staying at the resort, because it’s too easy to prove we’re not. I’ll bet Beller gave his security team access to the guest list.”
“Okay, dude. Whatever you say,” said Joe.
We walked past another fountain and then an orchid garden. Finally, we got to the parking lot at the other end of the resort. We flashed our passes at security and strolled on in. The lot was filled with some of the coolest-looking cars I’d ever seen.
“Oh man, this is awesome,” said Joe, running over to a bright blue Jaguar Roadster, circa 1966.
Personally, I was more impressed with the 1962 green Aston Martin GT. It was sandwiched between a silver Cadillac Eldorado from 1953 and a cherry red Ferrari 250 Europa from 1954.
Everything looked shiny and brand-new. I’d seen the occasional restored vintage sports car, but never so many all in one place. It was pretty awesome. The only thing that would have made it cooler was if they’d had vintage motorcycles on display as well.
Joe and I had the hottest tricked-out bikes at home. Anytime I was away from mine for more than a couple of days, I got itchy to ride.
After marveling at all the great-looking cars, I realized we had to get serious. It was already 10:30 a.m. That meant we had just three and a half hours to find the bomb before the resort would have to be evacuated. I pried Joe away from the bright yellow Cord 810 Supercharged Phaeton, circa 1937, so we could look for José Malrova, the chief of police in Phoenix.
We knew what he looked like from the research we’d done online the night before. Chief Malrova was over six feet tall and he had wide shoulders, thick dark hair, and a heavy mustache. He also wore a tan Stetson cowboy hat, rather than a regular police officer’s cap.
It didn’t take us long to find him. It was just strange that he was standing on the other side of the street. We walked over to meet him and to find out what was up.
“I’m Frank Hardy,” I said, shaking his hand. “And this is my brother, Joe. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”
Chief Malrova smiled. “You’re Fenton’s boys, right?”
“You know our dad?” asked Joe.
The police chief nodded. “I sure do. And I just spoke to him this morning. He told me you’d be coming out here, doing a little investigating. It didn’t take me long to guess you were looking into the bomb threat. My officers have been working on this case all week, but we haven’t made much progress. I’ve heard about you boys— you’ve got impressive reputations for amateurs. Plus, I’m glad to have someone on our team who can actually set foot on the Billington premises.”
“We were wondering what you’re doing out here,” said Joe.
The police chief frowned and waved one hand toward the resort. “These rich guys. They think they’re above the law. If only they’d let us handle things, I’m sure we’d have found the bomb by now.”
“What do you mean?” I wondered.
“The Billington Resort is private property,” Chief Malrova explained. “And Jake Beller has decided to prevent police from wandering the premises.”
“Why wouldn’t Beller want his resort protected?” I asked. “That’s pretty strange, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said the chief. “Beller has his own security force and I hear they’re former CIA—some very tough men and women. And this place is insured for millions. It blows up, and Beller won’t lose much. In fact, he may even profit from it.”
“I can’t imagine he’d want a bomb going off at his own wedding,” said Joe. “And isn’t this place plenty profitable on its own? We were in one of the gift shops a little while ago, and I saw this guy buying a T-shirt for eighty-five bucks.”
Chief Malrova frowned and adjusted his cowboy hat. “Yes, Beller does make plenty of money on this property. I’m probably jumping to conclusions,” he said. “Still, I have to wonder why he’s being so difficult. A simple sweep of the grounds with our bomb-sniffing dogs would fix this situation.”
“He said no to that?” I asked.
The police chief nodded. “Beller is deathly allergic to all things furry. Or so he says . . .”
“Which one is Henry Peterson?” I asked, shading my eyes with one hand and squinting toward the parking lot.
“The owner of the M&P Car Auction?” asked the chief. “He’s right over there.” The police chief pointed to a tall, heavy man with dark hair. He was wearing an old-fashioned gray car mechanic’s jumpsuit and a red satin Indy 500 jacket. “Henry is a little more reasonable. Not much, though. He has his own security people too.”
Near Henry were three men, all of whom were wearing dark suits. One held a walkie-talkie. Another had a lump in the pocket of his jacket that was so large it was obvious, even from where we were standing across the street, that he was carrying a gun.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Henry has undercover agents tooling around as well,” said Chief Malrova. “Even if it weren’t for the bomb threat, the M&P Car Auction always attracts thieves.”
“What a mess,” said Joe.
“True,” I agreed. “But at least we’ll have a lot of help if we need to evacuate.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Chief Malrova. “Ready for the really bad news? Beller and Peterson don’t think the bomb threat is real. Both of them think the other made it up to ruin their event. We’ll try and get everyone out at two o’clock, but I’m afraid that many may not be willing to leave. Especially if the owner of the resort is telling them there’s nothing to worry about. We can’t force anyone out either. It’s a free country.”
“You’re sure the bomb is real?” I asked.
“We’re ninety-nine percent sure,” said the police chief. “There were traces of ammonium nitrate found nearby. The FBI also intercepted communication from a terrorist group. We just don’t know who they are, or where the bomb is—because unfortunately, the FBI bug malfunctioned right after they found out when the bomb is set to go off. We trust our information, but Beller and Peterson don’t.”
Joe and I definitely had our work cut out for us. “Thanks for filling us in, Chief Malrova,” I said. “We’d better get to work.”
“Good luck, boys,” said the police chief. “You’ll need it.”
As we headed back across the street, Joe said, “Let’s split up. Is it okay with you if I talk with Henry Peterson?”
“Sure,”
I said. “I’ll question his security team and anyone else I can find.”
I checked my watch. It was already 10:50. “Let’s try and do this quickly,” I said. “We only have three hours and ten minutes to go.”
5
Undercover
I couldn’t wait to meet Henry Peterson. Problem was, I’d have to get by his security guards first. I’d learned my lesson from my non-encounter with Cassandra Marquis. If I wanted to gain access, I’d need a good cover story.
Or at least a cover story.
“Uh, excuse me,” I said, walking past Henry’s security guards like I didn’t know who they were. “Mr. Peterson, I go to Langston High School in Scottsdale, and I’m writing an article for the school paper about your car auction. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
Henry frowned. “I’m really busy here. It’s not that I don’t want to, but, uh, I don’t think—”
I jumped in before he could actually say no. “Great, thanks,” I said, pulling out my note-book. “It’ll only take five minutes. I’ve read a lot about your career. It’s so cool that you own the largest antique car auction house in the whole country.”
“Actually,” said Henry, “it’s the largest in the world.”
“Wow!” I bugged my eyes out, trying to look as impressed as possible. “That’s so amazing. How did you get started?”
Now, I know that posing as a geeky high school reporter wasn’t the most original cover, but since I didn’t have time to think of anything great, I decided to fall back on a handy piece of conventional wisdom: People love talking about themselves. And this Henry guy was no exception.
“I’ve been interested in cars ever since I was a kid,” he said.
Maybe I was imagining this, but I could have sworn that he puffed his chest out with pride.
“That’s so fascinating,” I said, just to encourage him.
“When I was four years old, I used to sit by the front window of my house, and I could guess the make of any car that drove down my street just by the sound of its engine,” Henry continued. “And when I was six, I tried to drive my mother’s old Buick. I managed to get the key in the ignition and put the car in drive. Problem was, my feet wouldn’t reach the pedals. The car rolled down the driveway and across the street. It crashed right into our neighbor’s mailbox, knocking the whole thing over, and I was lucky it stopped there.”
That actually was kind of interesting. “So are you saying that you always wanted to own an antique car auction house?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Henry replied. “This all came about due to a series of happy accidents. See, I used to be a mechanic in Dallas. I specialized in old cars. I bought a Jaguar Roadster from the 1950s, fixed it up all by myself, and then sold it to the CEO of some oil company. Eventually I bought a used car dealership, and that did well, so I bought another. Soon I had a whole chain. All the while, I was collecting my own antique cars, but only one at a time.
“I had the idea for the auction about fifteen years ago. The first year it was in the parking lot of my used car dealership and I was unloading cars from my personal collection. A friend of mine asked me to include a few of his cars, so I did. The auction lasted only a couple of hours, and everything sold. My friend was so grateful, he gave me a cut of his profits. And that’s when I had the idea for the auction. The next year I got more collectors involved and charged them all ten percent of their profits for my trouble. It was a win-win situation, because if their cars didn’t sell, I took nothing. The auction got bigger and bigger every year. Now we’re at this swanky hotel all week, and buyers come from all over the world. We have six auctions a year in six different cities.”
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I said, looking up from my notes. I wasn’t even acting anymore. Henry’s business was cool. Come to think of it, he was too. “What’s the most valuable car you have here?” I asked.
Henry scratched his stomach with one hand, then pointed to the southeast corner of the parking lot. “That’s got to be the 1934 Duesenberg Model J Convertible Coupe. Fred and Augie Duesenberg were brothers from Indiana who built custom cars in the early 1900s. Since they’re all hand built, they’re very rare. This one’s got an inline eight-cylinder engine, dual overhead camshafts, four valves per cylinder, a three-speed manual transmission, a front beam axle with a live rear axle and four-wheel, vacuum-assisted hydraulic brakes. It’s a beautiful machine. It’s a piece of art, really, except it’s much better than artwork. What do you do with art but look at it? This art is beautiful and functional.”
“It’s cool looking. What do you think it’ll go for?” I asked.
Henry frowned at the car. “Two million, minimum. Maybe a lot more. It’s hard to tell, since I’ve actually never had one at the auction before.”
“Two million dollars?” I repeated. “For one car?”
Henry nodded. “People spend more than that on Picassos. Why not cars?”
“Good point,” I said.
“Want to come have a look under the hood?” he asked.
“I wish I had time,” I said. I was working against a deadline and had to cut to the chase. “Hey,” I said, “I heard that Jake Beller is getting married here this weekend. He’s got enough cash to buy a car like that. Maybe he’ll get it for his new bride.”
Suddenly Henry’s face went sour, like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of rotten milk. His eyes hardened and turned icy gray. “Actually, I was thinking about getting it for myself. Don’t talk to me about Jake Beller. The way he’s been treating me, he’s lucky to still have my business. But he’s not going to be so lucky for long.”
It felt like the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked. “Are you not coming back here next year?”
“Oh, I’ll be back,” said Henry. “I’m not gonna let some New York City billionaire push me around. That’s not how we do things in Texas.”
My pen froze. I looked up at Henry and asked him very carefully, “How exactly do they do things in Texas, Mr. Peterson?”
Just then Henry looked at me kind of funny. “What high school did you say you went to?”
“Langston,” I said, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. “It’s in Scottsdale.”
Henry peered over his shoulder and glanced at Chief Malrova, who was still standing across the street. Then he nodded to one of his guards, who was talking with Frank.
“Best of luck with your story, kid,” Henry said. “I’d really best be going now.”
“Thank you for your time, sir. I’ll send you a copy of the article when it comes out.” I shook his hand and walked away quickly, figuring it was better not to press my luck.
I didn’t know if Henry Peterson was guilty, but I was sure of one thing. After that interview, he was definitely suspicious of me.
6
Suspicion Grows
I was just finishing my interview with Maynard Smith, Henry’s security guard, when I noticed that Joe and Henry Peterson were watching me. I hurried to wrap things up and got away from Smith as fast as I could.
I pretended to admire an old Corvette while watching my brother out of the corner of my eye. Moments later he shook Henry’s hand and headed in the opposite direction from me.
When we were sure no one was watching us, but still within sight of each other, Joe signed the following message from across the parking lot: I think Henry is on to me. I’m going to figure out a way to get close to Beller. You should stick around the auction, or it’ll look too suspicious. Let’s meet at the orchid garden in fifteen minutes.
Sounds good, I signed back, silently thanking Mom for putting us through that sign language course.
As I continued to marvel, honestly, at the Corvette, I rethought the case. When Joe and I were on the plane to Phoenix, we’d discussed the possibility that the bomb threat was an inside job.
That still might be the case, but if it was, I was certain that it wasn’t coming from Henry’s
security team. Maynard Smith hadn’t given me any useful information. He and the other two guards were very chummy with Henry. They’d all been on Henry’s payroll for five years, and apparently Henry treated them very well. They traveled with him to all six of his auctions every year. In their down time, they worked as mechanics at one of Henry’s car dealerships in Dallas. Henry was even helping Maynard restore a Porsche from the 1970s that Maynard found in a junkyard.
According to Maynard, Henry had wanted to cooperate with the Phoenix police when news of the bomb threat first came out. It was Beller who refused to let the cops on the grounds, and since Beller owned the Billington, it was his decision.
At least that allowed me to cross three suspects off our list. I wandered through the auction for a few minutes but soon grew frustrated. I wasn’t getting anywhere. The crowd seemed completely and legitimately into cars. As far as I could tell, no one had a sinister motive.
When I got to the foreign car section, I noticed a group of people about my age working on the cars. All of them were wearing the same uniform: khaki pants and a blue-collared shirt. The pocket of each shirt was embroidered with a small insignia: M&P, the initials of the car auction. I figured they were Henry’s employees and that maybe they’d give me some leads.
As soon as I got close enough, this girl with dark hair and brown eyes introduced herself.
“Hi, there. I’m Maria Sanchez,” she said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Frank Hardy.” I pointed toward the yellow Aston Martin that she was shining. “Nice car.”
“This is one of the rarest,” she said. “There are only twenty-eight of these exact cars left in the entire country.”
“And I notice there are two at the auction. Wow, lucky for Henry Peterson,” I replied.
“Actually, the other is not nearly as rare,” said Maria. “But yes, he’s a lucky guy.”
“What do you think this one will go for?” I wondered. I knew from my research that even though the cars were all owned privately, Henry took a ten percent cut of the profits, as payment for auctioning them off.
Blown Away Page 3
