by Marcia Wells
DAY 10
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I say.
“Of course. I’m a professional.” Jonah dabs glue on my upper lip, then presses a thin black mustache onto my skin. This is not what I had in mind when we talked about upping our game yesterday.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t look,” he commands. As if I could. He took my glasses off and refuses to give them back. Not until he’s done “creating his masterpiece.” I glance in the mirror, but all I see is a dark blur.
This all started after breakfast, when we spotted the clerk behind the front desk. The clerk, the young guy who was working in the lobby last week when the mask was stolen. He looked thinner, with dark circles under his eyes, and when the birds squawked, he jumped like a gun had gone off. He was nervous, twitchy, and tired: the perfect candidate for an interrogation.
So now Jonah’s preparing a disguise for a secret mission, and yours truly is going undercover. I haven’t come up with a better plan, so I’m going with it.
I squint at the fake badge in my hand. On one side is a gold eagle with a CIA emblem, and on the other is a clear plastic sleeve with a photo ID Jonah found on the street last year. He was saving it for a special occasion.
“Victor Muellenthorpe?” I say, reading the name beneath the photo. According to the card, Victor is a thirty-three-year-old male with curly black hair and a mustache (of course) living in Brooklyn. He’s thin and has dark brown skin like me, but the similarities end there.
“That’s you,” Jonah responds in a chipper voice.
Do not panic, do not panic. There is no way we can pull this off. I wonder what the penalty is down here for impersonating an officer of the law. Serious jail time for sure. Do not panic.
Jonah’s back, crowding my personal space. “We need to rehearse your lines,” he says while fussing with my new mustache. His fingers smell like peanut butter.
“No, you’ll just make me nervous. It has to flow naturally.” I squirm away from his hand. “I’ve got it under control. I’m doing the Cousin John trick.”
Even without my glasses on, I can tell he’s staring at me blankly, so I clarify: “Remember I told you about the Cousin John thing I saw on that cop show? How everyone has a Cousin John?” It’s true—I have one on my dad’s side who lives in Atlanta. I think Jonah has one in Ohio.
“Yeah, so?”
“So everyone down here must have a Cousin Juan. The clerk doesn’t look very bright. He should fall for it.” If he believes I’m a thirty-three-year-old CIA agent, that is. I scratch at the mustache. Jonah bats my hand away.
“Don’t touch,” he scolds. “Here, put this on.” He shoves my arm into a jacket sleeve. It takes me a moment to realize it’s his father’s tan trench coat. His dad’s a small guy, so we only have to fold the cuffs up once.
“Can I have my glasses back?” I say.
“In a minute. And you’ll be using your prescription sunglasses, not your regular ones. Lean forward,” he says. I obey, and he pulls something tight over my skull. A wig of some kind. He owns some really sketchy wigs. Mohawks, bald monks, rainbow clowns . . . Do not panic.
“There,” he says, pride in his voice. He hands me my sunglasses. Hastily I shove them on and turn to look in the mirror.
A black curly wig. The perfect mustache. Stage makeup that shades my skin for an older look. A trench coat buttoned up to my neck. With my dark shades, I am Victor Muellenthorpe. A short Victor Muellenthorpe, but a believable one all the same.
Jonah helps me into a pair of black leather gloves. We’re going with gloves to complete the look because first of all, I have an orange cast on my left wrist, and second of all, my fingers look like they belong to a second grader. Then he motions toward the door. “All right, Mr. M,” he says. “Show time.”
Five minutes later I’m marching through the lobby with long strides that I hope appear manly and confident. Jonah’s already in place, hiding around the corner of the lobby desk behind a potted plant. My heart is pounding like crazy.
Relax! I scold myself. I’ve had harder acting parts before. Last year our class did a production of Our Town, and I played an old milkman who talked to invisible cows. Everyone said it was the most inspiring performance of the show. If I can do that, I can do this.
And at least I’m not worried about bumping into my parents. Mom’s at her conference and Dad’s in his room, happily typing away on his novel (working title: Oh My, Mayans!). He thinks we’ve already left for Julia’s house. We’ll leave as soon as we’re done here, assuming we’re not arrested first.
I approach the desk. The clerk is fiddling with his tie. He’s young, maybe early twenties, with short brown hair, and he’s blinking his eyes as if he’s nervous. Good. I need to keep him that way, keep him off-balance so he doesn’t have time to think. Thinking leads to suspicion leads to him realizing I’m just a kid.
“Luis Gusto?” I say in a deep voice. I have the sudden urge to giggle.
“Y-yes?” Luis stammers. Blink, blink. He looks me up and down, taking in the bizarrely short man before him.
“Victor Muellenthorpe, CIA.” I flash my plastic badge. “Your cousin Juan is in trouble with the law. But today’s your lucky day. I can help him, if you help me.”
“Juanito?” he says. “But he is at university. How—?”
“People get into trouble at university, don’t they.” I slap my hand on the desk. A satisfying smack of leather glove on marble counter echoes in the lobby. Luis flinches at the sudden noise. “I need to know what happened here the day the Mayan mask was stolen,” I demand.
He runs a hand over his short hair. “I already told the police.”
“Now the CIA is involved. Tell me what happened and I’ll help you with Juan.”
I must be convincing, because the guy spills his guts right away. He talks fast about how he was on duty and got a phone call that there was a package at the back door. The lobby was empty at the time, so he decided to take a quick break and get it. When he returned, the mask was gone.
“The package was just a piece of paper,” Luis explains in a squeaky voice. I feel sorry for the guy. “I did not mean to be irresponsible.”
“What was on the paper?”
“The words Danke schön, written in big letters.”
“Danke schön?” I let out a kidlike gasp, momentarily breaking character. My mind is reeling. Why would someone write the German term for thank you? Luis is staring at me, no longer blinking. Oops, I need to get back on track here.
I slap my hand on the counter again. “Tell me about the caller,” I say. “Did he have an accent? Was he Mexican?”
“N-no,” Luis stammers. “I mean, he was not Mexican, but his Spanish was perfect. I don’t . . . eh . . . maybe he had a slight German accent.”
What is it with me and German bad guys?
“Who did you say you were?” Luis asks in a stronger voice. A suspicious voice. Time to go.
I wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. You never saw me.” I turn to leave, being sure to keep my steps steady and smooth. “And don’t worry about Juan,” I call over my shoulder. “He’ll be fine.” I walk around the corner. As soon as I’m out of sight, I sprint for the exit without a glance at Jonah’s hiding spot.
Outside the front door, I dive behind some thick green bushes and rip off the gloves, wig, and trench coat with shaking fingers. Jonah joins me a moment later.
“That was awesome!” He slaps me on the back.
“Did you see Luis? What’s he doing?” I say.
He holds out a backpack for me to shove the costume into. “He’s fine. Confused, but fine. He’s helping some lady with her keycard.”
I breathe out in relief. “Give me a second, okay?” I need to collect myself before we go to Julia’s.
He nods. “I’ll grab us a cab.” The bushes shake as he wades through them.
I sit on the ground, my skin on fire as I peel the mustache off. Ouch! I rub my upper lip, contemplating w
hat I’ve just learned. I know I should be happy I just pulled off this stunt, but I’m not. The new information doesn’t make any sense. Was it Ghostman who left the note? Why would he write it in German? Maybe it’s not him at all. Maybe the Plumas have been broadening their horizons and taking foreign language classes.
Something soft rubs against my leg and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“You scared me!” I scold Paco the cat. He purrs in response, flicking his tail back and forth with a lazy swish. His purr is like thunder, crackly and uneven. There are streaks on his neck, hairless scars where he probably damaged his voice box in a fight. Coolest cat ever.
I scratch him behind the ear and realize that he’s chewing on something. Something white.
“Whatcha got there, boy?” I fish a wet glob out of his mouth. Ugh. Wet feathers. “Did you eat a bird?” I ask. He answers by rubbing his body against my leg again. I pet him one more time and head over to the taxi stand, where Jonah’s waiting. A bunch of white feathers lie scattered on the ground, like a mini bird-bomb went off. Clearly Paco’s been busy.
I stop in my tracks. White feathers on the ground . . . White feathers on the ground . . .
I stare and stare, pieces clicking into place.
Bingo.
Chapter 12
Copy Cat
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
“We have a copy cat,” I announce to Julia. We’re at her house, sitting on the couch in her father’s office. I already went through my copy cat theory with Jonah during the cab ride here, and he’s on board. Currently he’s over at the desk, quietly sifting through crime scene photos of Las Plumas.
Julia wrinkles her forehead. “A what?”
“A copy cat. Someone is trying to imitate the crimes of Las Plumas.” I pull out my notebook. “Here’s a list of what the Plumas’ crime scenes contain.” I flip partway through my notes and hold the pad up for her:
Elements of Plumas’ Crime Scenes
—Cow’s blood
—Graffiti
“Okay,” she says, biting her lip as she tries to piece it all together.
I tap on the page with my pencil. “When we went out to the island the first time, I saw what I thought were white flower petals stuck in the blood. But they weren’t petals, they were feathers. Someone put feathers at the crime scene!”
She stares at me. The Moment of Enlightenment is not coming.
“Jonah,” I say. “Can we please have Exhibit A?”
“Yep.” He hands me a photo from the desk. It’s a bloody scene of a statue in town, one of the photos Julia showed me last week. “This picture was taken a year ago,” I explain, pointing to the date in the corner. “Not a feather in sight, right?”
She nods, so I continue. “In last week’s attack on the temple, there were feathers. Someone staged a Plumas crime scene. That person mistakenly thought that the Plumas leave feathers at their crime scenes. Get it?”
Her eyes light up with understanding. “But why? Why do this?”
“I have a theory. The temple vandalism and the stolen mask occurred the same morning. What if someone planted the Plumas crime scene over on the island and then stole the mask while the police were distracted?”
“Just like Pablo Valero did thirty years ago!” she exclaims. “If Ghostman is Pablo’s son, then it makes sense he would imitate his father’s work.” She pauses. “I still don’t understand why they arrested Miguel.”
“The day the mask was stolen, there was a lot of chaos,” I explain. “There were a few feathers on the lobby floor, but I assumed they had fallen from the blue birds who live there.” I flip through the pages of my notebook and show her the pictures I drew of the lobby right after the crime took place. “But now that I look at the pictures in my mind, I see that the feathers are white. They’re the same white feathers that were stuck in the blood on the pyramid. Whoever is imitating Las Plumas is also framing them for the stolen mask!”
Julia touches the picture, her finger tracing the feathers I drew on the floor by the empty glass case. “My cousin Miguel is an ex-Pluma, and he was at the hotel that day, so he’s taking the blame.”
I nod. It all makes sense. Everything except my father as a suspect. What does he have to do with any of this?
“Why are they called the Feathers Gang, anyway?” Jonah says, thrumming his fingers on the desk. Tap-tap-tappity-tap.
Julia sighs. “Miguel said the feather is for fallen angels. They claim they are good kids having to do bad because they think the local government is corrupt.” She waves a hand in the air. “They are foolish.” Taking the notebook from me, she examines the list while chewing on the end of a pen.
Tap-tappity-tap. The sound of Jonah’s busy fingers fills the silence. He mumbles to himself while staring down at the photos, his hands wandering over the wooden surface of the desk as if they have a mind of their own. Tap-tap-bang! He’s found a jar of pens and has pulled two out, using them as drumsticks.
Julia stands up and removes a small glass angel that’s sitting beside the jar of pens. She places it on a shelf above us. Smart move.
Uncapping her pen, she sits back down beside me. “You forgot one thing,” she says, scribbling something on my Plumas list. I can’t help it, I tense up. She’s only trying to help, I scold myself. She can write in your notebook. I look over her shoulder to see what she’s added to the list:
—No smashed stone
“The Plumas do not destroy the landmarks,” she explains. “But our copy cat smashed the temple floor. Why? Was it just a mistake, like the feathers?”
I scratch my head. Another question with no answer. “Can we look at the file again on that bank robbery from thirty years ago?” I say. “Maybe there’s a clue there.” I doubt it, but I need to look at something. Jonah’s hogging the Plumas photos, hunched over them like a gargoyle.
Julia lugs out the thick police file and flips it open, the newspaper article entitled El oro está con mi niño resting at the top. “‘The gold is with my son,’” I say. “You said that the bank robber didn’t have a son, right?”
“There is none on record. That is why it was such a huge mystery.” She brushes a stray piece of hair off her forehead. “Everyone in the country searched for the mysterious niño. Find the niño, find the gold.” She shrugs. “My father gave up years ago. It is a . . . what’s the expression? A cold case.”
I stare at the newspaper article. Ghostman looks so much like the robber in the mug shot. Definitely his son. I clear my throat. “What if the son was born in a different country? Like . . . Germany, for example.” I don’t mention the Victor Muellenthorpe stunt. I’m not sure how Julia would react, being the daughter of the police chief and all. “Did the police search foreign birth records?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “We can ask my father when he returns.”
“When’s he coming back?” My voice is dangerously close to squeaking. We need him here. We need him to answer questions about my dad.
She shuffles through the newspaper clippings, scanning the articles with lightning speed. “Tonight, I hope. My mother says his cell must have died, because her calls go straight to voicemail.”
“Oh.” We only have four days left to solve this. What if they don’t let my dad leave the country with us? Can they do that? What if we get kicked out of Mexico but he’s forced to stay here?
“MAM!” Jonah shouts the bizarre word as he slams his palms down on the desk with a loud thud.
To Julia’s credit, she doesn’t even flinch at the sudden outburst. Nerves of steel, this girl.
Jonah whirls around with a handful of photos, scattering the rest to the ground. “The copy cat is leaving a message!” He shoves the photos onto our laps. “Look at this. The Plumas always wrote a word or a phrase, things like ‘Death to the Government’ and stuff like that. But look at the three most recent sites. They’re the only ones with feathers, and there’s always an extra letter off to the side. An A at the temple. An M two weeks ago at th
e market. And another M last month by the cultural center. MMA . . . Mam? What does it mean?”
The room falls strangely silent. It’s as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of our breathing space.
“Ghostman’s not done,” he continues. “He’s telling the cops where his final crime is going to take place. He’s playing with them!”
“This isn’t Lars, Jonah,” I say, referring to Lars Heinrich, the crazy art thief we stopped in New York two months ago. Lars loved leaving complicated clues to where he was going to strike next. A total psycho.
“These letters could be initials,” Jonah says. “AMM, MMA, MAM. Oh! The Mexican art museum in town. That’s MAM—that’s where he’s going to strike!” He jumps up and punches a fist in the air like he’s solved everything and has already caught the bad guy.
Julia shakes her head. “Those initials are MNAM. They mean Museo Nacional de Arte Moderno. We’re missing an N.”
Jonah grabs the photos off our laps, his brow scrunched in determination. “I’ll find it. It has to be here somewhere. That’s his target, I can feel it. The upcoming exhibit is Aztec gold! Of course he’s going to rob the museum!”
He bends down to scoop the photos off the floor. “Help me look. We need to find an N.” He glances up at us. “We need to . . .” The words die in his throat. He’s completely frozen, his eyes wide with fear, like a deer about to be plowed over by a Mac truck.
I follow his line of sight behind me. A man is standing in the office doorway. A man with angry eyes, a tired face, and a large gun belt loaded with weapons. He stares at us, then at the mess of photos and newspaper articles strewn about the office. Then back at us.
“Hola, Papá,” Julia says in a small voice.
Chapter 13
Las Plumas
