“Not his face!” Savannah exploded. “Look at the case on the back of his motorcycle. Something shiny is inside—something just about the size of the Star of Prague.”
At that moment, Pitch joined the Skype call, her image unsteady. “What’s going on?”
“Where are you?” Melissa asked.
Pitch’s expression turned sheepish. “On the roof of my house. I had to climb something. I’m entitled to climb something. I’m supposed to be at Red Rocks, climbing something! Hey, did you guys know there’s some kind of hot-air balloon flying right over Cedarville? It says something on the side, but I can’t read it.”
Ben’s fuzzy image appeared beside the others. “It’s the drei-dirigible. Don’t ask. It says ‘Happy Hanukkah,’ but you might be facing the side where it’s written in Hebrew.”
“Ben, I can hardly see you,” Savannah told him. “What’s wrong with your computer?”
“It could be the magnetic field created by all the lights around Ben’s house,” Melissa suggested. “Everybody check the webcam on Crenshaw’s apartment. We think he’s making a move with the Star of Prague.”
“What?” It was Griffin, online at last. And when he examined the webcam feed, his features tightened into a mixture of satisfaction and determination. Operation Starchaser was entering its final phase.
“All right, you guys,” said The Man With The Plan. “This is it. Tonight we nab the Bad Santa and bring home the Star of Prague.”
“How do we do that?” asked Ben. “We call the police, right?”
“Not yet,” Griffin replied. “Not till we know exactly where he’s taking it.”
“We’ve got that GPS on his Harley,” put in Melissa.
In the live feed, Crenshaw climbed onto the motorcycle, jumped it to life, and roared off. The six team members caught one final gleam from the contents of the round case before the former Santa disappeared offscreen.
“To your bikes, everybody!” Griffin ordered. “We’ll track the GPS on our phones.”
Every one of Griffin’s plans had a moment like this one. He spoke the words he had said to them many times before.
“It’s zero hour.”
Zero felt more like the temperature than the hour as the team pedaled out into the winter night, shivering under coats, hats, and gloves. The actual number was in the mid-thirties, but with the sun down, it seemed even colder than the day they had tailed Crenshaw to the Mug’s Mug.
They came from different directions, converging on Ninth Street, Cedarville’s main drag. Griffin sped up to pull even with Pitch, in the lead.
The young climber was an elite athlete, but even she was struggling to keep her breathing steady as the frigid air burned her lungs. “I hope somebody knows where we’re going.”
“I do,” Melissa panted, indicating her smartphone, which glowed in the basket of her old-fashioned Schwinn. The small screen showed a red pulsing dot moving through the street grid. “That’s the tracker on Crenshaw’s motorcycle.”
“Don’t lose it,” Griffin said grimly.
“He’s on a Harley,” Ben reminded them. “We’re on bikes. What if he’s going to New Jersey? Or California?”
“This better not be a false alarm,” complained Logan, teeth chattering. “A sniffle can be death to an actor at an audition.”
“Good thing nobody’s crazy enough to give you an audition,” Pitch tossed over her shoulder at him.
“Are you kidding? My Vader strategy is totally working! Tiffany will be talking me up to her mom before you can say ‘Stanislavski.’”
Griffin bumped over a pothole. “It can’t be a false alarm. We all saw Crenshaw strap the Star onto his motorcycle.”
“There’s more,” Melissa added. “I checked the other webcams before leaving the house. Guess what was on the one across from the old tennis racket factory? His buddies are carrying out all those instruments and loading them into a van.”
Ben frowned. “Doesn’t it seem kind of weird that you’d sell a bunch of used musical instruments to the same buyer who can afford a ten-million-dollar work of art?”
Griffin was annoyed. “That’s so typical of you, Ben. Why are you looking for problems that don’t exist? The plan is coming together. This is the real thing!”
Savannah was the last to join the procession, Luthor loping at her side.
“Why’d you bring the dog?” Griffin demanded. “If he gets too loud, Crenshaw will figure out we’re onto him.”
“Luthor has as big a stake in this as any of us,” Savannah reasoned.
“Luthor eats as big a steak as any of us,” Pitch amended. “As for the other kind of stake, he doesn’t have one. He’s a dog.”
“He gave his heart to Dirk Crenshaw,” Savannah explained. “He needs to see the man he admired arrested and hauled off to jail. It’ll be a tough lesson for him, but it’ll teach him to be more careful about where he places his trust. How else will he grow?”
“I hope he doesn’t grow,” Ben said fervently. “He’s already the biggest Doberman in history. If he gets any bigger, he’s a T. Rex.”
Melissa’s quiet voice interrupted the conversation. “He stopped.”
It took a moment for everyone to realize what she meant: The tracker on Crenshaw’s motorcycle had come to a halt.
Griffin peered at the phone in Melissa’s basket. “He’s at the corner of Washington and Route Thirty-One. What’s there?”
“There’s Armando’s Deli,” Ben supplied. “That’s where they make Ferret Face’s favorite pepperoni. But there’s no place to pull off a ten-million-dollar deal.”
“Wait—false alarm,” Melissa reported. “He’s moving again. He must have just been held up at a light.”
“I knew it,” Ben mourned. “He’s on his way to Jersey.”
“All his contacts have been local,” Griffin argued. “We can’t give up now. Not when we’re so close.”
They continued their ride in silence, all eyes on the pulsing dot on Melissa’s phone. They pedaled hard, partly to keep from falling too far behind, but mostly because the physical effort helped them keep warm. The blustery wind found every opening in their coats. Their feet felt like blocks of ice. As they were passing Armando’s, Ferret Face wiggled his way up through Ben’s scarf, but quickly ducked back down again. Not even the delectable smell of pepperoni was worth braving the cold.
They crossed Route 31 and had not gone very far when Melissa announced, “He’s stopped again. And this time he’s pulled off the road a little. I think he’s there.”
“Where?” Griffin asked anxiously.
“About two miles ahead of us. The GPS says it’s Seventeen Five-Fifty South Washington.”
Griffin pulled over to the side of the road, and the others joined him on the shoulder. He took out his own phone and dialed the Cedarville Police Department. “This is an urgent message for Detective Sergeant Vizzini … Never mind my name … Tell the detective that if he wants to find the Star of Prague, he has to come right now to Seventeen Five-Fifty South Washington Avenue. The deal could be going down any minute.” He broke the connection.
Pitch regarded him with respect. “I know I get on your case sometimes, Griffin, but you really are The Man With The Plan.”
The others nodded their agreement.
“Thanks, you guys,” Griffin said in a husky voice. “Now let’s go. We want to get there just ahead of the cops.”
They rode south past several strip malls, keeping track as the address numbers counted down from eighteen thousand. At first Griffin thought that Crenshaw’s destination was one of these plazas, and that the exchange would take place in the parking lot, or perhaps out back. But they crested a rise, and there it was—a low building behind a fluorescent sign.
AMERICAN LEGION HALL
NORTH SHORE POST #466
“American Legion?” Melissa’s curtain of hair stood straight out, buffeted by wind and bewilderment. “Like—veterans? What would they want with the Star of Prague?”
The six abandoned their bikes at the end of the driveway and stole toward the parking lot, which was full of cars.
“Look—” hissed Logan. “Crenshaw’s Harley.”
“And that’s the van I saw,” added Melissa, pointing.
They searched the lot. No one was in any of the vehicles making a ten-million-dollar deal.
“They must be inside the Legion Hall,” Pitch decided.
“I think there’s a party going on in there,” mused Savannah. “Does anybody else hear music?”
Griffin set his jaw. “It’s the perfect setup. People are eating, drinking, and dancing; the music covers all sound; and the bad guys are in the back room, selling a priceless art treasure.”
Logan was inspired. “We might get a medal for this.”
“I’d settle for not being blamed anymore for stealing the Star,” Ben put in sourly. “And it would be nice to get home alive tonight, too.”
Over the music, the wail of police sirens reached them—distant, but growing louder.
Griffin nodded with satisfaction. “Perfect timing. Let’s get in there. I can’t wait to see the look on Vizzini’s face when he has to admit we were right and he was wrong.”
Savannah tied Luthor’s leash around a light stand, and the group hurried toward the front door of the Legion Hall.
The knob felt cold in Griffin’s hand, even through his glove—or maybe it was the nervous exhilaration of a plan coming to its triumphant payoff.
He opened the door and the group trooped inside. Savannah was right. There was a party going on, some sort of holiday celebration. Shiny decorations adorned the walls, and delectable aromas came from a line of buffet tables. Everywhere, people were dancing, chatting in groups, and helping themselves to dinner.
Ferret Face hoisted himself up onto Ben’s shoulder, his needle nose twitching. With a joyous leap, he abandoned his post and dashed to the food line, snapping up fallen scraps from the diners.
“Get back here, Ferret Face—” Ben made a move to follow, but froze when his eyes fell on the low platform stage.
They all did. One by one, the jaws dropped.
The song was “Rock Around the Clock,” an old classic rock-and-roll song from the fifties. But it was not the rockabilly tune that caught their attention; it was the band members themselves.
Griffin and his friends had seen them all before—riding their motorcycles, having lunch at the Mug’s Mug, visiting their buddy for long cigar breaks outside the Colchester mansion.
That buddy was in the band, too—in fact, he was the lead singer.
Dirk Crenshaw.
The former Santa Claus stood center stage, the pick in his hand just a blur on the strings of his electric guitar. His massive form was graceful, almost catlike, as he crooned into the microphone.
His biker bandmates jammed energetically along, banging out the lively rock-and-roll song. And their instruments were the “stolen” instruments from the tennis racket factory.
A banner behind them blazoned the name of the group:
FINGERS AND THE FLYTRAPS
Fingers, Griffin thought in agony. A nickname for a thief—or a guitarist. And the singing in the shower—practice!
“I can’t believe it!”
“I know,” put in Logan. “Who would have guessed that Dirk Crenshaw was such a talented performer? But where does the Star of Prague come in?”
“It doesn’t, Einstein!” Pitch exploded. “Crenshaw and his buddies didn’t steal those instruments, either. They’re a band! The tennis racket factory must be where they rehearse!”
“No way!” Ben rasped in astonishment. “We saw him pack the Star inside that case!”
“We didn’t, you know,” Melissa mused thoughtfully. “We saw something shiny that was the right size and shape, so we assumed it was the Star. But—”
They scoured the hall until, at last, the six of them were staring straight up. They gawked. They goggled.
A gleaming disco ball hung from the ceiling, sparkling in the spotlights as it turned slowly.
“No,” moaned Savannah. “No, no, no.”
“Okay, nobody panic,” Griffin said, struggling to keep his own panic under control. “We’ve hit Code Z, that’s all.”
Every plan had a Code Z built into it—the moment when an operation was damaged beyond saving and all that remained was to get out of there.
They wheeled and headed for the exit, only to come face-to-face with a police officer.
“Nobody goes in or out!” the man bellowed. “This building is under lockdown!”
The music came to a crashing halt. Fingers and the Flytraps stood stock-still, openmouthed, as more uniforms appeared. Dozens of startled party guests turned toward the doorway, wondering what had put an end to their festivities.
“Why has the music stopped?” The event’s hostess stepped forward to investigate the interruption. It was Yvette Boucle.
Logan frowned. “What’s she doing here?”
“Uh-oh.” Savannah directed her friend’s attention to a sign prominently displayed on a tripod.
“Wow.” Logan was pleased. “I was dying to come to this.”
“As a guest,” Pitch amended. “Not the guy who brought the cops in to raid the place.”
Logan went white and tried to duck behind the much shorter Ben.
Too late. “Logan?” This came from Tiffany.
“Logan?” Mrs. Boucle’s eyes narrowed. “Officers, exactly what is going on here? Who’s responsible for this intrusion?”
“That would be me,” came a deep, commanding voice from the doorway. In strode Detective Sergeant Vizzini. “These premises are subject to search. We have reason to believe the Star of Prague might be—” His eyes fell on Griffin and the team and the words died on his lips.
“Uh—about that,” Griffin stammered. “The information, I mean. We thought—I mean, I thought—”
Vizzini’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “That tip was from you, wasn’t it?”
“There was a little misunderstanding.” Griffin pointed up at the disco ball. “We thought that—well, you know how it’s the right size, and the right shape, and kind of sparkly—”
The tall detective was under tight control. “The Star of Prague is worth ten million dollars. That thing goes for nineteen ninety-five at Walmart.”
“We were only trying to help,” Logan offered meekly.
“I know exactly what you were trying to do!” Mrs. Boucle raged. “You’ve been trying to wrangle an invitation to this party from day one. Well, I’ve got news for you, Logan Kellerman. You will never see that invitation, because you will never be a part of the North Shore Players!”
“Does that include summer stock?” Logan asked earnestly.
“It includes everything!” she bawled. “I wouldn’t hire you to sweep mothballs out of the costume room! If an asteroid hit the earth and you were the last actor left alive, I’d cast a baboon rather than give the job to you!”
Vizzini stepped in. “Obviously, you two have your own issues, which are not police business. But as for this so-called tip, do you kids realize that feeding false information to the police is a crime?”
“We only found out it was false a minute ago,” offered Savannah.
Griffin stepped forward. “Everybody in town suspects we’ve got something to do with stealing the Star. We thought this was a chance to prove we were innocent and get the Star back at the same time. Okay, it didn’t work out that way, but that would have been a good thing, right?”
“Don’t you see that when I make my report on this, it’ll look like you deliberately led us on a wild-goose chase? You’re digging yourselves a very deep hole.”
Griffin opened his mouth to protest and shut it again at a warning look from Pitch. Vizzini was right: Everything they said, everything they did to prove the
mselves innocent, only made them look guiltier.
The silence that followed was punctuated by a gurgling snore from below. Without Ferret Face keeping his narcolepsy at bay, Ben had collapsed into a cross-legged sleep on the floor. Griffin gave him a gentle nudge with his toe.
Ben opened one eye. “What?” He took stock of his surroundings and scrambled to his feet. A guilty-looking Ferret Face, still munching on a piece of salami, ran up his leg and disappeared under his coat.
“Can we go now?” Melissa asked timidly.
“Absolutely not,” the tall policeman told her. “I’m assuming those bicycles out there are yours. That’s another law broken—riding around after dark without proper lights. And how about harassment?” He indicated Crenshaw, who stood onstage with his bandmates. “This man was your Santa. He was there when you were in the Mug’s Mug. And, surprise, surprise, here he is again—and here you are. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that you’re stalking him.” He addressed the hulking guitarist. “Sir, would you like to swear out a complaint against these young people?”
Griffin and the team regarded their former prime suspect fearfully. This could be real trouble. They may have been innocent of stealing the Star, but when it came to spying on Fingers Crenshaw, they were 1,000 percent guilty. If the police chose to look into it, they would find webcams around Crenshaw’s apartment, microphones inside of it, and a tracker on his motorcycle.
The man they had worked so hard to expose as a crook had turned out to be blameless. And now he had the perfect opportunity to turn the tables on them.
Crenshaw shifted the guitar so his protruding belly rested on part of it. “All right, officer—they’re annoying. I’ll give you that. But, hey, they’re just kids. Weren’t you annoying when you were that age? Cut them some slack.”
“They may be kids,” Vizzini admitted grumpily, “but nobody in the department would characterize them as just kids. Are you sure you want to let them off the hook?”
“I know what it’s like to get jammed up over a couple of bad decisions,” the guitarist replied honestly. “They’re scared enough. Let them go.” He punctuated this with a long rolling burp.
Jingle Page 9
