Framed (8 page)

P
itch ducked back behind the chimney. “Ben!” she hissed into the walkie-talkie. A soft snore was her reply. “Ferret Face, what are you doing? Your man’s sleeping on the job!”

In the wood box, Ben awoke with a start. “What? What?”

“Shhh, you idiot! Egan’s coming up the front walk!”

Ben looked around, desperately trying to reacquire his bearings. Beside him, Ferret Face was chasing a grasshopper around a big log. No wonder he’d fallen asleep, with the animal bug-hunting instead of keeping him awake. He grabbed the ferret and stuck him back inside his shirt.

His mind raced.
Should I make a run for it?

The first footfall hit the porch.

Too late!

There wasn’t even time to remove the chip propping open the wood box. If Dr. Evil looked over and wondered why the lid was slightly ajar …

Ben hugged his ferret to his chest and prayed for invisibility.

The daughter passed by — blond hair, turned-up nose.

She has freckles — you can’t see them from a distance….

“Let’s go, Lindsay,” came the mother’s voice. “Leave your scooter where it won’t get wet.”

Her name is Lindsay….

A split second later, all rational thought was paralyzed. The narrow strip that was his field of vision was filled with Dr. Evil. The principal passed so close that Ben could practically count the man’s nose hairs.

Don’t see me…. Don’t see me…. Don’t see me….

Ben hunkered down, not even daring to breathe. The next thing he heard was the front door closing. The family was gone from the porch.

In the command center in Savannah’s attic, Melissa clicked her mouse, and the voices of the Egans came through one of the laptops.

“Pitch, you did it!” Savannah breathed into her walkie-talkie. “The fireplace mike is getting everything!”

“Never mind that!” rasped Ben from his hiding place. “When can we get out of here?”

“I’m not hanging around,” Pitch said with conviction.

But as she started for the eaves, the microphone picked up Mrs. Egan’s worried exclamation: “What’s that noise? It sounds like an animal on the roof!”

“Pitch — freeze!” ordered Savannah.

“Probably just a twig falling down,” the principal assured his wife. “I think the wind was picking up.”

“It sounded like footsteps,” she protested.

“I’ll get a flashlight.”

The stakeout team was prepared. “Get ready for audio cover,” Savannah said into the walkie-talkie. Logan popped the window, and she guided Luthor’s massive head out into the night. “Okay, sweetie, let her rip.”

A 747 could not have created more noise. Luthor’s thundering bark filled the neighborhood, rattling windows and sending smaller pets scurrying.

Pitch came off the roof, flew down the tree trunk, and hit the ground running. At that, she was several steps behind Ben, who exploded out of the wood box as if propelled by a catapult. They flashed across the street and flew up the Drysdales’ stairs to the attic.

Savannah was just quieting Luthor. “Nice work, you guys.”

“You wouldn’t have thought it was nice if it happened to you!” panted Ben.

Pitch nodded vigorously, too breathless to comment.

“Don’t worry, it’s all going perfectly,” came Griffin’s voice through the laptop. “What next?”

“We keep watch,” Savannah replied.

And they did — through little Anthony’s bath time, through Lindsay’s French horn practice, and through an hour-long documentary on cheese making on the Discovery Channel.

“This is really boring,” Logan complained. “When are they going to take out the ring?”

That, they were coming to realize, was the whole problem with stakeouts. Setting up the surveillance was the easy part. The real challenge was waiting for something important to happen.

And there was no guarantee that it ever would.

G
ym class at the JFK Alternative Education Center consisted of only one activity — dodgeball. Not once had Griffin made it through an entire day without being involved in at least one match.

“They can’t trust us with sticks or bats,” was Sheldon Brickhaus’s explanation. “But they still want us to work out our aggression. So they buy a bunch of floppy rubber balls from Babies“R”Us and turn us loose on the floor.”

Shank had reason to know. He was the greatest dodgeball player in the history of the sport. He could take a ball designed for a toddler and turn it into a weapon of mass destruction. It wasn’t enough for him to hit you with the ball. He had an eye for finding you unbalanced or hyperextended. Then he’d nail you in the ear, or the side of the
knee, or the neck with such surgical precision that it would knock you flat. Even the high schoolers with criminal records were afraid of him on the dodgeball court.

As Shank’s “friend,” Griffin was targeted without mercy. The only escape was to hurl himself in front of someone else’s normal throw in order to be eliminated from the game.

Today, though, Griffin’s mind was so awhirl with the details of Operation Stakeout that there was no room for survival skills. Soon, he found himself standing like a deer in headlights as the dodgeball master lined him up for the kill.

“Say your prayers, Justice! This one’s going down your throat!”

Even then, with the guided missile seconds away, Griffin was miles from the gym, in the Drysdales’ attic, where Melissa’s surveillance gear was on automatic, filming and recording the Egan house. Was there any chance of catching a glimpse of the ring while Dr. Evil was at school all day? Not likely. For all Griffin knew, Mrs. Egan worked, too, and they were recording eight hours of nothing.

When the shot came, it wasn’t the hammer blow designed to lay him out. Shank bounced the ball
softly off his shoulder. Then, in an eerily quiet voice, he said, “You’re hit. Get out of my face.”

Griffin was grateful to leave the court and give Operation Stakeout his full attention. Not that he could ever be anything more than a spectator watching the whole thing from his room.

He wasn’t sure what was worse — house arrest, or missing out on a plan. Either way, it was horrible to be powerless to affect your own fate.

He struggled to stay positive. His friends had come up with a great plan, every bit as good as any idea of his. But, face it, a stakeout was a passive thing. You couldn’t go and get the truth; it had to come to you. What if it never did?

An
oof
of pain indicated that the game had ended. It was time to head to the locker room to endure Shank’s other athletic talent — towel snapping. But when the burly boy sat down beside Griffin on the bench, he was unarmed.

“You know, Justice, you really get on my nerves.”

Griffin was amazed. “What did
I
do?”

“Is my life such a party that I can pass up a chance to put a dodgeball through your skull? I don’t think so.”

“So who’s stopping you?” Griffin asked.

“You are! You’re so —
nice
! It takes the fun out of everything!”

“Then ignore me,” Griffin shot back.

“I can’t. This place is full of the worst lowlifes in town, and I survive being lower than the lot of them. The whole thing stinks, but it all makes sense — except you.”

Why was Sheldon Brickhaus the only person who understood that Griffin didn’t belong at Jail For Kids? Why couldn’t the police see that? Why couldn’t Judge Koretsky?

Then again, if the team couldn’t come up with that Super Bowl ring, the judge would sentence him to someplace a whole lot worse.

Honeybee Street was perfect for riding a scooter — freshly repaved, with a gentle slope.

Eleven-year-old Lindsay Egan came freewheeling along the blacktop, wind rustling the long, fair hair that trailed out of her helmet. She’d worked hard on her balance, and it showed.

A second scooter rider was coming from the opposite direction, struggling to get his vehicle up the incline. As Lindsay flashed by, Logan said, “Hi!”

It was only one syllable, but he spoke it in the character he had developed for making friends with Lindsay. Unfortunately, she passed by too quickly to notice, and probably missed it altogether.

Undaunted, he wheeled around and launched himself after her. He was going slightly downhill now, picking up speed, hearing the wind rushing by his ears. It was better, he decided, in this direction. Gravity did most of the work, so he could devote all his energy to acting.

By this time, Lindsay had turned at the end of the block and was on her way up.

“Nice scooter!” Logan called as he passed.

“Thanks.” And she was gone again.

Better, but not exactly a relationship. No way was he going to get to know her well enough to bring up the subject of the Super Bowl ring if all they did was flash past each other at twenty miles an hour.

There were moments in the career of an actor when he needed to make a bolder artistic choice. For the good of the performance, that moment had to be now.

He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she’d reached the top and was starting down again. Then he pumped at the pavement, working up a
humongous head of steam. By the time he hit the curb and jumped the sidewalk, he was flying.

The bush he’d been aiming at — the one that looked so soft and cushioning — wasn’t quite what he’d expected. His head slammed into hard wood, and dozens of sharp thorns ripped at his skin.

When he screamed, he didn’t even have to use his acting ability. This scream was the real thing.

She was at his side in an instant. “Are you alive?”

“Maybe,” he said faintly. “My head hurts and — could you get me out of this bush?”

She helped pull him free. “You’re all torn up. And we need to ice the bump on your head. Come on.” She began to lead him along the street.

“What about the scooters?” he protested weakly.

“We’ll come back for them. I live right over there.”

Logan allowed himself to be guided down the road, passing right under the attic dormer, where he knew the rest of the team was watching with great interest.

Ben was squinting out the window in consternation. “Why’s she holding his hand?”

Savannah, who was looking through the telephoto lens of the camera, had a better view. “I think he’s
bleeding
.”

“Don’t worry,” Pitch put in sarcastically. “Good actors can bleed on cue.”

“What happened to you back there?” Lindsay was asking. “One minute you were doing fine, and the next you were gone!”

“I don’t remember,” said Logan. “But it seems to me they could have found a better place to put a bush.”

She laughed. “I’m Lindsay.”

“Logan. You’re new in town, right?”

“We just moved here — from upstate. Watch out for the flower beds,” she added as they made their way onto the Egans’ front walk. “I’m putting in bulbs for the spring — tulips, daffodils, hyacinths. I’m really into spring flowers.”

“Oh, yeah — me, too,” said Logan, making a mental note to check out the subject on Wikipedia. An actor had to do research to support a role.

She let them in the front door and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. “You can wash up in there. I’ll get an ice pack for that bruise. It’s turning black and blue.”

“Thanks.” Logan was pleased with himself. Now
this
was what acting could do. All that climbing around in trees and on the roof, all that technology, and what did they have? A murky view of a couple of windows, and sounds from the TV and toilets flushing. But a little bit of acting, and here he was in the lion’s den. Wouldn’t it be something if he found the ring himself, before the stakeout even got going? He’d be a hero!

His mind wrapped itself around that possibility. Would it be better to swipe the ring right away? Or maybe he should leave it here and come back with the cops? That would prove Dr. Evil took it….

He splashed a little water on his face. The cuts still stung, but that was a small price to pay to ace a role. When he emerged, feeling much better, Lindsay beckoned him into the kitchen.

“I couldn’t find an ice pack, but these frozen lima beans should do the trick.”

There, holding a bag of frozen vegetables against his forehead, Logan made an exciting discovery. A
blue velvet jewelry box sat on the counter next to the toaster oven.

The ring? There was only one way to find out. He had to get a look inside that box. But how could he do that with Lindsay standing right there? He was mentally searching his bag of theatrical tricks when a car door slammed outside.

A moment later, Dr. Evil was standing in the front hall.

L
ogan panicked like no actor ever should. He covered his face with the lima bean package, stammered, “I gotta go!” and blasted right past the astonished principal and out the door.

Lindsay’s “But it’s just my dad …” trailed off.

Logan had left the building.

“Real smooth, Kellerman,” Pitch said sometime later in the stakeout command center. “Especially the lima beans. You might get nominated for Best Makeup — first actor to break the Vegetable Barrier.”

“Okay, so I lost it,” Logan admitted sheepishly. “I saw Egan and I pictured myself rotting in Jail For Kids with the dregs of society.”

“Thanks a lot,” came Griffin’s voice over the laptop.

Logan sat down on a box of old
National Geographic
s and tried to catch his breath. Unwilling to lead the principal across the street to the Drysdales’, he had reclaimed his scooter and ridden around for forty-five minutes, waiting for the coast to clear. The pain from salty sweat in his many cuts had been almost too much to bear. But he’d fought through his suffering in order to return to the command center and deliver his ultra-important news.

“Guys — I think I know where the ring is!”

“Where?” chorused everyone, including Griffin over the speaker.

“There’s a jewelry box on the kitchen counter. I couldn’t get a look inside. Egan showed up right after I spotted it.”

Ben was confused. “Who keeps jewelry in the kitchen?”

“Nobody,” Griffin concluded. “Not unless you’re waiting to take it out somewhere.”

“He’s selling it!” Pitch concluded.

“Or maybe he’s going to have it melted down for the gold and the diamonds,” Savannah added anxiously.

Griffin was alarmed. “We can’t let him do that! Then we’d never be able to prove that it used to be Art Blankenship’s ring!”

“I can move one of the webcams,” Pitch suggested. “Maybe there’s an angle that looks in the kitchen window.”

“It still wouldn’t be clear enough,” Griffin decided. “We need to know for sure. Logan, can you get back in the house?”

“No problem,” Logan said confidently. “I think that girl Lindsay kind of likes me.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Ben said quickly. “You made a pretty big idiot of yourself back there. And besides, you ripped off their lima beans.”

Logan frowned at him. “An actor learns to improvise and cover little mistakes. As for the lima beans, I’ll just bring them back.”

“I don’t think so,” Melissa put in quietly.

All eyes followed her pointing finger to the plywood floor, where Luthor’s huge snout was buried in the ripped-open freezer bag.

Savannah leaped forward, grabbed the big dog’s collar, and yanked the Doberman away from his snack. “Luthor — you know legumes give you gas!”

“We’ve got to move fast,” Griffin urged the
team. “Tomorrow after school. Logan, can you be ready?”

“I have play rehearsal tonight,” Logan replied. “And I need to do some research on flowers so I can help Lindsay plant her bulbs. That’s my dramatic opportunity.”

“Don’t worry. Ben will do the research for you.”

“No way!” Ben exploded. “Why do I have to help him hit on Lindsay?”

“I’m not hitting on her,” Logan protested. “I just need a reason to be over there helping her plant. Then I’ll ask to use the bathroom and look inside the jewelry box.”

“I’ll e-mail it to you tonight,” Ben said. “But you’d better use it just for the meeting.”

At that moment, the buildup of lima beans in Luthor’s system had its dreaded effect.

The stakeout was quickly adjourned.