Mystery of the Phantom Heist (3 page)

“Didn’t Schroeder tell you?” Chief Olaf demanded. “Something nasty was scratched on the door of Lindsay Peyton’s very expensive car.”

“We know about that,” Chet blurted.

“You bet you know,” Chief Olaf said. “You boys were at the house at the time of the incident. Someone even saw you hanging around Lindsay’s car in the parking lot.”

Someone? I wondered who had gone to the police about us. Was it Sanford Peyton? Lindsay herself?

“We were at the house, Chief, that’s true,” I said. “But we were there to apply for a job, not to make trouble.”

The chief leaned forward. “And this job would get you into one of the biggest parties in Bayport, right?”

“Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen,” Joe said with a nod.

“Well, you didn’t take the job, did you?” Chief Olaf asked. “In fact, you left the place pretty steamed, am I right, boys?”

“They called me B-list material!” Chet blurted. “How would you feel?”

I gave Chet a quick but subtle elbow jab. He had a habit of stuffing his mouth—and running it too.

“Well?” Chief Olaf asked, leaning back in his big leather chair. “So what’s the story?”

“Chief, you know we’re detectives,” I said.

The chief raised an eyebrow. “Last I checked, your dad and I discussed that you should concentrate on other things.”

“Okay, we
were
detectives,” I said quickly.

“We solved crimes,” Joe added. “We don’t commit them.”

“Then what about that guy?” the chief said, leaning over to point at Chet. “Mr. Peyton said he stole a pastry!”

“Rats!” Chet hissed.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. “Chief Olaf, we had nothing to do with Lindsay’s car being keyed,” I said. “We can even prove it if you just give us a little time.”

“I think this prank had something to do with another one that happened yesterday,” Joe said.

“Show him the video, Joe!” Chet urged.

But the second Joe took out his tablet, the chief held up his hand as if to say,
Stop
.

“This is nothing new,” Chief Olaf said. “Those pranks have been going on around Bayport for weeks.”

“Weeks?” I said, surprised.

“Then you’ll definitely want to look at this, Chief,” Joe said, holding out his tablet.

“Why? So I can watch Katy Perry, or whoever it is you kids like these days?” Chief Olaf growled. “And as for you guys working on another case—give me a break. My best officers can’t even catch those punks.”

“Those punks?” Chet said hopefully. “As in . . . someone else?”

“So you believe us when we say we didn’t key Lindsay’s car?” I asked slowly.

Chief Olaf narrowed his steely blue eyes straight at us. “Let’s just say I’m letting you go with a warning,” he said.

I could hear Chet sigh with relief. I, too, was relieved. We were finally off the hook . . . or were we?

“But just remember that I’m keeping my eyes on all you kids,” Chief Olaf said sternly. “Even you so-called detectives.”

So-called detectives? Ouch! Technically, we weren’t supposed to do any more investigating after our last adventure (if you call having a crime gang coming after you an adventure), but since we helped put away the Red Arrow, Dad and Chief Olaf made us a deal that if we checked in and made sure to follow a few guidelines, we could still catch a few bad guys every now and then. Most important, we wouldn’t be sent to the notorious J’Adoube School for Behavior Modification. And it looks like we might be catching bad guys sooner than expected.

When the chief opened the door, we couldn’t get out fast enough. We walked quickly up the hallway, not looking back.

“So-called detectives,” Joe scoffed. “He’s just jealous because we’re good at doing his job.”

“Joe, keep it down!” I warned. “The last thing we need is more trouble with the new chief.”

“But Olaf practically said we’re clean!” Joe insisted.

“Let’s just get out of here,” I said as we stepped into the waiting area.

“Are you sure you want to leave?” Chet asked.

“Yeah, why?” I asked. I followed Chet’s gaze to the long wooden bench against the wall. Sitting on it were an elderly woman, a middle-aged man, and . . . Sierra?

My eyes widened as the pretty, dark-haired girl stood up and smiled in our direction. It was Sierra, all right. But what was she doing at the station, of all places?

That’s when it suddenly clicked—and when my admiration turned into anger. The person who’d gone to the cops about us wasn’t Sanford Peyton or Lindsay.

It was Sierra!

I
DIDN’T HAVE TO READ FRANK’S MIND TO KNOW
he was thinking the same as me—had Sierra told on us to the cops?

“So you’re the informant,” Frank said as Sierra walked toward us.

“Informant?” she asked with a smile.

“Let me put it in plain English,” I said. “Did you come to the cops to tell them we keyed Lindsay’s car?”

Sierra’s smile turned into a frown. “I saw what happened, and it’s such a bummer,” she said. “Lindsay adores that car.”

“I believe that,” Frank said. “So why didn’t the chief look totally convinced that we didn’t key it?”

“I believe you,” Sierra said, tilting her head and looking
all flirty. “You’re not gladiator material—or vandal material, for that matter.”

“Did you tell that to Mr. Peyton?” I asked.

“How could I?” Sierra said, her eyes wide. “He was already on the phone with the chief.”

Okay. That explained who’d called the cops, but it didn’t explain what Sierra was doing at the police station.

“So, do you come here often?” I joked. “Must be the free coffee and doughnuts.”

“I happen to drink tea,” Sierra said. “And I’m here because Mr. Peyton wanted me to make sure the Sweet Sixteen had the police presence he requested.”

Frank looked relieved to find out that Sierra wasn’t the snitch. “If you ask me,” he said, “that party is going to need the whole force.”

“What do you mean?” Sierra asked.

“With all those kids from Bay Academy,” Frank said, “the place will be oozing with bling, fancy watches, and state-of-the-art phones.”

“Hey, no fair,” Sierra said, faking at being insulted. “I go to Bay Academy.”

I could practically hear Frank gulp.

“Awkward,” Chet said under his breath.

“Um—you do?” Frank asked, turning red. “I had no idea. You don’t seem like . . . I mean—”

“It’s okay,” Sierra laughed. “Oh, and FYI, I wasn’t invited to Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen either.”

“You weren’t invited?” I asked, surprised. “And you don’t mind doing all this grunt work for the Peytons?”

Sierra shook her head.

“I’m interning for the head event planner of the party. It’s what I want to do after I graduate college, so it’s really good experience,” she explained. “Although walking Lindsay’s yappy little dog was definitely not in my job description.”

Frank laughed, a little too loudly. He blushed when the officer behind the desk cleared her throat.

“So you go to Bay Academy,” Frank said, lowering his voice. “I guess that means you don’t date Bayport High guys.”

Whoa. Frank wasn’t exactly smooth when it came to girls, so for him to make a move, he’d have to be pretty serious.

Chet and I turned to Sierra for her reaction. She flashed Frank a sly smile before pulling out a pen. Then she picked up Frank’s hand and wrote her name and number on his palm.

“Why don’t you call me and find out?” Sierra said with a grin.

Man,
I thought.
If Frank wasn’t already crushing on this girl, I might!

Chet glanced at Frank’s scribbled-on palm. “If you do go out with Frank . . . Sierra Mitchell,” he said, “you won’t be sorry, that’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?” Sierra asked.

“Yeah,” Frank demanded. “What do you mean?”

“Because Frank is the best detective in Bayport, that’s what I mean,” Chet said. “Other than his brother, Joe, here, of course.”

“We’re a team,” I added quickly.

Sierra tilted her head to study Frank, then me. “Detectives?” she asked. “Seriously?”

“Not only that,” Chet went on, “Frank and Joe are going to find out who keyed Lindsay’s car if they have to turn this jerkwater town upside down!”

“We are?” Frank cried.

It was news to me, too, but the most surprised seemed to be Sierra. Her eyes lit up like headlights as she said, “You are?”

Frank stared back at Sierra. Then he smiled and said, “Um . . . yeah, sure.”

“I guess that means we’re on the case,” I said.

“Okay, kids,” the officer behind the desk snapped. “This isn’t a bowling alley—time to socialize somewhere else.”

“We were just leaving, Officer,” Frank said.

“And I’m here on business,” Sierra told her.

Frank gave Sierra a little wave before we headed out of the station. We had to walk along the road back to Frank’s car, still parked at the Chomp and Chew. It was a long walk, but we were just happy to get out of the station. As for Frank, he looked just plain happy!

“Who knew getting arrested would be a great way to meet girls, huh, Frank?” I teased.

“We weren’t arrested, we were just warned,” Frank said. “And all Sierra did was give me her number, so the ball is in my court.”

“Yeah, right,” Chet chuckled. “Just make sure you don’t wash that hand, dude.”

We were having a good laugh when I heard the fired-up engine of a speeding car. I turned just in time to see a shiny black Benz barreling down the road. Frank, Chet, and I stopped to watch the car as it came our way. A car window came down and . . .
CLUNK!!
An empty soda can was hurled out the window, barely missing Chet!

“Hey!” Chet yelled.

The Benz kept going, so fast I didn’t see who was inside. But I could hear them laughing—and it sounded exactly like the guys at the Chomp and Chew!

“Jerks!” I called after the car.

“Hey, Chet,” Frank asked, “are you okay, buddy?”

“Yeah, sure,” Chet said with a nod. “Who do you think those guys were?”

“It had to be those Bay Academy losers,” I said angrily. “The ones who were giving Tony a hard time at the Chomp and Chew.”

Chet kicked the can away. “What’s with those Bay Academy kids, anyway?” he wondered aloud as we continued walking up the road. “I mean, why are they being such morons?”

“Come on, Chet,” Frank said. “Not all Bay Academy kids are bad news.”

I raised an eyebrow at my brother.

“Hmm,” I teased. “And does her name happen to be Sierra?”

Frank gave me a little push. “Okay, you guys,” he said. “Now that we’re on the case, we’ve got to get serious about Lindsay’s car. Who do you think could have done it?”

“I still think the punks who slushied Lonny are the punks who keyed the car.” I patted the pocket holding my tablet. “And if that stunt goes viral—we’ll know for sure!”

•   •   •

“No games at the dinner table, Joe,” Mom said as she placed a platter of lasagna inches away from me. “You know the rules.”

I looked up from my tablet and said, “But it’s not a game, Mom. I’m looking to see if any more pranks went viral.”

“We’re working on a new case,” Frank explained. “Somebody scratched up Lindsay Peyton’s car. We want to find out who did it.”

Dad stopped piling lasagna on his plate. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, guys?” he asked. “After what happened today with Chief Olaf?”

We had already told Dad about being called to the police station. He wanted to call Chief Olaf, but we begged him not to play the dad card.

“Dad, we’re not going to stop working on cases just because the chief thinks we’re detective wannabes,” I said.

Dad nodded as if he understood. Fenton Hardy had
worked as a detective for decades. He did some occasional consulting still, but was focused on writing full-time.

“Plus, the faster we find the real culprits,” Frank said, “the faster the chief will stop blaming innocent kids around Bayport—”

“Like us,” I cut in.

“Okay,” Dad said, taking a helping of salad. “Then go for it.”

Mom cleared her throat to get my attention.

“You may have won Dad’s argument, Joe,” Mom said, narrowing her eyes at my tablet. “But you didn’t win mine.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, putting it away.

Our mom, Laura Hardy, was a star real estate agent in Bayport. She could convince anyone to buy a home—or put away their tablets at dinner.

I was just about to pile some lasagna on my own plate when I saw Frank sniffing the air.

“What’s that smell?” Frank asked, wiggling his nose.

“Grated cheese?” I guessed.

“No,” Dad groaned. “It’s your aunt Trudy burning those smelly scented candles again.”

“But Aunt Trudy lives in the apartment above the garage,” I said. “How can we smell them all the way over here?”

“Because that’s how potent they are,” Dad said. “If you ask me, they smell more like rotten eggs than spring rain and patchouli.”

“Eggs—that reminds me,” Mom said. “Someone at work told me there was a prank at the library last night.”

Prank? My ears perked up like a dog hearing a whistle.

“What kind of prank, Mom?” I asked.

“Something about someone throwing eggs down the book drop,” Mom said, shaking her head. “A half dozen books were totally ruined.”

Frank shot me a look across the table. Another prank in Bayport? Now I really wanted to check out YouTube to see if it had gone viral. I had a feeling Frank did too.

The two of us practically inhaled our lasagna. As soon as we were excused, we raced up the stairs to my room. We sat down on the floor—but not before I tossed aside a bunch of dirty socks, a hoodie, some notebooks, and a half-eaten banana.

“Sometimes I can’t believe we have the same DNA.” Frank sighed. “When are you going to clean up this place?”

“I just did,” I said. “You should have seen it before.”

“How are we going to find it?” Frank asked. “There are millions of videos on YouTube.”

“We could search ‘egg pranks,’ ” I said as I turned on the tablet. But before I typed in a search, I had another idea. “Or . . . we could find the user name for the slushie video.”