It hadn’t worked on Jill, and it wasn’t going to work on him.
This was just more evidence, proof that Glennley had to be stopped. They’d sent this Mr. Birch to tell lies to his mom, pretending she’d been picked over all the other real estate agents in Edgeport because she was so talented. And when she found out their real reason for choosing her, it was going to hurt her feelings. She’d deal with it, of course.
But it was still a rotten thing to do.
Ben realized his jaw was hurting from gritting his teeth so hard.
He relaxed and made himself take a long drink of milk . . . . Much better.
But if Lyman and the rest of the Glennley goon squad thought something like this was gonna slow him down, they were in for a big surprise.
CHAPTER 8
Snap Judgment
Eating Chinese with his mom wasn’t fun at all.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Ben? These people really know their business, and Jim is such a good guy, too—I’ll be reporting to him directly. I can’t wait to get started. It’s like a dream come true!”
More like a nightmare, Ben thought. He had to keep smiling and nodding as he tried not to choke on his pork fried rice.
What these people were doing to his mom? It was so wrong!
In his room after supper he called Jill and told her the whole thing.
“Did you tell Robert yet?” she asked.
“No. I almost didn’t tell you—but don’t take that the wrong way. It’s not like I was gonna back off from our work or anything so my mom would get all that money. I . . . I just don’t want other people knowing about this. I feel so bad for her. That’s all.”
Jill was quiet. “My dad buys real estate at least a couple of times a year. And I know he never does anything without his lawyer. I think you need to talk to a good lawyer, the kind who specializes in real estate. I’ll call you back.”
The line clicked dead.
Ben stared at his phone. Her dad’s lawyer? That was a terrible idea!
He punched redial, but it went right to Jill’s message. He did that four more times before he tossed the phone on his bed, disgusted.
He leaned back in his desk chair and looked out the window, which ran up the slanted wall of his room. The sky was mostly clear, and some high-flying gulls looked gold, painted by the last beams of daylight. It was the kind of scene that usually made him feel good just to be alive. Not tonight.
I shouldn’t have called her! No matter which way this spins, Mom gets hurt!
He pounced when his phone buzzed.
“I sure hope you didn’t call your dad’s—”
Jill cut him off. “What, my dad’s lawyer? Do you think I’m that stupid, Benjamin? I called Amanda Burgess.”
She was also a lawyer, and Ben liked her. They’d talked with her after finding that codicil, the addition to the captain’s will. But she hadn’t been able to help because she was already involved in the case.
“Of course, I didn’t tell her anything,” Jill went on, “but I did ask her to recommend a good real estate lawyer, someone we can trust and someone we can call right now, tonight. And I told her we can pay real fees, too. Got a pencil?”
“Um . . . yes,” said Ben.
“His name is Harold Chamden, and Mrs. Burgess said she’d warn him, so he wouldn’t think you were some kid pranking him.” She read Ben the phone number.
Then she said, “So, the second I hang up, you call him. You want to know three simple things: one, can he look in public records and see exactly what properties Glennley has been buying during the past year; two, are the deals final; and three, is there any way to stop or delay any of them. And you can tell him we’ve got plenty of money to work with. These people try to mess with us, we mess with them.”
Ben hesitated, then said, “Is this . . . I mean, can we . . . like, is this kind of thing even legal?”
“How should I know?” she said. “Ask your lawyer!”
And for the second time in ten minutes, Jill hung up on him.
CHAPTER 9
Ready, Aim, Spend!
Harold Chamden picked up the phone during the first ring and started talking a mile a minute.
“Hey! This is Benjamin, right? Just got an earful from Amanda—said you and your friend Jill are the real deal. Tell me what’s up, and tell me everything, okay? No one else hears what you say to me, ever. Start at the start, and take it slow so I can take notes.”
Ben didn’t know where to begin. “Um, well . . . about three weeks ago . . . well, first, there was this old janitor . . . but really it’s mostly about the Captain Oakes School . . . and . . .”
The lawyer helped him out. He began again, speaking more slowly.
“Look, Ben—may I call you Ben?”
“Sure.”
“Good. So, Ben, think a second about what made you want to call me tonight, and tell me that part first.”
“Well, my mom’s a real estate agent . . . .”
“And a good one, I have to add,” said the lawyer. “I’ve been involved in at least a dozen deals with her during the past ten years or so, and she’s a real professional, straight up. And as I mentioned, whatever you say here is just between us.”
“So,” Ben resumed, “this man named Jim Birch has been talking to my mom, and he says he’s making her the main broker for selling hundreds of new condominiums up and down the coast. I know she’s good, but I also know for sure that this guy is making her this offer because he wants to stop me. From doing something.”
Harold Chamden took a moment to think about that. “And can you tell me what he’d like to stop you from doing?”
“He wants to make me and my friends stop trying to save the Oakes School from being torn down. And stopping the whole Tall Ships Ahoy! theme park. We’re working to keep that from happening, and this man knows it. So he’s pushing all this money at my mom to make me feel like I have to stop.”
“And your mother doesn’t know what you’re doing about the school?”
“No, almost nobody knows. There are five of us—we’re called Keepers. And also a guy at Edgeport Trust and Savings Bank, he knows too. And I think Mrs. Burgess has a pretty good idea what we’re up to, but she’s not allowed to talk to us about it. Because of ethics.”
“Well, Ben, here’s what I already know, just because you mentioned that one name, Jimmy Birch. Every real estate lawyer in Essex County knows about this operator, and what he’s been trying to do for the Glennley Group. He’s a greasy-sleazy-makes-me-queasy kind of lawyer. Started making offers on properties about eighteen months ago, came in with high bids every time.”
“So . . . is Glennley really doing all the stuff this man told my mom about?”
“Not exactly. I’m on the Realty Ethics Board, and when the papers were filed on the first property Mr. Birch went after, we heard about it. They haven’t really been buying properties. They’ve been buying options to buy—they pay a little bit now, to lock up the right to actually buy at a time in the future. They don’t really own a thing, not yet. And after that first deal, our ethics board made sure that all the other sellers got good legal advice. Thanks to us, most of the sellers now have ways to get out of the Glennley options—if someone else offered them more money, for instance.”
Ben was pleased with himself—he was actually understanding what the lawyer was saying, and he liked what he heard. And he remembered that money was an important part of every war he’d ever read about, even the American Revolution. If the French hadn’t supported the colonists with loans and donations, the war might have been lost. And now, Mr. Birch and the Glennley Group thought they could change the course of this war with a pile of money.
Well guess what, buddy? Ben thought. Two can play this game!
Using his most grown-up sounding voice, Ben said, “So, if you were the Glennley Group, Mr. Chamden, and all of Mr. Birch’s real estate deals suddenly fell apart, would that make you feel like the Tall Ships Ahoy! project wasn’t worth do
ing?”
“Not worth doing at all?” said the lawyer. “No . . . but it would certainly make the whole plan a lot less desirable, much less profitable. And the Glennley stockholders wouldn’t like that one bit.”
“About how much money has Glennley spent on these options so far?” Ben asked.
“Three or four million dollars. But the total value of all the properties is more like twenty million. Of course, then they plan to tear down the homes and the other structures they’ve optioned and put up new condominium buildings. So that twenty million is just the beginning of what they plan to invest.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, “but they have to buy all the land first, right? And that’s about twenty million dollars?”
“Right.”
“So . . . how much would someone need to have to take those options away from Glennley?”
The lawyer chuckled. “A lot, Ben. Probably about twenty-five, maybe thirty million dollars. And frankly, son, in this real estate market, no one’s going to step up and start a bidding war with the Glennley Group. It’s just not—”
“Mr. Chamden, if I can find the money, what would you charge to do all the legal stuff, all the paperwork and everything?”
“Just my normal billing fees, Ben, but that could add up to fifteen or twenty thousand dollars when all’s said and done, and I really don’t—”
“Sorry to be rude, Mr. Chamden, but I’ve got to make some other phone calls now. But I’m going to call you tomorrow, okay? And be sure to charge me for your time just now, okay? Good-bye, and thanks a lot!”
“Good night, Ben.”
The lawyer sounded like he was saying good night to a three-year-old who had just explained how he was going to fly to Mars on the back of a monkey.
Ben had to smile. Because if everything went the way he thought it would, Mr. Harold Chamden would be meeting at the bank tomorrow with Mr. Arthur Rydens, the man in charge of the giant trust fund. He only hoped someone would be there to take a picture of the lawyer’s face!
And using the camera on his phone, Ben took a snapshot of his own face as he called Jill to give her the news from the financial battlefield, and then a second photo when he called Robert a few minutes later.
They were great pictures.
CHAPTER 10
Tip of the Spear
Ben and Jill and Robert were waiting at the front door of the school on Tuesday before Mrs. Hendon had even turned on all the lights in the office. She buzzed them in, and they headed straight for the long hallway, the one with the post that went bong.
Lyman knew that the three kids had permission slips for entering the school early, and every day for the past two weeks, his gray pickup truck had been parked at the loading dock by seven fifteen. But today Lyman was going to be late.
At precisely six minutes after seven o’clock, Mrs. Keane’s old Plymouth had stalled near the corner of Salem and Beecham Street, and there was quite a traffic snarl—the worst one Edgeport had seen in months, maybe years. Cars and trucks and school buses were backed up four or five blocks in both directions. And to the north, the traffic jam went well past Buckman Court. Which meant that while Lyman could drive his truck out of his driveway, he couldn’t turn onto Salem Street in either direction.
They worked fast—Wally would certainly arrive any second. In her backpack, Jill had a brand-new ScanMaster 9000, a small, powerful device for detecting all kinds of radio signals—including the kind emitted by wireless video cameras. Before the Keepers showed any interest in a particular post in this hallway, they had to be certain no one was watching.
Jill made two passes along the hall, going from the art room to the south staircase, and then back again.
“Any signals?” Ben asked.
“Nope, just a weak blip when I passed the janitor’s room. The hallway is clean.”
“Great!” said Robert. He pulled out their new camera and trotted to the fourth post from the art room wall. Beginning near the ceiling, he snapped more than a dozen photos, a full set with flash, and another set without.
The whole process of scanning and photographing took less than five minutes.
“Okay,” Ben said. “Let’s go up to the second floor now and study the walls over on the other side of the school.”
Jill looked at him like he was crazy.
But Robert smiled and said, “Great idea, Pratt.”
Then Jill got it too. “Oh—so Wally will find us there—let’s go! And I’ll keep the scanner on.”
“Don’t bother,” Robert said. “We want them to see us messing around up on the second floor.”
“No,” Ben said, “we should scan everywhere we can. We should know about any cameras or microphones—even if we do want to be observed right now.”
“Yeah . . . I guess,” Robert conceded. “But we don’t want to run down the batteries in that thing.”
Ben saw Jill smile slightly at that. Robert still had trouble admitting it when he made a mistake. Which wasn’t very often . . . and that was good.
They’d only been up in the north hallway on the second floor for about three minutes when they heard a door slam in the stairwell, then footsteps running up the stairs.
“Get ready—and don’t forget to look guilty and worried!” Ben said.
They heard the footsteps reach the landing.
“Now!” whispered Ben, and when Wally pulled the door open and burst into the hall, they were all whispering gibberish to each other as they stuffed papers and tape measures and the camera into their backpacks.
Wally looked like he’d just finished a marathon for short, out-of-shape people—huffing and puffing, a little unsteady on his feet, with dark sweat stains on his green shirt.
He leaned against the wall, “Busy morning, children? Looks like it. Hope you’re having fun. Find anything interesting you’d like to share?”
Jill looked at him, clutching her backpack to her chest. “I can share something, sir. You need a shower!”
Ben tugged on her sleeve. “C’mon, let’s go!”
But Jill pulled away from him.
“And I also think you need to start looking for a new job, sir. Because you’re probably going to get fired after you fail at this important assignment, sir. But getting fired is something you’re used to, isn’t it? Sir.”
Ben watched Wally’s face getting redder and redder as Jill kept talking. His small eyes narrowed to slits, and the short dark hair on his head bristled like fur on the shoulders of an angry dog.
Robert had already hurried away toward the south stairwell without a word, which had been their plan. They were all going to meet up in the library.
Ben hissed, “Jill, let’s go! Come on—now!”
Jill kept her eyes locked with Wally’s and said to Ben, “Let’s go this way.”
She walked straight toward Wally, and Ben had no choice but to follow. He double-stepped and managed to get around to Jill’s left, so he’d be between her and Wally as they went into the north stairwell. The look on the guy’s face was flat-out scary.
But Wally didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle as they went past him less than a foot away—Jill was right about that shower.
They started down the stairs, and when they reached the landing, the door above them opened and Wally came along behind.
Ben tried to hustle her along, but Jill took her time. She walked like she was taking a stroll on the beach. And then she started talking—loud enough so Wally could hear every word.
“You know what I love about this school, Ben? I love how clean it is. We have terrific janitors here, don’t you think? I mean, they really know how to shove a broom and mop out a bathroom. And that new guy? Have you seen his technique? He’s a true master, sort of a cross between a samurai and a rodeo clown. That man can do it all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes it to the big leagues one day—he could work at a fish market . . . or a pet hospital, someplace that’s super messy. Because this guy has All-Star Janitor written all over him.
”
Ben was relieved when they got to the library. Ms. Shubert was working at the main desk, so Jill finally had to shut up.
“What’s the matter with you?” he hissed.
She whispered right back, “It’s called strategy, Benjamin. Because the things I learned about Mr. Wallace Robleton last night were very interesting. This guy has serious anger issues. And if we can get him to blow his top, he’ll be out of here—gone!”
Ben was surprised at her answer—because it was exactly what he’d tried to do to Lyman yesterday morning before homeroom.
So . . . what? We’re all turning into killers now . . . going straight for the throat?
They’d been walking toward the alcove along the east wall, and as they got close, Robert put a finger to his lips and held up a note aimed at Jill—one word: SCAN!
She nodded and reached a hand into her backpack. She tilted her head, listening—she was still wearing the tiny Bluetooth earpiece that was linked to the signal scanner.
After a moment she said, “All clear.”
As they sat down, Ben said, “So, what exactly did you learn about Wally?”
Jill raised an eyebrow. “A lot. Unlike Lyman, he has no degrees beyond high school. But after living at home for a year or two, he joined the navy, and they tested him and found he had a good head for math and science. So he took a ton of classes and became a telecommunications expert—radio, radar, satellites, plus all kinds of computer skills. He’s a very smart guy.”
“But you said he has anger issues . . .”
“Right. Mostly, it seems like he can’t stand stupid people. He was discharged from the navy after he tackled a superior officer who wouldn’t let him do a project he thought was important.”
“And then?” Robert prompted.
“He went back to his hometown of Charlottesville, Virginia, married a girl he’d known there, but got divorced after a year—same deal, anger issues. She had to take out a restraining order. No kids.”