“That’s my point,” Officer Borsch says. “It’s worth nothing but aggravation.”
I shift around in my seat a little to face him better. “Except to Mayor Hibbs, right? I’ve heard he, like, worships it.”
The Borschman eyes me. “That’s common knowledge?”
Marissa and I both laugh. “Oh yeah.”
Then something hits me. “What if you worked at City Hall and you had to walk past it every day, and every day you thought it was stupid and embarrassing and that there should be some other, you know, more traditional statue there! What if the whole city council wanted it gone! What if they’ve been trying to get it changed for years but the mayor’s been vetoing them! What if—”
“Sammy, Sammy, stop! You’re suggesting the city council stole the statue?”
“Okay, no. But everybody thinks the statue is embarrassing. How can you say it has anything to do with Justice Jack?”
“Well, maybe it didn’t have anything to do with Jack originally,” Officer Borsch says, “but it does now.” He eyes me. “He’s vowed to ‘bring the perpetrator to justice!’ As if the mayor being all over us to find it isn’t bad enough.”
“Maybe he’ll actually help,” I tell him as we zoom past City Hall. “Maybe he’ll track them down and give them a tour of Stomp City.”
“Stop it!” the Borschman cries. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a minute, then blurts out, “Whatever you do, do not become that lunatic’s sidekick, do you hear me?”
“Whoa—his sidekick?” I laugh. “I’ve seen his sidekick, Officer Borsch. I’m not interested.”
“You wait,” Officer Borsch warns. “He’s going to try to recruit you. And he talks a good game, Sammy, but trust me—the man’s a loser.”
I frown at him. “Wow. That’s pretty cold.”
“But it’s true! His ‘secret hideaway’ is a pink trailer on his mother’s property. And his ‘laboratory’ where he fabricates his ‘crime-fighting arsenal’ is a shed. And you’ve seen what he drives!”
“The High Roller?”
“Don’t! It’s a dirt bike with a sidecar.”
I grin. “A sidecar for his sidekick.”
Officer Borsch nose-dives to a halt at the library drop-off curb. “Which I’m begging you to please never get into.”
“Officer Borsch, you worry too much. I’m not crazy, you know.”
“No, but he is. Or at least he might be.” He frowns, then adds, “And he’s a little too fascinated by you, so can you please do me a favor and steer clear of him?”
Well, the last thing I want is for the Borschman to have a heart attack over some harmless guy in tights and a mask, so I tell him, “Sure. And thanks for the ride.” And I start to get out of the car, but at the last minute Marissa stops scooting and asks Officer Borsch, “Uh … is there any way I can maybe get a ride up to East Jasmine instead? My umbrella’s kinda thrashed and it’s a long walk.”
Officer Borsch grumbles, “Now I’m a taxi service?”
I’ve already stepped out and whooshed open the Awesome Dome of Dryness, and since Marissa’s house would make for a long walk back to the Senior Highrise, I tell them, “Not for me. I’m good here!” Then I lean forward and say to Marissa, “Call me. I want to hear what happens with Billy.”
So they take off, and I go inside the library, where it’s warm and dry, and while I browse around, the back of my mind sort of rattles with the things Officer Borsch had said. And it’s funny—I’d thought Justice Jack was a wacko, too, but Officer Borsch putting him down made me want to stick up for him. I mean, how could it hurt to have someone like him patrolling the corridors of the mall?
Plus, I hate it when people call someone a loser.
Maybe I’m overly sensitive about it, but I do.
Then I started thinking that maybe Officer Borsch had become a cop because he’d always wanted to be a superhero. Maybe he was jealous of Justice Jack! Maybe instead of a uniform and badge, he’d always secretly wanted tights and a mask and his very own crime-fighting lab.
A picture of Officer Borsch in his clandestine crime lab with a Borschman costume at the ready and surveillance cameras mounted all around popped into my head. And that led me to wondering what Justice Jack’s secret hideaway and crime lab were really like. I mean, Officer Borsch can be pretty critical when he doesn’t like someone.
Believe me—I’ve been there.
And that’s when I got a brainstorm.
One that I promised myself would not get me into trouble.
NINE
I hurried over to one of the library’s computers, got on the Internet, and did a white pages search for “Jack Wesley” in Santa Martina. There were only two of them, and since one was seventy-eight and the other was twenty-seven, I went to Google Earth and put in the address of the twenty-seven-year-old.
And then there it was.
Justice Jack’s secret hideaway.
The picture wasn’t razor sharp or anything, and there were lots of trees all around getting in the way. And even though it was mostly an aerial view of the property, I could make out a building, plus something pink that was pretty large, and what looked like big messy piles of rusted junk.
I zoomed in and rotated the image, but all that really did was make things fuzzier and squashed. So I pulled back out and just sat there staring at the monitor for a while. Even with only this fuzzy view, it was pretty clear that Justice Jack lived out in some chicken-pickin’ area and wasn’t exactly rolling in dough.
For some reason this made me kinda sad. Obviously, Justice Jack wanted to be a superhero, but if this was his secret hideaway? Maybe Officer Borsch was right. I mean, from this picture he sure didn’t seem like a winner.
And then right behind me a voice goes, “Hey, loser.”
Now, I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
It’s the Twisted Sister.
The Dirty Disser.
The Hateful Hisser!
The one and only Heather Acosta.
I do turn around, though, because it’s never a good idea to let your archenemy anywhere near your back.
Unless you enjoy knives sticking out of it, that is.
Sure enough, it’s Heather, along with her half-witted sidekick Monet Jarlsberg. Monet’s carrying a sorry-looking umbrella that’s dripping away, and while Heather seems pretty dry, Monet’s left shoulder and half of her hair are soaked. Like she only got to use one little wedge of her own umbrella.
And, really, I have no idea why they’d weather a storm to come to the library. I mean, Heather coming into the library at all? And on a Saturday? It’s like seeing a tiger walk into an igloo.
So I’m in the middle of trying to piece this little puzzle together when Heather says, “So who’s at three-fifty-seven Sandydale Lane, and why are you spying on them?”
It’s not often I feel stupid around Heather Acosta.
Mad, yes.
Defensive, yes.
But stupid?
I wanted to kick myself. And while part of my brain’s screaming, Why didn’t you shrink the window? another part’s going, Don’t do it now! You can’t do it now! and then my mouth takes over, telling her, “It’s research for a historical perspectives project.”
So now my brain goes, Historical perspectives project? What’s that supposed to be? And you have history with her, you dope! She knows there’s no project!
But Heather doesn’t call me out on it, and my hand just calmly clicks Google Earth closed as I tell her, “It’s not like you to come into the House of Knowledge.” I log out and stand up. “Here, you can have it. I’m sure it’ll help you find your way back to Stupid Street.”
But as I grab my umbrella, Monet points to it and gasps, “Heather, look!”
This is not an oh-look-at-the-awesome-umbrella gasp.
And it’s not a now-that-would-have-kept-us-dry gasp.
It’s a she-was-the-girl-with-the-umbrella! gasp.
Which meant they must’ve heard about the purse snatcher at
the mall.
Which meant that I was now busted.
And I’m thinking, Maaaaaaaan! How can trying to help get a person in so much trouble? Only then it hits me that Heather’s not looking at me like she’s going to run off and tell the police that she caught the getaway girl with the big black umbrella.
She’s looking stunned.
Almost hurt.
And then a woman wearing a fuzzy orange scarf hurries up to me, saying, “It’s you! You stopped that man and saved my purse!”
Why didn’t I just go home?
But I didn’t and I’m stuck and there’s obviously no getting out of the mess I’m in.
Only then something else very strange happens.
The woman puts a hand on Monet’s shoulder and says, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Monet goes all shifty-eyed and then eeks out, “Ummm … this is Sammy.”
The woman gives her a curious look. “And I am …?”
Monet forces a smile, and without really looking at me, she says, “And this is my mom.”
And just like that, poof, I’m in a great mood because there is nothing more fun than being your archenemy’s dopey sidekick’s mother’s hero of the day.
I put out my hand and say a real friendly “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Jarlsberg!”
She shakes it and says, “Thank you so much for stopping that man! I’d just been to the ATM, and he would have gotten away with three hundred dollars if it wasn’t for you!”
“I’m sure someone else would have caught him,” I tell her. “It was no big deal.”
“Well, I’m not so sure. And it was a big deal to me! It would have put a huge dent in our Christmas.” She opens her purse and rummages around a little, and Heather’s and Monet’s eyeballs totally bug out as she hands me a twenty.
Now, as much as I could use the twenty, I don’t feel right about taking it. “Oh, that’s okay,” I tell her. “Really. I’m just happy you got your purse back.”
But she stuffs it in my jacket pocket and says, “You’re taking it.” Then she looks at me like I’m some strange animal in a terrarium. “Not only are you brave, you’re polite and humble.” She glances at Heather and Monet, and you can practically see a lightbulb come on over her head. “Say … we’re here to check out a few rainy-day movies.…” She smiles at me. “How would you like to come over and watch them with us?”
Well, there’s no way in the world I want to spend the day—rainy or otherwise—with Heather and Monet. And there’s also no way I feel right about keeping the twenty. So I hold out the money to her and I’m planning to say Thanks but no thanks to the movie invite, but then I see the horrified looks on Monet’s and Heather’s faces, and I get a wicked idea.
“Sure!” I tell her, then smile at Heather and Monet. “That would be great!”
Mrs. Jarlsberg pushes the twenty back and says, “Wonderful!” but Monet jumps in with, “Mom, I’ve been trying to tell you—I have a headache! I don’t want to watch a movie!”
Mrs. Jarlsberg blinks at her. “But—”
“And I really need to get home,” Heather says.
“But—”
Now, the more awkward Heather and Monet act, the more fun this is for me. But it’s not like I need Heather to hate me more than she already does, so I tell Mrs. Jarlsberg, “That’s okay. I have homework I should be doing anyway.”
“Well, put your money away,” she says, because I’m still holding it out. “You’ve earned it.” Then she snorts and says, “That Justice Jack guy would have taken it, believe me. Talk about needing attention.” She cocks her head a little. “Who is he anyway, do you know?”
I shrug. Like, Beats me!
“Do you think he was hired by the mall? Like a mascot to break up the loiterers?”
I shrug again. “Maybe.”
“Mom,” Monet says in her whiny little voice, “I told you I have a massive headache. Why are we still here?”
“Okay, fine, sweetheart, let’s go.” She smiles at me. “It was so nice to meet you. Thank you again.”
“Glad I could help,” I tell her. “And thank you for the reward.”
As they walk away, Heather looks over her shoulder and mouths, “Loser!” and flips me off behind her back.
Mrs. Jarlsberg had been so nice that it actually flashed through my mind to tell her that her daughter was spinning deeper and deeper into Heather’s Black Hole of Hatred and that she needed to dispatch a rescue mission ASAP. I mean, if the person who saved her purse laid out the truth, maybe she’d listen.
Then again, probably not.
So I just watched them go, then headed for home and tried to shove Heather out of my mind.
On my way back to the Senior Highrise, I found myself going right by City Hall. And since I wasn’t in a hurry or anything, I decided to take a little detour and check out the foyer.
It was the weekend, so the place was locked up tight, but I could still peek in and see the big base where the statue had been. And even though the foyer had been sort of a joke with the statue there, now that it was gone, the place looked … worse.
It wasn’t because there was a big ol’ base and no statue.
Or that the room seemed empty.
It was because you now noticed all the pictures of politicians and plaques and stuff that were hanging on the walls.
It was boring.
Generic.
I shook off the thought that the statue actually belonged there and looked around for a broken window. I couldn’t find one, but figured that with all the rain, they’d probably replaced it right away. I did notice a long scrape mark on the tile floor that led to a side door, though. And when I walked around the building, I discovered that the side door led to a small parking lot—one that was bordered by walls on two sides and a pretty big hedge on the third.
I didn’t see any floodlights or mounted cameras in that area, so I started to understand how someone could have backed up to the side door at night and loaded in the statue without being seen.
The whole way back to the Highrise, I couldn’t help thinking about the statue. I mean, seeing the empty base made it hit home—the most ridiculous statue in the world really had been stolen.
But why?
Did somebody actually want it?
Or did they just want it gone?
“There you are!” Grams whispered as I slipped through the door.
“Is Mrs. Wedgewood home?” I whispered back, figuring the reason we were whispering was that the Whale had returned to breach another day.
“Rose? No. No sign of her. I wish I could say the same for the people she swindled. I am getting very tired of them knocking on my door.” She handed me a tuna sandwich and a glass of juice. “I’m afraid you may be spending some time in the closet this evening.”
Well, she was right about that. Three separate times I had to collect any evidence that I was there and dive for the closet, and one of those times it was Mr. Garnucci at the door.
Now, usually when I dive for the closet, I leave Grams’ bedroom door at least partly open and the closet door cracked so I can kinda hear what’s going on. But when I heard it was Mr. Garnucci, I closed everything up tight and just held my breath until Grams finally let me out.
“He’s gone,” she whispered.
“What did he want?”
“He’d heard I might have a key to Rose’s apartment.”
Which was true.
She does.
Wedgie Woman had given it to her so we could rescue her when she fell off the toilet and couldn’t get up—something she does more often than I want to think about. But it’s also convenient for her when she pulls her little blackmail stunts—having a key makes it so we can hurry over to do her bidding and she doesn’t even have to go through the trouble of answering the door.
Anyway, I crawl out of the closet and ask, “So, what did you tell him?”
Grams gives me a prim look and whispers, “I denied it.”
> “But why?”
“Because he said it like he thought I might be involved in wrongdoing.”
I follow her out of the bedroom. “Wrongdoing? Like, what kind of wrongdoing?” And then a crazy thought hits me. “He thinks you might have something to do with her being missing? Like you made her disappear? That’s crazy! What would you have done with her?”
“Nobody thinks she’s dead. But I didn’t ‘invest’ with her and I do have her key. People are desperate and rumors are flying.”
I think about this a minute. “Well, that’s just crazy. If they knew why you have her key, they’d never think that!”
“But I can’t tell them why I have it, so I just denied the whole thing. And I told Mr. Garnucci that Rose and I didn’t get along well enough to warrant her giving me a key.”
“At least that’s true,” I mutter. “So now what?”
“Now we wait for the next person to call or knock.” She sits down on the couch and turns on the TV. “And I’ve been told that in another twenty-four hours they’ll be able to report her as missing.” She clicks around to the local news station and says, “And then you may want to spend the night at one of your friends’ because I’m sure the police will be over for questioning.”
And that’s when the news guy on TV says, “A purse snatcher was stopped in his tracks today at the Santa Martina Town Center Mall, and the streets of Santa Martina may be a little safer tonight because of this man.”
Suddenly there’s Justice Jack, standing with his fists on his hips, filling up our TV screen.
“He goes by the name of Justice Jack,” the newscaster announces, “and he says he’s on a mission to save our town.”
“Good citizens of Santa Martina!” the Masked Maniac booms into the camera. “I am Justice Jack and I’m at your service! I live for one goal—to bring our fair city a safer tomorrow!”
And with that he charges down the corridor of the mall and out of sight.
Grams gasps, “That’s the man the others were talking about last night!” She blinks at me through her glasses. “Wow!”
Now, a “Wow!” out of Grams is quite an endorsement.
Actually, I don’t know that I’d ever heard her “Wow!” anything before.