Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher

  “What if he did a reverse lookup?”

  “A what?”

  “You know. Someone calls you and you don’t know who it is? Even if they didn’t leave a message, their number’s recorded, so you can do a reverse lookup on the computer and find out who called. It shows the address.”

  I give her a serious squint. “Or you can just call the number back to find out who it was … ?”

  Marissa pulls a face. “Not if you didn’t want them to know you cared.”

  I slap a hand to my forehead. “The reverse lookup would have shown Hudson Graham! And I didn’t leave a message, so he wouldn’t know it had anything to do with you!” I drop my hand and just stare at her. “You have got to quit obsessing!”

  She gives a little pout. “Well, what if it was Casey?”

  “Oh, good grief! Stop it!”

  She stands there a minute looking really dejected, then says, “Well, if it wasn’t anyone we like, then this is giving me the creeps.”

  “No kidding.”

  She edges toward the porch. “I think I want to go back inside.”

  But I’m not done looking around yet, so I head out to the sidewalk and check up and down Cypress, hoping to see someone running away or hiding behind a tree or being chased by a dog. Something!

  What I see instead is a whole lot of nothing.

  And then all of a sudden I spot Mikey and Hudson rounding the corner at the end of the block.

  “Hey!” I call over to Marissa, who’s waiting for me on the porch. “Hudson and Mikey are almost home!”

  “Was it them?” she asks, coming toward me.

  I shake my head, ’cause the two of them are obviously serious about their power walk. “Geez, look at them go!”

  When Mikey spots us, he makes like it’s a race to the finish. His arms and legs go into hyper-pump, his red cheeks huff and puff, and he keeps checking over his shoulder to make sure Hudson’s not going to pass him.

  “Wow,” Marissa gasps. “I think you’d call that running.” Then she hollers, “Go, Mikey!”

  So I cup my hands around my mouth and act like I’m an announcer at a horse race. “It’s Mikey McKenze out in front, Mikey McKenze holding the lead! Mikey McKenze pulling ahead! Listen to the crowd go wild! Ladies and gentlemen, Mikey McKenze is … the … winner!”

  He doubles over when he reaches us, panting like crazy as he leans his hands on his knees. “We …,” huff, huff, “… saw …,” huff, huff …

  “Captain Evil?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and huffs and puffs some more before gulping in air and saying, “That girl you almost beat up at the mall!”

  I blink at him. “The one who called you Blubber Boy?”

  He nods like crazy, still panting away.

  “Where?” And I can feel a lightbulb going on over my head.

  He points behind him. “She was running thataway.”

  Marissa and I look at each other, and at the same time we say, “It was Heather!”

  I turn to Mikey. “Someone was spying on us through the window, but they got away before we could catch them.”

  Marissa asks, “Where was she?” and since Hudson’s standing there now, he says, “She was around the corner, almost to Cook Street. And she seemed none too happy to see Michael.”

  “Bus-ted!” I put my arm across Mikey’s shoulders. “Way to go! You just cracked the case!” Then I nod and tell him, “You know what? I think you’ve earned yourself a code name.”

  He looks up at me all rosy-cheeked and shiny-eyed. “How about Spy Guy?”

  I laugh, ’cause it’s like he’d already been thinking he needed a code name. I look at Marissa. “Well?”

  She nods and says, “Spy Guy it is!”

  “Yeah!” he says, giving the air a little punch.

  As we start toward the house, Hudson asks, “Hasn’t Heather tried following you home in the past?”

  Which was true. Heather’s tailed me home quite a few times before, but I’ve always managed to ditch her. It’s been on my way to the Senior Highrise, though, and I’m in a state of hyper-paranoia whenever I go home. I’ve never actually worried about being followed anywhere else. I mean, what’s it matter? A friend’s house is just a friend’s house, not the place I live illegally. Not the place where Grams could get kicked out if people found out.

  Still, I couldn’t really believe Heather had managed to follow us to Hudson’s. Not with the way I’d been looking over my shoulder for the FBI or whatever. But then I had been kinda wrapped up in worrying about Billy. So I tell Hudson, “Sorry I let her tail us. If she eggs the place or—”

  “I’ll catch her!” Mikey cries.

  We all laugh because it’s just so … cute. But Mikey goes, “Really! I will!” so I get serious and say, “I know you will.” I look at Marissa. “I think this boy needs a cape!”

  She nods. “Spy Boy to the rescue!”

  “It’s Spy Guy,” he tells her.

  “Oooh. Sorry!”

  I eye her. “Yeah, Marissa. You don’t want to mess with Spy Guy.”

  Mikey slaps five on me, then says to Hudson, “You got any weights? I need to build some muscles!”

  Marissa and I look at each other like, Whoa, this is out of control! I mean, there’s no way a nine-year-old boy is going to be bodybuilding, but Hudson just gives us a wink and tells Mikey, “I do. But you’re going to have to let me teach you proper form.”

  “Let’s go!” Mikey cries, and bounds up the porch steps.

  Marissa shakes her head. “Unbelievable.” And as we go back to the table to finish our homework, she says, “And what a relief that it was only Heather, huh?”

  I laugh. “A relief? If Vince is Captain Evil, she’s Commando Evil!”

  She thinks about this a minute, then adds, “Why do you think she was spying on us?”

  I laugh again. “Getting even?” ’Cause Marissa and I have not only spied on Heather through her window, we’ve infiltrated her house wearing Halloween costumes.

  But then the reason hits me.

  And I can’t help it—I gasp.

  “What?” Marissa asks.

  “I’ll bet she’s looking for my mom.”

  Marissa’s eyes bug out. “Oooooh. Now that’s scary.”

  “No kidding!”

  Marissa nods. “First her brother, then her dad …! You and your mom have annihilated her little world.”

  “It was annihilated way before we showed up. And I’m out of the picture now, remember?”

  “Yeah, but now she has someone to blame. And you know what? If my dad was moving away because of my archenemy’s mom, I might go psycho, too.”

  All of a sudden I’m worried. “You think she’ll go psycho on my mom?”

  Marissa pulls a face. “It’s Heather.” Then she adds, “And she followed us here, didn’t she? She was spying through the window, wasn’t she? She was looking for something, and I don’t think it was you.” She snorts. “She can find you at school anytime.”

  So that shook me up a little. I mean, my mom may be self-absorbed and inconsiderate and willful, but at the same time she’s weak. She faints at the sight of blood, she shrieks if she finds a mouse, and she thinks vacuuming is strenuous. And maybe I’ve gotten used to Heather going psycho on me, but picturing what she might do to my mom?

  It was like a horror film flickering through my head.

  Marissa got back to her homework, so I tried concentrating on finishing my math, but it was hard. My mind kept slipping to questions about my mom. Was she still in town? How had Heather finally been told? Had my mom and her dad broken the news to her … together? Had she found out some other way?

  I didn’t have any answers, so I made up scenes in my head. Really wild, dramatic scenes. I even pictured my mom breaking it to Heather in one of the castle rooms from The Lords of Willow Heights. My mom was in a long velvet dress and was gliding across the room toward Heather, who was in an arched doorway wearing jeans and smoking a cigarette. ??
?I have something to tell you,” my mom coos.

  “Yeah? Well, I have something to show you!” Heather snarls. Then she grinds out her cigarette and produces a long, gleaming knife.

  There’s no blood on the knife, but even the thought of blood can do my mother in. And since obviously this long, gleaming knife was going to produce some of the drippy red stuff, my mother’s hand flutters to her forehead and she crumples to the ground.

  “Sammy?”

  I blink and see Marissa waving a hand in front of my face. “Huh?”

  “You okay?”

  “Um … yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “I was just saying … about Mikey?”

  “What about Mikey?”

  She kind of squints at me. “Where were you?”

  I shake my head. “Never mind. What were you saying?”

  She drops her voice a little. “I was saying how I think Mikey’s finally getting a childhood.”

  I almost asked her what she meant, but all of a sudden I understood exactly what she meant. The McKenzes’ house is like a museum. They have glass furniture—if you can believe that—and Mikey grew up being told not to touch, well, anything. Plus, they live way up on East Jasmine, where the houses are, like, a mile apart and there are no kids around to play with. Plus, if you knew Mikey McKenze, believe me, you would not invite him over.

  At least not the old Mikey.

  And it wasn’t like his parents ever invited other kids over. With glass furniture and priceless artwork on display?

  Please.

  Plus, they were gone all the time, and their nanny sure didn’t want to deal with any more than she had to.

  So, yeah, in a flash, I got it. I got how Mikey was finally someplace where he could go exploring. Someplace he could turn into Spy Guy and people were cool with that. Someplace where people were actually letting him be part of the action.

  Marissa tears up. “I hate to say this, but maybe my family falling apart has been a good thing.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I know I don’t,” she sniffs. “But maybe if all the money’s gone, we can start living like this?”

  I give a little shrug. “Your parents would have to want it for it to be like this.”

  She sighs. “I know. And I just can’t see them wanting it.” She gives me a quivery smile. “You have been the best friend ever, you know that? I can’t believe how nice you’ve been to Mikey.”

  So we sit around and talk a little more about her brother, but finally I notice what time it is and collect my stuff, saying, “I’ve got to get home.”

  “Can’t you stay for dinner?” Marissa asks.

  I have to laugh ’cause she says it like it’s her house and she’ll be the one cooking. “Nah. I’ve got to get home to Grams.” Then I holler, “Bye, Hudson! Bye, Spy Guy!” and after they holler bye back, I jet out of there.

  So I’m just cruising along on my skateboard, minding my own business, taking shortcuts when I can, jayriding when it’s safe, thinking about what another crazy day it’s been, when I turn a corner near the mall and finally notice something:

  I’m being followed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The car following me is a really generic-looking white sedan. It’s clean and seems to be in good shape, but it’s an older style. Sort of big, with lines that are sharp instead of rounded. And I’m sure I could have ditched it by cutting through the mall, but I didn’t like being spied on or followed, and I wanted to find out who was following me. So instead of ditching it, I flip a U-ie, cruise down a driveway, cut into the street, and ride my skateboard straight for the car’s front grille.

  The car nose-dives to a halt.

  I stop, too, and pop up my board. And when I see the driver through the windshield, my jaw drops. “Officer Borsch?”

  He powers down his window. “Are you nuts?”

  “Why were you tailing me?” I ask, coming around to the driver’s side.

  “I was trying to catch up to you! Which would have been a lot easier if I ran stop signs and hopped curbs and cut corners!” He looks in his rearview mirror. “Get out of the street already!”

  So I zip over to the sidewalk, and when he’s pulled up to the curb, he rolls down the passenger window and leans across the bench seat. “I’ve been taken off the Vince case.”

  I bend down. “What? Why?”

  “I’ve been told I have a conflict of interest.”

  “A conflict of—” But then I get it. “ ’Cause of me being in your wedding?”

  He nods.

  “So Foxmore heard my mom talking about it?”

  “That’s right.”

  Now, he’s looking real uncomfortable, with his cast hand gripping the steering wheel, leaned clear over the way he is. And since he’s not exactly parked legally, and since I’ve got a gazillion more questions and don’t want him just taking off, I ask, “Can I get in?”

  He hesitates, then pops up the lock. So I jump inside, skateboard, backpack, and all, and as he pulls back into traffic, he says, “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were a compulsive liar.” He eyes me. “Which is exactly what Blaine Foxmore thinks.”

  “But you do know better, right?” I cross my heart and tell him, “I swear I had nothing to do with any of it.”

  He nods. “I believe you.” Then he raises an eyebrow and adds, “And I would be alone in that, except for Bob Vince.”

  I hesitate, ’cause I’m pretty sure I heard that wrong. “You’re saying Mr. Vince believes me?”

  He turns onto the road that winds between the mall and the parking structures. “Every time someone suggested it, he brought up other people he thought might be guilty.”

  “But he hates me.”

  “Well, apparently, you’re not the only one who hates him. He thinks these are real death threats.”

  “So … who does he think it is?”

  “He’s all over the map. And he’s very testy. He’s got no patience for logical analysis. One minute he thinks this, the next that.”

  “Well, who do you think it is?”

  “I keep hitting roadblocks.” He eyes me. “Although Billy Pratt is hiding something.” A heartbeat passes. Maybe two. Then he adds, “And I’m pretty sure you know what it is.”

  “Officer Borsch, he’s not the one doing this stuff!”

  He comes to a complete stop at an empty mall crosswalk. “You seem pretty sure about that,” he says, studying me. “But I questioned him at his house today, and I’m not.”

  “Wait—you went to Billy’s house today? How is he? And where does he live?”

  Officer Borsch raises an eyebrow at me. “I wouldn’t tell you where he lives any more than I would tell him where you live.”

  I don’t actually say Oops, but I know it’s written all over my face.

  “And if you’re so sure he’s not the one who’s doing this, then tell me what he is hiding. Because I know it’s something.”

  I felt like I was standing in the middle of a bridge that was collapsing. On one side was Billy’s secret, on the other, Officer Borsch’s trust. And the way Officer Borsch was looking at me … well, I knew that if his trust in me was broken, I would never get it back.

  It was a miracle that he’d given it to me in the first place.

  So as he pulled forward, I blurted out the truth. I told him about Billy writing the Die Dude on the board and about Heather blackmailing him, and how Sasha Stamos disposed of Heather’s phone and all that. And I probably didn’t have to tell him about Sasha, but I was doing a truth dump, and the story felt like it had holes in it without the Sasha part.

  Now, while I was talking, Officer Borsch turned into the mall parking structure and stopped the car. I guess listening to me was too distracting, because he didn’t exactly pull into a parking slot or anything.

  He just, you know, stopped.

  So when I’m all done running at the mouth, I look around and ask, “Uh … should you be stopped here?”

&nb
sp; He eyes me. “Roadway concerns from a notorious jaywalker?” But he does pull into a parking slot and cut the motor. He stares straight ahead, and I can tell there are some heavy thoughts duking it out inside his skull, and I’m guessing they have to do with telling me things that maybe he shouldn’t.

  So I throw a few punches of my own. “Look, the stuff I just told you? That was a big secret between Billy and me. And it was a secret between Sasha and me, too. So whatever you’re thinking about not telling me? You need to just spill it. Fair’s fair.”

  He sucks at a tooth. It’s a long, slow, sputtering sound that migrates from one side of his mouth to the other. Finally he says, “What makes you think I’m not telling you something?”

  I shrug. “You’re Gil Borsch, aren’t you?”

  He laughs.

  Then I kind of look around and say, “And are you on duty or what?” because I can’t quite figure his car out. There’s a police scanner mounted under the console that’s been staticking and chattering in the background the whole time I’ve been in the car, and there’s one of those portable magnetic lights on the floor by my feet. You know—the kind cops can stick out through their window and slap up on their roof? Plus, Officer Borsch is in uniform, and there’s a gun at his hip.

  “No, I’m on my way home.”

  I’m still looking around. There are boxes of stuff and a beat-up old briefcase on the backseat. There’s also a big black flashlight, a pair of handcuffs, and about a dozen to-go coffee cups on the floor behind the front seat. I look back at him. “So … is this an undercover car?”

  “No. It’s mine.”

  And that’s when it hits me—Officer Borsch is a cop. He’s not a guy with a family who dotes on his kids, or likes to watch movies, or follows basketball on TV and also reports to his job as a cop. He is a cop. From the minute he wakes up to the moment he falls asleep—and probably also in his sleep—Gil Borsch is a cop.

  And that’s when something else hits me.

  “It bugs you to be taken off a case, doesn’t it.”

  He sucks around his teeth some more, and finally he says, “I hate it.”

  “So stay on it through me!”

  “How’s that?”

  “Tell me whatever it is you’re thinking you don’t want to tell me.”