Novel - Half Moon Investigations (19 page)

“One question?”

“Ten seconds of your time, then you know you’ve done your civic duty.”

“Okay, Detective.” Her voice was small, like a mouse. Being a victim could change people forever.

“My question is this, Martina. When you lived here, in Lock, did you have any contact with pupils from Saint Jerome’s national school?”

Silence for a moment. Then: “I gave after-school tutoring in mathematics. Preparing students for their entrance exams. One of my girls was from Jerome’s. Julie Kennedy. Her parents were very strict. They promised to ground her indefinitely unless her grades picked up. I hope she got a new tutor. Is that all you need?”

“Yes, thank you, Martina. You’ve been a great help.”

Martina hung up first, and the tone droned over the speaker for several seconds before Dominique remembered to do likewise.

“That’s it,” I whispered. “No question. Saint Jerome’s
is
the link.”

Red stepped close to the whiteboard until his shadow blotted out the projected names. “Okay. But the link to what?”

I didn’t know yet. “I need more detailed information on our new list.”

Dominique Kehoe checked her files. “If you don’t have more details, and I don’t have them, then who on earth does?”

I had a sudden vision of knitted cardigans and grinning dogs.

“There is one person,” I said, and my voice may have trembled slightly.

I WAS ONE OF THE Sharkey family now, and it was more than skin deep. The Sharkey gene ran through my system like a virus. It bullied my other genes and sent them packing to the darkest corners of my personality. I found myself walking hard and talking tough. It felt good to be the outsider. My previous existence seemed monochrome. Now I was living life to the fullest, appreciating every moment outside the police station.

Red had loaded himself up with gear: bolt cutters, a length of rope, mini-tool kit, flashlight, and two single egg frying pans.

“Frying pans?”

Red grinned, offering me the choice of a pair of tights or a tin of boot polish. “Trade secrets, Fletcher. Watch and learn.”

I took the polish and smeared the viscous gunk across my cheeks, feeling it sink into my pores. It would take months to scrape off, and underneath it would be fake tan. I offered the tin to Red.

“In your dreams, Fletcher,” he chuckled, rolling his trusty ski mask over his face.

Saint Jerome’s seemed different at night. When darkness fell, the school was stripped of its daytime identity and became just another town building. Without murals and hopscotch grids and exuberant children swinging from its gates, the school could just as easily have been an office block, or a prison.

We were huddled behind the security fence, Red and I, building up to the big break-in.

Red hefted the frying pans. “I’m trying to get away from this kind of life, Half Moon,” he said, looking like a black fish inside his ski mask.

“I know, Red, but we have to do this. Our giant is still out there.”

“It’s very early for breaking and entering. Papa says don’t go in until the nightclubs are closed. You never know who’ll be walking home.”

“We can’t wait. Someone could get hurt.”

Red sighed. “I’m not used to worrying about people outside the family.”

He passed the frying pans through the fence, then clambered over.

“Tell me what the pans are for?” I asked through the bars, hoping this was not a view I would soon be coming accustomed to.

Red grinned, his teeth shining from the blackness. “You just come in when you hear my whistle.” Then he closed his mouth and disappeared.

I felt suddenly alone, mainly because I was suddenly alone. But it was more than that. I was about to cross the line between bold and bad. If I actually participated in a break-in, then my face would become another mug shot destined for a police file. There was nothing I could do about it now. I had to get into Saint Jerome’s. I needed to make the final connection before someone else was hurt and my own life disappeared like a sail over the horizon.

I heard Larry and Adam growling. The noise rumbled across the yard like the revving of two sports cars. I thought it was the most frightening noise I had ever heard, until it was followed by the rapid clicking of their clawed paws on the pavement.

I stood, grabbing the bars and shaking them, as though I could dislodge the metal poles from their cement beds.

“Red!” I called, mindless of our supposed stealth. “Get out! They’ll eat you alive, or kill you, then eat you.”

Then I heard the whistle. Two short notes. Maybe that was my signal to come in, or maybe Red didn’t want to die alone.

“Red?” I hissed into the blackness. “Are you alive? Can you talk? Do you need stitches?”

A set of teeth appeared before me. “Will you please shut up? You heard my whistle, didn’t you? So come on.”

I struggled over the fence, without arguing. Red had faced Larry and Adam, and survived. His hard-man status was assured for life.

I crossed the yard, using years of memory to guide me. Ahead I could hear Red’s footfalls and a gristly, slurping noise. My imagination, fed on years of murder mystery novels, supplied gruesome explanations for these sounds. When I drew closer to the shadows around the main building, I saw that the slurping noises were in fact slurping, as Larry and Adam licked the grease from the frying pans.

Red knelt between the dogs, slowly tethering them both to the school oil tank. “Roddy knows every security dog in Lock. They love him. I think it’s because he’s a bit of a mutt himself. You show any dog in a five mile radius these frying pans and they roll over to get their bellies tickled.”

“Very clever.”

Red shrugged. “An old trick. We never wash those pans, in case a dog needs distracting.”

My stomach wobbled. I distinctly remembered Genie serving up sausages from those pans. How many dogs had licked them before now? It was probably wiser not to ask.

We skirted the hopscotch squares, tiptoeing across to the office window. The blind wasn’t drawn and an alarm sensor squatted buglike on the sill.

“That’s it,” I said, sighing a whoosh of relief. I couldn’t help it. “We can’t open the window.”

Red placed his toolbox on the sill. “I don’t want to open it,” he said. “Opening it would set off the alarm.”

If Red was stating the obvious just to make me feel like a moron, it was working.

He selected a flat chisel from the box, sliding it under the strip of rubber that held the glass in place. He patiently wiggled the chisel across the bottom of the window, up the side, across the top and back to the beginning, removing each length of rubber as he reached a corner.

“Knock, knock,” said Red, rapping smartly on the center of the pane; it flexed, then toppled from the frame. He caught it, laying it carefully on the ground. “The sensor is only activated if the window opens. This way, I don’t break the connection.”

Another nugget of Sharkey wisdom. A hundred and one things you don’t learn in school.

“I’ll remember that.”

Red paused, then dropped his head. “Don’t remember it, Fletcher. When this is all over. Forget everything we’ve done. I’m going to try. I’ve been trying.”

It was dark and Red was wearing a mask, but I knew how his face would look. Pained. This break-in was costing him.

He took a breath, then vaulted through the window frame into the office shadows. I clambered after him, not quite as gracefully, but I managed to gain entry without jarring the frame.

Red switched on his pencil flashlight. “Now, what are we looking for?”

I felt my way across to the desk. This office was making me extremely nervous. The musky odor of two Dobermans still clung to the walls, and the wet-wool smell of Principal Quinn wafted from the chair like a ghost of her presence.

“This,” I said, hauling her ledger from the drawer. “Principal Quinn keeps a unique record of every student’s school activities. We should be able to spot the final connection from the pictures.”

The book was covered with velour wallpaper, patterned with paisley swirls. I heaved open the cover with two hands, and it thumped onto the desk. Red pulled the blind and switched on the desk light.

“Quick as you can, Half Moon.”

I barely noticed the nickname anymore. It was the least of my worries. To be honest, I liked it now. It was like a battle scar.

The pupils were recorded alphabetically, and by year of enrollment. I flipped the pages forward until I came to the names I was looking for.

“Well?” asked Red.

My pulse began to race. I had seen something. My eyes blurred with excitement and my hands shook. Of course. Of course. Idiot. Moron. Call yourself a detective.

“Shut up,” I hissed at Red. An offense punishable by a severe Chinese burn not so long ago. “I’m thinking.”

It was all there in the pictures. The dancer. The karaoke queen. The DJ’s. But I needed to be sure. I flicked back the pages to fifth grade. There was SeeSaw with a little dancer drawn beside his name. Then third grade. There was Gretel Bannon. And after her name a scrawled recorder. She was a musician. I checked the rest of the names. My theory was sound.

“It’s the talent show,” I whispered, as though speaking aloud would break the spell, shatter my deductions. “You were all in last year’s talent show. May and SeeSaw danced, Mercedes did the karaoke, Johnny and Pierce were DJ’s. Julie Kennedy and Gretel Bannon were musicians. You did your Elvis bit.”

“Bit?” said Red, miffed. “It was more than a bit. I’ve had offers. Anyway, you weren’t in the talent show.”

I closed the book. “Don’t you see? We were a two for one. When my attacker got me and blamed you, I was off the case and you were suspended.” I snatched the talent show lineup from Mrs. Quinn’s notice board. “They’re all out of the show except May, even though he burned her lucky costume. He’s probably going to go after her again.”

“He’d better hurry up,” noted Red. “The talent show started twenty minutes ago.”

My knees almost gave way, and my voice rose a panicky octave. “Tonight. It’s on tonight?”

Talent shows were not the kind of thing I kept track of. Bernstein would be disappointed with his star pupil. A good investigator should keep abreast of everything.

“Yep. I was doing ‘Love Me Tender’ before you came along.”

I rubbed my forehead, cobbling a plan together.

“You’re still doing it. May is not safe. We have to get in there.”

“How? I’m suspended from school.”

“Technically this is an extracurricular event, not held on school property. Only the community center committee has the power to ban Elvis from the building.”

We left the office the way we had found it, carefully replacing the pane and rubber. Five minutes after we’d gone over the fence, the only sign that we had ever been there was the confused blinking of Larry and Adam.

NOTHING IS GUARANTEED to pack ’em in like a kids’ show. The Lock Community Center was jammed with little stars and their extended families. Some of the performers had entourages that would put an A-list movie star to shame.

Cars were jammed in the parking lot so tightly that it seemed as though they had crashed. Body heat pulsed in waves through the hall’s open windows.

Red had texted his backup singers, and they met us at the stage door in full sixties regalia. Luckily the costumes had already been prepared, so all the Sharkeys had to worry about were the hairdos.

Genie’s hair was piled atop her head in a rock-hard beehive. She wore a spangled minidress with elbow-length gloves and heels so high they looked like little ski ramps. Herod was there, too, in black sunglasses and stick-on sideburns.

“You really look the part,” I said, trying to be friendly.

Herod swiveled his hips and shot me with two finger guns. “Well, thank you very much.”

“All you need to do is get me inside; after that, go on with your act as normal. I need to watch May, make sure nothing happens to her.”

Red frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that, Half Moon—nothing really happened to May.”

I knew what Red was thinking, and I wanted to nip it in the bud. “Her lucky dress was burned, Red. I call that something.”

“All that did was buy her sympathy. She’s still in the competition. And that dress never did bring her luck, did it?”

I put on my best aghast face, which is not easy underneath layers of fake tan and shoe polish.

“What are you saying, Red? That May did all this to win a competition? She sabotaged her friends and burned her own dress, all for a little trophy?”

“Maybe. How well do you know her?”

“Well enough. I study people, Red. That’s what I do. She helped us, didn’t she? She saved Herod.”

Red stuck his chin out belligerently. “Yes, well maybe you’ve been studying May a bit too hard. Maybe you’re getting romantic ideas.”

My cheeks burned hot enough to melt the shoe polish. “She’s just a kid, for heaven’s sake.”

Red surprised himself, and me, by backing off. “All right, calm down. It’s a possibility, that’s all. You’re supposed to look at every possibility. You told me that, Fletcher.”

It was true. I had—quoting the Bernstein manual. But May being behind all this wasn’t even a possibility, was it? And why not? Because I liked May? Because I trusted her? I dismissed the niggling doubts. I could think about this later, when May was safe. And had Red just called me Fletcher?

The Cork officer, John Cassidy, was plonked outside the stage door. Extra security because of the threat from deranged escapees. He sat on a bar stool, arms folded across his chest. His eyes were glazed with boredom, but he perked up when he saw Red approaching.

“Look who it is, Elvis and the freak show. You’re suspended, Red. You’ve about as much chance of getting in here as an ax-wielding psychopath. And Murt is looking for you, by the way.”

Red said nothing, simply handed Cassidy his cell phone. The officer placed the receiver to his ear, which is almost impossible not to do if someone hands you a phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” said a male voice. “Who is this?”

Cassidy stood. “This is Officer John Cassidy, who is this?”

“This is Brendan O’ Kelly Riordan, the Sharkeys’ lawyer. I believe you are denying my clients their constitutional rights by refusing them access to a public performance at which they are registered to perform.”

Cassidy stiffened. “I have my orders.”

“That’s all very well, but your orders are invalid. If you persist in enforcing them, then you will be named in the lawsuit.”

Cassidy’s head snapped back a fraction. “Lawsuit.”

“Of course, lawsuit. You are traumatizing my client. You are stunting his mental growth. You are fostering antisocial behavior. Just ask young Red how traumatized he is.”

Officer Cassidy covered the mouthpiece with a hand. “Hey, Red. How traumatized are you?”

Red’s face grew long and weary. “Very. About ten grand’s worth, at a guess. Of course, if I cry in court, it could be twenty.”

Cassidy tossed him the phone. “I need to go over there for a minute, because of a suspicious noise that I just heard. If someone were to sneak in while I’m away, it’s hardly my fault, is it?”

Red pocketed the phone. “Hardly,” he said, leading the way into the hall.

We filed past Officer Cassidy. On this occasion even Herod managed to keep his trap shut. Cassidy was on a hair trigger, and one smart remark could have the lot of us thrown out on our ears.

As I squeezed past his belly, Cassidy laid a hand on my shoulder. “Keep an eye out for Fletcher Moon, Watson. He’s a psychopath, that one, mark my words.”

“Don’t worry, Officer,” I said, scratching the stubble on my brow, to hide my face. “Eyes peeled. That’s me.”

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief as I sidled into the hall. Obviously Murt hadn’t spread the word that Watson Sharkey was actually Fletcher Moon. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt, or maybe he wanted to catch me himself.

The Lock Community Center’s backstage area was jammed with bodies. Officer Cassidy seemed to have let in more than he kept out. Proud mothers combed their daughters’ hair, pushy dads glared at rival contestants, and wannabe pop stars swanned around as though they were already double platinum. I couldn’t see May anywhere.

“Okay,” I said, eyes darting like a nervous deer. “You guys get ready to go on. I’ll look for May, to warn her.”

“Or tip her off,” mumbled Red.

I ignored the comment. I couldn’t deal with the possibility that May could be behind this. I liked her.

Emotion is the enemy of truth.

Bernstein again. But I couldn’t peel off my feelings like a Band-Aid. I was a real person, not a collection of words on a page.

Genie tossed me one plastic shopping bag, and another to Red. “Put these costumes on. We’re supposed to be performing.”

I was about to object. There was no time for costumes, but I realized that I wouldn’t be of any use to May if every adult in authority stopped me to ask what I was doing backstage.

We ducked behind a wishing well constructed from cardboard boxes. Red’s costume was from Elvis’s Vegas period: a white jumpsuit complete with silver cummerbund and cloak. My own clothes were from the movie
Jailhouse Rock
and consisted of a black canvas suit and striped shirt. They were tailored to fit Red, and so I had to turn up the legs and sleeves.

Red twirled the silk-lined cloak over his shoulders. “You look ridiculous,” he smirked.

In spite of the situation, I couldn’t hold back a smile. We were conspirators on an adventure. Life was dangerous; you took your smiles when you could. And they meant more when there could be a madman lurking around every corner.

I threw a punch at Red’s shoulder. He allowed it to land, though he could have dodged it easily.

“You big bully, Half Moon. I’d have our lawyer on you, if we had one.”

I wasn’t a bit surprised to hear that there was no Sharkey family lawyer. “So who was that on the phone?”

“Papa. He does a great fancy accent, picked it up at university. He has a degree from Trinity in philosophy.”

Now that
was
a surprise. I was learning fast not to underestimate the Sharkeys in any field.

“I’ll meet you back here,” I said. “After ‘Love Me Tender’.”

Red pulled the tape off of the stick-on sideburns and pasted them to his cheeks.

“Okay. Be careful. I know you think May is the victim, but in the movies it’s always the last one you suspect.”

“This is real life. And in real life, the most obvious suspect is usually guilty.”

I hurried away before Red could point out that he and I were the most obvious suspects. I shouldered my way through throngs of people. Every one of them knew me, and most were on the lookout for me. But I held my head high, wearing my disguise confidently. I was a Sharkey now, and people may sneer behind my back, but no one would challenge me.

May was not making herself easy to find. I found magicians with half-dead pigeons stuffed in their vests, a country and western band shedding sequins from their vests with every step, and two jugglers who kept knocking each other over with bowling pins. But no Irish dancers.

I was beginning to despair, when I heard May’s tap shoes banging out an irregular beat on the wooden floor. It had to be her. Nobody else could have that startling lack of rhythm.

I followed the noise. There she was, in the shadow of an enormous bunch of balloon grapes. She was dressed in a new black-and-silver dancing dress, her blond hair draped across her shoulders. A shaft of light from an overhead window caught her tiara and split into a thousand rainbows. I stopped dead. She looked perfect. Too perfect to ever commit a crime, however petty. Surely, there was something wrong.

I studied her face for a sign of malice, but there was nothing. Just a slight frustrated pout because her feet repeatedly refused to perform as commanded. Time and time again the click-kick eluded her. She scissored her legs well enough, but she could never click her heels on the way down.

Something stirred in the deep shadows by the wall. Something darker than the shadows themselves. I peered into the darkness, zoning out the surrounding confusion. Someone was there, dressed from head to toe in black, sliding along the wall toward May. They were approaching with curiously exaggerated movements. I couldn’t think of an innocent explanation for this behavior. This person was obviously the criminal mastermind moving in on his final target.

My stomach lurched and my heart pumped as though a fist was tightening around it. My mouth automatically opened to call for Red, but I checked the impulse. There was no time. I would have to handle this myself. I was not an expert in the field of direct action, preferring to point my police contacts at the criminals, but there was no time for channels now. I had to move.

The figure glided closer to its target, its movements fluid yet angular. Bigger than me. Much bigger. But I wouldn’t need to contain the suspect, just knock him to the ground. The dark figure raised its hands, curling its fingers into claws like a TV vampire.

Move!
I told myself. Now or never.

I did move, as though in a daydream. My brain couldn’t believe what my feet were doing. I had no idea how to attack someone. There was no chapter on this in the Bernstein manual. I simply barreled forward. To the casual observer my attack surely resembled a prolonged stumble.

I have read books about detectives tackling suspects. These fictional characters are always expert in several forms of martial art, having spent at least a decade training on a mountaintop in the Far East. I have had no such training. The biggest thing I had ever tackled was a jar of pickled onions that refused to be opened.

I decided to add some noise to my attack to distract the shadowy figure. I intended to roar in a predatory fashion, but instead squealed like a boiling kettle. The noise worked. The figure twisted its head sharply just in time to see a pint-size, red-haired Elvis hurtling in his direction.

He had time for a brief yelp. Then I crashed into him and we tumbled to the wooden floor in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

May screamed, jumping out of our path. We rolled for a few feet until a low bench halted our progress. I crawled out from underneath my suspect, who was examining his elbow and crying bitterly. Not typical arch criminal behavior.

May stepped back, then forward. “What are you doing?”

I stood, gasping, “It’s me, Fletcher. He did it. All of it. We have him.”

May frowned. “Fletcher. That’s you? That was you at the oil tank?”

“Yes,” I said urgently. “I thought April was behind everything. But I was wrong. This is the criminal right here. It’s all about the talent show.”

“I don’t think so, Fletcher,” said May. “David couldn’t hurt a butterfly.”

“I’m a pacifist,” sobbed David, rubbing his elbow.

I thought my heart would burst with exertion and excitement. “But he was creeping toward you, dressed in black. You don’t have to be a detective . . .”

“We were both rehearsing over here. David is a mime.”

A mime? Oh, no.

David glared at me. “I won’t be opening any invisible doors with this arm, thanks very much.”

A mime. How could I have been so stupid?

A crowd was gathering. Teachers were surely on the way. Perhaps Officer Cassidy.

“Fletcher,” whispered the children. “It’s Fletcher Moon.”

I had to go. Now.

My cover was blown. I was finished. And I knew how this would look. It would seem as though I had come here in disguise to have another go at May.

Red came to my rescue again. He elbowed through the crowd and grabbed my forearm.

“Let’s go, Watson. We’re on.”

I allowed myself to be pulled along, though the phrase
We’re on
filled me with dread. Genie and Herod were in the wings chanting the vocal exercise:

“Dog sees

Some shoes,

Dog eats,

Dog poos.”