Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers (18 page)

THE FIRST THING RILEY SAW
inside the hardened steel safe was an old cardboard cigar box.

The top was decorated with a painting of six Pilgrim-looking dudes with long, curly locks who looked like maybe they played in a 1980s hair band called The Dutch Masters.

Riley had seen enough cop shows on TV to know how to pry open the lid without smudging any incriminating fingerprints on the box: you use a pencil. He found one in that first desk drawer and eased up the top. Inside was a stack of cash, a slim black book with
Ledger
stamped in gold on its cover, and a USB memory stick with a short note scribbled
on its label: “Edit ASAP!!!”

“You guys seeing all this?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” said Jake.

“That's the cigar box Mrs. Rollison used for a deposit envelope. There's also some kind of ledger book that maybe records all the money the bank manager skimmed from the till and a memory stick he wants to edit.”

“Check it out, Riley!” urged Briana. “Quick!”

“I don't want to touch anything. In case Mr. Weitzel's fingerprints are on the box. Hang on.”

Once again, Riley pulled his trusty roll of duct tape out of his backpack. This time, he wrapped a strand around itself at a canted angle, forming a long, thin straw. He bent the tip so there would be a sticky sideways inch at the bottom. Then, working the slender tube of tape down into the open cigar box like a claw game at the video arcade, he snagged the USB flash drive and hoisted it up and out of the desk drawer.

“Got it!”

He didn't care about getting his fingerprints on the device so he picked it up and inserted it into the side of the computer monitor. He moved the mouse and lined up the on-screen arrow with the external drive icon. A quick double click, and the file contents were revealed.

A movie file.

Riley clicked it open.

A grainy black-and-white window opened. It was the raw footage from the security camera aimed at teller window number three. A rolling time display read 4:00 p.m. The motion moved forward herky-jerky style, like the camera was only capturing a frame every ten seconds or so.

“Fast-forward to, like, five twenty!” said Briana. “The bank manager was probably planning on coming in first thing tomorrow, editing out the incriminating scenes, maybe digging up some old footage of the cigar box lady dealing with your mom last week or whatever, cutting it in, faking the time stamp—totally scamming everybody.”

Riley nodded. It would take time, but Weitzel could do it.

He kept his mouse on the fast-forward arrows. The video zipped ahead.

“Got it!”

Five twenty p.m.

His mother took a deposit from a male customer in work clothes. He left. Mr. Weitzel joined Riley's mom behind window three. Blew his nose. Pointed to his head. His mom left the teller cage. As soon as she was gone, the bank manager scooted up to the counter—just as a little old lady toddled up to it and handed him a cigar box!

Five twenty-two p.m.

Mr. Weitzel gave the lady a slip of paper. She left. His back to the camera, the bank manager's shoulders shuddered. Having done the front-of-the-pants shoplift move, Riley knew exactly where Weitzel was stowing the cigar box.

Five twenty-nine p.m.

Riley's mom came back carrying a white bag. She handed it to “Chip.” He took it and left.

“Bigity-bam!” said Riley. “My mom is totally innocent and this proves it!”

But then a little voice in Riley's head said,
Hang on, pardner.

He hated when the little voice said that.

You can't just grab the cigar box and go. Even if you show people the security camera movie, they might think your mom and Weitzel were in this thing together, that she had the cigar box at home and told you to go get it.

So what could he do?

Make sure some honest cops find the box and the video clip the same way you found them: in Weitzel's desk!

He needed an exit strategy, a mind-boggling genius scheme that would tie up all the loose ends: the cigar box, the flash drive, the dogs from the puppy mill, everything.

And, of course, he didn't want the bank robbers to
get away or people would think that Riley Mack was the one who had let them in or, worse yet, cracked open the safe in the vault.

Okay. He needed more than a scheme; he needed a grand slam home run.

Think, Riley, think
.

“Riley?” said Briana over the earpiece.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you still sitting in the bank manager's office?”

“I need to think.”

“About what?” asked Mongo. “You found what you were looking for.”

“I know. But the bank robbers complicate things. Just give me another second.”

The bank robbers.

They were the biggest variable. Were they armed or unarmed? Did they work at night to avoid confrontation?

All Riley knew about the two men was what he overheard when he was hiding under the sink. They were having trouble cracking open the safe. The guy in the vault sounded extremely grumpy. They knew about the security cameras feeding into the manager's office.

And they hated dogs!

Bigity-bam!

This was going to be, as Jamal called it, cake.

Or, maybe, kibble.

“Guys?” he whispered.

“Yeah?” said Jake.

“I need you to call the number I'm texting you.” Riley unclipped his cell phone from his belt, searched the contact list, found his dad's FBI friend. “Contact Larry Chavis. Tell him Colonel Richard Mack's son needs him, that he accidentally got tangled up with some bank robbers.”

“I'll do it,” said Briana. “I can make it sound real dramatic.”

“Wait—Briana?”

“Yeah?”

“When you get off the call with Chavis, contact your news reporter friend. Tell her you've just seen a pack of dogs that look an awful lot like the ones from the puppy mill and they all went running into the bank.”

“Oh-kay. But why would I want to tell her a fib like that?”

“It's not going to be a fib for long. Mongo?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you and Jamal to bring as many dogs as you can over to the bank. Use the back door. The access code is two-two-two, three-three-three, four-four-four. Is Ms. Grabowski still there?”

“Yes, Riley?”

“Do you have any treats? We don't have time to send Mongo home for more meat.”

“I have a five-gallon tub of Barkley the Baker's bite-size training biscuits.”

“Works for me. Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“As soon as the guys send in the dogs, call nine-one-one. If Chief Brown answers, hang up.”

“I'll bet he's out at his mother's farm,” said Jake. “Helping her cover things up.”

“That's what I figure, too. Let's just hope some honest deputies are on duty tonight.”

“So,” said Mongo, “when do you want us to send in the dogs?”

Suddenly, Riley heard someone outside the door.

“Keep working on it, Fred. I'll check the manager's office. See if he wrote the combination down somewheres.”

“Riley?” Jake called through the earpiece.

Riley didn't dare answer. The door rattled in the frame.

“Ah, crap. I thought I left this dead bolt open.”

“Riley?” This time it was Mongo in his ear.

He did not answer.

Now Riley heard the click and snick of something thin and sharp working its way into the lock cylinder.
Metal jimmied against metal. The dead bolt started to come alive and slide sideways.

“Riley?” Mongo again. In the background, Riley could hear barking. “When should we bring over the dogs?”

Riley swallowed hard and whispered fast: “Now!”

RILEY FLIPPED UP HIS NIGHT
vision goggles, whipped off his ski mask, tugged out his Bluetooth earpiece, wadded everything up—including the micro TV camera—and tossed it all into the wastepaper basket tucked under Mr. Weitzel's desk.

Otto was sliding a credit card down the doorjamb toward the beveled end of the doorknob's latch bolt.

Riley jumped out of the big leather chair, plucked up the USB memory stick with the edge of his shirt, dropped it back into the cigar box, kneed the desk drawer shut, and started pounding his fist on the computer monitor just as the door
oomph
ed open.

“Aw, it's broken!” Riley whined as a man, dressed all in black, stumbled into the office. “Ohmygod! Who are you?”

The man, who had very shiny hair and a dimple in his chin, looked confused. “What? Wait a second. Who are
you
?”

“Charlie Weitzel Junior. This is my father's bank. I think the real question is who the double heck are you? The janitor?”

“Yeah, kid. I'm the freaking janitor.”

The guy didn't flash a gun or a lead pipe or any other weapon. Good. That meant he was most likely unarmed.

“What are you doing here so late?”

Riley pointed at the computer. “I came here to play my video game because the bank's fiber optics modem is, like, totally faster than our cable at home, but somebody broke my dad's computer!”

“Your father know you're here, Charlie?”

“Well, duh. How else do you think I got in?”

“He tell you the code for the burglar alarm?”

“Of course he did. He's my dad.”

“What is it?”

“Two-two-two, three-three-three, four-four-four.”

“Okay. Okay. But, if you're the banker's son, how come there ain't no pictures of you nowheres in this office here?”

“Because I'm too handsome,” said Riley without missing a beat.

“What?”

“I'm incredibly good-looking. Whenever other parents see one of my photographs, they realize how plain and ordinary their own children are and that makes them depressed, which means they don't feel much like taking out college loans or mortgages from my dad. My good looks are bad for business.”

While the bank robber nodded like he understood the boy's dilemma, Riley checked out the clock nestled in the center of Mr. Weitzel's sterling silver pen set.

Where the heck were Mongo, Jamal, and the dogs?

“So tell me, kid, your father teach you any more secret codes or strings of numbers?”

“Well, let's see. I know his phone number. And the fax number…”

“How about the combination to the bank safe? You know that? If you do, I'll know for sure you're the boss's son and then I don't have to call no cops about you breaking in like this.”

“I didn't break in and I don't know the combination to the safe.”

“This is not what I was hoping to hear, Charlie.”

“But,” said Riley, “I bet I know where he hides the combination.”

“Really?”

“Sure! See, my dad is very forgetful, prone to woolgathering. Do you know what that word means?
Woolgathering?
”

“He raises sheep as a hobby?”

“No. He's absentminded. Out to lunch.” Riley tapped the side of his head. “An airhead, he—”

“I got it, kid, I got it!”

“So, anyway, he hides notes to himself. Always tapes whatever secret stuff he wants to remember to the inside bottom of a cookie jar.”

Riley didn't know how much longer he could keep this up.

The robber cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “I saw a cookie jar back there in the kitchenette. Whattaya say you and me go investigate further?”

“Sure!” said Riley, leading the way. “I'm starving!”

They marched across the marble lobby and headed into the break room.

“There's the cookie jar, kid.”

Riley, standing near the back door, heard the soft thunk of a magnetic lock letting go.

“Dig in!” he said. “The combination will be on the bottom.”

The man shoved his hand deep into the jar.

The back door swung open.

Mongo stepped in and side-armed a fistful of dog cookies that went skipping across the floor.

“Fetch!” Riley shouted.

And forty-one frisky dogs, led by seventy-pound Baron von Apricot and his girlfriend, Ginger, came charging into the bank.

“I GOT IT!” SHOUTED FRED
from the vault room.

“Dogs!” shouted Otto in the kitchen.

“Dogs?” shouted Fred.

“Dogs!”

Otto dashed across the workroom, just as Jake, Briana, and Jamal came running into the kitchen behind the tail end of the dog pack.

The big poodle in the lead was snarling and snapping at Otto's butt.

“Close the door!” shouted Fred.

“I'm closing it!”

The two bank robbers slammed the door shut.

“Lock it!”

“I'm locking it!”

Riley's crew continued to pelt the vault-room door with dog biscuits. Apparently, they had stuffed their pockets with them. Maybe that was why they took so long.

“You didn't have to bring all the dogs,” Riley said to Mongo.

“Yes we did,” said Mongo. “Because they all wanted to come.”

A mob of barking dogs was clustered outside the vault-room door, gobbling up treats.

“Get these mutts away from us!” shouted one of the bank robbers from behind the door. It was hard for Riley to tell which one it was; his voice was so high and squeaky.

“You okay, Riley Mack?” asked Jamal.

“Yeah. Now.” He turned around and saw a dozen or so puppies, bored with barking at the bank robbers, having a field day in the lobby: playing tug with pens chained to writing desks, pulling all the brightly colored forms and slips out of their tidy slots to create an indoor ticker tape parade, peeing on the potted ferns, racing one another around the slick marble floor, jumping on the furniture, chewing on chair legs, sniffing every garbage can they could find.

“Dogs,” said Riley. “Nothing but a bunch of troublemakers. Don't you just love 'em?”

 

The local police were the first to arrive on the scene.

The two deputies told Riley that they had been stuck working “the graveyard shift” because “they wouldn't lick Chief Brown's boots.”

In other words, they were good guys.

The cops waded through the wagging sea of dogs and persuaded Otto and Fred to surrender after promising to protect them from what the would-be bank robbers called the “mad pack of rabid dogs.”

The police puzzled over that description since most of the dogs dancing around in circles or rolling over for tummy rubs seemed to be puppies. But they didn't argue. They stepped into the vault, slapped on the handcuffs, and escorted the two suburban bank bandits through the swarm of dogs.

“Lock us in the back of your car!” begged Fred.

“Hurry!” added Otto, making high choppy steps like he was crossing hot coals. “Don't let Fritz bite my ankle again!”

Fred, the safecracker, had a crazed look in his slightly crossed eyes as he pointed at a fluffy Pomeranian puppy. “It's Winky! It's Winky!”

 

Chuck “call me Chip” Weitzel, who was notified about the bank robbery as soon as the police received the 911 call, arrived next.

“What the heck happened here?”

“These kids,” said the deputy guarding the crime scene while his partner guarded the crooks, “led by young Riley Mack, thwarted a bank robbery. They're heroes. You should give them a reward.”

“Is that true?” said Dawn Barclay. The news reporter burst into the bank trailed by her camera crew. Intense spotlight burning bright, they zoomed in on Riley and Briana. “Tell us what happened!”

“Well,” said Briana, who loved the limelight, “my friends and I, we were studying when, all of a sudden, we saw this big pack of dogs go running up the street. And we recognized them from your story about the puppy mill!”

“Fascinating,” said the reporter, with a wink to let Briana know she wouldn't reveal her as the source for that earlier footage.

“Anyway,” said Riley, “we followed the dogs and saw them all come streaming into the back door of the bank because I think some of these dogs are purebred security dog puppies so they instinctively knew something bad was going on in here.”

The reporter arched an eyebrow. “Really? The puppies knew the bank was being robbed?”

“Hey, why else would a pack of dogs that just escaped from a puppy mill go running into a bank instead of a steak house?”

“And the back door was propped open,” added Jamal, joining Briana and Riley in the bright white circle of light. “Which seemed atypical. Do you know what that word means, Ms. Barclay,
atypical
? Sort of like
asymmetrical
.”

While Jamal rattled on, Riley noticed Mr. Weitzel skulking across the lobby toward his office.

“Excuse me,” he said. He stepped away from the camera crew and followed “Chip” across the lobby toward his office.

“You can't go in,” Mongo said to Weitzel. Riley had stationed his humongous friend in front of the bank manager's door just in case “Chip” got any ideas about making evidence disappear or starting his little editing project early.

“That's my office,” said Weitzel.

“Right now,” said Riley, “it's a crime scene. See the tape?”

While the cops had been arresting the bank robbers, Riley had strung up all sorts of silver duct tape across Mr. Weitzel's office doorway and written C
RIME
S
CENE
D
O
N
OT
E
NTER
on it with a thick-tipped marker.

“A crime scene?” Weitzel scoffed. “Says who?”

“I do,” boomed a voice that cut through all the barks and camera crew commotion.

A man wearing a tan trench coat strolled across the lobby, his hands stuffed into the deep pockets. He had
a square face and an even squarer haircut.

“And who are you?” asked Weitzel.

“Special Agent Larry Chavis, FBI.” He flashed a badge.

Mr. Weitzel flicked on his fake smile and shot out his arm to shake Chavis's hand. “Chuck Weitzel. But you can call me Chip. Pleased to meet you, officer.”

Chavis didn't shake Weitzel's hand. He shifted his focus to Riley. “You Colonel Mack's son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How you holding up?”

“Better. Now that you're here.”

“Roger that.”

“Um, Special Agent?” Now the bank manager sounded all smarmy.

“Sir?”

“Can I bop into my office for a quick little minute? I left some very important paperwork on my desk this afternoon.”

“He's lying,” said Riley.

“What?” Mr. Weitzel acted offended. “Lying?”

“He wants to go in there and tamper with evidence.”

“Special Agent Chavis,” said Weitzel, all huffy, “you should know that young Mr. Mack here is a well-known troublemaker around town.”

Riley shrugged. “Hey, beats being an embezzler. See, Mr. Chavis, Mr. Weitzel here stole three thousand
dollars from one of his depositors, an elderly lady named Mrs. Rollison. Then, he tried to pull a frame job on my mom.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Maybe not,” said Riley. “I guess the police should search your files, maybe your desk, to see if there is any evidence to support my accusation.”

“Good idea,” said Chavis. “We'll start with the desk?”

“An excellent choice, sir.”

Before Special Agent Chavis could enter the office and find everything Riley knew he would find, Mr. Weitzel lurched toward the door.

Mongo grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him six inches off the ground.

“What's the matter, mister? Can't you read? The duct tape says, ‘Do Not Enter!'”