Novel - Half Moon Investigations (13 page)

I had a bunch of files. Crimes that had been committed against the youth of Lock. The youth. That was the only connection, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many young people in Lock to check them all. Some of the victims were in the same school. Saint Jerome’s. But not all. Most were teenagers, but now Isobel French, in her twenties, came dancing along.

What else? There must be something else?

I wasn’t tall. I wasn’t cool. I couldn’t play sports. Being a detective was all I could do. All that made me different. I had to find a connection.

What was it?

I scanned over the files again. Running my fingers under each line. Checking birth dates. Addresses. Star signs. Anything. But I was wasting my time. It was impossible to group all the victims in one bunch. It was useless. I was useless.

Bernstein says:
Sometimes you know things that you don’t know you know. Trust your subconscious. Let your instinct guide you.

This had always sounded a bit “Use the Force” for me, but I was desperate. Maybe my subconscious already knew what was happening here. All I had to do was let the knowledge flow through me. Somehow.

Count Albert Renard, the famous French criminologist, used several exercises to free his subconscious. One involved a map and a set of darts. When he couldn’t figure out where his prey was hiding, he would blindfold himself and throw a dart at a map of Paris. Very often the dart led the gendarmes to the correct address. Renard reasoned that his subconscious had already figured out the problem, and he didn’t have the time to wait for his consciousness to catch up.

Could this technique work on photographs?

I printed off letter-sized prints of the file photos and tacked them to the wall. The closest thing to a dart in the room was a school compass in my pencil case.

This is ridiculous, I told myself as I pulled a pillowcase over my head. It can’t possibly work.

I stood six feet from the pictures, peeking out from under the pillowcase until I had my general bearings.

Please don’t let Red come in now. Please.

I dropped the pillowcase over my face. All I could see was a pale disk of light from the bulb and the crisscross pattern of the cotton case.

I stood there for a minute, trying to summon my inner thoughts or my instincts or whatever, then pulled my arm back and fired. The compass bounced off the wall and whizzed past my ear. What was my subconscious trying to tell me?
Give it up, you fool, before you lobotomize yourself.

I persevered, throwing the compass half a dozen more times until finally I scored a hit. The compass stuck deep, and was still quivering when I pulled off the pillowcase. The point was buried in April’s photo. It had amazingly missed April and May in the photo’s foreground and lodged in the forehead of a small girl by the school door. Another one of the victims. Mercedes Sharp.

“Ooh,” I winced, plucking out the missile. Lucky it was only a photograph. “Sorry about that.”

I examined the girl with the hole in her forehead. She was smiling, but it wasn’t the typical girl smile. There was something mean in the way those teeth were clenched.

You’re imagining it, I told myself. Seeing what you want to see.

I hurried back to the computer, using Photoshop to crop the picture until only Mercedes remained. She didn’t look so pretty, wearing a sneer. Her hair was jet-black and pigtailed, and she wore a belted blazer over her uniform.

Was there something about this photo? Or was this a monumental waste of time?

I poured over the picture looking for some clue. Any clue. Mercedes wore patent leather shoes, and a corduroy book bag slung diagonally across her chest. A single white headphone earpiece trailed from under the book bag’s flap.

Something. Give me something. Maybe I should throw the compass again. Keep throwing until there was more hole than paper.

“So,” said Red’s voice behind me. “Is this our giant?”

Red was back. My time was up. Nothing to do but admit defeat.

“Actually . . .”

Red leaned in over my shoulder. “Mercedes,” he sighed. “She’s pretty as they come, Half Moon. But not someone to tangle with.”

“Really?” I said, stalling.

“Roddy says she’s actually a terror behind all the pink business. She squealed on Roddy’s friend Ernie. He was expelled.”

Curiosity straightened my spine. “Expelled? For what?”

“Mercedes saw him selling an iPod that he’d stolen from one of her friends.” He shook his head. “Little Ern was always a bit light-fingered, although usually he stuck to sweets or cash to buy sweets. From iPod to cash to sweets would usually be one conversion too many for Ernie.”

Something invisible tapped on my skull.
Helloooo, you’re missing something.

“An iPod? When?”

“Last week of school this summer. Don’t you remember?”

I did remember. Last week of school. Just about the time this fun day photo had been taken. Ernie Boyle. Expelled for theft. Not his first offense, either. I had a file on him.

I looked at the photo again. There it was. Snaking from Mercedes Sharp’s book bag: a white earphone on a white cable. Just like an iPod cable.

“Red,” I said. “We need to talk to this boy Ernie.”

“No time like the present,” said Red. “We just need to stop off at the candy store first.”

We tracked Ernie Boyle to a video arcade downtown. His mother was only too happy to tell us Ernie would be there, and offered us a fiver to bring him home. We turned down the contract. We had enough on our plate.

Ernie was the only kid in the arcade that afternoon, because everyone else was in school. Everyone except the suspended kid and the fugitive from justice kid. Ernie stood on a stool by the pool table, hustling strangers for candy money.

He was just finishing off his latest victim when we arrived. “Black in the center pocket,” he said, then added insult to injury by not even looking at the shot as he played it. The black ball thunked down without so much as a rattle.

The loser threw a euro coin on the table, then walked out in disgust.

“There’s one born every day,” snickered Ernie, collecting his winnings. With his vest and cap, Ernie looked like he’d just escaped from a Dickens novel.

Red stepped into the glow of the table’s strip light.

“Still hustling the hustlers, Ernie.”

Ernie pocketed his winnings. “Well, if it isn’t Red Sharkey. How’s the assault-with-a-deadly-weapon business these days?”

Red picked up a cue. “Pretty good. I’m thinking of getting into it full-time.”

Ernie backed down immediately. After all, he had a long way to go before he reached five feet, and even a six-footer would think twice before baiting a cue-wielding Red Sharkey.

“Just kidding, Red. Pulling your leg. Got any bull’s-eyes?”

Ernie was addicted to bull’s-eyes. They said his own mother wouldn’t recognize him without a bulge in his cheek. This accounted for his smile being yellow, and black around the edges.

“I might have. What are they worth to you?”

Ernie twirled his own sawn-off cue like a baton. “Play you for ’em.”

“No, no,” said Red. “We want information.”

“So all I have to do is tell you things, and you’ll give me candy?” said Ernie suspiciously.

“Exactly. All we want is a sentence or two.”

“Swear?”

“Swear?”

“Brick miss must celt?”

This was an Irish marble oath. If a kid took this oath and went against it, then he was branded untrustworthy for life.

“Brick miss must celt,”
intoned Red solemnly, performing the complicated hand routine that went with the oath.

Ernie grinned, and he really shouldn’t have.

“Excellent. They don’t sell bull’s-eyes here, and I’m running low.”

We squeaked into a leatherette booth.

“Now what can I do for you two Sharkeys?”

I looked around for the other Sharkey, then realized it was me.

Red nodded my way. “This is Watson, my cousin. He’ll take it from here.”

I cleared my throat. “I wonder, Ernie, if you could give us your own personal account of the day of your expulsion.”

Ernie glared at Red. “He don’t sound like a Sharkey, he sounds like law enforcement.”

My cover was falling apart. I had to become a Sharkey. And fast.

I smashed my fist on the table. “Call me law enforcement one more time, and you’ll be picking those bull’s-eyes out of your ears!”

Ernie relaxed. “Sorry—no offense. What do you want to know?”

“The iPod. Did you steal it?”

“’Course not. Not my style. They never found it, either. Little Miss Perfect points the finger, and they all believe it. It’s a tragedy of justice.”

“Travesty.”

“That too.”

Red took out the bag of candy we had stopped off for. He rolled a single bull’s-eye across the table. “Yeah but, Ernie, you’re always crying
It wasn’t me
. How can we believe you?”

Earnest tucked the sweet into his cheek. “I don’t care what you believe, Red. It’s the truth. I wouldn’t know what to do with that pod thing. I just take candy or cola. Stuff like that. Stereos are more my brother’s area.
Les Jeunes Etudiantes
had it in for me, so I had to go.”

I wrote that down. “They had it in for you? Why?”

“I dunno. Their head honcho, Devereux, cornered me in the yard one day, going on about how boys are ruining their education and how it’s got to stop.”

This didn’t sound like the
Jeunes Etudiantes
I knew. April and co. were more interested in pop stars than pop quizzes.

“Ruining their education? How?”

Ernie tapped the table. Red rolled another bull’s-eye across. It disappeared just as quickly as the first one.

“Me and the boys would be having some fun, you know, hiding the teacher’s books, setting the paper basket on fire. Harmless fun, and April says we’re interfering with their lessons. Can you believe that?”

I tried to appear sympathetic. “The nerve.” A good investigator gains the interviewee’s trust however he can.

“Yeah, one day, after I’ve superglued the teacher’s desk closed, April Devereux gives me this piece of paper. There’s nothing on it, and she says that’s what’s in my future if I don’t stop disrupting the class. She says it’s a warning. The next week an iPod goes missing and Mercedes swears she saw me selling it at the school gate. I offer to turn out my pockets, and there’s twenty euros in there. I dunno how it got there. Honest.”

I closed my notebook. It was a solid lead, if it was true.

“This is a solid lead, if it’s the truth,” I said to Red.

Red passed the rest of the candy to Ernie, who crammed at least six of them into his mouth.

“Ernie, you know me. You know my family.”

“Mmhuh,”
said Ernie.

“I believe what you say. I’m going to act on this information. If it turns out to be a pack of lies, Roddy is coming over here for a chat.”

Ernie stopped chewing. The bull’s-eyes collected in his mouth like ball bearings in a vase.

“Ish the trush.
Brick mish musht cell
.”

Red was satisfied. A sportsman like Ernie would never break the marble code.

IT WAS BEGINNING TO LOOK as though my employer had more to do with events than she let on. I decided to pay her house a visit, except this time she wouldn’t know I was coming. But first, Red and I headed back to Chez Sharkey to pick up a few tools of the trade.

When we arrived at the house, Herod was seated at the kitchen table sifting through a pile made up of two BMW wing mirrors, a digital TV dish, a trawler’s global positioning box, and six Bob the Builder videos.

He glanced up at us. “Look at this. Fifty smackers’ worth right here. People just leave this stuff lying around.”

Red rattled the digital dish. “Bolted to their roof is hardly lying around, is it, Roddy?”

Herod grabbed the dish. “What do you care? I’m just doing what Sharkeys do. I don’t think you’re a Sharkey at all. I think you must be adopted. Last week I even saw you reading that horse book,
Black Beauty
.”

“You did not,” protested Red. “Well, so what if you did. Reading is better than robbing!”

Red pointed to the stash. “This has all got to go back.”

“In your dreams. Who are you going to tell? Your new best friend? Half Moon, here? Or his best friend, Sergeant Hourihan?”

“It’s your funeral,” sighed Red. “I’ll write to you in prison. Unfortunately you won’t be able to read it.” He nodded at me. “Come on, Half Moon, let’s not waste any more time here.”

“That’s right, Red,” taunted Herod. “Off you go with your bestest buddy, Mr. Nerd. The two nerds together. You two are made for each other. You should get engaged.”

We put up with this abuse for as long as it took to devour a bowl of homemade soup and pick up Red’s surveillance equipment bag. It didn’t seem to bother anyone that two young boys were heading off with a sackful of spying gear. I know my Dad would have wanted an explanation for every item in the bag, but then the Sharkeys were not a normal family.

Whatever normal was. I wasn’t exactly normal myself. My own dad had told me so.

We came and went by the back door, as there was still a policeman posted out front. Red was in foul humor all of a sudden. He cycled like a robot, his legs pumping the pedals tirelessly. His shoulders were hunched to his ears as he hauled on the handlebars for more leverage. He spoke not a word.

I was getting used to being the passenger, rolling into the corners with the bike.

We crested Coalyard Hill and freewheeled down the other side. Red gave his legs a rest and leaned back against me.

He grunted half in apology, half in annoyance.

I managed to stay on the bike. “Are you all right, Red? What’s bothering you?”

Red didn’t say anything for a long time, so long that I thought he had forgotten the question.

“You saw Roddy back there,” he said suddenly.

My brain had moved on to the case, and it took me a moment to remember what I had asked.

“That’s what’s bothering you? Herod and his stash?”

“He’s ten years old. And already he’s stealing the school blind. Mom didn’t want that to happen. Before she died, Mom asked me to watch out for my baby brother. I was only small myself, but I promised. I’m not doing a great job of it. I try to keep him on the straight and narrow, but I can’t even keep myself out of trouble. It’s like destiny or something. I can’t escape the life that’s waiting for me. Dad’s life. Genie’s life. Roddy’s, too.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You can give Herod a good example,” I ventured. “Give him someone new to look up to.”

“You think so?”

“Why not? Maybe he can be a detective when he grows up?”

Red chuckled. “Detective Herod Sharkey. Now that would be something. Criminals beware.”

“You’re not his dad, Red. You can’t be. If you’re going to keep Herod out of trouble, then you need Papa’s help. Does he know about this promise you made?”

“No. Believe it or not, you’re the only one who knows. I don’t know how Papa would cope knowing Mom asked me to look out for Herod.”

“You need to tell him. As soon as you can. Tonight.”

Nothing for a while. Then, “Thanks, Half Moon.”

April Devereux’s house wasn’t actually a castle, but it was supposed to look like one. The rear was adorned with stone cladding, vaulted arches, stain glass windows, a mini-turret, even a
Romeo and Juliet
balcony. April’s bedroom was inside the balcony. Two marble unicorns guarded her window. April was standing between them, waving down at the group of girls being dropped off. Land Rovers and BMWs scored long arcs in the gravel and swung back out between slate-gray pillars.

“Looks like
Les Jeunes Etudiantes
are having a sleepover,” said Red, peering through the railings.

We stashed the bike behind a hedgerow, then scaled a massive oak tree inside the walls. Red climbed like a monkey, seeming almost weightless. I, too, climbed like a monkey. A very old one with one leg and six fingers. I am not very nimble at the best of times, and my sore arm and swollen head slowed me even more than my natural inability. When I eventually scaled the trunk, we set ourselves up on a fork.

Even from that distance we could hear squeals and chattering from the hallway. The girls huddled and bounced, delighted to be together on a school night. They waved good-bye to their parents, then filed upstairs to the unicorn room.

Red pulled a pair of binoculars from his backpack and followed the dozen or so girls.

“Lotta pink,” he commented. “Somewhere pink sheep are freezing to death.”

That was a pretty good private eye–type comment. Red was coming along.

“Can you hear anything?”

Red glanced sideways for a moment. “These are binoculars, Half Moon. They only work on eyes.”

It occurred to me that private eye–type comments could be really annoying after a while.

I held on to a branch, leaning out until my elbow creaked. “I can’t hear anything. We need to get closer.”

Red rummaged in his backpack. “I have some audio surveillance equipment.”

He tossed me a Soldier Sam toy walkie-talkie. “Audio surveillance equipment? We’re supposed to be professionals.”

“It’s got a range of ten feet, and six Soldier Sam phrases in Soldier Sam’s actual voice.”

I pretended to be impressed. “Ten feet? Wow. That’s nearly as far as I can hear.”

Red snatched the radio, stuffing it into his sack. “I think you’re forgetting who the cool one is here, and who is the escaped criminal nerd on the verge of getting a thump.”

I had a flashback to the sports pitch, when Red had jammed his hurl under my chin. That seemed a lifetime away, and this was a different Red. But you never know. . . .

“Point taken, but we still need to get closer.”

Red hopped down from his perch, landing on his toes and the fingertips of one hand. I hopped down, too, landing on my face and one cheek of my bottom. Which is not easy.

“Come on,” hissed Red.

“Arrumf,”
I replied.

We crept across the Devereuxs’ garden. It was dark now, but the pink glow from the unicorn bedroom cast a fake sunset across the pale gravel.

“I feel like we’re breaking into Disneyland,” muttered Red.

I didn’t comment. I was too nervous. This casual spying might be tame stuff for a Sharkey, but it was still pretty new to me.

April’s parents had thoughtfully planted a stout creeper below the balcony, so Red didn’t even have to use the grapple hook in his bag to get us onto the balcony. He was a bit disappointed about that.

“I shouldn’t have packed this,” he whispered, as we sneaked onto the balcony. “You know how heavy it is? You can carry it back.”

I barely noticed what he was saying. I had wriggled to the glass door. The strange ritual being enacted inside made me forget my nerves completely.

“Get over here, Red,” I whispered. “You have got to see this.”

The Unicorn Room was like something out of a macho man’s worst nightmare. Pink everywhere. Doors, lamp shades, drapes, duvet covers. All pink. Every shade from pastel to neon. I could feel my eyeballs sizzle just looking at the walls.

Red joined me at the glass door. “Wow. As I said, lotta pink.”

Les Jeunes Etudiantes
were gathered around a puffy fringed footstool. Pink. April Devereux stood on the footstool, arms outstretched like a preacher. The dozen or so other girls listened raptly to every word she said, and listening raptly is very unusual for ten-year-olds, especially in a large group.

“We need to hear what she’s saying,” I whispered.

“No problem,” said Red, activating one of the Soldier Sam walkie-talkies.

He tugged at the bottom corner of the French door, and it opened a crack. Unlocked. Red pulled slowly, until there was a big enough gap to wiggle his arm through. Not one of the girls noticed, too busy preaching or being preached at.

“Now for the hard part,” said Red. “Be ready to jump if this goes wrong.”

Before I had a chance to object to that ludicrous statement, Red tossed the walkie-talkie across the room. It landed on the bed, nestling between a fuzzy bunny and a heart pillow. Both pink.

Red winked. “Impressed?”

I winked back. “I’ll be even more impressed when you get it back.”

Sometimes it’s nice to be the brains in the group.

“How’s the behind, Half Moon?” said Red, not as lost for words as I’d hoped. “I bet you’ll have a nice bruise in the morning.”

Time to change the subject. “We’re on surveillance here, Red. We can insult each other later.”

Red twisted the volume wheel on the second walkie-talkie. The first unit was set to broadcast, so we could pick up every word spoken inside. We lay flat on our stomachs, our jaws dropping wider as events unfolded in the Unicorn Room.

April Devereux was dressed and adorned from head to toe in pink, from her Barbie PJ’s to the fluffy beret to the pink strands braided into her hair.

“Greetings, sisters,” she said. Her voice sounded different. It was thin but fierce.

“Greetings, Mademoiselle President,” responded her girls, all in their pink PJ’s.

Mademoiselle President?
These girls were taking their little club a bit seriously, weren’t they?

“Why have we gathered today, sisters?”

“To solve the problem of the ages, Mademoiselle President,” intoned the girls. Their tone was muted, but their eyes were bright and excited.

“And what is the problem of the ages?”

It was a one-word answer. “Boys!”

April Devereux punched the air with tiny clenched fists.

“Yes. Boys. For too long boys and grown-up boys have ruled this earth and made a mess of politics and ozone and stuff. For too long us girls have been not listened to by males, even our dads and brothers and people who should know better. How do we change this, sisters?”

“By ruling the world,” chanted
Les Jeunes Etudiantes
.

“Exactly. Correct. You are spot on, my sisters, so smart. We will be prime ministers and managing directors and partners in law firms and owners of music stores that ban heavy metal and stuff with skulls. But for now, what are we?”

“Students.”

“Correct. We are
Les Jeunes Etudiantes
. The Young Students. And this is how we must change the world. From our desks. From the classroom. What is our duty?”

The answer came promptly. “To learn.”

“And what is our goal?”

“Knowledge.”

Red elbowed me in the ribs. “This girl is a nutcase, but she’s hardly a giant.”

I hissed at him to be quiet, from the side of my mouth. There was something unique and sinister going on here, and I didn’t want to miss a second of it. There was far more to April Devereux and
Les Jeunes Etudiantes
than they revealed to the world in general. April’s little speech didn’t sound very
pink
.

“The only way to power is through knowing stuff,” continued the high priestess of weird. “But the old enemy stands in our way.”

The other girls actually hissed.

“Boys. Horrible, smelly, big-mouth boys.”

More hissing from the floor. Red and I were starting to feel unwelcome, though no one knew we were there.

“Ever since kindergarten, boys have been grabbing all the attention with their shouting and fighting and rude noises. How are we supposed to learn with all this going on?”

The sisters clapped and squealed their agreement.

“Aaron, for instance. Picking his nose all day. I don’t know where he puts that stuff, but it’s not in a tissue.”

Much groaning and wincing in the audience, and outside the window, too.

“And Gerry, with his insects. How many of us have found something disgusting in our
petit filous
, thanks to Gerry.”

Several hands went up. Apparently Gerry had been a busy boy.

“And I hardly need remind you of Raymond.”

“RAAAYMOND!” They howled his name like a dirge.

“That boy is thicker than a milk shake,” lamented April. “All day wasting teacher’s valuable time with his dopey questions. ‘What color is a smell?’ ‘Which way is up when you’re asleep?’ ‘Does a basketball live in a basket?’”

There were cries of
Moron
!

And one, unexpected. “I like Raymond. He does nice pictures.”