The Adventures of Jack Lime (7 page)

FYI — When Luxemcorp was done creating this little slice of suburban heaven called Iona, they needed to convince city slickers to move into their gated metropolis. So they threw in the kinds of perks that only a gazillion- dollar multinational conglomerate is able to offer; things like free Segways, golf course memberships, a high-speed train to zip them into the city, a sprinkling of classy boutiques and a smattering of hip restaurants. Plus, one gigantic scholarship for the top high school graduate. In honor of themselves, they called it the Luxemcorp Prize.

“How much is that worth?” I asked.

“Thirty-five grand each year you're in university,” he said, and then slammed his hand down on the table, sending the trays flying again. “That's it!” he yelled. “They're after the scholarship! They want me to lose!” The cafeteria was dead quiet again. All eyes were on us.

“Tyrone,” I said, “why don't we walk and talk.” We'd already drawn too much attention to ourselves. “If the person who has Carver knows we're on to him,” I whispered on our way out, “Carver's life might be in danger.”

“I can't believe I didn't figure this out earlier!” Tyrone said once we were in the hall. He hit his forehead with an open hand. If he'd hit me like that, my head would have cracked open like an egg. “It's got to be someone going after the scholarship.”

“There can't be too many on that list,” I said. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“I don't know … not really. I mean, I thought they were my friends.”

“There's got to be someone who's close to your grades who might want to take you out of the running.”

“I never thought about someone doing that.”

“Think,” I said. “Who's your main competition?”

“Well, there are only two people who are really close to me,” he said. “Walter Hampton and Polly Chew; they've both got averages in the high nineties.”

“Then we just have to track them down and figure out if one of them has Carver. It's a start.”

“How are we going to do that?” Tyrone asked. “Like you said, if they know we're on to them, they might kill Carver.”

“Do you have that picture of Carver they sent you?”

He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to me. I scanned the photo, looking for some kind of clue. Then it hit me. It was right in front of us, in black and white.

“Look at the paper,” I said.

“What?” he asked. “What am I looking for?”

“The bum who's pulling this con job takes these snapshots of Carver so you know he's alive the day he took the picture. The date's right there, at the top of the page. But there's something else at the top of the page,” I said, pointing at the paper.

“
The Daily Telegraph
,” he said.

“That's right,” I said. “We just need to stake out Hampton and Chew and find out which one gets
The Daily Telegraph
.”

“You're brilliant,” Tyrone said, patting me on the back so hard I thought he might have knocked a tooth loose.

“I'll take Hampton. You take Chew,” I said. “I figure the paper will get there around seven, so we should be in place by six-thirty, just to be on the safe side.”

“There's a bit of a problem with that plan, Jack,” Tyrone said.

“What?”

“I don't get here until eight in the morning.”

“What do you mean, ‘get here'?”

“I don't live here,” he said. “I live in the city. My dad works at Sam the Butcher's on Main. We come in on the train every morning at eight.”

“Huh? Really? I guess I thought everyone who went to Iona High lived here.”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “There are a few of us who come in from the city. My dad heard about the Luxemcorp Prize at work, so he took me out of my school in the city and registered me for classes here so I'd have a shot at winning the scholarship.”

“That's why I've never seen you around before.”

“This is my first year here.”

“And that's probably why you've got someone upset enough that they're willing to kill Carver. They probably figured they had the scholarship wrapped up until Mr. Perfect-Grades-from-the-City showed up and spoiled their plans.”

“Probably,” he said, nodding.

“Now things are starting to make sense. Look, I've got some favors I can call in. I'll line up someone to stake out Chew, and I'll watch Hampton. I'll let you know how it turns out tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Tyrone said, and we went our separate ways.

Wednesday, June 4, 7:02 a.m.
34 Kuiper Belt Crescent, The Hampton Place

There I was, squatting behind the neighbor's fence, waiting for the Hamptons to get their paper. This line of work isn't all glitz and glamor, that's for sure. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's dreary, dirty and dull. It's about rooting around in dumpsters and eating a stale granola bar you found in your pocket for breakfast instead of your grandma's buttermilk pancakes because you're waiting for the morning paper to show up, and the kicker is, you're not going to get to read it. But when the action happens, all that waiting pays off — big time. The newsie had just turned the corner on his bike, tossing papers onto lawns as he went, and he was heading my way.

I hunkered down and waited for him to pass by, then I scurried across the street to see what the Hamptons liked to read with their morning coffee. Bingo! It was
The Daily Telegraph
. I was just about to drop the paper back onto their step when the front door flew open, and two people rushed out.

“Thanks, kid,” the first one said, grabbing the paper out of my hand. He was tall, thin as a rail, with wispy gray hair that poked out from under a black fedora, and had a nose that was as long and sharp as a hatchet. I figured that was Mr. Hampton. “Hurry up,” he said. “We're going to be late for the train again.” Behind him, pulling on a long black trench coat, was a younger man with the same build and the same hatchet nose, but he had black hair instead of gray.

“I forgot my bag,” the younger one said. He turned, started back, tripped on the top step and practically fell into the house.

“Good grief,” the older Hampton said, getting into the car. The younger one came back out and dashed by me. This time, he missed the bottom step, tripped across the front walk and did a face plant on the lawn. The older Hampton couldn't help but laugh. He was still laughing when they backed out of the driveway.

I turned back to the house, having a little chuckle of my own. A kid who looked just like the first two Hamptons, but with blond hair, was standing in the door, staring out at me. I smiled and nodded, not wanting to blow my cover. He slammed the door shut. That must have been Walter. I started back to the street and pulled out the walkie-talkie I had in my jacket.

“Any luck, Max?” I asked. Max Thorn was on the other end at Polly Chew's house. I was running low on favors, so Max was the only person I could round up on short notice for early morning surveillance work. I could picture him hanging from a tree branch with a set of binoculars taped to his head. Max might be goofy, but he gets the job done, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut if I tell him it's confidential.

“They get
The Telegraph
, Chief,” he said. “Over.”

“
The Daily Telegraph
?” I asked.

“Roger that, Chief,” he said. “What's our next move? Over.”

“Go home,” I said. “The stakeout's a bust.”

“Shouldn't we stick around in case there's some kind of cover-up?” he asked. “Over.”

“Cover-up?” I said. “Max, you're nuttier then a carload of squirrels. Go home, and that's an order.”

“Roger Wilco, Chief. I'll have my report on your desk by 0-nine hundred hours. Thorn out.”

Thorn Out, Lime Out, the whole rotten case was out. This job was turning into a real brain twister, and I was getting nowhere fast.

Wednesday, June 4, 8:17 a.m.
Iona High, The Science Hallway

Things were getting desperate for yours truly. I hate to admit it, but on my way back to school, I started to wonder if Carver was worth it. Thirty-five grand could buy a lot of hamsters, even after all the other expenses of getting a high-class education. I found Tyrone standing alone in the science hallway, staring at pictures of the illustrious winners of Iona High's Science Fair, past and present.

“Is your handsome mug going to be hanging up there soon?” I asked, trying to sound positive.

“Did you find out who it is? Is it Polly?” he said, ignoring me.

I shook my head. “We struck out. They both get
The Daily Telegraph
.”

“Oh,” he said, turning back to the pictures. “I don't know. Maybe it's not worth it.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” I said, feeling relieved. “After all, you can get another hamster.”

Tyrone whirled around, grabbed me by my collar and lifted me off the ground. “My mother gave me that hamster three years ago. She died two weeks later. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a hamster alive for three years?
Do you
?”

To be honest, at that moment, I didn't really care how hard it was to keep a hamster alive for three years. I was more concerned with keeping myself out of a coffin for three more seconds.

“It was a stupid suggestion,” I said.

“It was,” Tyrone said, and then he lowered me back to the ground. “It was a very stupid suggestion. I was talking about the scholarship, not Carver. So what are we going to do now?”

I didn't know what I was going to do now. Chew and Hampton were just two possible suspects. It could have been anyone who was interested in winning the Luxemcorp Prize. Or it could have been anyone who didn't want Tyrone to win the prize. I was getting nowhere fast.

“I guess I can see why they'd be mad at me,” he mumbled, more to the wall of pictures than to me.

I followed his gaze. All the people in the pictures were smiling back at us without a care in the world. There was Amelia Freeman dressed in a white lab coat and holding a beaker full of blue stuff. Next to her was Glenn Paterson standing beside a bubbling barrel of red goo. Then there was David Philips holding a blowtorch and laughing, and next to him was Ralph Hampton squirting some kind of liquid out of a syringe. Wait a minute. There was Ralph Hampton squirting some kind of liquid out of a syringe. Ralph Hampton; the same Ralph Hampton I watched fall on his face that morning. There was no doubt about that sharp honker of his. You could slice tomatoes on that thing. Under his picture was a small gold engraving that read:
First Prize — Grade 12 Science Fair — Awarded to Ralph Hampton
. So Ralphy had graduated from Iona High two years ago. Fireworks went off in my head. Connections were being made. Things were starting to make sense.

“I have to go,” I said, yanking the picture off the wall.

Wednesday, June 4, 8:26 a.m.
Iona High, The Guidance Office

Ms. Mickle knew everyone who had passed through Iona High's front doors since it had opened twelve years ago. She was wearing a long, puffy yellow skirt, a red sweater and two giant orange hoop earrings. Her curly gray hair was going in eight directions at once.