Long Shot - Stine Megan (библиотека книг бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗

They stared at each other for a long, tense minute. The chief was obviously upset.

“Bring in Norman,” the chief finally said to Officer Klint.

When the door opened again, Barry Norman walked in. As soon as they saw him, both Pete and Jupe gasped. Norman was Michael Anthony!

He was wearing a business suit with his shirt collar open and necktie loose. And his sunglasses hung around his neck on a red cord. Everything about Barry Norman — a.k.a. Michael Anthony — was cool and relaxed. But he looked at Jupe and Pete with a gaze so intense it practically burned holes in their eye sockets. Then he blinked and looked at them again as if he had never seen them before.

“Mr. Norman,” said Chief Reynolds, “these are the boys who reported that your car was blown up. I can vouch for their character. I’ve known them all their lives. Their story is they’ve been driving your Porsche since Friday, when someone gave it to them.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Barry Norman said coolly. “My car could have been missing for longer than I thought. I’ve been away on a business trip.

“Perhaps whoever stole it decided to give it away — although I can’t imagine why.”

“Have you ever seen Pete or Jupiter before?” Barry Norman slowly shook his head. “And Jupiter, you refuse to tell me who your client is?”

Jupe’s mind raced through the possibilities like a high-speed computer. He could see that Barry Norman was doing the same thing.

The bottom line, Jupe decided, was that Barry Norman was a small catch. By his own admission, he worked for someone who wanted to remain anonymous. But who? If Jupe blew this case open by telling Chief Reynolds about it, chances were good that the man behind the scheme would quietly disappear.

“We can’t tell you anything right now,” Jupe replied.

“Client? Are these kids detectives or something?” Barry Norman asked, trying very hard to look unconcerned.

“Darned good ones,” answered the chief.

“How’s that for a surprise?” Pete said.

Norman shrugged. “The world is full of surprises,” he said. “Sometimes you get a break and sometimes your car blows up.”

“So do you want to file charges against them, Mr. Norman?” asked the chief. “No,” said Barry Norman. “I think you’re right, Chief Reynolds. These guys didn’t blow up my car. Now I’ve got to go try to explain this to my insurance agent.”

“I’ll be in touch,” said Chief Reynolds.

Norman walked out. After he was gone, the chief leaned back in his chair. “I should make you two hotshots tell me the whole story,” he said.

“You’d only get half the story if you did that, Chief,” Jupe said. “We’re still writing the conclusion.”

“Jupiter,” the chief said, “you guys better be careful. Very careful. Someone who blows away a $45,000 car doesn’t care about happy endings!”

13

Personal Fouls

Michael Anthony was Barry Norman! Pete still couldn’t get over that fact. Even now, Wednesday night, almost 24 hours later, the case didn’t quite make sense to him. All he knew was that he agreed with Jupe: Barry Norman was a dangerous guy — someone they should steer clear of for a few days. Let him think they were off the case. Then maybe he’d get sloppy and let a clue drop.

Pete sat in the back of the Rocky Beach High School bus by himself, letting his mind wander. Sometimes he tried to put the pieces of the case together. Sometimes he just focused on the upcoming basketball game. His legs were stretched out on the seat, the back of his head bumping on the window to the jerky motion of the bus.

The rest of the Rocky Beach basketball team rode up front. They were talking and laughing and trying to blow off some nerves before that night’s game. But they were leaving Pete alone because that’s what he said he wanted.

Everyone on the bus had heard one story or another about Pete’s Porsche being blown to bits. They had a million questions, but they weren’t asking them.

Pete took deep breaths, trying to relax completely so he’d be loose for the game. It was weird playing a basketball game in the middle of winter break. But that’s the way the schedule had worked out and Pete didn’t mind. He was glad for the chance to get away from the case — away from homicidal college jocks and strange phone calls and exploding cars.

Everyone thinks I’m mad about losing the Porsche, Pete thought.

But he wasn’t as upset about that as he was about Chief Reynolds chewing him out. And the warning. The warning from the chief had freaked him. Because the chief was right. This case had suddenly gotten dangerous. Really dangerous.

That’s why he was sitting in the back of the bus doing deep-breathing exercises. He was trying to make the fear go away.

The bus finally pulled into the Wolfford High School parking lot. As the team filed into the visitors’ locker room, Coach Tong called Pete aside. “Are you okay, Pete? Can you start tonight?” he asked. “And don’t give me a quick answer. Four other guys, your teammates, need you to tell me the absolute truth right now.”

“Coach, I’m totally ready,” Pete said. Coach Tong smiled for a second. “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said. “Get dressed.”

The locker room was a typical visitors’ locker room — small, dark, and either too cold or too hot depending on which would make the players more uncomfortable. Pete sat down on a wooden bench that needed a good sanding and jerked open the door of a banged-up old metal locker.

And all of a sudden his heart started pounding — thumpa, thumpa, thumpa — like a hard basketball on a new gym floor. There was an envelope lying on the rusty bottom inside. Another envelope!

For an instant Pete wanted to slam the door closed. But he didn’t. He picked up the envelope, opened it, and unfolded the note inside. It said:

“Forget about the Shoremont case. It’s none of your business.

Otherwise you could get hurt real bad — like you will tonight.

And you’ll never play basketball again.”

Pete’s pulse was racing and his lungs were trying to keep up. He kicked the locker closed. “Who put this in my locker?” he shouted. He had everyone’s attention immediately. “Come on. Who did it?”

“Hey, Pete, what’s the problem?” asked Bill Konkey. “I put it in there.”

Pete stormed over to Bill’s locker and stood over him. “Why?” he demanded.

“Some guy outside gave it to me and said it was from Kelly. I know you always use the locker that matches your basketball number, so I stuck it in there. What’s the problem?”

Pete got a chill. He looked at the note again. Was it the same typewriter as before? Was it from Michael Anthony? Did he really know who Kelly was?

Coach Tong stuck his head inside the locker room. “What’s going on? Are you guys waiting for an invitation? Let’s play basketball!”

Pete tossed the letter into the locker and hurried to dress for the game.

A few minutes later the Rocky Beach team ran onto the court. The gym was filled with a raucous mixture of sounds: cheers for the Wolfford team, the Wolfford band playing their fight song at triple speed, scattered boos for the Rocky Beach players when they hit the court, and the game announcer warming up and testing the PA microphone. Over it all, a small traveling section of the Rocky Beach marching band was struggling to be heard.

It was the kind of chaos that normally got Pete really pumped up for the game and the competition. But tonight it just intensified his fear. Right now what he needed more than anything in the world was to forget about the case, relax, and play ball. But how could he? Someone was out there waiting to hurt him. Who?

Pete looked at the crowd, an ocean of unfamiliar faces. The noise in the gym seemed to get louder every second, but Pete heard only one thing. “You could get hurt real bad — like you will tonight.” The words of the note pounded in his head.