Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash (7 page)

TWELVE

I really didn’t think Rex Randolf was planning to meet Mrs. Wedgewood at Monte Carlo night. If he was, why would he use a fake name?

Or if it was his real name and he didn’t live in the building, why was he acting like he did? And how would he know about Monte Carlo night?

No, I was pretty sure he wanted Mrs. Wedgewood out of her apartment so he could get
into
her apartment.

So he could
case
the joint.

I also suspected this had something to do with my hitting pay dirt. If he thought the Wedge had tried to rescue Buck, then he probably also thought she had the money.

And it was looking like he wanted it back.

But if it was his to get back, why would he go through all this Monte Carlo night stuff? I mean, if Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, had stolen the money from him, ol’ Rex would’ve come right out and said, That dirty rotten son of a gun robbed me! instead of going through this whole stupid “thank you for your valiant effort” rigmarole.

Besides, according to Hudson, no robberies or burglaries or murders had been reported.

And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed that Rex Randolf might be the “old and bereaved” guy who’d been over at the Heavenly taking stuff out of Buck’s room. The whole situation was starting to feel bigger than three thousand dollars.

It felt…sneaky.

Shady.

Almost desperate.

But…maybe I was just feeling guilty. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this and I was just jumping to wacko conclusions because I’d been spending the money of a guy I’d scared to death. Maybe Rex Randolf was just a lonely old guy trying to fill his day with a little excitement. A lot of people in the Senior Highrise drive Grams crazy because they let little problems fill their whole day. “Don’t they have anything better to do?” she grumbles.

But Rex Randolf sure
looked
like a guy who had a life. A beret? Tinted glasses and a silk scarf? Come on—a guy without a life would not dress like that!

And that’s when it hit me.

Maybe he
didn’t
dress like that normally.

Maybe it was an old-guy disguise!

The thought totally threw me. I mean, I don’t think of old guys as being sneaky, disguise-wearing con artists. I think of them as being either kind or totally ornery, because every one I know seems to be one or the other. There must be a fork in the road of life—I don’t know when it comes along or where it is, but I know it’s there. And when you get there, there’s a big ol’ arrow with
CRABBY
pointing one way and another big ol’ arrow with
KIND
pointing the other.

That’s the picture I had in my mind, anyway. At no time had I ever envisioned a third sign that said
SNEAKY
. But all of a sudden it was like the Cheshire cat had popped up with his crazy grin, holding a sign that said
SNEAKY
.

My mind started running down the possibilities of the Sneaky Path. Maybe the reason Mr. Garnucci didn’t know anybody by the name of Rex Randolf, or anybody who wore a beret, a scarf, and tinted glasses and spoke with a sophisticated accent, was because “Rex Randolf” was trying to conceal who he really was. And if this guy did live in the building and was actually planning to meet Mrs. Wedgewood at Monte Carlo night, why didn’t he give his real name?

So the Sneaky Path led me right back to the place I’d started—the only thing that made sense to me was that Rex was hoping to case the Wedge’s apartment and this was his way of getting her out of the way.

The
problem
was, if ol’ Rexy-boy was going to be searching Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment for Buck’s missing money, it’s not like I could spy on him. I mean, even if I could get inside her apartment, where would I hide? He’d definitely look under the bed and in the closet and under the kitchen sink—my usual dive-for-cover hiding places.

So as I was helping Mrs. Wedgewood get ready, I was racking my brain for a way I could sorta keep tabs on him—or at least know if he was in the apartment—without being caught.

And then I had a brainstorm.

Except that the brainstorm required me to get back inside the Wedge’s apartment after she was gone.

Mrs. Wedgewood was in the bathroom, all decked out in her new muumuu and plastic pearls, doing a last-minute sweat-blot. I figured it was now or never, so real quick I grabbed a napkin off the kitchen table, tore off a piece, folded it tight, and crammed it in the hole part of her front door latch.

I tested it quick, but the paper wasn’t fat enough, so I crammed in a little more.

“Sugar?”

Now it was too big. And really obvious!

I pried it out and ripped off a little of the napkin, then tried again.

Clank, clank
came the walker.

“Sugar?”

I closed the door quick.

“What are you up to, sugar?”

“Just checking the hallway,” I said, but I sounded jumpy.

Guilty.

Lucky for me, I was also guilty of something else. She gave me a cagey smile. “Makin’ sure the coast is clear?”

“Uh…hey,” I said, moving toward her as I slipped the rest of the napkin in my back pocket. “Would you like me to get Grams to help you down to the rec room?”

“Why…that would be so nice!”

“Do you have everything you need?”

“My purse is on the bed, and my key is on that little hook, right there.”

So I grabbed both, and when she was through the door, I closed it behind us.

“Test it now, sugar,” she said.

So I rattled the knob while I
pulled
on it, showing her how locked up tight her apartment was. Then I guided her away from the door and said, “I’ll go get Grams.”

Grams had a book in her hand and was just about to sit down on the couch when I barged in. I made an exasperated face and rolled my eyes. “She wants you to walk her down to Monte Carlo night and stay with her until her date shows up.”

“This is unbelievable!” Grams fumed. But when the Wedge appeared in the open doorway, she got up and grabbed a sweater.

And since I’d never actually checked out with Mr. Garnucci, I grabbed my skateboard and said, “Well, I’d better get home! Bye!”

Mrs. Wedgewood snorted like, Oh, right, but Grams just played along. “Thanks so much for all your help today, sweetheart. I know Rose appreciates it no end!”

And since they were going to be moving at a snail’s pace and the elevator can take a while to show up, off I flew down the hall, down the regular stairs, and through the lobby, calling, “See ya later, Mr. G.!” as I breezed out the front door. And that’s when it hit me—if Rex Randolf did show at Mrs. Wedgewood’s while she was at Monte Carlo night and I could somehow get a
picture
of him, I could show it to André and ask him if he recognized him as the guy who’d been inside Buck’s hotel room. I could also show it to Mr. Garnucci and see if
he
recognized him.

Now, I was banking on Mrs. Wedgewood taking at least fifteen minutes to get down to the rec room.

She’s that kind of slow.

And I figured Rexy-pooh wouldn’t dare case the apartment until he was sure she was down there. Which meant that I had time to put my plan into motion, but not much.

So I made a beeline over to the Pup Parlor, and when Vera answered the door, I panted, “Hey! I have a
huge
favor to ask.”

“Ask away,” she said, showing off the gaps where teeth used to be.

“I need to borrow your digital camera for an hour. Maybe two.”

The yellow polka-dotted bows on the sides of her hair seemed to quiver in horror. But after a second she said, “I take it it’s an emergency?” and led me upstairs. “Holly’s out with Meg fetching ice cream,” she said. “You want me to tell her to give you a call?”

“Uh…how about I just talk to her when I return the camera.”

“Sounds good.”

So I got the camera and a very quick set-point-and-shoot lesson, then bolted out of there and over to the fire escape.

Luckily, I didn’t scare anybody else to death on my way up.

I stashed the skateboard and the camera in Grams’ apartment, then zipped back down the hallway to finally test Mrs. Wedgewood’s door.

I pushed and…“Yes!” I whispered as the door gave way.

I slipped in quick, then went straight to the kitchen.

Our apartment’s phone is corded and anchored to the kitchen wall. And I know when our old neighbor Mrs. Graybill lived next door, she had a phone just like ours. But Mrs. Wedgewood must’ve done some sweet-talking to Mr. Garnucci, because she now has a portable jobbie.

It was on its back, charging in the base on the kitchen table, but after I checked out the recharge contacts, I realized that I didn’t really understand how it worked. And after another minute I started to get nervous—I was wasting time!

So I ran back home, called Mrs. Wedgewood’s number, let our phone dangle from the cord, ran
back
to the Wedge’s apartment, and answered her phone.

The red light on the base was flashing.

Shoot!

That would totally give it away!

So without turning it off, I rested the phone on the table and started opening kitchen drawers until I found her junk drawer.

Thank God for junk drawers.

I found scissors and a small roll of thin white double-stick foam.

Perfect!

I cut a piece, peeled off the back, and put it on the flashing light, but since you could still see it flashing, I put on another layer, which pretty much concealed it.

Then I cut another couple of pieces, stuck them together for thickness, and put them over the metal contacts on the base. Then I laid the phone back in the cradle.

The handset still said
PHONE ON
, but really, you wouldn’t notice it unless you actually
looked.

I pushed the phone and base toward the back of the table, trying to make it look casual behind the pitcher of flowers ol’ Rex had brought. Then I shoved the scissors, the roll of foam, and all the scraps into the junk drawer and dashed for the door.

The hallway was clear, so I took the wadded-up napkin out of the jamb, pulled the door closed behind me, and darted home.

The minute I was inside my own apartment, I kinda fell apart. I started shaking and sweating, and my hands were suddenly all clammy. I went over to our phone, held it to my ear, and heard a whole lot of nothing.

So I let it dangle again and got busy practicing with Vera’s camera, figuring out how to zoom in and turn the flash off, and when I was comfortable enough with it, I draped it over my neck and went back to the phone.

I listened hard.

Not a rustle, not a crackle, not a clank, not a sound.

I kept on listening for what seemed like forever. And I was just starting to doubt myself—just starting to think that maybe Rex Randolf wouldn’t be casing the Wedge’s apartment after all—when I heard something.

A
clink.

A
whoosh.

And then footsteps!

I crammed the phone up hard against my ear.

I heard fast footsteps with hard soles.

And definitely no clunking walker.

A shiver shimmied through me. How had he broken in? Was he some sort of professional burglar? Had he managed to make a mold of Mrs. Wedgewood’s key while she wasn’t looking? Or were our rinky-dink locks that easy to jimmy?

Then I heard static, and for a second I thought my little eavesdropping setup had quit working.

But all of a sudden there was a voice.

A man’s voice.

And what he said made me feel like spiders were racing up my spine.

THIRTEEN

“This is the Jackal. Do you read me, Sandman?”

“Loud and clear,” came the crackled response.

“I’m inside.”

“I don’t know how long she’s going to last. I’ll shadow her, but get busy!”

“Roger that.”

Their voices were echoey but intense. And neither voice had any kind of sophisticated accent. So who were these people? Was one of them Rex Randolf? Or were these two
other
men? Whoever was down in the rec room had to be someone who lived in the building, and if he was shadowing Mrs. Wedgewood, he couldn’t be Rex Randolf.

So was the Jackal Rex Randolf?

My head was swimming as I stood there listening to the Jackal rummage around Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment. I couldn’t quite believe that any of this was real. It was like some weird espionage movie where the operatives were the Jackal and Sandman.

Only they weren’t ripped or dashing or even, you know,
smooth.

They sounded like old guys!

And they were shaking down a fat lady!

The sounds got fainter, then louder; fainter, then louder again. I listened to this until
finally
there was a crackle and then, “Mayday. Jackal, do you read me? Mayday.”

“Roger that. Target not acquired. Time frame?”

“Ten, max.”

“Could she be carrying?”

“Negative. Baggage not suitable.”

The Jackal cursed, then said, “I
know
she was lying—it was obvious! It’s got to be here someplace.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“The trapdoor gives me an extra five.”

Their voices were getting louder and louder, but I didn’t notice right away because I was so busy trying to decipher their little code words and I was excited that the Jackal had said “
I
know she was lying”—now I was sure that he
was
Rex Randolf!

In the back of my mind, I realized that their voices were also becoming less echoey, but I was listening so hard that it hadn’t even dawned on me that maybe I should be worried.

“Should I tail and report?” came the crackling voice of Sandman, which all of a sudden seemed
loud.

“Stand by,” the Jackal said, and although I could hear him loud and clear, it sounded like he was
whispering.

Then all of a sudden it was quiet.

Not silent.

Quiet.

My heart started slamming around, and I almost panicked and hung up the phone. But at the last second it hit me that if he
hadn’t
seen the
PHONE ON
display and I hung up, the phone would start making little
bee-boo-beep
s and prerecorded off-the-hook announcements and then he’d notice the phone for sure!

So I held on, my heart hammering and my hands shaking.

Then all of a sudden I could tell he’d picked up the phone. He didn’t make a sound and I sure couldn’t
see
anything, but I could
feel
him through the wall, holding the phone up to his ear, listening.

Just like me.

His end clicked off.

So very carefully, very
quietly,
I hung up our phone and just stood there, shaking.

BRINGGGGGGG!

I jumped through the ceiling, then spun around in a circle with my eyes cranked and my whole body feeling like it was about to explode.

I was busted! He’d hit star-69!

Or…had he?

Maybe it was another case of me thinking it was someone it wasn’t.

Maybe it was just Marissa or Holly or…

I felt like tearing out my hair. Why couldn’t we have a phone with caller ID like the rest of the world?

My mind was spinning like crazy, but with zero traction. I felt like a mouse on a wheel racing to escape a cat standing patiently by. What if it
was
the Jackal and he could hear the ringing right through the wall?

The wheel suddenly opened and I hit the ground running. I snatched the phone off the hook, and in the deepest, most casual voice I could muster, I said, “Domino’s Pizza.”

There was a slight hesitation, then
click.

I hung up, too, and just stood there, shaking.

It
had
been him!

It’s okay, I told myself. The Domino’s bit threw him off. It’s okaaaay.

Only I knew that it wasn’t okay.

In the pit of my stomach, I knew it wasn’t anywhere
near
okay.

I was too shaken up to even try to take a picture of the Jackal leaving Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment. Instead, I just sort of hid in our apartment until Grams and Mrs. Wedgewood returned from Monte Carlo night. I helped Grams deliver Mrs. Wedgewood home so I could undo everything I’d done to her phone.

I was quick enough so Grams didn’t notice, and Mrs. Wedgewood didn’t even look up. She just clomped into her bedroom without a word.

When Grams and I were safely home, she immediately launched into a play-by-play of her “torturous ordeal” with the Wedge. From knocking over a man to scarfing up everything in sight, Mrs. Wedgewood apparently made quite an impression.

“And people thought she was
my
friend because that date of hers never showed up!” Grams moaned, “I am positively mortified!”

Then around nine o’clock we started getting phone calls.

I jumped when the first call came in.

It was just Hudson.

He and Grams exchanged some pleasantries, then she turned the phone over to me.

“Hey, Hudson. What’s up?”

“I thought I should let you know that the McKenzes turned down my offer.”

“Lucky you,” I laughed. But then I realized that he was calling because he was bummed about it. So I added, “Look, it was really nice of you to even
think
about doing it.”

“Thinking about helping isn’t actually helping.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, and after a few seconds he said, “Just thought you’d like to know,” and got off the phone.

“What was that about?” Grams asked after I’d hung up.

“Hudson offered to have Mikey do kind of a boot camp at his house, but—”

The phone rang again.

I jumped again.

“He did
what
?” Grams asked, hurrying over to answer the phone. Her brow was knitted funny and her eyes looked almost scared.

Obviously, she understood how crazy an offer it was.

She put up a finger, answered the phone, and with barely a “Hold on a moment” handed it over to me.

It was Marissa.

“You should be so proud of me!” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I totally put my foot down! I told my mom that you and I were going to throw the softball around at the ballpark tomorrow and—”

“We are?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Sure. But…when?”

“Ten? Or are you working?”

I almost said, Working? but then I remembered—I had a job at the Heavenly.

“No, that’s okay. Ten’s good.” Then I added, “But how is that putting your foot down?”

“I told my mom I’m not Mikey’s parent and he’s not my responsibility.”

“And?”

“And she said she
had
to be gone and I
had
to take Mikey with me to the park.”

“So?”

“So I told her fine, but if he threw another tantrum, I was just leaving him behind.”

“You told her
fine
? Aw, Marissa, I am not up for another episode of Mikey Monster.”

“Wait! I’m not done.” She was whispering really fast now. And it sounded like she was jumping up and down behind racks of clothes in a closet or something. “You should have seen me. I was being totally calm and mature, but
Mikey
started storming around, throwing an absolute tantrum about having to go with
me,
and—you’re not going to believe this—he knocked over the Kraval!”

“He knocked over the—no! Did it break?”

“It shattered into a million pieces!”

I absorbed this crystal-crushing news for a minute, then said, “Your mom must be freaking out.”

“That is the understatement of the century!”

All of a sudden I could hear Mrs. McKenze screaming in the background.

“Uh-oh,” Marissa whispered. “She’s looking for me. Gotta go.” And with that, she clicked off.

“What was
that
about?” Grams asked when I hung up.

“Mikey broke the Kraval!” I gasped.

“The Kraval? What’s the Kraval?”

But then the phone rang
again.

And I totally jumped.

Again.

Grams shook her head as she moved to answer the phone. “What a night!”

This time it was Vera wanting to know when I would be returning her camera. I looked at the clock—it was almost ten. My big plan of snapping a picture of Rexy-boy hadn’t even come
close
to happening. “Uh…can I bring it back tomorrow?”

“Did you break it?” she asked suspiciously, and the truth is, I knew why—no matter how careful I try to be, stuff I borrow from people tends to get bashed or crashed or broken.

But not this time!

“No!” I said, trying to sound hurt that she would think such a thing. “I haven’t even used it.”

“I’d feel a lot better if you’d bring it back tonight.” Then she added, “I know it’s late, but a deal is a deal.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m on my way.”

When I was off the phone, Grams eyed me and said, “What have you borrowed and not used?”

“Her camera,” I grumbled, scrambling around for a reason I might borrow a camera when I was stuck in an apartment building with nowhere to take pictures.

“And why exactly did you borrow her camera?”

“You’re going to think I’m really childish,” I said.

“Go on.”

“Well…Holly’s never been here, right? So she’s never seen Mrs. Wedgewood, right?”

“Ah,” Grams said, tilting her head back a little. “And she doesn’t believe there’s such a thing as a waddling whale?”

“Grams!”

She gave me a disgusted scowl, then whispered, “That woman is a
nightmare.
A blubbery, blackmailing nightmare!”

“Grams!”

It was weird to have her acting just like me. And weird for me to be going “Grams!” instead of her going “Samantha!”

She went back to prim and proper. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not setting a good example. And if she were that large because of some medical problem, I’d be sympathetic, but that’s not the case.” She eyed me. “Did I tell you how she inhaled the entire spread at Monte Carlo night?”

“Yes, Grams,” I said, because I didn’t want to hear the disgusting details all over again. I grabbed the camera and said, “And I’ve really gotta go. I’ll be right back.”

“Be careful. And don’t you dare get sidetracked. Come
right
back.” And then—I couldn’t believe it—she muttered, “And try not to scare anyone to death, would you?”

“Grams!”

She laughed. “Not funny yet, huh?”

“No!”

I zipped down the fire escape, flew across the grass, and jaywalked across Broadway. And when Holly answered the Pup Parlor door and asked me if I could come up for a while, I said, “I told Grams I’d be right back. But I’m meeting Marissa at the ballpark tomorrow at ten—wanna come?”

“Sure.” Then she asked, “Why’d you need the camera, anyway?”

“I’ll explain later. But tell Vera I’d like to borrow it again, okay? I didn’t get a chance to use it.”

So I was staying on track. I went straight for the fire escape, zigzagged up, passed by the Landing of Death, and was almost to the fifth floor when a word suddenly smacked forward in my brain.

Trapdoor.

Had Rex-the-Jackal-Randolf meant the fire escape door?

And since the Wedge’s apartment was even closer to the fire escape than ours, it sure
would
save him time getting down from the fifth floor.

But the only way he could go
in
the fourth floor’s fire escape door would be if the latch was jammed.

Just like what I’d done to the
fifth
-floor door.

And the only reason you’d want to do
that
is if you wanted to come and go a lot without being seen.

Just like me.

Then I remembered how Grams had told me she’d slipped away from the police through the fourth-floor door. How had she been able to do that? Maybe somebody else had opened it from inside the building…or maybe the door didn’t latch.

I looked all around, then eased back to the Landing of Death.

I pulled on the door.

There was no
clunk.

No
thunk.

No catch.

Just the smooth release of a trapdoor opening.