CHAPTER 43

We shoehorned ourselves back into the sporty Mustang and headed over to 201 Maple Street in Chelsea, Massachusetts—the FBI field office for all of New England.

We had to stop for visitor badges in the lobby but Special Agent McKenna saw us right away.

“Richie ‘Poppie’ Luccio!” he said as we stepped into his office. “It is so good to see you again!”

“Likewise, Joel,” said Uncle Richie, shaking the crew-cut and buttoned-up agent’s hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice.”

“Happy to help. I still owe you one from that thing down in—”

“Yes,” said Uncle Richie.

Wow. He really didn’t want anybody talking about whatever happened all those years ago in Australia.

“And you must be the famous Kidd kids—the legendary young treasure hunters! I’ve worked with your parents in the past. I take it you’re Tommy?”

“Chya.”

“And you must be Stephanie!”

Storm’s eyes started to darken into thunderclouds again.

“We call her Storm, now,” said Uncle Richie, quickly.

“Oh,” said the special agent. “My apologies.”

Storm nodded. “Apology accepted.”

“Joel,” said Uncle Richie, “you might wonder what brings us to your office today…”

“A totally awesome Mustang,” said Tommy. “Got a sweet deal on it at the airport. The counter lady liked me.”

“Very true,” said Uncle Richie, “but the reason we are here is because we would like to chat with you about the nineteen ninety art theft at the Gardner Museum.”

“Excellent. It’d be great if the Kidd Family Treasure Hunters could help us find the stolen art.”

“We’ll do our best, sir,” said Storm.

“I have to warn you—this has been one of the most frustrating, baffling, and mysterious cases the FBI has ever dealt with,” said the FBI agent. “This file has been open for nearly thirty years.”

“Dude?” said Tommy, probably forgetting he was talking to an FBI agent. “We’re all about hunting treasures. Especially the ones no one else can find.”

“So, what can you tell us?” asked Uncle Richie.

“Not much,” said McKenna. “We’re pretty certain the art was transported out of New England to either Connecticut or Philadelphia. Maybe both. Stolen property this hot, the thieves would be smart to split it up.”

“Totally,” says Tommy. “That’s what I’d do if I were a thief who stole five hundred million dollars’ worth of art, which, hello, I didn’t.” And then he started sweating. “I wasn’t even born in nineteen-ninety. I swear. You want me to take a lie detector test or anything?”

Special Agent McKenna shook his head. “No, thank you, Tommy. That won’t be necessary. But, here…” He pulled a bulging binder out of a filing cabinet. “Take a good look at these pictures. These are the treasures you’ll be hunting for.”

“Remind me,” said Uncle Richie. “What is this smallish painting called? The one with the gentleman in the top hat.”

“Chez Tortoni,” said Beck, our resident artiste. “It’s by Manet.”

“And it’s worth a lot of Monet!” I quipped. Nobody got the pun, except Uncle Richie.

“Bully, Bick. Bully. Well, thank you, Joel. We won’t take up any more of your time. Children? Come along. It’s time to go.”

“But we just got here,” I said.

“And the FBI is quite busy. They have crimes to investigate. We mustn’t take up any more of Mr. McKenna’s valuable time. Off we go, then.”

Uncle Richie hustled us all out the door.

“Quickly, Bick. Put a spring in your step.”

“Why the rush?” I asked.

“Because,” said Uncle Richie. “I recognized one of those paintings. The Manet that Beck identified for us. I’ve seen it before.”

“Was it a print?” asked Beck.

“No. It was oil on canvas. And, as Beck pointed out, rather small. Perhaps ten by thirteen inches. Most important, it was hanging on the wall in the cards room of a very posh and exclusive private club.”

“And why, exactly, is that so important?” asked Storm.

“Because, my dear Storm, that club is in Philadelphia!”