March kicked away the junk surrounding my bed and opened the folder, laying printouts on the floor. Genki, finally settled in a mound of fabric, jumped from the bed and sniffed at the sheets of paper before plopping down on top of them. March groaned.
“Move.” I pointed back at my bed. Genki stood up slowly, like a grandpa dog, and jumped back to his blanket nest, which he began to rearrange even though it hadn’t been disturbed.
March straightened the printouts and said, “You were right. There’s some suspicious stuff on Crowley’s computer.” He pointed to the sheets of paper, talking faster and faster as he explained. “Mr. Crowley has bookmarked every article about the missing dogs. He also bookmarked a website that explains the benefits of different dog breeds—which ones are naturally more aggressive, which ones are more teachable, which breeds cost the most. His order history from Amazon included a black ski mask, a black jacket, a window tinting kit, and three hundred feet of utility rope. His web cache included a website teaching how to remove microchips from dogs. And his bank account lists a bunch of deposits from a local company called Seenile Gizmos. I looked it up—something to do with geriatric lifestyle components.”
I squinted at him.
“That one’s not suspicious, just weird.”
“He’s our guy,” I said. “What else could it all mean?” My mind got stuck on the detail about removing microchips, which store all the information a shelter needs to locate a dog’s owner. When we got Genki, Dad had explained how they would shoot the microchip from a needle into his back, just like a vaccination. He promised it wouldn’t hurt. But removing one was probably more complicated. It was probably bloodier. Now the image of Barkley cowering on the red-stained floor of the dognapping van trailed goose bumps down my back.
“I don’t know,” March said. “Maybe he’s interested in the dognappings, and the rest is a coincidence.”
“It’s just a coincidence that he’s buying tons of dog food and wants to know how to remove microchips? What about his order history?” I picked up the article about the dognappings, the same one in my Sleuth Chronicle, and skimmed for information on Barkley’s disappearance. Had the windows on the dirty van been dark? “A black jacket is one thing, but a ski mask and a tinting kit? Who needs dark windows in Colorado?”
March shrugged. “We need more evidence before we can tell the police. Besides, they’d arrest me or something for all this.” He motioned to the papers spread on the floor.
“You’re right,” I said. “We need more evidence!” I slammed a fist on my bed, and Genki startled.
“Oh no,” March said. “What are you thinking?”
“A little dumpster diving,” I said, facing him. “Once you roll your garbage to the curb, it’s public property, right? That means we won’t be doing anything illegal.”
“Only if you believe everything you see on TV.”
“I think it’s pretty legit,” I said.
“Okay, then.” March gathered all the printouts and slid them into the folder. “Why don’t we ask our parents if we can go through our neighbor’s garbage looking for evidence of a dognapping?”
I rolled my eyes. “That breaks rule number two.”
“But sneaking out after dark to steal his garbage breaks rule number five.”
“We can’t get killed trolling through someone’s trash. It’s gross, not dangerous.”
“Unless he really is a hardened criminal and catches us. And takes us away. And kills us.”
“Janken pon?” I held my fist in an open hand.
March and I had resolved disputes using Rock-Paper-Scissors since we were six years old. I had taught him how to play, and for years after he thought the game was named after some guy named John Kempo. I hadn’t realized it was called anything else because Mom had first taught it to me, I guess in one of her Japanese cultural moments, as “Janken pon.” When March and I couldn’t agree on something, one of us would say “Janken pon” and assume the position. It was the quickest way to reach an agreement.
“Really, Kazu?”
I raised my right fist in the air over my left palm.
“All right,” he grumbled.
“Janken pon,” we said as we beat our fists into our palms.
“Scissors beats paper.” March snapped at my hand with two fingers.
“Janken pon.”
“Paper beats rock.” I slapped his fist with my open hand.
“Janken pon.”
“And rock beats scissors!” I punched March’s two fingers and launched myself into a dance around my room, quickly planting my foot on a hairbrush, bristles up.
“Ow,” I howled, grabbing my foot. March fell back on my bed laughing, until he realized his head had landed on the unmade part of my bed and jolted upright, swatting at his hair. Genki stood and looked at March sleepily before turning away and lying back down.
March gathered up his paperwork. “If you get us killed before my last eligible trick-or-treating Halloween, I will never forgive you.”
After school the next day, Mom insisted it was time I lock in my costume choice. She made me decide every year before October fifteenth because she didn’t want to be caught scrounging up an outfit days before Halloween.
“I told you,” I said. “I want to be Velma.” I sat at the kitchen bar eating my after-school snack: rice crackers and apple slices dipped in peanut butter. Genki sat at my feet, begging for a bite. Around me, the counter was covered with museum brochures and stacks of books about creating successful exhibits.
Every afternoon I came home from school and talked to Mom about my day while eating a snack. The longer this took, the less time I’d have to spend on homework. I could drag a conversation on and on about Halloween costumes if Mom let me.
“Who?” She leaned against the kitchen counter, a teacup balanced on the flat of her fingers.
“Velma Dinkley. You know? The brains of Mystery Incorporated?”
Genki finally got tired of begging and turned in a few circles before dropping to the floor. Mom looked at me blankly. “It’s like you’re speaking another language.”
I dropped my jaw. “You remember Scooby-Doo, right?” And when she finally nodded in recognition, I sighed. “It’s your generation, Mom.”
“I was hoping you’d want to try something different this year.” She peered into her cup as if reading tea leaves, and then she met my eyes. “Something different from a detective.”
Last year I had been Veronica Mars, and the year before that Sherlock Holmes. “What’s wrong with being a detective?”
Mom sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Your obsession with solving crime has gotten you into a bit of trouble lately.” She set the teacup by the sink and walked toward me. “What about being a superhero or a cat?”
“A cat?” I groaned, dropping my apple slice into the cup of peanut butter. “No one wants to be a cat for Halloween.”
Mom drummed her fingertips on the countertop and stared me down. “This year, I’d like you to be something other than a detective.”
I tipped my chin toward Mom. “Is that a suggestion or a requirement?”
“A requirement.”
I stood so fast I knocked the bar chair to the ground. Genki scrambled to his feet, struggling to find his footing on the hardwood floor.
“That’s not fair,” I whined. “It’s just a costume—it’s pretend.”
“You’re not pretending, Kazuko.” The insides of her eyebrows dipped low, and she eyed the fallen chair. “You haven’t been pretending for a while, and if it doesn’t stop, you’re going to get hurt. It’s my job to prevent that from happening.”
“By making me dress up like a cat?”
“By helping you change your focus to something else.”
“Fine!” I barked, backing away from the counter while avoiding the chair. “I’ll be a zombie or a vampire or a rotting corpse.”
Her face contorted for a second before settling into a smile. “You’ll have to choose just one, Kazu.”
I stormed up the steps to my room, stomping as hard as I could manage without stepping on Genki, who cowered around my feet.