Chapter 11
January 26
My first day on the job! Earpiece in, sleeve microphone on. I am connected, synchronized, ready.
Armed with . . . an iPod.
“Son, there is no way on God’s green earth that we are going to give you a weapon!” Detective Bovano bellowed at me in his office this morning when I asked him about the possibilities. I thought a nice jackknife or dagger on my hip could be pretty useful.
“What about a Taser?” I said after he shot down the sharp blades idea. “Don’t I need protection?” I tried to persuade him with a hopeful and winning smile. A smile that even my mom can’t say no to.
Detective Bovano is not my mother.
He started to laugh, jowls shaking like Jell-O. “I’m gonna give an eleven-year-old a piece? That’s funny. That’s hilarious. No way, kid. You’re a tourist. An artist. You’re in, you observe, you’re out. You watch them, we’ll watch you. It’s that simple.”
End of discussion.
So they gave me an iPod. Except it isn’t for music. I’m plugged in like I’m listening to a song, but there’s no music and the screen is blank. Its face actually contains a camera and a tiny microphone, recording me and my surroundings while I do my thing. An ear bud sits in my ear in case I need instructions. And every twenty minutes I’m supposed to whisper “All clear” into my sleeve, but pretend to be wiping my nose or scratching my chin.
The police are parked in a van just outside the museum, monitoring everything.
The iPod is more like an “i-Pod-I-see-you,” or in text messaging, “iPod-I-C-U.” I’ve decided to call it an IPODICU, pronounced iPod-eh-Q. I’m going to work on patenting the name. Detective Bovano was not impressed when I mentioned it to him on the car ride over, throwing a scowl and a grumble my way. I think he’s warming to me.
They send me to Museum Mile.
Also known as Fifth Avenue, it’s the chunk of road that runs along Central Park East. It doesn’t seem like anything special as you approach: gray buildings mirroring the grassy hills of the park, a busy New York street like any other. Suddenly you stumble onto the steps of the enormous Metropolitan Museum of Art. And then the Guggenheim. The Frick (not a swear word, but a European art museum). The Whitney. World-famous giants on their own, together they are an impressive collection. Housing around eleven museums total, Museum Mile is an art lover’s dream. And a thief’s.
The museums have state-of-the-art security systems, complete with thermal monitoring, recorded surveillance, and facial recognition software. But Bovano said the computers keep making false positives, errors that are costly and time-consuming. And the thieves we’re hunting are known to drastically change their appearances with high-tech disguises and even plastic surgery. Which is where I come in.
Because of my photographic memory, I’m kind of like a supercomputer, a human data system that can reason and think, as well as churn through information at top speed. The cops believe I’ll be able to see through a clever disguise, to look beyond a shortened nose or a new jaw line, compare the face to a photo in my mind, and see the perp for who he or she really is.
Let’s hope they’re right.
I’m at the Met today and although it’s just a practice run, I’m nervous, I’ll admit it. The police have planted a few cops in disguise from the precinct— I’ve already seen a guy from Narcotics stroll by in a fake beard—but there’s so much going on that I’m having a hard time concentrating.
I have an art canvas propped up on an easel, and I’m trying to copy a painting by Monet that’s hanging up on the other side of the room. I dab pinks and blues onto the sheet every few minutes, but I’m not truly focusing because I’m busy surveying the room. I only need to seem like I’m an art student. I have a tray of special pastel crayons because they don’t let people use real paint inside the museum. Pastels are not my favorite drawing tool. I need some charcoal.
Every once in a while Detective Bovano’s face appears on the IPODICU screen, his voice filling my ear, spluttering away and hissing instructions, which causes me to startle and drop my crayons. The museum guard is not too keen on that mess, believe me.
Maybe I’m overthinking it, but right now I wish I had Jonah’s brain, because something tells me he’d be much more organized about the whole thing.
My father is not helping matters.
He’s my chaperone, but somehow I’m the one worried about him. He’s supposed to keep a low profile, but instead looks like a tourist who escaped from an asylum, decked out in ridiculous garb including a Statue of Liberty foam crown and a large camera that hangs from his neck, partially covering his pink (yes, pink!) T-shirt that says I ❤ NEW YORK. I vow to draw a picture of him when I get home, to show my mother what I’m up against.
I try to ignore him. It’s not easy. He is sitting on a bench by some impressionist paintings and suddenly gets a case of the giggles. His laughter starts low and rumbling as he hides his face in his hands. Quickly it escalates into loud chuckles that make his belly/camera/pink shirt jiggle and his crown fall off. He’s a disaster among masterpieces from the nineteenth century.
And now I am laughing and I just dropped my stupid pastels again and this is simply not working. I walk over to the Monet to pretend to inspect it, mostly so I can compose myself. Leave it to my dad to mess up my first job. The painting is soothing: light-colored streaks of blues, greens, and pinks, water and sky that blend into each other’s reflections.
When I turn back, my canvas is gone. Dad’s wiping tears from his eyes from laughing so hard, but stops when he sees my confusion. His gaze shifts to the empty spot where the canvas is supposed to be. What just happened?
Bovano’s disgusted face comes into view on the IPODICU:
“I think we’re done for today. I’ll expect your sketches by tomorrow.”
I walk back to pack up my stuff, sans canvas. I think someone just stole my artwork not ten feet from where I had my back turned. Some police detective I am.
“Sorry, son,” Dad says as we head for the museum exit. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this police . . . er . . . tourist work.” His eyes dart around to see if anyone has overheard, as if the second he says the word police, men with machine guns are going to drop from the ceiling. No one is within fifty feet of us.
“You see? I’ve blown our cover already!” he says.
“We’re all right, Dad.” I grab his arm to drag him out of there. It’s like pulling a marble statue. He’s not going to move until he decides to move. Which he finally does.
The sketches that Bovano wants are of the cops in disguise that I saw stroll by today. Five in all. I draw until ten p.m., then climb into bed, pretty pleased with my stack of pictures. Not that Bovano will actually thank me or compliment me on a job well done. After what happened with the stolen canvas and the giggling dad, I’m sure he’ll have about fifty negative things to say about my performance. And my father’s as well.