Chapter 18
March 23
My mom is dragging me to an art opening tonight, which I am not thrilled about. I spend way too much time in museums these days. It’s actually becoming unhealthy. I need some sun, or I’m going to come down with scurvy or leprosy or whatever disease you catch when you need more vitamins.
Mom’s not buying my excuse. Her office is sponsoring a photography show at the Winston Café, and it is crucial that I be there, or else clients may abandon the company and the earth might stop spinning. I can’t complain, though, since she did let me become Eddie Red and I guess I owe her big-time.
At the exhibit, I weave my way through the city coats, designer purses, and tacky comments like “What an inspired angle!” so I can check out what everyone is raving about. The artist (and I use the term lightly here) has taken black-and-white photos of body parts, blown them up so you barely know what they are, and then scattered the shots along two walls. It looks like a giant was sucked into a lawn mower, chopped into pieces, and then spit out into a tunnel for all to admire.
“Have you ever seen such artistic vision?” a too-thin woman gushes.
It’s an arm, lady. And an ugly one at that.
My mom gives me an enthusiastic wave from across the room. She’s stunning in a red wool suit and knee-high black boots. One of the guys from her office clearly thinks so too, the way he keeps offering her a drink. My dad swoops in to rescue her, directing her to the dance floor.
I wave to her and head for the food table. They always serve super-tiny food at these things, as if dinner in miniature is supposed to taste better. A feast fit for Stuart Little.
I pick up a mini pie that has melted cheese on it. Looks promising. After popping it in my mouth, I nearly gag. Über-gross. Pretty sure it’s stuffed with cat food. As I discreetly spit it into a napkin, a woman with green eyes catches me in the act and grins. I duck my head in embarrassment and toss my napkin into a garbage can, then beeline for the table of sodas. My mom can’t complain this time. I need calories.
It’s a little bizarre how the lady continues to watch me, like she really knows me. She seems familiar too, but I can’t place her. Her emerald gaze is freaking me out.
When I get back home, I draw her.
I inspect the picture for an hour, poring over every inch of it, willing myself to find her in a scene from my mind. Nothing fits. It’s like flipping through a database at high speed and then the computer crashes. My brain is fried. Those green eyes are unforgettable, and yet I’m forgetting. I wonder: Is it possible to get Alzheimer’s at age eleven?
I have to remember that I am an undercover spy. A lame one, to be sure, but being a spy involves a whole new world of awareness. People may recognize me and I may be in danger. I need to prepare myself.
March 24
Armed with this new paranoia and the pizza peer pressure from Jonah, I go to Bovano’s office the next day. Don’t take no for an answer. You are Eddie Red. Don’t take no for an answer.
“I need more information,” I announce, handing him my report.
The typical sneer starts to curl the corner of his mouth. “Tell me you’re talking about the Yankees’ preseason schedule, kid. Tell me you’re not asking about the investigation. I cannot and will not give you more information about the case. You are a camera only. You’re in and you’re out. Now, out!” He stabs a finger through the air, motioning to the door.
I am not going quietly. “Detective Bovano, I have all these pictures in my head, and it would be so much better if I knew why we were looking for these guys. Are there crime scenes from the past I could analyze? Maybe I could study some clues to see where they’ll strike next. There’s this woman I saw last night, and I swear I know her from the case, but I just can’t piece it together. If only—”
“No, Eddie. That’s my job. To piece it together. We’re done here.” He opens the office door and gestures with his head.
Plan B.
I walk out of his office and over to the water cooler on the far side of the room, pretending to get a drink until Bovano lumbers out of his cave a minute later. He always goes to the fourth floor to make copies of my pictures, so I know I have a few minutes.
“Marilyn, I forgot my jacket. Do you mind?” I ask his secretary, who smiles and waves me back into the office, her head buried in paperwork.
My heart is hammering in my ears. Act casual!
I go up to the papers on the wall and start to take mental pictures. A map with thumbtacks in it. Click. Museum Mile. Click.
I peer out at Marilyn, who is busy typing. I open the files on Bovano’s desk. The Picasso Gang. Click. More pictures of the blond guy from the mug shots. Click. A book on geometry. A book on ancient Egypt. Huh?
Click-click-click.
I am there for thirty seconds, my pulse racing the entire time. “Thanks!” I practically shout at Marilyn as I flee my crime scene. She gives another wave, not noticing my jittery behavior.
It’s not until I’m out on the street that I relax.
You did it, Eddie Red. You did it! He didn’t catch you. You’re not such a loser spy after all. Now go home and start writing it all down.
Unforeseen Problem #1: None of it makes any sense.