Chapter 22
After I change into pajamas and say good night to my parents, I settle into my desk chair and fire up the computer. The search for “Heinrich” that resulted in a dead end last week is now exploding with possibilities when I type in “Lars Heinrich.”
Turns out Lars has been a very busy man, or at least he was thirty years ago. I examine his face, research his crimes. He’s the blond guy in the mug shot, all right, but he hasn’t been seen since the eighties.
Maybe he’s had drastic plastic surgery. I should do some drawings of what he might look like if he had a chin lift, a nose job, cheek and forehead implants . . . What other crazy things do people have done to their faces?
He’s a suspect for robberies in Rome, Paris, and Amsterdam, but the cops could never get enough evidence to charge him, let alone convict him of the heists. Diamonds, artwork . . . an ancient Roman statue. Who is this guy? How can you steal a six-foot stone statue and not get caught?
Thinking of Bovano’s book on ancient Egypt, I scroll to find a link connecting Lars with Cairo or a pharaoh’s tomb or the Nile River. Nothing.
I study intricate European maps, the city streets where he planned his crimes. I am a Googling ninja until well after midnight. Just when I think I can’t possibly read another page from a French newspaper (of which I understand non), a list of Parisian museums and restaurants that were robbed in the eighties slaps me across the face. The word “Picasso” is repeated over and over again, listing the artwork that was stolen from each location. I guess that’s why they’re called the Picasso Gang. The robbery sites are laid out on a city map of Paris, forming a star surrounded by a circle, a perfect geometric figure.
I recognize the shape from a tattooed kid who rides the bus uptown. He’s got piercings and tons of body ink, radiating an aura of I-will-kill-you-if-you-look-at-me. The star and circle pattern is tattooed on his forearm. Maybe Lars was a troubled youth back in the day?
I look it up online. A pentagram, or five-sided star, used for religious and cult purposes. If the two points of the star are facing upward, it’s connected with devil worship. I toggle back to the map of Paris. The two points are facing up.
I am out of my league.
March 28
I wake up wired. The pressure is on, and it’s making me more daring and bolder. Reckless, even. Nobody is going to keep me from Senate and Jonah and whatever awesome things we’ll do next year. I may not be able to outwit Lars Heinrich, or Satan for that matter, but I will get Frank Bovano to hear what I have to say.
Operation Green Eyes kicks off after school at the police station.
“I need to see the detective!” I yell in Marilyn’s direction as I fly by her desk and into Bovano’s office.
“Eddie, he’s on the phone! You don’t have an appoint—”
I close the door swiftly behind me.
Bovano is at his desk, phone by his ear, mouth open in shocked irritation. I just stand there in the middle of the office, ignoring my brain as it yells, What are you doing? Run, you idiot! He will eat you alive!
“Jim, I’ll have to call you back.” He hangs up, shooting fireballs out his eyes at me. “Getting a little comfortable in my office, are we, Eddie?”
“Sir, I’m sorry. But I have new information about the case. A green-eyed woman walked by me in January when I was eating ice cream with my dad, right before those guys in the alley started to yell. And then I saw her at the Winston Café last week. At a photography exhibit. Look!”
I place the picture I drew of her onto his desk, then retreat to the center of the room again, making sure to keep a safe distance between us. “She’s mixed up in this, I know it. She’s part of the—” I almost say Picasso Gang and blow the whole thing.
He frowns at the picture, then shoves it back at me with a scowl. “She’s not a suspect.”
“But she could be! I’ve seen her twice now. At an art show and a crime scene. She’s involved!”
“She’s not involved. Look, I don’t know what angle you’re working here, but I have a job to do. Go home.”
Angle . . . angle . . . The word tickles at a memory. I shake my head. Stay focused!
“No,” I say boldly. I fold my arms and stand my ground. The door is only three feet behind me in case I need to run.
“What?”
“No, sir. I am onto something.”
“Eddie, in case you didn’t hear me last night, we are down to the wire here. If we don’t get a break in the case, they are closing us down. I do not have time to chase down your little theories. YOU ARE NOT A DETECTIVE.”
“Maybe I should ask Chief Williams about it. See if he thinks it’s worth pursuing.” Okay, I will admit it. I’m acting like a first-grader. But he is being Impossible.
He glares a moment longer, then beeps Marilyn on the intercom. “Marilyn, do you know where Alisha Maynor is?”
“No. Want me to page her?” she chirps back over the speaker.
“Yeah, that’d be great. Tell her to come to my office.”
What is Bovano up to?
He leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest, gazing lazily out the window and humming. He doesn’t invite me to sit, so I just stand there, hands shoved into my pockets, watching him. He needs a haircut.
“Eddie, I’d like you to meet Alisha Maynor,” he finally says, gesturing to the door.
“Hello, Eddie.” A woman’s voice drifts into the room from behind my back.
I turn. Her bright emerald eyes nearly knock me off my feet.