The boy and the girl did this?
Impressive.
Detective Evans stood in the lobby of the Hotel Monaco. The Christmas tree, which had apparently fallen on some poor guy, still covered half the floor. The guests in the lobby seemed oblivious to the perilous circumstances around them—if anything, they seemed to be enjoying the absurdity of the situation.
A hotel security officer had approached the detective and Mary Sullivan as soon as they had entered the hotel. The security officer had handed over Camille’s distinctive red jacket with white polka dots. “Found this on the front steps,” he had explained. “Several of the guests reported seeing a blond boy and red-haired girl running through the lobby and up the stairs. We were looking for them when the alarm went off.”
“Where do the stairs lead?” Mary had asked.
“Conference rooms, meeting rooms, ballrooms,” the security officer had replied. “But the kids seem to be long gone. No sign of them.”
The security officer’s explanation had not satisfied Mary, who immediately headed up the stairs in search of her daughter and her charge.
The detective now stood alone in the lobby with the security officer and pondered her next move. There was a question she needed to ask, but she was afraid she already knew the answer.
“I need to see the security footage,” said the detective.
The officer paused. He seemed somewhat embarrassed. “Well,” he finally said, “funny you should ask.”
“It’s been erased, hasn’t it?” said the detective.
The security officer seemed surprised. “Every bit of it,” he said. “Every camera, every angle, every monitor. All gone. Strange, huh?”
The detective nodded. “Very strange.”
“You okay?” the girl with the purple hair asked.
Camille nodded. “I’m okay,” she replied. “Just checking in with my mom—you know how parents can be.”
The girl with the purple hair laughed. “Been there plenty of times,” she said. “Parents worry.” She extended her hand to Camille. “By the way, my name’s Tricia.”
Camille shook the girl’s hand. “Camille,” she said.
Tricia pointed behind Camille. “And is that your brother?”
Brother? Camille wondered. What’s she talking about?
And then it hit her. The barista was talking about Art. Camille glanced over her shoulder. He was less than ten feet away.
Camille reached across the counter and managed to drop the phone back into its base just as Art approached. Although she didn’t think calling home was such a big deal, she knew Art would freak if he caught her on the phone. He was way too paranoid.
“What’d you get?” Art asked as he made his way next to her.
Camille pretended that she had been reaching for one of the menus lying on the counter. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Ready to order?” asked Tricia, as if on cue.
The espresso machine beside her hissed and steamed. A husky bearded man in a dark blue T-shirt stood in front of the chunky metal machine and churned out shot after shot of the dark coffee extract. On the front of his T-shirt—in large uppercase letters—was the word “BOB.”
“I’ll have an iced mocha,” said Camille. “Medium. And a lemon bar.”
It had been a couple of hours since they last ate, and she was famished.
“Bob—one iced mocha, medium,” Tricia called to the man in the dark blue T-shirt. Bob merely grunted and continued tamping espresso grounds into a clean filter.
“And what can I get for you?” Tricia looked at Art.
Art opened his mouth to respond, then stopped and sniffed the air. He turned to Camille.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
“Smell what?” asked Camille.
“He probably smells the wheat-grass white-mocha vegan brownies,” said the girl with the purple hair. “They’re our most popular item, but they have kind of a distinctive smell—they’re made with mushrooms, so they can get a little funky. Bob makes them fresh every day. If you can get over the smell, they taste great.”
Bob grunted his approval but never looked up from his coffee duties. Shots of espresso continued to flow unabated.
“No,” said Art, “not that smell.”
Art turned to a tall, lanky young man who had taken a position behind them in line. The young man wore a long-sleeve NYU T-shirt that was splattered with paint and a pair of brown pants. He looked as if he had not slept or showered for days.
Art sniffed the air deeply. He then pointed at the young man. “That smell,” he said. “His smell.”
Bob grunted his agreement from behind the espresso bar.
“Art!” Camille exclaimed in horror. “That’s so rude.”
“Can’t blame the little guy for that,” said the tall young man as he sniffed his right armpit. “I’m a bit gamy today—getting ready for a show next month, you know. Showers optional—but no judgments, okay?”
“Turpentine,” said Art. “Am I right? You smell like turpentine.”
The young man nodded. “I’m working on my master’s degree in studio painting. I always smell like turpentine.”
Art opened the front of his backpack and frantically felt around inside the pocket. His hand finally fell upon the object he was searching for and he pulled it out.
“There!” Art said triumphantly. He held out the small brass key engraved with the number 10. “Do you recognize this?” Art asked the student.
“How’d you get that?” the young man responded. He seemed genuinely surprised by the sudden appearance of the key.
“Do you recognize it?” Art asked again.
The student pulled a key chain from his pocket, selected a single key, and held it up for Art to see. It was virtually identical to the key Art had found in his backpack—the bow was even painted a brilliant blue. The only difference was the number engraved on the key—12 instead of the number 10.
“It’s a studio key,” the young man said. “A lot of art students rent out studio space while we prepare for our shows. Studio number ten is on the second floor—just down the hall from my studio.”
“Studio?” asked Art. “Where?”
“Right down the alley from here,” said Tricia, who’d been listening to the whole exchange. “It’s an old manufacturing plant—or something like that. The main entrance is on the other side of the block, but there’s a back entrance through the side alley.”
Art didn’t hesitate. He turned and headed out the door without another word.
Camille looked at Tricia. “I guess I’ll get my mocha later,” she said apologetically, and left the twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
Camille found the boy standing at the entrance to the alley. She was struck by how narrow the back street was. It looked as if she could stretch her arms out and touch both sides. And it was dark. The high brick walls on either side shielded out the light of the city, and the cool glow of the streetlight barely penetrated more than a few steps down the dark corridor. Even the snow seemed to be having a hard time making it into the thin space.
“Kinda dark,” she said. “Maybe we should walk around the block to the front.” She tried to hide the uncertainty in her voice. They had just been kidnapped from a museum, threatened with a stun gun, involved in a car crash, and chased through a hotel, barely escaping from the clutches of four thugs who clearly intended to capture them by any means necessary. Going down a dark alley did not seem like a great next step in their adventure.
“I’ll go first,” Art said calmly. “Stay close behind me.”
He started walking forward, but Camille hesitated. Art turned and looked at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s light somewhere up ahead.”
Camille nodded. She had no choice but to follow. Keeping an eye on Art was proving to be much more difficult than she had ever anticipated. She quickly caught up with him, and they stepped forward into the dark.