Long Shot - Stine Megan - Страница 15

“Uh, no. Uh, our surveillance camera needed some repairs, so I was working on it,” Jupe said.

“No, you weren’t. You were trying on stuff to wear to Cory Brand’s party tonight,” Pete said.

“Absurd,” said Jupe, turning off the VCR.

“Hey, they all look perfecto to me,” Pete said. “But maybe we aren’t going to the party.”

“And why not?” asked Jupiter.

“I told you I had news, Jupe. Good news,” said Pete. “I finally talked to our contact at the police station. Their computers were down all weekend — just got fixed today. So he helped me track down the Porsche’s registration.”

“Who owns it?”

“Barry Norman, 45 Lyle Street, Manhattan Beach, California,” Pete said, handing Jupe a computer print-out from his back pocket.

Jupe double-checked the printout before saying, “Let’s go talk to him.”

The two friends climbed into the Porsche, and about an hour later Pete pulled up in front of 45 Lyle Street. It was a small four-story concrete and glass office building.

“You’d better park a few blocks away,” Jupe said. “We don’t want Mr. Barry Norman to see the Porsche and run. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

A minute later Pete pushed through the front door of the lobby and found Jupe reading the black building directory on the wall. It listed all the tenants in small white letters.

“Barry Norman... suite 421. This is almost too easy,” Jupe said, leading the way to the elevator.

Suite 421 was locked. There was a gold nameplate in the center of the black wooden door.

“Barry Norman, Esquire,” Jupe read. “He’s a lawyer.

“He’s going to need a good one when we’re through with him,” said Pete, knocking on the door. He knocked quietly the first time, louder the second time. And the third time he practically shook the door off its hinges. “Nobody home.”

“I concluded that after the second try,” Jupe said, already halfway back to the elevator.

Outside they climbed into the Porsche, but they couldn’t see Barry Norman’s building from there. So Pete cruised around to Lyle Street again and slipped into a spot near a pay phone.

Then they waited and watched.

Every time a man entered the building, they gave him a few minutes to get upstairs. Then Pete ran to the pay phone and called Barry Norman’s office. No one ever answered the phone.

“Seven o’clock, Jupe. I’ve had all the sitting around I can take,” Pete finally said. “He’s not coming back.”

“The logical explanation is that he didn’t come back because he was in court or meeting with a client,” Jupe said. “But I’ve got a strange feeling that something else is going on. I wish I knew what it was. But I don’t think we’re going to find out anything more today.”

“All right! Time to party!” Pete said, revving up the Porsche. “On to Cory Brand’s condo!”

“Not yet. I have to go home and change.”

The party was going full blast when Pete and Jupe finally arrived. Jupe was wearing a purple and white Shoremont College sweatshirt — the one he had bought at the bookstore last week. Music was shaking the walls of the large modern apartment. And college students were talking and dancing everywhere — in the living room, in the kitchen, on the couches. Jupe spotted some basketball players and cheerleaders.

“What a great place,” Pete said, looking around. “I’d love to have a college apartment like this.”

“You could if you went to Shoremont,” Jupe said pointedly. “Keep your ears open. This is an excellent opportunity to find out which players are taking bribes. And don’t forget your cover story: you knew me last year at Rocky Beach... we ran into each other, and I invited you along. Got it?”“Yo, Jupiter!” Cory Brand called. He pushed his way through the crowd to meet them at the door. “Hey, Polly want a cracker? Get it? Huh? That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

“You could have fooled me,” Jupe mumbled to Pete. “Cory, this is my friend Pete.”

“Hi, Pete.” Cory had to shout to be heard. “Hey, guys. Don’t stand there empty-handed. Grab yourselves something to drink and let’s party before the cops close us down.”

Cory laughed and walked away. So Jupe and Pete wandered through the crowd. Occasionally Pete stopped to munch some chips and jalapeno dip, but Jupe kept circulating.

“Hi, Jupiter.”

Jupe recognized the sweet Southern voice instantly. He turned around, trying to think of something clever to say. “Uh, hi, Sarah,” he said. Someone danced into him, pushing him closer to the pretty cheerleader.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

“So how do you like your classes?” Sarah asked. She looked away from him. “Wow, that’s a pretty dumb question.”

“I’ve heard dumber questions, lots of them,” Jupe said, with a smile.

“I’m... I mean... I’m a better listener than talker.”

“Uh, me too,” Jupe said quickly.

Sarah laughed. “Oh, you don’t like to listen. I heard you at the basketball game. You were so funny as the parrot.”

“Uh,” Jupe said. How could the guy with the largest vocabulary in the school forget every word he knew except “uh”?

Suddenly Jupe felt a large hand grabbing onto his shoulder and shaking him gently back and forth. He saw that Sarah also had a hand on her shoulder.

“How’s it going, guys?” said a dude with curly black hair that came down over his collar. He had a Texas accent and he was shouting in Jupe’s ear. He reeked of beer.

Oh, great, Jupe thought. Just what I need some big hunk coming over to put the moves on Sarah. How can I compete with him?

“Tim,” Sarah said, “you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Hey,” the guy said. “I paid for all the food and beer at this party. And there’s no law that says I can’t drink it all! Who’s your boyfriend?”

Sarah blushed and so did Jupe.

“Tim Frisch, this is Jupiter Jones.”

“Howdy. You got any brothers named Mars and Venus? Hahahaha!”

Jupiter smiled weakly. Finally he was meeting the last of the five starting basketball players. Tim had cut every one of his classes last week, so Jupe hadn’t been able to track him down. Now Jupe took in the whole picture. Tim was wearing expensive-looking clothes and bragging about buying all the beer. Maybe he was another player on Michael Anthony’s payroll.

“You mean you bought all the beer for this party yourself?” Jupe asked.

“You got that straight, Jack. If you want to have friends, you gotta spend some money on them — am I right or am I right?” Tim held up his hand for a high-five, but he couldn’t hold it steadily.

“Oh, you’re right,” Jupe said, slapping the big hand. “If you’ve got the money.” He smiled at Sarah as if he were just making conversation.

“I’ve got all I need,” Tim said with a goofy grin. “So, Jupe, buddy, what’s your sport?”

 “Uh, my major is — ” Jupe wanted to say his major was taking chances, because he knew he was about to take a big one. But with Tim’s brain swimming around, it was an opportunity Jupe couldn’t resist. “It’s communications history,” Jupe said. “I’m studying the history of television, old TV shows. One of my favorites is The Millionaire.”

“Never heard of it,” Tim said.

“It had a character named Michael Anthony.” Jupe watched Tim’s face carefully — and he wasn’t disappointed.

“A show with Michael Anthony? For real?” Tim said with a laugh. “Hey, I’ll bet that show had a lot of Gravy Train commercials.” Tim laughed again, almost losing his balance.

“I don’t get the joke,” Jupe said. He was close. Jupe felt it. Just a little shove more and Tim Frisch would open up.

But just then Cory Brand came over to join the conversation.

“Hey, Cory, here’s a joke. You’ll like it,” Tim said. “There’s this TV show with a guy named Michael Anthony. And I said I bet it’s got a lot of Gravy Train commercials. You get it, don’t you? Jupiter doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it at all.”

Cory didn’t laugh. His face got serious fast. “Come on, Tim,” he said, pulling the big guy away from Jupe. “You’ve had too much to drink. You need some air.”