Case of the Time-Capsule Bandit Read online

  * * *

  To my mom, for fostering my desire to learn and for being the angel on my shoulder

  * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my family, all of my nieces and nephews, Kelly Shipe, Peggy and Jerry Shipe, Andy McNicol, Brad Slater, Brian Clisham, Melissa Kates, Bria Schreiber, Rick Sutton, and Zareen Jaffery.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  THE FINAL CASE

  Gotcha! Randi Rhodes thought. Now smile real big for the camera.

  Down on the sidewalk, three stories below her bedroom window, the man in the navy suit checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. It was six o’clock on a Friday morning. Most of Randi’s Brooklyn neighbors were still snuggled up in their beds, but Randi had gotten up at the crack of dawn, just as she had for the past three days. She’d been on a stakeout for over an hour, never budging from her post while she waited for the man to show up with his dog.

  Randi snapped several photos of the man and a few more of his prissy white Pekingese. And when the pair hurried off around the corner, she zoomed in for a close-up of the mess that the dastardly villains had left behind. The pretty pink tulips she’d planted as bait in front of her house had been ripped up at the roots. The only things left behind were a hole in the ground and a sprinkling of soil on the sidewalk.

  How many gardens have you destroyed? she thought. How many old ladies have woken up to find their pansies plucked and their rosebushes ransacked? How many kids won’t get to enjoy the first flowers they ever helped plant? How many lives have you made a little less beautiful? All because you’re too cheap to buy your flowers from a florist.

  Randi downloaded the photos onto her computer and printed out a few of the best. The man in the pictures lived three blocks away. He’d been her prime suspect for quite some time. Front-yard flowers had been disappearing every morning since the man and his family had moved into the neighborhood. However, until now, the evidence against him had been circumstantial. Finally, Randi had proof.

  Another case closed. Randi congratulated herself. She folded the pictures and stuffed them into an envelope. Then she typed out a note on her computer.

  Dear Sir,

  At 6:10 a.m. on the morning of June 15th, you were photographed stealing tulips from a garden on Bergen Street. Since you’re new to the neighborhood, you might not be aware that there are many fine florists within a few blocks of your home. From now on, please visit one of these businesses whenever you want a few freshly cut flowers. If you keep “weeding” your neighbors’ front yards, I’ll make sure that every gardener in Brooklyn knows who to thank.

  Randi rooted through her desk for her favorite pen, a blue ballpoint with a chewed-up cap she’d found among her mom’s old things. She signed the letter Glenn Street.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  A few hours later, with her belly full of breakfast, Randi shoved the envelope into the back pocket of her jeans and set off to make the delivery.

  “Hey!” her dad called when he heard the front door open. “Where ya going?”

  “Just for a walk around the block,” Randi told him. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “We’re leaving on Sunday and you haven’t even packed.”

  Randi frowned. “I’m waiting for you to change your mind.”

  “Not going to happen. So don’t disappear. And, hon?”

  “What?”

  “Please. Be careful!”

  Be careful? Randi thought miserably as she stomped down the street. I’m not the one you should be worried about. What’s going to happen to the neighborhood if you drag me away? I keep these streets clean. I take the cases that the NYPD won’t bother with. Who else is going to catch all the litterbugs? Who’s going to bring Brooklyn’s bullies, plant snatchers, and pigeon nappers to justice?

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  When she reached the man’s house, she could see his white Pekingese peeping out of the parlor window. A vase filled with pretty pink tulips sat on a table next to the sofa. Randi scrambled up the building’s stoop and shoved her envelope through the mail slot. In the past, she would have tried to be more discreet. Who cares if they ID me? I’m leaving Brooklyn forever. Besides, maybe it’s time everyone knows I’m the real Glenn Street.

  It stung a bit to think that none of the neighbors had ever figured it out. Randi might have solved thirty-two cases, but adults just saw a tall kid with knobby knees; fiery red ringlets; and a freckled, moon-shaped face. They never saw the real Miranda Rhodes. Most people in the neighborhood believed Randi’s dad was Brooklyn’s mysterious watchdog. After all, Glenn Street was the heroine of his bestselling detective books. But Herb Rhodes would usually laugh out loud whenever the subject was raised. He claimed he was flattered that a crime-fighting vigilante had decided to borrow his character’s name.

  Randi wondered how he’d feel if he ever found out that the vigilante in question was his twelve-year-old daughter.

  * * *

  Go to Appendix A to complete the first Ninja Task!

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  GOOD-BYE, LIFE

  “Miranda, time to go!” Randi heard her father shouting from downstairs. She was still in her room, packing the last of her belongings.

  This is it. Randi shut her suitcase and grabbed her hat off the bed. She paused in front of the closet-door mirror and shoved her vintage fedora down over her curls. Your life is finished, she informed her reflection.

  “Miranda!”

  “Coming!”

  Randi tucked her favorite Glenn Street novel into her backpack and did one last check of the closet. Stacked against the back wall was her collection of Detective Weekly magazines. She sighed at the sight. Her days as a detective were over; that much was clear. She’d planned to leave the magazines for the new owner’s two kids. Maybe one of them can be the next Glenn Street, she had thought. Or maybe they would join forces. There was definitely enough work in the neighborhood for two vigilantes. But there was always a chance Randi’s magazine collection would end up tossed in the trash. And that, she realized, was a risk she just couldn’t take.

  She crammed the dusty magazines into her suitcase, and an eighteen-month-old copy slid out and fell to the floor. On the front was a photo of Randi’s dad. He’d made the cover of Detective Weekly six times. The edition that had just landed next to Randi’s feet was the only one she’d refused to read. RHODES RETIRES! screamed the headline. Will this be the end of Glenn Street? Randi solemnly studied the picture. People used to say that she looked like her mom, because they shared the same curly red hair. No one ever seemed to notice that Randi had inherited everything else from her dad.

  Outside, a car horn blared three times in a row. It was her dad’s code for Get a move on! Randi rolled up the magazine and took one last look around her empty room. Her fingers felt for the tiny silver heart that hung around her neck. “Good-bye, Mom,” Randi whispered. Then she reluctantly lugged her suitcase downstairs.

  As her father’s car pulled away from the curb, Randi glanced back at the brownstone that had been their home for all twelve years of her life. She half expected to see her mom on the front stoop, her curls blowing in the wind while she waved good-bye. That’s where she’d stood in the months before she died, after she’d gotten too weak to walk Randi to school. That was a year ago. Now there was nobody there.

  “You okay, princess?” her father asked. He always seemed to squirm when he tried to talk about feelings.

  Randi nodded and turned her face to the window, attempting to swallow the lump that had formed in the back of her throat.

  Princess? she could
almost hear Glenn Street say. You think I’m some sweet little girl? Where have you been for the past year, buddy? Want to know how many cases I solved last week alone? Five. That’s right. Five. I’ve been protecting south Brooklyn since early last summer. And what were you doing? I’ll tell you what you were doing. Nothing. You were so busy doing nothing that you even stopped writing. And that’s when I figured I had to start reading. Here’s what I learned from your books: Not all girls turn out to be pretty little princesses. Some grow up to be tough—just like Glenn Street. Why can’t you see that your own kid is one of them?

  Randi chewed on her lower lip. Her dad never would have treated a boy like some delicate flower. Calling her princess or sweetheart or honey or hon. Worrying every time she left the house for five minutes. It didn’t even make sense! She’d been taking Tae Kwon Do since the second grade. Two years ago, she’d earned a black belt. Randi remembered how thrilled she’d been when Sensei Daniel had asked her to perform at the ceremony. She couldn’t wait to show her dad just how good she’d gotten. But he’d had to leave on a book tour early that morning, and he couldn’t be there to watch. Randi’s mom found her crying after the exhibition was over. Somehow her mom’s hug had made everything better.

  Crying was the last thing Randi wanted to do right now, but she suddenly needed one of those hugs. Randi pulled the fedora down over her eyes and blinked back the tears. She had loved being a kid when her mom was around. They’d had so much fun. Now there would be no more bike rides through Central Park to collect fall leaves for the Thanksgiving centerpiece. No games of I Spy as they walked along Fifth Avenue at Christmastime, watching window dressers transform storefronts into winter-wonder delights. Randi would especially miss the gingerbread brownstones they used to build on Christmas Eve. But that was kid stuff. She’d had to toughen up in the past year. Life was different now that it was just her and her dad.

  Randi glanced over at her father. He was long and lanky—just like her. His hair and skin were darker, but they shared the same eyes. Yet it often felt like she hardly knew him—and that he didn’t know her at all. He’d traveled so much when she was little. His “ready” suitcase had always been packed and hidden in the closet for the next book tour or research trip. That had stopped the day they found out Randi’s mother was ill. Herb Rhodes had quit writing the moment he’d heard. He informed his publisher that Glenn Street was over, and for six straight months, he’d barely left the house. He’d told Randi it was his job to take care of the girl that he’d married. He tried to do it all by himself, even though he could have hired a nurse to help. He must have felt bad for spending so much time away from home. As far as Randi was concerned, he should have felt bad.

  Her father gave Randi a pat on the head. “It’s going to be all right, kiddo. We’ve talked about this. You’ll love living in Deer Creek year-round.”

  I’ll hate it, she told herself. Randi and her parents had spent every summer in Deer Creek, Tennessee. The tiny town was a nice place to visit. But eight weeks of vacation were more than enough. Now Randi was going to be stuck in the mountains forever. It just wasn’t right. She didn’t belong in the boondocks. She was a born-and-bred city girl. A native New Yorker, as her mom used to say.

  She’d understand, Randi thought as a tear trickled down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away. Her mom had always told her it was good to cry. She was the sort of person who’d get weepy if Randi finished a hard jigsaw puzzle or brought home a decent report card. But Randi couldn’t remember a single moment when she’d seen her dad cry. He hadn’t even cried the night her mother had died.

  Tough guys don’t cry, Randi reminded herself. Get it together. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re a black belt. A detective. You’re Glenn Street. And remember the most important thing about her?

  “Glenn Street never cries.” Randi heard her lips say it out loud.

  Her father shot her a worried look. “Hon, you know Glenn Street doesn’t cry because she’s not a real person,” he said.

  “She’s real to me,” Randi replied.

  “She’s just a silly character, sweetie. Glenn Street barely has two dimensions . . .” Herb’s voice trailed off.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Randi replied. “She’s still the coolest woman I’ve ever known.”

  “You’re wrong about that. Your mother was a million times . . . uh . . . cooler.” Her father choked back an unexpected sob on the last word. To Randi, it just sounded like he was clearing his throat. He’d been doing that a lot lately. “Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, changing the subject.

  “What?” Randi asked, narrowing her eyes just like Glenn did when she questioned a bad guy.

  “Remember Mei-Ling Cooper? Her husband was a carpenter at the Museum of Natural History? The lady who helped me with the research I did for the Hong Kong scenes in The China Connection? She babysat you a few times.”

  “Yeah, I remember. What about her?” Randi said snippily. She remembered the old lady—and she knew exactly where this was going.

  “Her husband passed away a while back, and she’s been looking for regular work. So she’s going to spend some time with us in Deer Creek, maybe stay and look after you . . . I mean us. I’ve heard she’s quite the cook.”

  “Then she should get a job at a restaurant. I don’t need anyone looking after me,” Randi said flatly. End of subject.

  Her father gave Randi an uneasy glance and then turned his eyes back to the road. They traveled in silence while Randi thumbed through the pages of the latest Detective Weekly. She was only pretending to read so she’d have an excuse not to talk. Then an ad in the classifieds section grabbed her attention.

  THE BPX5 MASTER KIT

  The ultimate private investigator toolkit includes: INDUSTRY-GRADE FOOTPRINT-CASTING POWDER FINGERPRINT-DUSTING POWDER LUMINOL ONE LUMALIGHT TWO SPIRS (standard police-issued radios) AND THE BPX5, the only folding bicycle that can fit into a backpack.

  All this and more for just $199.99!

  She had to have it. Her old detective kit was running low on supplies. There wouldn’t be many cases to solve in sleepy Deer Creek, but that BPX5 bike sure might come in handy. And for once she could actually afford it. Somewhere in the trunk of the car was a piggy bank crammed with Randi’s entire life savings—$207.18. Randi tore out the page and tucked it into her pocket just as her dad turned the car into the Holland Tunnel.

  In front of them was a Prius with suitcases and sleeping bags bungeed to its roof. Three kids and a sheltie were crammed into the backseat. Randi wondered if they were being exiled to Tennessee, too.

  “Looks like they’re heading off on a camping trip,” her dad said, breaking the silence. “Probably get in a lot of fishing with all those boys.”

  “They’re going camping, all right, but they won’t be doing any fishing with those girls,” Randi corrected him.

  “Interesting theory, Madame Detective. How do you know that they’re girls?” Randi’s dad challenged her. “All you can see is the tops of their heads.”

  “There’s a sticker on the back bumper that says Hewitt. That’s a girls-only school in Manhattan. There are three flowery suitcases on top of the car. And no boy alive would ever let the family dog wear a collar like that.”

  Her father grinned when he noticed the dog’s twinkling rhinestone collar. “So they’re girls. What makes you so sure they’re not going fishing?”

  “No fishing rods. The Prius’s trunk is too small to hold them, and they’re not up top with the suitcases.”

  Her father’s grin widened. “Masterful deduction,” he said, giving his best Sherlock Holmes impression.

  “Simple observation,” Randi replied, cracking a smile for the first time that day.

  The smile faded the second they emerged from the tunnel. Randi peered over her shoulder as the city—her city—grew smaller in the distance. A thumb-size Lady Liberty waved a lonesome good-bye. Randi hoped she’d be able to remember that magnificent skyline,
with its skyscrapers shimmering in the white sunlight.

  So long, New York. She turned back around to face the long stretch of highway in front of her. “So long, life,” Randi muttered.

  “What was that?” her father asked.

  “Nothing.” She shoved her hand into her pocket. At least she had the BPX5 ad. And that meant Randi Rhodes still had one little thing to look forward to.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  * * *

  SPOOKY

  The gravel crunched under the wheels of the rusty old Schwinn Randi had been riding since she’d gotten to Deer Creek a week earlier. She tried to change gears and grumbled when the shifter refused to budge. She couldn’t wait for her brand-new BPX5 to come in the mail. Her dad’s bike was just as ancient as Randi’s—not that he seemed to mind. He pedaled down the mountain lane with a grin on his face. For the first time in a year, Herb Rhodes looked genuinely happy.

  Even Randi had to admit that summer in the Smokies could be magical. Deer Creek was nestled in a remote valley between two mountains. The road from the family house into town ran along the Tuckaseegee, a catfish-rich river that had once been a popular tourist draw. On their side of the river, the Guyton Orchard was already producing the juicy red apples Randi had once loved. On the opposite side of the Tuckaseegee sat a row of charming vacation cottages. Families from across the country used to journey to Deer Creek for the stunning mountain scenery, the mild climate, and the legendary fishing. In recent years, though, the village had been all but forgotten. Now the cabins on the far side of the river all posted VACANCY signs.

  “I remember the days when there’d be fifty kids splashing around over there,” she heard her father say wistfully. “Your mom and I must have jumped off that old dock a thousand times.”