Boardwalk Bust (9 page)

“Ricardo Myers?” Frank said.

Snake Man looked right at him.

“Who wants to know?”

He left off what he was doing and said to his customer, “I'll be right back.” Coming over to us, he said, “Who are you?”

“I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe.”

“Yeah? So who sent you?”

“Actually,” Frank said, “we're looking into the break-in at The Shore Thing. We wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“What are you, cops?”

I could see that Ricardo was getting angry, but the steam wasn't quite coming out of his ears yet.

“Not cops, really,” Frank said. “We're sort of checking it out on our own. Turns out some people are saying you might be involved.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

“Um, I'm not at liberty to say,” Frank told him.

“That Fleming lady,” Ricardo said bitterly. “I hate that woman—she's a snob, man. She thinks if you're tough, you must be a criminal.”

SUSPECT PROFILE

Name: Ricardo Myers

Hometown: Newark, New Jersey

Physical description: Age: 23, 5′7″, 160 lbs., hair in ponytail, several tattoos.

Occupation: Tatto artist, may have mystery occupation on the side.

Background: Grew up in the 'hood, spends summers at the shore. Considered a tattoo artist. Hurting for money, throws away whatever he has by betting it at Atlantic City. Hates rich people and snobs.

Suspicious behavior: His hatred of Mary Fleming and his dread of cops.

Suspected of: Jewel theft.

Possible motives: Revenge on his ex-boss. Need to pay his debts (gamblers often owe lots of money to loan sharks).

“So … I guess it's good she fired you, then?” I said.

“Hey! Nobody fires me!” he snapped, grabbing me by the arm. He was so angry, and so strong,
that I thought he was going to snap it right off. “Get it?”

“I get it, I get it!” I said. I would have said anything right then, just to make him stop.

Then, just as suddenly as he'd grabbed me, he relaxed his grip and let out a little laugh. “Yeah, man. I like it better here. I make my own hours. Plus I can express myself, y'know? Get into my art.”

“How's the pay?” Frank asked.

Good question.

“Stinks.” Ricardo's smile vanished.

“How do you get by, then?” Frank asked.

Ricardo's face got ugly in a hurry. “Bug off, okay? It's none of your business how I get by. Mind your own business!”

He gave Frank a shove that sent him into the wall, hard.

Man, talk about mood swings! This guy needed medication, or some serious help.

Frank stayed cool. He just worked out the kinks in his neck and said, “What I really want to ask you, Ricardo, is—”

Just then, the manager lifted the curtain and saw us. “Hey! No customers back here!” he said.

“Oh, sorry,” Frank told him. “We're just going.”

“Now!”

“Okay, okay,” I said, getting between them to give Frank a little more time.

“Here's the question, Ricardo,” I heard him say behind me. “Who do you think did it?”

“That's easy. If you're askin' me, I say Mary did it herself.”

“Mary?”

“Yeah, man. I bet she ripped off those other two places, then knocked over her own store, just to make herself look innocent.”

“Out! Now!” the manager yelled.

“We're going, we're going!” I told him as he shoved us along. “Take it easy, dude. No harm, no foul, okay?”

I heard Ricardo shouting after us. “Hey! If I'd ripped off two million bucks' worth of bling, you think I'd be sitting here doing ankle tattoos for twenty a pop?”

Good point.

With a brief good-bye, we walked out of the shop and headed back down the pier.

“So, what do you think?” I asked Frank.

“Ricardo agrees with you about Mary Fleming. So maybe you're right, Joe. I'll tell you one thing, though—it's hard to think when you're hungry. Let's get some lunch.”

“I'm down with that. It's one o'clock already.”

We emerged onto the boardwalk and headed for the nearest hot dog stand. We put in our orders and were waiting for our Jersey-style Texas Wieners when we heard screams. Loud screams, coming from the beach.

10.
Buried Treasure

At first we thought it might be somebody drowning, or maybe even a shark attack—a real one this time. But the people who were screaming weren't even near the water. They were in the dry sand, gathered around in a big circle about five deep.

It took us a while to push our way through, and the noise was deafening. Maybe there was a rock star in there, I thought. Poor guy—it sounded like they were tearing him to pieces.

Then we got to the middle of the circle and saw what was really going on.

There was this guy with a metal detector—a truly ugly guy, with hairy moles on his face, really bad teeth, and a scraggly beard.

But that's not what had everybody so crazed.
They were screaming about what he was holding up in his hand:
a huge diamond ring!

People wanted to get close and see it—the find of a lifetime. They wanted to touch it; to fantasize that they were the ones who'd found it. Metal Detector Man let them get close, but he wouldn't let anyone lay a hand on it.

The crowd was growing, pushing in on us. The rumor must have been racing its way down the beach. Joe was shoved into me, and I banged into the guy on my left. And what do you know, it was Chuck Fatone, the lifeguard! Good thing he wasn't paying attention to us.

“Where'd you find it?” someone asked the lucky man.

“You think I tell you where I find it?” he said in what seemed like an even thicker Russian accent than the taffy man's, and he started laughing his head off.

“I wonder why he told anyone in the first place,” I said to Joe. “You'd think he'd have kept it to himself.”

“Maybe someone saw him pick it up,” Joe said.

“Yeah, I'll bet that's what happened.”

“Hey, Frank, I ran into that guy this morning,” Joe said. “I meant to tell you about him. He was messing up a really nice sand advertisement.”

“A what?”

“An ad drawn in the sand.”

“What are you, kidding?”

“Nope—somebody paid to have this ad done in the sand, and that dude messed it up on purpose.”

“Hmmm …” I said. “That gives me an idea.”

I went up to the guy and said, “Excuse me, sir, but I'm from the National Ad Agency, and—”

“What you want?” the guy said in his thick accent.

“This morning you defaced an advertisement of ours. You're going to have to pay for the damage.”

“I not pay nothing!”

But before he knew what was happening, I'd snatched the ring from his hand and tossed it to Joe.

“Get a quick look at it!” I yelled as the guy flew at me. “Memorize it, Joe!”

“You not from advertising agency!” the angry Russian yelled, taking a swing at me. I got out of the way just in time. “You crook! Give me back diamond ring!”

“Here you go, buddy,” Joe said, tossing the ring back to him. “Nice diamond—congratulations.”

The guy snatched the ring out of the air and went to pick up his metal detector. Then he turned back to me. “If I see you again …” he said, and pretended to slit his throat with his finger.

I got the message loud and clear. And hopefully, if Joe had gotten a good look at the ring, I wouldn't need to bother him again.

“Well?” I asked him as we backed away from the crowd.

“About two karats, I'd guess. Brand new. And it had an inscription on the inside in cursive: ‘Melissa & Fred 4 ever.' With the number 4.”

“Good job, Joe.”

“So you think it's one of the stolen items?”

“I don't know, but it shouldn't be too hard to find out. Come on.”

“Where we going?”

“Back to The Shore Thing.”

“Why not check the other two places first?”

“That was an expensive ring,” I said. “And The Shore Thing seems to specialize in pricey stuff.”

Joe here. Mary Fleming didn't seem happy to see us. Not until we told her about the ring on the beach. After that, she was all action. She checked in her inventory book, and then in her ledger of current orders.

“Yes, here it is—it was scheduled to be picked up today. ‘Melissa & Fred 4 ever.'”

“Whoever stole it must have dropped it,” Joe said.

A reasonable guess, I had to agree. At that moment it occurred to me that the ring was found on the beach, right near the pier where Ricardo Myers worked.

Hmmm …

“Thanks, Ms. Fleming,” I said. “We'll try to get the ring back for you.”

“Thank
you
, boys!” she said, waving good-bye. “Thank you very much!”

She seemed happy about it, which I took as a good sign. If she'd stolen her own stuff, it wasn't likely she'd have dropped it on the beach, and it was even less likely that she'd be happy it was found.

Ricardo Myers had tried as hard as he could to point the finger at her. I wondered what more was going on there. What did he really have against her—and how far had he gone to get even?

We went back to the spot on the beach where the crowd had been. There was no sign of our ugly Russian friend with the metal detector.

The crowd had broken up, but all along that part of the beach, people were on their knees, screaming and yelling.

And digging.

Not far from us, a large, dark-haired girl was gouging away with a beach shovel she must have stolen from some poor little kid.

“Hey!” I called to her. “What's going on?”

She looked up at me, her eyes wide and wild.

“You'd better start digging!” she said.

“Digging for what?”

She grinned from ear to ear. “So far they've found three diamond rings and a silver bracelet in the sand!”

11.
Gold Rush

If you've never seen a whole crowd of people go crazy, let me tell you—it is an incredible sight.

People on the beach were running in every direction. As soon as they found what they thought was a “lucky spot,” they dropped to their knees and started digging.

Word must have been spreading, too, because more and more people kept coming down from the boardwalk to the beach. Some of them already had shovels or magnifying glasses. Everyone was screaming and shouting.

Can we say “madhouse”?

It was the California gold rush all over again!

“Hey, Joe,” Frank said, nudging me with his elbow. “Check it out.”

He nodded toward a big knot of people. I had to crane my neck to see what was going on.

Looked like everyone was crowding around some guy who was selling
metal detectors
! This guy had a little stand set up, and he was selling detectors as fast as he could take people's money.