I So Don't Do Famous (10 page)

From the street, the Beverly Hills Police Department looks like a Spanish-style church. We nose slowly into the covered parking lot. Dad parks carefully between the white lines. He's definitely back to being a dad.

The three of us walk through the parking lot and up a cement ramp to double glass doors trimmed in turquoise. The sign above reads
POLICE DEPARTMENT
.

“Here's some Beverly Hills trivia,” Junie says. “No one is born or buried in Beverly Hills because there are no hospitals or cemeteries.”

Once inside, we approach the counter, which is surrounded by glass. Probably bulletproof glass.

We wait while the police officer behind the counter finishes sorting through papers in a wire basket. He moves the basket to a low shelf. When he straightens up, I can read his name badge. Officer Mullins. He's short, with unruly hair and a belly like a shelf. He reminds me of a penguin.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Did you guys recently move?”

He shakes his head. “Why?”

“With all the turquoise accents, the staircase and your little protected area, it doesn't look even close to the police station in the
Beverly Hills Cop
movies.”

“Not one of those movies was filmed inside our station.” His voice, filtered through a mic, is tinny.

Gazing around, I nod. I knew something didn't add up.

“What can I do for you, folks?” the officer asks.

Dad leans his chin in toward the mic in the glass. He clears his throat. “Well, my daughter here, Sherry Holmes Baldwin, is somewhat of an amateur sleuth. A successful amateur sleuth.” He pats my shoulder. “We're very proud of her.”

Ack. This is so embarrassing.

Officer Mullins smiles at me, the way you smile at someone's poodle. “She's too young for a ride-along”—he shuffles around under the counter—“but we do have some coloring books somewhere.”

“We're not really into coloring books, but thanks.” I take over for my dad. “Actually, we're here because
we have some important information about the theft of the purse with the diamond clasp at last night's
Hollywood Girl
's gala.”

“Oh yeah?” He opens a small door in the glass and slides through a pad of yellow lined paper and a pencil. “Jot it down, and I'll get it to the detective in charge of the case.”

“I think Detective Garcia would be very interested in the photos we took at the dinner,” I say.

“Detective Garcia doesn't have time to meet with every person who wanders in here with a lead,” Officer Mullins says. “You go through me first. That's the process.”

Junie holds up her camera case. “I shot the photos with this digital single-lens reflex camera. I used one of the sharpest lenses available. Great pixel density.” She starts to veer into even more detail, like counting photons and diffraction.

Officer Mullins looks to my father for help.

Dad shrugs. “Teenage girls.” He shoots a quick, secret wink at Junie and me. “They have more staying power than you or I.”

“Let's see the pictures,” the officer says.

Junie turns on her camera and tilts it toward him so that he has a view of the small screen. She starts clicking through last night's shots while I give a running commentary.

“I've seen enough.” He picks up the phone. “A cou
ple of teens and their dad are here with photos of the
Hollywood Girl
gig. I'm not sure there's anything of interest.” He listens. “You
do
want to see them?” He hangs up. “Go up to the third floor, then follow the signs to the Detective Division.”

W
e climb the stairs, hanging on to the cute turquoise banister. We walk along the hall, passing a restroom and a door with
TRAFFIC DIVISION
above it. At the end of the hall, there's another officer sitting behind yet more bulletproof glass.

Before I have a chance to introduce myself, the door next to him opens and a woman in uniform bursts through. “I'm Detective Garcia.” She's got her hair pulled back in a ponytail and is wearing adorable pink lipstick.

We introduce ourselves.

Detective Garcia eyeballs Junie's fancy camera. “Come on back and show me what you've got.” She's very down to business.

We follow her past clusters of desks and tall filing cabinets. Officers talking on the phone or writing notes glance at us, but not much more than that.

At the back of the room, Detective Garcia stops at a super-messy metal desk littered with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups wrappers, a few open cans of soda, several file folders and a brand-new shiny desktop computer. At my house, Detective Garcia would not be getting her allowance.

Nonchalantly, I glance at the sticker on the top folder. The Beverly Hills Bandits!

“The pictures?” Detective Garcia prompts.

Junie turns on her camera.

Personally, I believe a story is best told from the beginning. I take a breath. “I wrote an essay on true love for
Hollywood Girl
magazine. Surprise of all surprises, I won.”

“So, you're the Blaylock Dear Elle mentioned in her news interview,” Detective Garcia says. “I thought you said your name was Sherry.”

“
Sher
lock. Sherry, for short,” I explain. “Anyway, I won a trip to Hollywood for me, my dad and a friend, which is why Junie and her camera were at the awards dinner.”

“I'm taking over as editor for our online middle-school paper,” Junie adds.

Detective Garcia makes a hurry-up signal with her hand.

Junie taps a couple of buttons, then holds the camera up so the detective can view the screen. “These two girls, Lorraine and Stef, are in line to have Dear Elle sign a book. In the lower right-hand corner, right here”—Junie points at the screen with her pinkie—“you can see the purse.” Junie forwards to the next photo.

“And in the second shot,” I say, “only Lorraine is in line. Then, here in the third shot, Lorraine's showing something in the book to Dear Elle. But she's not even paying attention to Dear Elle. She's looking over her shoulder at someone. Who? It must be Stef.”

“And then I snapped this fourth shot at the same angle as the first shot,” Junie says. “Here's where the purse should be hanging. It's gone.”

“The purse is only in the first two pictures of this scenario,” Detective Garcia says. “There's no way to tell when it was stolen.”

“I think”—I blow out a breath—“looking at the photos this way doesn't give you the sense of timing we have as bystanders who were actually at the signing table.” This is not a cop who thinks outside the box, who sees possibilities and shades of gray. This is a black-and-white-thinking kind of cop. I have a sinking feeling.

“Apparently not,” the detective says dryly. “But there's an undefined amount of time for when the purse could have been lifted. Not to mention it
could've been taken by someone who was never in the signing line.”

“My daughter has somewhat of a reputation as an amateur sleuth,” my dad says, trying to help out.

The detective sighs. “And the woman who was in here an hour before you said her tea leaves told her the purse is on a boat with yellow markings.”

“But Sherry has actually
solved
mysteries.” Dad's eyes flash.

Detective Garcia stares at her desk and waits, like she's counting to ten. “Look, Mr. Baldwin, there are only so many hours in the day. My best bet is to follow the strongest leads. The two teens in these photos aren't my strongest leads.”

What started out as a sinking feeling morphs into a we're-dead-ducks feeling. I have less and less faith this detective will crack the case. I know Lorraine and Stef stole the purse. But Detective Garcia's totally dismissing their involvement. I can't have this mystery hanging like a dark cloud over my reputation with the Academy.

Why did I have to get Lorraine and Stef into the awards dinner? My first Beverly Hills fans? More like my first Beverly Hills felons.

Detective Garcia turns to Junie. “Those are all the photos from last night?”

“Uh, no.” Junie grins. “There's a couple hundred more.”

The detective's eyes bug. “And they're here, stored on your camera?”

Junie nods.

“I'll upload them to my computer.” The detective reaches for Junie's camera.

Junie pulls it closer, like a favorite stuffed animal. It's instinctive. She doesn't like people messing with her stuff, especially her electronic stuff. It's sort of an only-geek-child behavior.

“This is a good camera,” she says. “Which I bought with my own money. And which I need for taking pictures for our school paper.”

“Okay.” Detective Garcia chews on her lower lip. “Maybe we can compromise.”

I blink. Detective Garcia thinks Junie wants to trade the photos for insider info about the case!

The detective chews off what's left of her cute pink lipstick. “We've narrowed the ringleader of the Beverly Hills Bandits down to two suspects. I want to examine your photos to see if either of them attended the event.”

“So you're sure the same person is responsible for the celebrity break-ins and Dear Elle's purse?” I ask. “The MO is so different.”

Her eyebrows raised in a subtle question, Detective Garcia stares at Junie.

Junie unzips the side pocket of her camera case and pulls out a cable.

“For connecting the camera to my computer?” says Detective Garcia, palm up.

“I'll do it,” Junie says. Sharing is definitely not that girl's strong suit.

“What MO are we talking about?” My dad is blind to the delicate negotiations taking place between Junie and the detective. Actually, I think Junie is blind to them too; she's just safeguarding her camera.

With her cable, Junie attaches her camera to the detective's computer.

“The MO. The modus operandi. No, obviously, it isn't the same,” Detective Garcia says. “The Beverly Hills Bandits break into the homes of young celebrities. Celebrities about the same age as Dear Elle. In fact, Dear Elle is friends with some of the victims.” Detective Garcia leans over her computer, pressing keys to start transferring JPEGS from the camera to the hard drive.

“On the news, they were saying that someone tried to burglarize Dear Elle's house but got interrupted and didn't get anything,” I say. “Still, why target her purse? I mean, it's cool, and it's probably worth a bunch. But not compared with all the things you can steal from another house. Plus, stealing the purse in front of everyone was risky.”

“Actually, there are two hundred fifty-three pictures,” Junie exclaims, watching the computer screen. “Who knew I was so shutter happy?”

“Two hundred and fifty?” The detective sighs. “Fine. This is not for general consumption.” She pauses. “At every break-in, a key is stolen. Usually a house key. The thief never uses the key to break back in at a future date. It's more like a souvenir. The burglar didn't get a key from Dear Elle's house. Last night, the thief got his souvenir. Dear Elle's house key was in her purse.”

A boring old house key as a souvenir? That doesn't sound like Lorraine and Stef.

My dad's cell phone rings. He pulls it from the pouch clipped to the waistband of his jeans and glances at the screen. “Work. I'll take this outside.” He leaves.

Detective Garcia flips open the top file in the middle of her desk and pulls out two head shots. “Were these men at the dinner?”

The two suspects! The first guy has a long, thin face, wavy hair combed off his forehead and wire-rimmed glasses. The second has eyes spaced closely together, flared nostrils and Dumbo ears.

Junie and I both shrug. “The ballroom was packed,” I say.

“Just because he doesn't look familiar doesn't mean I didn't get a picture of him.” Junie knots her cable and zips it up in the case with her camera. “There are several crowd shots. You can zoom in on your
computer because of the high resolution of my photos.”

“Garcia,” calls a detective from a desk behind a row of filing cabinets. “Ya gotta sec?”

“What's going on, Bowen?” she calls back.

“I got an informant on the phone who only speaks Spanish. Come translate.”

“Sure.” Detective Garcia jogs to the middle of the room.

I make a snap decision. “Junie, quick! Turn your camera on!” I open the Beverly Hills Bandits' folder and set papers out on the desk.

“Sherry! Put those back!” Junie's eyes go wide.

I grab the camera case out of Junie's hand, unzip it and yank out the camera. Then I'm turning it upside down and sideways, trying to find an On/Off button.

Junie grabs it back.

“This cop can't see that Lorraine and Stef are involved. She's never going to wrap up the case,” I whisper frantically. “I'm solving this mystery myself so I get off probation with the Academy.”