“Lulu, get a grip. I bet you anything that Berlin is at school on Monday. With your purse, which she’ll return. And then you can kiss and make up—not that you would ever do that. Anyway, you’ll see. Everything is going to be fine.”
My head was throbbing. I could tell that I really
was
about to get a migraine. “It’s not fine!” I wailed. “We have to do something right now!”
“Lulu, come on, what can you possibly do? Let’s just rent a movie and chill, okay?”
“A movie?” I gasped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Charlie gave me his hurt puppy dog eyes. “Maybe you’d feel better if we just went out for a little bit,” he said hopefully. “Big Blonde is still open.”
“Charlie, I’d rather French-kiss Regis Philbin than go to Big Blonde at this moment.” I was completely pissed off that he was being so cavalier. “If you wanted to go out tonight, why didn’t you go on a date with someone you were actually interested in?”
Charlie looked wounded. He didn’t say anything—just turned around, opened the door, and slunk out of the room. I felt bad, but really, it was something that needed to be said.
I was a mess. Worse, Charlie was right. There was nothing that I could do right now. I stripped off my dress and collapsed into bed.
It took me forever to fall asleep. I tried doing the meditation exercise that Dad taught me to conquer insomnia, but it was no use. I was tossing and turning, thinking about Berlin. True, I never really liked her, but she didn’t deserve to be murdered. And then there was the thing with my purse. Whoever killed Berlin could be coming for me next. It would be so easy, with my name and address and even my picture inside. I knew, without a doubt, that my life was in danger.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps I was being self-centered. A person had been murdered, and all I could think about was my precious Korean purse and what was going to happen to
me.
Suddenly I felt sheepish. My self-absorption had gone too far.
Maybe / should take up the Kabbalah,
I thought. It seemed to work for Madonna—although not so much for Britney Spears.
When I finally settled into sleep, it was no escape. In the dream I had, I was at Oscar’s, the fanciest department store in all of Halo City. Now, going to Oscar’s is always a stressful experience because of the persnickety shopgirls and horrible, pushy customers trying to steal your size and butt in line, and in my nightmare all that was blown out of proportion. I could feel everything in the store, the walls and racks of expensive clothes, closing in on me, and I was positive that someone was chasing after me. So I ran into the dressing rooms.
For some reason, I wasn’t wearing shoes, but I had my purse again. It didn’t make me feel any better.
I fled from my pursuer through mirror after mirror, each one swallowing me like water and spitting me out into another identical dressing room. I could feel someone following right behind me, but every time I looked over my shoulder, I saw only my own reflection, smiling monstrously. And then the fire alarm went off, a beeping that started soft and became louder and louder until it was screaming in my ears.
I woke with a start, sweaty and breathless. The department store had evaporated, and I was in the blackness of my bedroom again. But the beeping had gotten louder than ever. It was coming from my bedside table.
My cell phone was ringing, I realized. Groggily I reached over and grabbed it. UNKNOWN CALLER, the display read.
“Hello?” I mumbled, picking up.
“Hi!” The voice on the other end was cheery. It actually sounded quite a bit like my own voice.
Was my mom calling? It would be just like her to forget the time difference and ring me up at three in the morning.
“Who is this?” I asked, still half asleep.
“This is Lulu Dark,” the voice went on. “Listen, I’ve lost my phone, and I guess you found it. Have there been any messages for me?”
I groaned. Someone was playing a joke, and this was definitely not the time for it.
“Who is this?” I demanded. “Who is this
really?
”
“Um, hello? I told you already, this is
Lulu Dark.
Personally, what I want to know is who
you
are, besides a thieving little fink.”
I gasped. Was this person serious? She certainly sounded it.
The stranger gave a long, peeved sigh before she continued. “Here’s the thing: if you don’t return my cell phone, you’ll be sorry. So make it snappy.”
Then, before I could ask any more questions, she’d hung up.
SIX
I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING WITH the vague feeling that something was wrong—something that I couldn’t put a finger on.
/ must have had a bad dream,
I thought,
the kind that ruins your day even though you can never quite remember it.
But when I rolled over and saw my cell phone lying on my pillow, it all came flooding back—the shark girl, the creepy phone call.
None of it had been a dream, as much as I would have loved to think otherwise. Berlin Silver was dead, and no one knew about it but me.
The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced of what I had to do: I had to head straight to the police station, tell them about Berlin, and hopefully come home with a full retinue of uniformed protection—in case the murderer was coming after me next.
I dressed quickly and hit the door. On the walk to the station Halo City felt more sinister than ever before. Every corner seemed sharp with potential danger. I jumped at each little noise, knowing that Berlin’s murderer was somewhere on these streets and knew everything about me—including my cell phone number.
Too bad I’d always laughed at Daisy for her karate lessons. If I were a brown belt like her, I wouldn’t feel like such a wimp.
My feet carried me toward the station as fast as they could.
Keep moving,
I told myself.
Just a few more blocks to go.
I made a quick turn onto Laight Street—and stopped short.
Sally Hansen was standing on the other side of the road—at the traffic light—waiting to cross the street. Despite the heavy flow of traffic between us, she locked eyes with me. She stared at me with a menacing glare.
My heart skipped a beat. This was the third time I’d run into her. Was she following me?
The look on her face told me I’d better wait till I had Daisy’s backup to find out what was the deal.
I spun around and hightailed it out of there before the light changed. I ducked around the nearest corner and, once I was certain that I was a safe distance away, slowed down enough to whip out my pocket notebook.
I scribbled the words
SALLY HANSEN!!
and the date on the first blank page, then hastily shoved the notebook into the back pocket of my jeans.
So what if I’d started keeping a notebook? Plenty of people do it; it has nothing to do with being a detective.
I picked up my pace again and decided on an alternate route to the police station. I practically sprinted there, looking over my shoulder the whole way. Luckily I didn’t see Sally again.
I didn’t expect the police to take me seriously. I expected them to roll their eyes and run me off, saying something like, “Listen here, chip-pie. Why don’t you leave the detective work to the professionals?” And as such, I prepared myself for a fight.
But unlike everything you see in cop shows and read in mystery novels, the police didn’t turn me away immediately. In fact, they seemed very interested in what I had to say.
The detective I spoke with was a tall, heavily made-up woman named Detective Wanda Knight. She and I got along right off the bat. She respected me the instant I complimented her on her lipstick—which I recognized as MAC Berry Lip Blush, applied, of course, with a brush.
“Oh, you’re good,” she told me, smiling. “You have excellent powers of observation. You might make a good detective yourself.”
I cringed, but she didn’t take any notice.
“Now tell me what you know about the tattooed girl,” she said. “All we’ve got so far are a couple of dead leads. Maybe you’re the break in the case we need.”
I told her everything I’d said to Charlie the night before and was gratified when she took my information seriously, unlike some friends I might mention.
“It’s certainly an unusual tattoo,” she said thoughtfully. “And in silver. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a silver tattoo until this case. But you say she disappeared just last week?”
“That’s right.” I nodded. “The last time I saw her was on Friday.”
“Well, it can’t be the same girl, then. The body we found has been in the bay for at least four months.”
I was exasperated. Why do the police always get so caught up in the tiny little details?
Hello,
big picture! If this is the way that law enforcement operates, it’s no wonder they still haven’t found Tupac’s killer.
“Listen, Detective Knight,” I said firmly. “Maybe some of the pieces don’t go together, but I’m positive that the girl in the bay is Berlin Silver herself.”
The policewoman squinted at me. “What makes you so sure?” she asked.
I was caught off guard. I’m not used to being doubted. I was sure the body was Berlin because I had a hunch—and my hunches are always right. But I obviously couldn’t say that unless I wanted to sound like a total bimbo.
“Well . . . I—I don’t know!” I sputtered. “It’s just obvious! Isn’t it?”
Detective Knight seemed to suppress a smirk. “Listen, Lulu.” She patted me on the back. “I can tell you one hundred percent for sure that the dead girl is not your friend. There’s just no chance. That body we pulled from the river has been in the water for so long she’s got no—well, let’s just say it’s not pretty. As for the tattoo—it’s not much, but I guess it’s something. I’ll look into it—and I’ll see if I can dig up something on this Berlin Silver character, too.”
“If you figure out where she is, can you call me?” I asked.
The woman raised one eyebrow. “Are you the new district attorney?” she asked dryly.
I scowled.
“Sorry,” the detective said. “I couldn’t resist. I saw them say that on
Law and Order
once.”
Seeing the disappointed look on my face, she gave an understanding smile. “Thanks for your help, though. I promise that everything will be fine. I’ll do my job if you do yours: stay in school and just say no to drugs, street gangs, and underage drinking.”
I just looked at her.
“Kidding!” the detective said. “I’m trying to cheer you up. Have a sense of humor.”
I was glad to know she cared, but frankly, I didn’t think it was a time for joking around.
I was dejected when I left the office. My meeting had gone nowhere. And despite what Detective Knight told me, I still had no doubt that Berlin was dead.
Perhaps I was being irrational, but it didn’t matter. It was easier to accept the idea that the laws of nature had gone screwy than the idea that I could somehow be wrong.
After my street-side run-in with scary Sally Hansen, I decided it would be safer to take the train to my next stop, the DMV. I boarded the blue train where I always do—second car from the back—and searched for a seat. As I walked toward the front of the car, I heard the sound of a familiar voice. I turned and discovered that the Teener (known to teachers as Christina Schmidt) was aboard the train with her posse of anonymous cronies.
The Teener’s crew are Orchard Academy’s resident stoners. I’ve always gotten along fine with them, even if they are incredibly boring. All they ever do is smoke a bowl, watch cartoons, eat some Bugles, then smoke another bowl and watch more cartoons, of course. They all have the sallow-faced look of shut-ins, which is basically what they are. I wonder if they pee in bedpans.
It was strange to see them out on the subway on a Saturday afternoon. Normally the only time you catch them outside school is at three in the morning—in the D Street Diner—gorging on chicken fingers and pizza fries. They keep to themselves, though, and don’t normally bother anyone, so when I spotted them, I wandered over to say hi.
I didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary when the Teener and her gang began giggling at my approach. That’s the status quo with them: they’re all in a constant state of giggle.
“Hey, Teener,” I told the group with a nod. “Hey, everyone.”
They all broke into giggles again, and it took a good minute before they calmed down enough for the Teener to talk.
“Hey, Lulu,” she finally said. “We were just talking about you.”
I recoiled. I didn’t know that this crew ever talked about
anything,
much less me. I thought they just napped and giggled and threw potato chips at each other.
“All good things, I hope,” I said evenly.
“We heard you’ve been hanging out with Margot and Millie Stratford.”
“You heard
what?
” I asked incredulously.
Margot and Millie Stratford were the most notoriously detestable twin sisters in Halo City. They were like Genevieve and Berlin Silver combined and magnified by a trillion. Their great-grandfather had founded a cigarette empire, and now they were unbelievably rich. I’d run into them on a few, unfortunate occasions, at parties at Charlie and Genevieve’s, and they were even worse than the gossip pages made them out to be. They spent their days getting their beauty rest in the penthouse of a sixty-story high-rise (probably in coffins), and they partied hard all night, every night, making fools out of themselves.
Why Teener or anyone thought that I would ever hang out with them was beyond me.
“You’ve received some bad information,” I told them, regaining my composure. “I have higher aspirations than making it onto
US Weekly’
s worst-dressed list.”
The Teener and her companions didn’t care what I had to say. I don’t even think they heard me. They were way too into their story to actually care if it was true or not. From the spaced-out look of glee on the Teener’s face, I had a sinking feeling that the story got worse.