Kazu Jones and the Denver Dognappers Read online

  She was a small old lady, not much taller than me, hunched at the waist and shuffling with a cane when she walked. Her husband died three years ago, when I was eight. I had done odd jobs for her ever since, like Allen, her handyman, who mowed her lawn, hung her Christmas lights, cleaned and oiled her shake roof, stained her wood fence, and even rolled out her trash can every Monday morning on garbage day.

  I nodded as she talked and I raked, knowing that I got paid just as much for being polite as I did for finishing the job. But when I saw March jogging toward me, a manila folder clutched in one hand, I rushed to gather the leaves and push them deep into the garbage can she used for yard clippings. He got there in time to help me pick up stray leaves and then drag the can toward the garage.

  “Well, hello there, March!” Mrs. White called, cupping her hands around her mouth. March smiled back stiffly and waved like a robot. “Whatcha got there?” She nodded at the folder, which he had set in the grass while he helped me finish.

  “Nothing,” he said too quickly. And then, after a beat, “Homework.”

  She smiled, her lips curled around big square teeth. “It’s good to see kids work. Yard work. Homework. It’s healthy. Turns you into good citizens.”

  “Do you want me to put the can back in your garage?” I asked. Her code—1065—probably hadn’t changed since they first installed the garage door. As I asked, a DineWise van—a meal delivery service for old people—pulled into her driveway. They did good business in our neighborhood.

  “I got it.” Mrs. White leaned on her cane with one hand and waved the garage-door opener at me with the other, pushing the button for emphasis. “Thanks, Kazuko! I’ll walk your money over later.”

  The garage door creaked open, and the truck pulled in. March bounced next to me like he was going to pee himself.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered, grabbing the folder from the grass and darting across the street ahead of me.

  “Bye, Mrs. White,” I called over my shoulder, but she had already slipped into the garage and shut the door.

  When we walked into my house, Genki jumped on March, nearly knocking him over. We both got a good sniff-down as we kicked off our shoes in the entryway. “Do you want a snack?” Mom called to us from the kitchen. Even though she worked at the museum part-time, she spent the rest of her time working from home so she could be here when I got back from school.

  “We’re fine,” I called back as we ran up to my room, knowing she would throw something together for us, anyway.

  March reeled back as soon as he opened the door, as if he’d stepped into a wind tunnel. Genki sat down behind him, cocking his head from side to side as he waited March out.

  “Holy crap!” March said. His nose scrunched as he stood in my doorway.

  I pushed him in, and he acted like I’d dropped him into a vat of Ebola virus.

  “Disgusting! I can’t work here.” March hugged the manila folder to his chest, standing on the one clear spot of carpet in the middle of my bedroom, with piles of dirty clothes, used towels, books, and random junk around him. When we were younger, he would offer to clean my room for free because he said picking up such a huge mess made him all tingly inside. But once we started detecting together, he preferred solving mysteries to sanitizing my room.

  “Come on,” I said, stepping over the obstacles and sitting on my unmade bed. Genki jumped up next to me and began digging around the blankets to make himself a nest. “It’s not going to kill you. I mean, look at me.”

  “Your immune system is probably superhuman by now, building a tolerance to who knows what’s in here.”

  I stood and swiped a fleece blanket from Genki, who was still digging, and shook it onto the top of my bed before smoothing the corners for March. “Sit down. My room is cluttered, not dirty. There are no biohazards here.”

  He blew out an annoyed breath before sitting down next to me. Genki continued to paw at the bottom of my bed, fluffing up the perfect resting spot.

  “So what is it?” I cut my eyes to the folder squared on March’s lap.

  “Oh!” His eyes lit up like a pinball machine after a killer shot. “Mr. Crowley opened the attachment today, and I was able to hack his desktop.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  March kicked away the junk surrounding my bed and opened the folder, laying printouts on the floor. Genki, finally settled in a mound of fabric, jumped from the bed and sniffed at the sheets of paper before plopping down on top of them. March groaned.

  “Move.” I pointed back at my bed. Genki stood up slowly, like a grandpa dog, and jumped back to his blanket nest, which he began to rearrange even though it hadn’t been disturbed.

  March straightened the printouts and said, “You were right. There’s some suspicious stuff on Crowley’s computer.” He pointed to the sheets of paper, talking faster and faster as he explained. “Mr. Crowley has bookmarked every article about the missing dogs. He also bookmarked a website that explains the benefits of different dog breeds—which ones are naturally more aggressive, which ones are more teachable, which breeds cost the most. His order history from Amazon included a black ski mask, a black jacket, a window tinting kit, and three hundred feet of utility rope. His web cache included a website teaching how to remove microchips from dogs. And his bank account lists a bunch of deposits from a local company called Seenile Gizmos. I looked it up—something to do with geriatric lifestyle components.”

  I squinted at him.

  “That one’s not suspicious, just weird.”

  “He’s our guy,” I said. “What else could it all mean?” My mind got stuck on the detail about removing microchips, which store all the information a shelter needs to locate a dog’s owner. When we got Genki, Dad had explained how they would shoot the microchip from a needle into his back, just like a vaccination. He promised it wouldn’t hurt. But removing one was probably more complicated. It was probably bloodier. Now the image of Barkley cowering on the red-stained floor of the dognapping van trailed goose bumps down my back.

  “I don’t know,” March said. “Maybe he’s interested in the dognappings, and the rest is a coincidence.”

  “It’s just a coincidence that he’s buying tons of dog food and wants to know how to remove microchips? What about his order history?” I picked up the article about the dognappings, the same one in my Sleuth Chronicle, and skimmed for information on Barkley’s disappearance. Had the windows on the dirty van been dark? “A black jacket is one thing, but a ski mask and a tinting kit? Who needs dark windows in Colorado?”

  March shrugged. “We need more evidence before we can tell the police. Besides, they’d arrest me or something for all this.” He motioned to the papers spread on the floor.

  “You’re right,” I said. “We need more evidence!” I slammed a fist on my bed, and Genki startled.

  “Oh no,” March said. “What are you thinking?”

  “A little dumpster diving,” I said, facing him. “Once you roll your garbage to the curb, it’s public property, right? That means we won’t be doing anything illegal.”

  “Only if you believe everything you see on TV.”

  “I think it’s pretty legit,” I said.

  “Okay, then.” March gathered all the printouts and slid them into the folder. “Why don’t we ask our parents if we can go through our neighbor’s garbage looking for evidence of a dognapping?”

  I rolled my eyes. “That breaks rule number two.”

  “But sneaking out after dark to steal his garbage breaks rule number five.”

  “We can’t get killed trolling through someone’s trash. It’s gross, not dangerous.”

  “Unless he really is a hardened criminal and catches us. And takes us away. And kills us.”

  “Janken pon?” I held my fist in an open hand.

  March and I had resolved disputes using Rock-Paper-Scissors since we were six years old. I had taught him how to play, and for years after he thought the game was named after some guy named John Kempo. I hadn’t re
alized it was called anything else because Mom had first taught it to me, I guess in one of her Japanese cultural moments, as “Janken pon.” When March and I couldn’t agree on something, one of us would say “Janken pon” and assume the position. It was the quickest way to reach an agreement.

  “Really, Kazu?”

  I raised my right fist in the air over my left palm.

  “All right,” he grumbled.

  “Janken pon,” we said as we beat our fists into our palms.

  “Scissors beats paper.” March snapped at my hand with two fingers.

  “Janken pon.”

  “Paper beats rock.” I slapped his fist with my open hand.

  “Janken pon.”

  “And rock beats scissors!” I punched March’s two fingers and launched myself into a dance around my room, quickly planting my foot on a hairbrush, bristles up.

  “Ow,” I howled, grabbing my foot. March fell back on my bed laughing, until he realized his head had landed on the unmade part of my bed and jolted upright, swatting at his hair. Genki stood and looked at March sleepily before turning away and lying back down.

  March gathered up his paperwork. “If you get us killed before my last eligible trick-or-treating Halloween, I will never forgive you.”

  After school the next day, Mom insisted it was time I lock in my costume choice. She made me decide every year before October fifteenth because she didn’t want to be caught scrounging up an outfit days before Halloween.

  “I told you,” I said. “I want to be Velma.” I sat at the kitchen bar eating my after-school snack: rice crackers and apple slices dipped in peanut butter. Genki sat at my feet, begging for a bite. Around me, the counter was covered with museum brochures and stacks of books about creating successful exhibits.

  Every afternoon I came home from school and talked to Mom about my day while eating a snack. The longer this took, the less time I’d have to spend on homework. I could drag a conversation on and on about Halloween costumes if Mom let me.

  “Who?” She leaned against the kitchen counter, a teacup balanced on the flat of her fingers.

  “Velma Dinkley. You know? The brains of Mystery Incorporated?”

  Genki finally got tired of begging and turned in a few circles before dropping to the floor. Mom looked at me blankly. “It’s like you’re speaking another language.”

  I dropped my jaw. “You remember Scooby-Doo, right?” And when she finally nodded in recognition, I sighed. “It’s your generation, Mom.”

  “I was hoping you’d want to try something different this year.” She peered into her cup as if reading tea leaves, and then she met my eyes. “Something different from a detective.”

  Last year I had been Veronica Mars, and the year before that Sherlock Holmes. “What’s wrong with being a detective?”

  Mom sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Your obsession with solving crime has gotten you into a bit of trouble lately.” She set the teacup by the sink and walked toward me. “What about being a superhero or a cat?”

  “A cat?” I groaned, dropping my apple slice into the cup of peanut butter. “No one wants to be a cat for Halloween.”

  Mom drummed her fingertips on the countertop and stared me down. “This year, I’d like you to be something other than a detective.”

  I tipped my chin toward Mom. “Is that a suggestion or a requirement?”

  “A requirement.”

  I stood so fast I knocked the bar chair to the ground. Genki scrambled to his feet, struggling to find his footing on the hardwood floor.

  “That’s not fair,” I whined. “It’s just a costume—it’s pretend.”

  “You’re not pretending, Kazuko.” The insides of her eyebrows dipped low, and she eyed the fallen chair. “You haven’t been pretending for a while, and if it doesn’t stop, you’re going to get hurt. It’s my job to prevent that from happening.”

  “By making me dress up like a cat?”

  “By helping you change your focus to something else.”

  “Fine!” I barked, backing away from the counter while avoiding the chair. “I’ll be a zombie or a vampire or a rotting corpse.”

  Her face contorted for a second before settling into a smile. “You’ll have to choose just one, Kazu.”

  I stormed up the steps to my room, stomping as hard as I could manage without stepping on Genki, who cowered around my feet.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  March and I dangled our feet through the railing of his tree house. It spanned two oak trees in his family’s backyard with a shelter the size of a rich person’s shed on one tree and a catwalk connecting it to a smaller shed on the next. His dad had spent Maggie’s entire childhood building it, and it still wasn’t finished—the platform around the second tree was missing half a safety railing.

  “When can we raid Geezer’s garbage?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about this, Kazu,” March said, clutching his metal Christmas safe like it would roll off his lap. “We could get in big trouble if anyone catches us. Or worse—maybe they’d kidnap us and put us in dog kennels with the rest of their stolen animals.”

  I had ridden my bike to March’s house before dinner to plan Mission: Geezer’s Garbage Raid. March’s bedroom door had been open, and he jumped when I knocked on it. He claimed he was engrossed in a tutorial on coding, but I knew he was nervous about the mission.

  “Maybe I can convince Mom to let me do the paper route with you one day,” I said. “I could tell her you’ve finally agreed to train as a sub, and we’ll ride our bikes. No one will see us then.” The hardest thing about having a paper route was finding a substitute when we went out of town; Mom would be so excited about having a backup sub she wouldn’t suspect a thing.

  “But it’ll be dark, and quiet,” he said. “What if someone hears us?”

  Something took flight in my chest, but I ignored it.

  “You’d be surprised how deeply everyone sleeps,” I said. “Once, I crashed my bike into two garbage cans on Summer Glen Drive and no one heard me.”

  He looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Seriously. The other day I hit your front door with the paper and no one woke up—not even you.”

  March studied the top of his safe with the operation documents locked inside. He shrugged.

  “I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but Barkley’s been missing for over a week. If we don’t hurry, there will be no information for Geezer to toss.”

  March sighed, setting the safe down next to him. “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

  He was trying to change the subject, and his question stung a bit as I remembered Mom telling me I couldn’t be Velma. “A zombie.” I tried not to let my disappointment distract me. “And you’re going to be Steve Jobs for the second year in a row—”

  “Actually,” he interrupted, “it’s currently a toss-up between Steve Jobs and Payback, an obscure Marvel vigilante that used to work with the Punisher….”

  “So,” I said, “it’s a geek-off.”

  “You’re not going to be a detective?” he asked.

  I sighed. I was hoping mom would be horrified by the idea and would finally agree to let me dress up as a detective. Instead, she had looked at me with her perfect Moker Face—Mom Poker Face—and said, “That sounds wonderful. Just remember the no-gore rule for school.”

  I answered March, “Mom won’t let me be a detective anymore. Not even for pretend.” I tried to get our conversation back on track. “When are we going to do the garbage raid?”

  “Did you not just hear yourself? About your mom forbidding detective work, real or pretend?”

  I glared at him, and I could swear it made my eyes burn. “Barkley’s gone because of me. I’ve got to get her back.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “When?”

  “Monday morning. The garbage will be on the curb. We should wear black.”

  March’s shoulders slumped, and his chin nearly touched his chest.

  “It’
ll be fun.” I patted his knee. “You’ll see.”

  I pushed my fear deep into my stomach, where it weighed me down like an anchor.

  The next couple days dragged. Mom continued to drive me on my route. March spent afternoons overachieving on his homework while I avoided mine. And Dad ordered me green face paint and a plastic brain as a prop for my Halloween costume.

  My anxiety about our next mission grew until Friday morning when Geezer finally left me a tip. I sat in the car after the route and studied the note he had taped to his door while Mom put away the rubber bands and gathered all the newspaper garbage.

  Kazuko Jones,

  I contacted the Denver Chronicle, and they gave me your full name and recommended I leave any personalized gifts for you at my door. Thank you for bagging my newspapers to prevent the Colorado frost from dampening them. I appreciate all your hard work delivering my papers very early in the morning. Also, I asked the paper when I could expect to receive “electronic notifications” and they didn’t know what I was talking about. That’s strange, now, isn’t it?

  Thanks again for all your hard work,

  James Crowley

  Along with the note he had attached an orange newspaper bag to his door holding a single PAYDAY candy bar.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “That was nice of him,” Mom said, reading over my shoulder.

  I folded the note in half and shoved it in my pocket.

  “What’s he talking about—‘electronic notifications’?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.” All the warmth drained from my cheeks, and my chest tightened.

  Mom got out of the car and went back into the house through the garage. Genki waited as I stayed behind to sort another collection of recycled newspaper bags, the note hot in my pajama pocket.