Kazu Jones and the Denver Dognappers Read online

  I whispered, pointing at each item, “Flashlight, pocketknife, binoculars, kazoo.”

  “Why do we need a pocketknife?” March’s voice was high and shrill.

  “Shhhh!” I zipped the pack shut. “For protection. Just in case.”

  March nodded solemnly, taking the pack from me and slinging it over his shoulders.

  I continued, “We need to wear black and keep the headlamps on our heads, but only turn them on when we’re looking through his trash. Otherwise, Mom might see the beams and come check things out.”

  “Are you sure about this, Kazu?”

  “Listen,” I said. “If we don’t find anything tomorrow, I’ll drop it. We’ll forget about the note and the weird stuff on Geezer’s computer. Operation over.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  March climbed onto his rickety ten-speed—his dad’s old bike—and rode toward Colonial, where Geezer’s house perched on the corner. He wobbled as he went.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow at six fifteen!” I yelled after him, and he waved back, keeping his face forward.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mom followed me in the car, my bike weaving in and out of the headlights and making spooky shadows on the pavement. She kept the windows up because once Genki saw I was riding my bike without him, he had begun to howl.

  We stopped in front of March’s house, and he came out through the garage before I even parked my bike. We both wore black, but March had a hoodie on that made everything but his face disappear into the darkness; he wheeled a bike next to him.

  Mom pulled ahead and stopped when she was even with us. Soundlessly, we rode back to Summer Glen and stopped at the middle of the block, where she flipped a U-ey so that she’d see us when we rounded Colonial and made our way back toward the car. As she did, I could hear March’s quick breaths, and the sound made my heart beat faster and my stomach flutter. Once she parked, Mom rolled down the window and handed me an armload of rolled newspapers. I layered them in my basket.

  “Do both sides of Colonial and then come back to Summer Glen,” Mom said, her voice low. “I’ll be waiting right here. I’ll follow you to Honeysuckle until you turn back up Morningside.”

  Genki stood with his front paws on the console, trying to push his bulk around her so he could stare me down. Even from where I stood, I could hear the sad hum from his chest. Mom pushed him back with her elbow. “That should be enough papers until you reach Summer Glen.”

  I couldn’t wait to reach Summer Glen. Whatever we discovered, the mission would be over then, and we could go home.

  Mom put the car into park and pulled out her phone. I gave March a side-eye before taking off ahead of him on my bike, realizing that while our main purpose was to complete the mission, I still had to deliver newspapers. We didn’t have any time to lose since Mom would get worried if we didn’t make it back to the car soon. Delivering to the five houses on March’s street, including Geezer’s, would be the only time we were out of her sight.

  I threw the paper onto the porch of the first subscriber on Colonial; March wobbled behind me.

  We had three more papers to deliver before we reached Geezer’s house. I opened my pack, took out the ski mask, and pulled it over my head. March did the same, watching me closely. Then I put the headlamp over the mask and buckled the utility belt. I handed March a paper but had to wait while he finished putting his gear on. “Toss this on your doorstep.” I took off ahead of him and delivered the remaining two papers in a few seconds. I stopped at the last house and waited for March to catch up.

  Across the street and two houses down was Geezer’s house, which, as always, was a dark abyss, the trees and shrubbery blocking the view. March stopped next to me, his breath ragged and matching my own. While I wore a dark jacket and had warmed up as we rushed through the route, my arms were suddenly cold and prickly.

  “We don’t have much time,” I whispered. Even though I could feel the urgency of our mission—our one chance—I stayed there, safe on my bike. We hadn’t moved, yet my heartbeat grew stronger, and I heard it in my ears like the sound of a seashell pressed tight to my temple. I shook my head and handed March a newspaper from my basket. “You deliver the paper to his doorstep, and I’ll start looking through the garbage. Remember, don’t turn on your headlamp yet.”

  Slowly, we rode toward the house. Geezer’s pickup was parked in the middle of his driveway, and I laid my bike down behind it while March parked his in the gutter, fighting with the kickstand to get it balanced. He walked toward the porch as I pulled open the lid on the garbage can and turned on my headlamp.

  Inside were three white garbage bags tied at the top. I hadn’t really thought about this part. We would have to tear through the bags to see what was inside. How often do people look into their trash cans after they roll them to the curb and before the garbage man comes? Not often, I guessed, although if Geezer did look, he would know someone had picked through it all. I didn’t have time to think about it anymore; we had to hurry. I tore through the first bag.

  A smell of rotten meat blew at me, and I pulled my head back instinctively. March stood next to me, turned on his headlamp, and looked inside. “What?” he asked.

  “It’s gross,” I whispered.

  I turned the bag over and watched meat scraps, eggshells, paper napkins, plastic silverware, coffee grinds, envelopes, and DineWise boxes tumble out. I leaned over to grab the second bag but couldn’t reach it. I stood on the curb, bent over the side of the can, and grabbed at the knot on top. As I went to pull it out, the can tipped into the grass and March’s bike fell over, clanging when it hit the road. We both stood and waited as the sound echoed through the neighborhood. I got on my knees in the grass and reached into the can, now flat in the yard, and tore into the second bag.

  “Kazu!” March whispered, pointing toward Summer Glen. Car lights shone from a distance. “I think it’s your mom.”

  The second bag smelled worse than the first, but I pulled the trash out with my hands anyway and raked it toward me as I moved the headlamp over everything. In the last pile, stained by grease and some liquid, was a dog collar.

  “We gotta go!” March said, and I shoved the collar inside my jacket and righted the can on the road.

  “Take off the ski mask and the utility belt.” The dog tags on the collar jingled beneath my jacket as I jogged to my bike. I pulled off my mask, headlamp, and utility belt and dropped them into my basket.

  We met Mom in the middle of the street. She rolled down the passenger window and leaned across the console. “Where were you?”

  “Just turning around,” I said. “I think we missed the house that’s back from vacation. Which one is it?”

  Mom pulled the bundle-top from the dash and studied it under the interior light. March and I sat on our bikes, parked right at Colonial and Summer Glen, within eyeshot of Geezer’s front door.

  “It’s two-seven-two-two,” she said. “The house next door to March’s.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then we got it right.”

  I began to pedal toward the next subscriber, even though I hadn’t delivered to 2722 and would be charged a dollar for the miss.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  March and I had promised not to say anything about the dog collar until we could talk in private. I had slipped it to March at the end of the route to lock in the Christmas safe, and we went about our Monday like it was any other ordinary day. The cafeteria served rib-e-que for lunch. Officer Zig had us touch a smoker’s lung for DARE. Lana Mesker threw up in reading. And I had one last detention music lesson with Madeleine Brown. Unless she messed everything up again.

  Instead of having us sing this time, Mrs. Hewitt asked us to sit on the risers, handing us each a notebook and pencil.

  “I would like you to make a list of ten things you like most about your friends.” She fidgeted with her phone, turning on a set of portable speakers as she talked. “Maybe even your best friend. For example, my be
st friend knows that when I’ve had a bad day, I like to vent about it over two large orders of chili fries.”

  Madeleine and I both snorted at that piece of information. I couldn’t imagine ruining a perfectly good batch of fries with chili.

  “I’ll give you five minutes, so don’t stew about it for too long.”

  Surrendering to the task, I thought about March and made my list, including things like:

  • thinks I’m a good detective

  • likes to laugh

  • good listener

  • doesn’t make fun of me

  • keeps secrets

  I got so caught up in the assignment, my list had twelve items when Mrs. Hewitt called time.

  “Nice work, ladies,” she said. “Now. Switch lists.”

  For the first time since we’d started this detention craziness, we sang out in unison. “What?!”

  “You heard me.” She stood behind the music stand and folded her arms across her chest. “Switch lists.”

  I looked from Madeleine Brown to my open notebook and back again. Madeleine tore her page out and handed it to me like it was a math assignment she wanted me to grade. Either she wasn’t worried about me seeing her list or she had mastered the Moker Face, too—Madeleine Poker Face. Trying to mimic her shrug, I passed my list to her.

  “Now read what the other has written.” Mrs. Hewitt’s face almost wasn’t big enough for the grin that stretched, clownlike, from one end of her molars to the other. She paced before the risers, nodding her head at her genius, no doubt.

  Madeleine’s list wasn’t even serious:

  ˙ chews bubble gum

  ˙ follows me

  ˙ sits on my feet

  ˙ plays soccer

  ˙ licks my tears

  ˙ sings along to “Achy Breaky Heart”

  My face burned as I remembered the first thing on my list: thinks I’m a good detective. I passed Madeleine’s paper back without looking at her.

  Thanks, Mrs. Hewitt, for ruining my life.

  As if she could read my mind, Mrs. Hewitt packed up her stuff and said, “Well, ladies. I think our work here is done.”

  Before she even dismissed us, Madeleine Brown had shot out from the room like her soccer cleats were on fire.

  After school, March and I swung our legs from the top bunk in March’s room; if I wanted to I could reach up and touch Pluto on the ceiling, a peppered orb the size of my fist. Barkley’s pink collar lay between us on the galaxy bedspread. Her name tag, a pink doggie bone with swirly lettering, was faceup.

  “Rule number five: Involve police when we have hard evidence,” March said. “Barkley’s dog collar is hard evidence.”

  I didn’t say anything at first, thinking instead about the fight I’d had with Mom about my Halloween costume. If she didn’t like the idea of me pretending to be a detective, what was she going to say when she found out we had dug through Geezer’s garbage looking for clues?

  “Barkley was in Geezer’s house,” I whispered. My stomach clenched, and I almost wished I had caught something from Lana Mesker in reading. “We have to tell the police. And our parents.”

  March nodded.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  March and I had both decided the chaos of his house would be too distracting. I asked him to bring his parents to my house at seven.

  I had finished clearing the table when the doorbell rang. Mom and Dad shot each other a glance across the sink, where they were rinsing off dishes.

  “Candy? Marshall?” Mom said when she opened the door.

  March’s parents smiled behind him while March looked like a reflection of me, his mouth crooked and eyebrows drawn together. His mom ruffled his hair and said, “March said he and Kazuko have something they need to tell us tonight. Sounded pretty ominous, so here we are.”

  His dad shrugged, and Mom opened the screen door for them while shooting me the what-have-you-done look. I ducked back into the kitchen to grab my Sleuth Chronicle from the counter.

  “Make yourselves comfortable.” Dad motioned them into the living room toward the black sectional. I caught up and followed them in. March and his parents sat on the long sofa while Mom and Dad claimed the corner—their favorite spot. I was the last one standing, and everyone looked at me like I was about to give a presentation. I clutched the Sleuth Chronicle to my chest. March nodded at me to get started—maybe I was giving a presentation.

  March pulled Barkley’s dog collar from inside his coat and pushed it across the coffee table toward me. I felt as if I had swallowed an ice cube whole, and the chill spread from my throat to my chest.

  “What’s going on, Kazu?” Mom asked, eyeing the dog collar.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. But there was no backing out now—I might as well get it over with.

  “A few weeks ago, while doing the paper route, I found this at the bottom of a recycled bag.” I opened the Sleuth Chronicle and pulled the receipt from where it rested in the middle, like a bookmark. I handed it to Mom. She studied it and passed the receipt to Dad. It traveled to the end of the couch, where March sat like a no-good lump. He handed it back to me.

  “Soooo,” I said, wishing March would jump in and tell the rest. We had already decided not to share any information about the hack on account of March possibly getting arrested. And no doubt his parents would be more forgiving of Mission: Geezer’s Garbage Raid than they would Mission: Felony Hack. But still, a little help would have been nice.

  Nope. Nothing.

  “Because Geezer doesn’t have a dog—”

  Dad interrupted. “We don’t call people names, Kazuko.”

  “Because Mr. Crowley doesn’t have a dog, we thought the receipt was suspicious.” I took a breath. “But we knew we’d need more evidence before anyone would believe us. That’s why, today, when March and I did the paper route, we went through some of his garbage.” All the parents looked like they had sucked a lemon slice, their faces pinched and sour. I rushed on, hoping to hasten my leap from troublemaker to heroine. “That’s when we found this.” I held up Barkley’s dog collar. Mom snatched it from my hands.

  The crease between her brows deepened as she studied the dog tags. “Do you know how dangerous that was?” I could barely hear her.

  “I didn’t think anyone would care about the receipt unless we had more information,” I said. “But that collar proves Barkley was in his house, right? How else could Mr. Crowley have gotten it? He’s the Denver Dognapper.”

  The parents looked at each other, and March gave me a thumbs-up. I glared at him for making me tell the story by myself.

  “Well,” Dad said. “While this doesn’t prove he did anything, we should definitely let the police know.” He stood, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed his phone from the counter. When his call connected, he turned his back on the living room and lowered his voice to talk.

  Mrs. Winters looked at her husband and said, “Do you really think James is behind all this? From what we know, he’s just a lonely old hobbit.”

  March rolled his eyes. “Hermit, Mom. It’s hermit.”

  When March spoke, Mom seemed to snap from a trance, and her laser-gaze drilled into me. “We need to talk about what you two did today.” Her tone was calm and sharp, the worst combination.

  I realized I still stood before them like I was giving a book report, my hands clasped in front of me. The room seemed to shrink.

  “You got that right.” March’s dad spoke for the first time that night, his voice rumbling like Maggie’s Satan voice.

  “They’re sending an officer over,” Dad said, stepping back into the living room. “They’re going to want to talk to the kids.”

  I sat down next to March and held his hand, but only so that I could dig my fingernails into his palm. He’d better help me this time.

  It only took fifteen minutes for a policeman to arrive. Officer Rhodes was taller than both Dad and Mr. Winters, with straw hair and a
mole on the curve of his chin. Dad led him into the living room and invited him to sit on the teal leather armchair while I retold the story, except this time I sat on the couch between my parents. Officer Rhodes took notes, and then held out his hand for the receipt and Barkley’s dog collar. I slid them both toward him across the coffee table, even though I wanted to say no.

  When he finished all his questions, Officer Rhodes took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. “I’m glad you reported this,” he said. “But right now, all I can do is go to Mr. Crowley’s house and see if he’s willing to talk to me.”

  March and I nodded.

  “But Mr. Crowley doesn’t have to talk to me if he doesn’t want to.” Officer Rhodes leaned forward, tapping on his notebook with a pen. “He doesn’t have to let me in his house; he doesn’t have to show me his basement; he doesn’t even have to open the door. He could yell ‘Go away’ after looking through his peephole, and I would have to go away.”

  “But you have Barkley’s collar.” This was the first time March had spoken voluntarily. His voice came out high and squeaky.

  “And like I said, it’s good evidence as long as it’s authentic and came from where you claim it did,” Officer Rhodes said. “But I only have your word on that. I can’t prove it came from his house. And if he doesn’t want to talk to me tonight, I’ll have to see a judge. I can only go back and order Mr. Crowley to let me search his house and ask him questions if a judge says I can.”

  All the parents nodded like this wasn’t crazy talk. Any reasonable grown-up would insist they break the door down and rescue the dogs. I bit my lip to stop myself from saying anything else.

  “I’ll give you an update after contacting Mr. Crowley,” he said as he walked out the door, Barkley’s collar looped over his wrist. Then he turned around, looking sternly at March and me. The porch light made the badge on his chest extra shiny and the shadows under his brow dark. “I don’t know whether or not the collar will help us find Barkley or any of the other dogs,” he said. “But it was dangerous to look through Mr. Crowley’s garbage. Do you understand? Whether or not he’s a bad guy, you should never do any investigating—that’s our job.”