Howard Wallace, P.I. Read online

  HOWARD WALLACE, P.I.

  Casey Lyall

  STERLING CHILDREN’S BOOKS and the distinctive Sterling Children’s Books logo are trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

  © 2016 by Casey Lyall

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4549-1995-7

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  www.sterlingpublishing.com

  Contents

  Wallace Investigations: Rules of Private Investigation

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  Wallace Investigations

  Rules of Private Investigation

  1. Work with what you’ve got.

  2. Ask the right questions.

  3. Know your surroundings.

  4. Always have a cover story ready.

  5. Blend in.

  6. A bad plan is better than no plan.

  7. Never underestimate your opponent.

  8. Never tip your hand.

  9. Don’t get caught.

  10. Pick your battles.

  11. Don’t leave a trail.

  12. Everyone has a hook.

  Chapter One

  She didn’t knock, just barged through the door like she owned the place. She did own it, but that was beside the point. I knew my rights, and privacy was at the top of the list. Planting herself in the middle of the room, she scowled as her eyes swept across the floor. Dirty cups and rogue pieces of laundry were noted and filed away on her mental list of grievances. With a hand clamped over her nose, she turned to me. “Howard, how many times do I have to ask you to clean your room?”

  I told her to scram; a man’s room is his castle.

  Some mornings I should just keep my mouth shut.

  “Howard Jamieson Wallace.” The temperature in the room took a nosedive. “That’s the first and last time you ever speak to me like that. I want this place spotless when you get home. Hurry up and get dressed—you’re going to be late for school.” With one last grimace at the offending mess, she turned on her heel and left. Mothers. She had a point, though. It was about time for me to check in at the office.

  I pawed through the pile of clothes on the floor until I found a semi-presentable shirt. A half-eaten peanut butter sandwich from my sock drawer took care of breakfast. I pulled on my lucky coat, snagged my backpack, and headed out the front door.

  Around the corner, in the garage, my ride waited patiently. A cobalt Cruiser passed down to me from the old man, he called her “Big Blue,” and I saw no reason not to do the same. We’d patched her up more than a few times over the years, and she was now a two-wheeled Franken-bike held together by duct tape, twine, and baseball cards. Big Blue wouldn’t win any pageants, but she was mine. The fact that she broke down like clockwork merely helped me keep track of time.

  I strapped on my helmet, and we did a couple of turns in the driveway to warm up. Blue was never at her best first thing in the morning. I’d learned the hard way it didn’t help to rush her. Lugging a forty-pound bike to school after she conked out with a cramp was a surefire way to end up late and stuck with detention. When her clanking settled down to a dull thump, we headed out. The direct route from my house to Grantleyville Middle School spanned eight blocks. It wasn’t without complications, but the problem-free scenic tour added fifteen minutes to my commute. I could deal with a few bumps in the road if it meant logging extra Zs.

  At the corner of Maple and Front, Big Blue took a breather while I creatively rearranged the contents of my backpack. After six long weeks of getting put through the ringer, I’d learned a few tricks.

  Once my preparations were complete, we began the grueling trek up the giant hill also known as Maple Street. I knew what was waiting for me at the top. Blue shuddered as a tremor ran through my legs. Knowing was not the same as experiencing, and every time seemed to be a little bit worse. Get it together, Howard.

  I braced for impact.

  “Howie! Pull over.”

  Tim Grantley and Carl Dean leapt out of the bushes, blocking off the sidewalk. By far the largest, nastiest brutes in the eighth grade, both of them towered over me by at least a foot. Tim, the proud owner of more forehead than brains, had sprouted two individual facial hairs over the summer. He liked to stroke them while menacing his victims. I think he thought it was manly, but in reality, it was resulting in dry skin. Carl was the stoic flipside to Tim’s posturing; a hulking behemoth carved out of granite. His face never gave any warning before he lashed out, making him a more dangerous foe than Tim. It was just my luck these two bruisers were my new morning welcoming committee.

  Tim inherited this prime spot over the summer from his cousins, Greg and Jimmy Grantley. The town’s founding family made it a point to look after their own—especially when it came to the low-hanging fruit of the family tree. Tim wasn’t the brightest bulb, but in a sprawling clan like the Grantleys, they couldn’t all be winners. Besides, smarts weren’t exactly required in his line of work.

  With the help of his henchman, Carl, Tim ran an extortion racket, plain and simple. In exchange for the choicest items from your lunch bag, they’d let you pass without injury. I’d tried declining once, but that’d resulted in me attempting to ride my bike with my underwear pulled up around my ears. It hadn’t been much of a fight, as my only backup was a rusty pile of bolts on wheels. Now I was resigned to my daily shakedown.

  Resting my feet on the sidewalk, I waited patiently as Tim swaggered up to me and Blue.

  “Looked like you were planning to pass us by, Howie,” he said, one finger stroking his lip.

  I shook my head. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Tim.”

  He grinned at me as he rested an elbow on Carl’s plank-like shoulder. “That is good to hear, Howie, because I was concerned you were confused about your role in this little economic arrangement we have.”

  I sighed and dug a rumpled brown bag out of my backpack. “Nope, I am crystal clear.”

  Tim snatched it out of my hands and pulled out a chocolate chip cookie before tossing it back to Carl. “It’s like Dolphinism,” he said around a mouthful of delicious home-baked goods.

  Carl looked up from nosing through the bag. “Darwinism,” he said.

  “Exactly.” Tim nodded. “Survival of the fittest. We are of the fittest, ergo, we survive on your lunch.”

  Suffering through the indignity of their petty robbery was one thing. Having to listen to Tim’s philosophizing kicked the experience up to a new level of torture. If he and
Carl were the top of the food chain, the human race was doomed. I wondered briefly if the shaking under my feet was Blue’s nerves or Charles Darwin rolling in his grave.

  I reached down to wipe some stray cookie crumbs off Blue’s fender. Life must be so simple for a goon. See cookies, steal cookies, eat cookies, repeat. If only I had the muscle mass to try it out.

  “So, can I go?” I asked before looking up. Minimal eye contact was key in any Tim and Carl encounter.

  Tim laughed out a loud, obnoxious honk. “He can’t wait to get rid of us, eh, Carl?”

  Carl didn’t laugh. Carl never laughed.

  “You’re all fired up to leave us and hang out with your friends?” Tim feinted a punch, crowing with glee when I jerked back. “Two for flinching!” The shots to my shoulder nearly took me out of my seat. My sidekick didn’t help matters by falling over in a dead faint. As I struggled to right Blue, Carl watched impassively and Tim shook his head.

  “Howie, that is, unquestionably, the saddest bike I have ever seen.” He jerked his head in dismissal. “Go on, get going.”

  Blue didn’t need any more encouragement. I set my feet on the pedals, and, with a surprising burst of speed, we were on our way down the road. Tim and Carl tromped back into the bushes to enjoy the remainder of their morning of criminal pursuits.

  With every inch of sidewalk added between me and the dynamic duo, my pounding heart returned to its normal rhythm. Blue and I might know what to expect from those numbskulls, but that didn’t make it any easier to choke down. We took a sharp turn onto Hillside Street and wobbled.

  “Easy, Blue,” I said, patting the handlebars of my skittish ride. She was getting too old for this kind of excitement. The stash of food weighing down my left pocket probably didn’t help. My temporary solution to being accosted on a regular basis was to separate out the boring items from my lunch. As long as cookies and a sandwich were present, Tim and Carl never questioned if the bag was a little light. Today, I’d been left with an apple, carrots and two granola bars. I would survive, but a permanent solution had to be found—ideally something that gave them a taste of their own medicine. A person could only handle so much character building via public humiliation.

  Big Blue and I trundled toward school, dignity trailing in our wake. Tim and Carl were relegated to the back burner for now. I had a full caseload to look after, and revenge was an expensive enterprise.

  Chapter Two

  After locking Blue up at the racks, I headed to the far corner of the schoolyard. I’d set up shop behind the outdoor equipment shed, under an ancient maple. It gave me plenty of privacy for nervous clients and plenty of shade for afternoon naps. My desk was an old wooden number the school had marked for the dump. A pickle bucket rescued from recycling filled in for the missing leg while a second bucket set against the trunk of the tree made for a nice chair. As far as offices went, it wasn’t much, but real estate in my price range was hard to come by. I paid off Pete the custodian every Friday with a six-pack. (Five chocolate dipped and one jelly.) In return, he looked the other way when he mowed the yard and made sure no one ever cleared out my corner.

  I swept the leaves off the top of the desk and set down my bag. No messages. That was hardly a surprise since I hadn’t managed to find a secretary yet. Not that I had space for one anyway. Pulling the current case files from my bag, I took a seat. The early hour was taking its toll, and my eyes struggled to focus on the words in front of me. Tapping my feet on the ground, I fought against the inevitable. Resistance was futile. After rummaging around in my side drawer, I pulled out a pack of Juicy Smash gum and popped a piece in my mouth. I savored that first blast of flavor. I didn’t know why I even tried to kick the habit. It had been twelve hours since my last piece—a personal record.

  Refreshed, I read through the open files while I chewed. I had three active jobs on the books. The first one was a piece of cake. Our neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, had hired me to locate her missing cat, Gregory. A fat, mottled brown beast with a lazy eye, he wouldn’t have wandered too far from his food source. I planned to walk around our street shaking his food bag while calling out to him about the dangers of outdoor living. Suburban raccoons could be ruthless.

  A shadow fell across my desk, and I looked up to see a raven-haired dame staring down the sharp side of her nose at me.

  “What can I do for you, doll face?” I asked and offered up my most charming grin.

  Unmoved, she grimaced and pinched her lips, the words behind them too bitter to let loose. “I need your help,” she spat out.

  “Have a seat, toots,” I gestured at the guest bucket, “and tell me all about it.”

  “Ugh,” she groaned. “Cut it out, Howard, can you be serious for once?”

  I straightened up in my chair, a flicker of irritation buzzing down my spine. I’m nothing if not a complete professional. “Now listen, lady, I don’t know who you think you are but—”

  “You’ve known me since kindergarten!” she yelled, her hands waving in the air. “This is ridiculous. I don’t know what I was thinking.” With a practiced flip of her hair, she turned to leave. I closed my eyes and counted to three. Funny how people were more willing to acknowledge your existence when they wanted something. I opened my eyes to catch a glimpse of Meredith’s retreating form. You couldn’t afford to be too choosy about prospective clients in my line of work, and Pete’s donuts weren’t going to pay for themselves. Even if this particular prospective client stuffed dirt down your pants throughout all of first grade.

  “Meredith.” I said, holding out a hand. “Come on. Don’t be sore.”

  She looked back enough to pin me with some deadly side-eye. “Are you going to be serious?” she asked.

  “Completely.” At least until I could find something funny about working for one of Grantleyville Middle School’s upper crust. “Please,” I said, pointing to the guest bucket. “Have a seat.”

  She dismissed it with a sniff.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” I got out a fresh notebook. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  Glancing around nervously, Meredith stepped closer to the desk. “Someone’s trying to blackmail me,” she said.

  I sat back in my seat and scratched my head. “With what?” I laughed. “You’re a straight-A honors student with a record cleaner than a bar of soap.” Meredith kept silent, and an idea began to squirm around in the back of my brain. I couldn’t stop the smile that twitched across my lips.

  “Unless there’s more than meets the eye with Meredith Reddy,” I said. “Did you cheat your way onto the Mathletes? Been skimming from the student council accounts?”

  She cringed. I was on the right track with that last one. It always came down to money.

  “What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into, Madame Treasurer?”

  Meredith took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, locking me in a steely stare.

  “Do you ever wonder why you’re always by yourself in this disgusting hole you call your office?” she asked. “Because I’m starting to come up with a few good reasons.”

  That stung. My office area might be a little on the damp side, but it was nowhere close to disgusting. People paid good money for the kind of natural lighting I had. I guess it took a certain kind of person to appreciate its charms. I shrugged off Meredith’s dig and got back to business.

  “Start from the beginning.”

  “Yesterday afternoon, I went to get everything organized for the student council meeting this week, and I noticed the checkbook was missing. I thought I must have left it in the locker.”

  “Your locker?” I asked.

  “The student council locker, but I checked mine as well. I found a note taped to it when I got there.”

  “On the student council locker?”

  “My locker,” she said, impatience underscoring every word. “Keep up.”

  “Do you have it on you?” I asked.

  Meredith dug through the mes
senger bag resting on her hip and pulled out a small white envelope. I snatched it from her outstretched hand and held it up for closer examination. Scrawled across the front in choppy, block letters was Meredith’s name. A single sheet of paper lay folded up inside, covered in the same printing.

  If you want the checks back, it read, quit the student council by Friday’s meeting. If you don’t, have fun explaining to the student body where all their money went.

  I slid the note back in the envelope and looked up at Meredith. “Isn’t that kind of an empty threat?” I asked. “I thought you needed the teacher advisor’s signature on any check you wrote.”

  “You do,” Meredith said, sinking down onto the guest bucket. “And lucky for this guy, Mr. Vannick signed the first three checks.”

  “Whose brilliant idea was that?”

  “Mr. Vannick’s.” Meredith shrugged, and a small smile lifted the corner of her lips. “He thought it would make things easier,” she said. “The Winter Dance is coming up, everything’s agreed on, and this way I don’t have to bug him when it’s time to order stuff.”

  “How much money’s in this account?” I asked. “Five hundred bucks?”

  “Try five thousand,” she said.

  “Five thou—”

  Meredith darted out of her seat and pressed a hand against my mouth to smother the rest of my outburst. “Perhaps now,” she murmured, “would be a good time to talk about client confidentiality.”

  I pried her fingers off my lips. “I am a vault of juicy secrets,” I said. “I can handle yours. How did the student council end up so flush?”

  Meredith studied her hand for a moment before scrubbing it with the corner of her shirt. “The Parents’ Association makes a generous donation every year. Half of the board members are Grantleys, and they like to make sure their kids have a healthy budget to play with.”

  “Even if it means sharing with the common folk?” The Grantleys weren’t known for their altruism.

  “Sacrifices must be made when one has a standard of living to maintain.”