Murder at the Mall Read online

  “Well, we’re sure glad you did,” said Joe, looking gratefully at Adriana and Chet. Then he said to Chet, “Dude, you’ve got to hook me up with that personal trainer of yours—that was an awesome display!”

  Chet grinned proudly, patted his stomach, and said, “Two hundred pounds of solid muscle, yo.”

  “Hey, Joe,” I said. “I think it’s time we went after those two dirtbags, before they get away.”

  “You think we still have a chance to catch them?” he asked.

  “They said they were going to stay and watch,” I reminded him. “I guess they wanted to make sure the car came down as planned. Well, it did—which means they think they’re safe now. So they won’t be in any hurry.”

  “All righty, then,” said Joe. “Let’s go for a little ride!”

  “Will you guys be okay from here?” I asked the others.

  They all nodded.

  “Be careful, Frank,” Adriana pleaded. “You too, Joe.”

  “We will,” I assured her. “Let’s get moving, Joe—every second counts!”

  15.

  The Chase Is On

  Frank and I made a beeline for our motorcycles and revved them up full tilt. We circled down to the exit, then stopped for a moment to look at the intense fire from the wreck of Iola’s car.

  “Which way do we go now?” I asked Frank.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  But it turned out we didn’t have to guess. Eberhardt must have really enjoyed watching what he thought was the three of us burning to a crisp—because just then, a sleek-looking black sedan with tinted windows that had been sitting across the street with its headlights off suddenly screeched away from the curb, burning rubber.

  “That has to be them!” I yelled, and we flipped our visors back down for the chase.

  They had a couple blocks’ head start on us, and a V-8 engine to boot—but that wasn’t going to be enough to outrun our rides, with their turbo-boosted engines and fine-tuned maneuverability. Those bikes of ours are as good as their riders—and all bragging aside, Frank and I are very, very good.

  After a mile or so, they could see that we were gaining on them. The driver—I could only assume it was Eberhardt—flicked his lights on, veered hard to the right, and sped up Bigelow Boulevard, away from the bay and into Bayport proper.

  We were after them in a flash, but it was harder keeping up with them here in town. The sedan kept making sudden turns, forcing us to overshoot and make quick wheelies.

  Once or twice we thought we’d lost them altogether, only to spot them again as they came back around in a circle, trying to lose us but finding us instead.

  Finally Frank motioned for me to stop. We pulled over, and he raised his visor. “Let’s split up and circle around them,” he said. “If we can get in front, we can zap them with the hot button!”

  Boy, I liked that idea! It isn’t often that we got to use any of the high-tech gadgetry ATAC packed into our bikes—and the hot button is one of my favorites.

  We split up, me going one block left, and Frank one block right. Now we had their car between us—at least, I hoped we did. We both were going as fast as we could, dodging traffic and pedestrians, trying to get ahead of the black sedan.

  After a mile or so, I thought it was time to cut back over. I came back out onto Bigelow and looked behind me. There was the sedan, all right, coming straight for me!

  I sped ahead of them, but not too far. I could see the sedan coming closer and closer now, clearly trying to run me down. Then Phil leaned out the passenger window and started firing at me!

  I swerved from side to side to throw off his aim and wondered where Frank was—until I spotted him just ahead of me, pulling into the traffic on Bigelow.

  How had he gone that much faster than me? Well, I had no time to think about that now—the car was almost on me, Phil was still firing away, and Frank wasn’t much farther ahead.

  This time of night, this stretch of Bigelow Boulevard was empty of both cars and people.

  Perfect.

  Frank turned back to me and yelled “NOW!!”

  I hit the hot button, hard. Instantly, a spray of slippery oil and sharp tacks hit the pavement. I didn’t look back, but I could hear the screeching of brakes and tires as the sedan lost control and went into a skid.

  I sure hoped no one got hurt, but at that point, it was either Eberhardt and Phil or me and Frank.

  I pulled up to the curb and raised my visor. I could see the sedan half a block behind, its hood rammed into a streetlight, smoke rising into the air above it.

  “Let’s go get ’em!” shouted Frank.

  We sped back to the site of the crash and hauled Eberhardt and Phil from the front seats. Both of them were groggy, but they didn’t look too bad otherwise. Their air bags had kept them from more serious injury—but nothing was going to keep them from their day in court!

  It was a week later, and Frank and I were back at the East Side Mall for the first time since the case wrapped up.

  Speaking of wraps, we were chowing down on some Healthy Wraps with Iola, Chet, Adriana, and Steph.

  All the stalls were doing a brisk business today—except for Phil’s Phranks ’n’ Phries, which had a sign saying CLOSED—STORE FOR RENT. Phil and Eberhardt were currently in the Bayport jail, being held without bail as they waited for their trial.

  “Wow, these are really good!” Frank said, admiring his wrap.

  “I told you,” I said. “I was shocked myself, but it’s true. They’re much better when they’re not soaked in plastic.”

  “When we make the mall over,” Steph told us, “everything at the food court is going to be healthy and organic. It’s part of the new theme Grandpa and I have come up with—this place is going to be more people-friendly and more earth-friendly.”

  “You really think you can make money that way?” I asked.

  “Hey, I don’t hear any of you complaining about the wraps,” she answered with a smile. “If everything at the food court’s this good, we won’t have a problem.”

  Chet nodded enthusiastically, although the words he mumbled were a complete mishmash, due to the mouthful of wrap he was chewing on.

  “I think it’s great,” Adriana said. “I hope there’ll still be a job for me here.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Steph. “You’re my store manager from now on—I won’t have time to run In the Groove, since I’ll be running the whole operation here.”

  “Wow, Steph, that’s awesome!” Adriana exclaimed.

  “Hey, I owe my freedom to you guys,” Steph pointed out.

  “Well,” I said, getting up, “Frank and I have got to go hit the books. We’re about a week behind on our homework.”

  Frank got up too, and we said good-bye to our friends.

  “Hey, Frank,” I said on our way out, “now that Shangri-La is in bankruptcy, I see a real business opportunity.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “What do you say we go into the mall development business?”

  “I think we’d better stick to our day jobs, Joe.”

  “You mean at the food court?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said, and gave me a secret wink.

  He may be my big brother, but when he’s right, he’s right.