Shadows at Predator Reef Read online

  “Have you ever heard about fish heists around Bayport?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Murph started to reply before pausing for a second. “Well, come to think of it, maybe.”

  All four Hardy eyebrows shot up. Murph had our attention.

  “There has been a lot of online chatter lately about someone local selling rare tropical fish, like some of the ones in the Predator Reef exhibit: clown triggerfish, yellow long-nose butterfly fish, and emperor angelfish. There’s even speculation that someone could be smuggling them from inside the aquarium. It’s all just rumors, though; a lot of the stuff you hear online turns out to be bogus.”

  “Wouldn’t the aquarium notice if someone was stealing their fish?” Joe asked.

  “Maybe not,” I jumped in before Murph could answer. “The aquarium imported thousands of specimens for the exhibit. And a certain number of fish die here just like they would in the wild, so the staff probably wouldn’t be suspicious if a couple went missing. It’s still a far cry from stealing a giant sea turtle, though.”

  “So how much would a collector pay for a giant sea turtle on the black market if someone did manage to steal it?” Joe followed up.

  “A lot,” Murph said. “Rare wildlife collectors are just as competitive as other kinds of collectors who pay crazy amounts for stuff. Some do really love animals and mean well, but they just take it to the extreme. The worst are the ones who see their aquariums as status symbols.”

  From the disgust on Murph’s face, it was obvious what he thought about them.

  “Those collectors don’t actually care about the art of collecting something. They just want to show off their wealth. From what you hear, it’s the same guys who shell out millions for stolen masterwork paintings and exotic blood diamonds who have the biggest collections of endangered wildlife. And the rarer the animal, the more they’re willing to spend.”

  “So a famous endangered sea turtle like Captain Hook might be a nice addition for a big-time collector,” Joe speculated.

  Murph shook his head, a grim look on his face. “It gets worse, guys. It’s not just collectors who could be after her. Turtle parts go for big bucks on the TCM market.”

  “TCM?” Joe asked.

  “Traditional Chinese medicine,” Murph clarified.

  I took a deep breath. I knew where Murph was going with this, and I didn’t like it.

  “Some Eastern cultures use different animal parts in ancient homeopathic cures and superstition rituals,” I explained. “It’s a huge conservation problem. A lot of the global poaching that goes on is fueled by the demand for traditional medicines. It’s one of the big reasons sea turtles are so endangered in the first place.”

  “Poaching?” Joe asked. “You mean like people killing animals illegally?”

  “Yup,” Murph said. “There’s a black market for everything from rhino horns to tiger claws to turtle shells. Just the shell of a sea turtle as big as Captain Hook could sell for hundreds of thousands. And a lot of the organs are used for different cures and as exotic delicacies.”

  I really didn’t want to think about what that might mean for Captain Hook.

  “But is that really a problem in the United States?” I asked. “The endangered species laws are so strict here that I thought most of the turtle poaching happened in foreign waters, where the laws aren’t enforced.”

  “Exactly,” Murph said. “The rarer something is, the more people are willing to spend. So who knows how much a live specimen from the United States might go for if you found the right buyer?”

  Suddenly Mr. V’s million-dollar reward didn’t seem that outlandish. Someone might be willing to spend more than that just to add Captain Hook to their private collection . . . or much, much worse.

  “And that’s the other thing,” Murph said hesitantly. “There’s been chatter about something else. Word is there’s a cell of TCM poachers operating off the Bayport coast.”

  Murph began to get this queasy look. When he started talking again, I found out why.

  “They’ve been cutting the fins off sharks to sell for shark-fin soup,” he said. “The mutilated bodies have been washing up on shore.”

  THE BRITISH ARE COMING

  5

  JOE

  THE NEWS JUST KEPT GETTING worse. It was bad enough that Captain Hook needed special medication and that someone could have jeopardized her life by stealing her for their private collection. But the possibility that poachers wanted her for parts made me feel ill. I wasn’t as emotionally attached to her as Frank or Mr. V, but Captain Hook was a beautiful living creature, and I was beyond bummed to think someone might want to chop her up and turn her into turtle tonic.

  Murph wished us luck and promised to keep an ear out for any more intel on Captain Hook, stolen fish, or the poachers. The crowd around the aquarium was starting to thin out as the news vans dispersed in search of someone else to interview. That’s when I saw a tall, slim man in a custom-tailored pinstripe suit hurrying along the pier away from the aquarium. Maybe it was the briefcase he was carrying, but something about him looked really familiar.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Dirk Bishop?” Frank finished my question before I had a chance.

  “No way, dude. It can’t be.”

  “I think it is.”

  “Well, let’s find out.”

  Dirk Bishop was the one who got away, a snooty British treasure hunter who’d tried to buy some stolen gold coins we’d found aboard a Revolutionary War ship. Last time we’d seen him, he’d been on his way to make the buy, carrying what we thought was a briefcase full of cash, but he’d gotten spooked and took off before we could nab him. No one had heard a peep from Bishop since.

  We’d figured he’d gone back to jolly old England. But here he was again, right back where we saw him last, rushing along the docks with a briefcase, looking all too sneaky. Bad juju followed Bishop around like an ugly puppy—all the people he’d done business with on our last case had ended up either dead, kidnapped, or in jail—so whatever had brought him back to Bayport was bound to be bad news.

  “If it is him, he has real nerve showing his face in Bayport again,” Frank muttered as we trailed the man along the pier. “He must have known the police didn’t have anything on him to risk another trip back here.”

  “Either that or something gave him a good enough reason to take the chance anyway,” I said, wondering what kind of trouble he intended to stir up this time.

  There was something else about Bishop too. The guy was seriously tied into the international black market—and his treasure-hunting résumé included extensive experience as a shipwreck salvage diver, searching old, abandoned ships for loot. Was it a coincidence that he showed up right after someone had stolen a living treasure from a four-hundred-thousand-gallon tank?

  Frank and I kept our distance so Bishop wouldn’t notice he was being tailed. He made his way to the water taxi stop at the end of the pier, where one of the pontoon boats was getting ready to shove off. It was the only one in sight, so Frank and I were going to have to make a decision.

  “We can’t tail him once he’s on the water,” Frank said, echoing my thoughts. “Do we give up and track him down later or let him know we’re onto him?”

  “I think our guest deserves a welcoming committee,” I said.

  We hopped aboard the water taxi just as it was about to take off. Bishop gave us a look like he recognized us but couldn’t quite place who we were. A second later his eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said in his proper British accent.

  “Hey, Dirk,” I said cheerily. “It’s good to see you, too. Welcome back to Bayport.”

  “If it isn’t America’s own young Sherlock and Watson,” he said, though he didn’t make it sound like a compliment. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

  “We’re surprised to see you, too, considering how things turned out the last time,” Frank said.

  “It turns out your little town isn’t quite the wor
thless flotsam I had initially been led to believe,” Bishop sniffed. “Bayport, it seems, offers quite a few, uh, shall we say, rather interesting aquatic attractions. Although I find many of its human residents leave something to be desired.”

  There was little mystery as to whom Bishop was talking about.

  “Thirty-five hundred miles is a long way to travel just to see some fish,” I said.

  “Your aquarium is quite impressive, I must say. Mr. Valledor has outdone himself with that exhibit of his. It’s close enough to the real thing to make even the most seasoned ocean enthusiast momentarily forget they’re inside an aquarium. A shame, though. I had rather hoped to see the famous Captain Hook for myself.”

  “We bet you did,” Frank retorted.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean,” Bishop said, looking annoyed.

  “It’s kind of strange that every time you show up in Bayport, something valuable goes missing,” I said.

  “Whatever it is that you’re insinuating, I resent the accusation. I am a legitimate businessman, and it is a strictly legitimate interest that brings me back to your town, though I’m now beginning to regret that decision,” he said with a sneer in our direction. “Whatever may have become of your turtle, I hope they find her. I’ve spent quite a bit of time below the surface of our fair seas, and I’ve come to believe that the lives of our finned and flippered friends are often more precious than many of the human beings I’ve had the displeasure of meeting.”

  Before we could reply, he signaled for the water taxi driver to stop.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said as he stood up and brushed the wrinkles from his suit. “Cabbie, you can stop here. I usually find boat rides quite relaxing, but something on this one seems to have made me seasick. Good day.” He cleared his throat like he had a nasty glob of snot stuck there before adding, “Gentlemen.”

  “I don’t think that dude likes us too much,” I said to my brother.

  “Well, the feeling’s mutual,” Frank said.

  Bishop had obviously gotten off short of his final destination, so wherever he had intended to go would have to remain a mystery for now. Letting him know we were onto him had been a calculated risk. Some criminals get jumpy when they know you’re onto them; they get sloppy or force their hands, unintentionally exposing themselves or their accomplices. Others keep their cool and just grow more cautious or lie low until the heat dies down. I had a feeling Bishop wasn’t the type to scare easily.

  “Maybe giving up the element of surprise wasn’t the best idea after all,” I said to my brother as Bishop walked off, clutching his briefcase.

  “If he’s involved, whatever’s in that briefcase could be crucial to solving the crime,” Frank said.

  I watched Bishop and the briefcase disappear around the corner. “Hopefully we didn’t just blow our only chance to find out.”

  SHARK!

  6

  FRANK

  JOE AND I WENT FROM one type of shark encounter to another. Bishop may not have had a dorsal fin, but he was just as dangerous. The zebra sharks and blacktips we were going to be diving with at the aquarium were cuddly water bunnies compared to old Dirk.

  Right after our watery run-in with Mr. Bishop, we’d received a call from Ron Burris saying Chief Olaf’s forensic divers were done in the reef exhibit. They hadn’t turned up any new evidence, so now it was our turn to investigate Predator Reef.

  We met Ron in front of the aquarium. He was still in his fancy suit, but his tie was loosened at the collar, and it looked like he’d been doing a lot of running around since we’d last seen him.

  “Let’s walk and talk, guys,” he said, leading the way inside toward Predator Reef, speaking rapid-fire the whole way. “I don’t have much time. The firm already had a zillion things going on, and this whole missing turtle business has blown my schedule to pieces. A disaster like that at an exhibit we designed is a public-relations nightmare. Not that it’s anything I can’t handle.”

  Ron kept on talking as we approached the exhibit.

  “I don’t know what you two did to the police chief, by the way, but he wasn’t very happy when he called to let us know it was your turn to take a dip into the exhibit. Don’t worry, though, we’ve got your backs. Mr. Valledor says to tell you that you have our absolute support in this investigation. He’s got his hands full today, so he wants you to call me with a detailed report as soon as you’re out of the water.”

  With his accent, “water” came out “wataah.” But with his confident demeanor and ability to talk, I could totally see how he’d make a good PR guy. He’d been public relating so fast, we hadn’t been able to get a word in.

  “Did the police find anything at all?” I blurted before Ron could utter another sentence.

  “Nah, nada. Nothing they told us about anyway. As of now, they don’t know any more than we do. What about you boys? What have the detectives detected?” he asked, flipping the question back to us.

  “Nothing solid yet,” I said cautiously. Sure, we’d ID’ed a couple of suspects in Eric the Ecoterrorist and Bishop, and we had Murph’s tip about the poachers, but it didn’t help to go broadcasting your hunches this early in an investigation.

  “Come on, you can do better than that,” Ron said. “Give me something I can take back to Mr. Valledor.”

  “We’re investigating a couple of possible leads not directly linked to the aquarium,” Joe said, giving Ron just a little taste of what we’d found. “We’ll be able to give you details as soon as we know more.”

  “Not connected to the aquarium, huh?” He nodded. “Okay, okay, that’s a start. It’ll have to do for now at least.”

  Ron handed Joe his card, so now we each had one. “I’ve got to get on over to see Mr. Valledor, but call me the second you know something. And if you need anything at all, just tell me and I’ll make sure we get it for you.”

  By the time we opened our mouths to thank him, he was already on his way out of the room. He turned back before reaching the door.

  “Be careful in there,” he said, pointing at the circling blacktips. “Mr. V is counting on you.”

  Okay, so diving with sharks may sound like a really bad idea, but in reality there wasn’t much to fear from the sharks in the exhibit. Zebra sharks mostly eat crustaceans, mollusks, and small fish. There has never been a reported zebra attack on humans. At the aquarium, they were fed by hand.

  The blacktips were a slightly different story, however. They look totally sharklike and can be dangerous if you’re diving with them in the wild.

  “Frank, did you know that unlike most sharks, the blacktips live in social groups?” Joe asked me a little too loudly, trying to show off for Aly, who was walking past with another BAD diver. “You may not know this, but the staff has actually trained the ones at the aquarium to eat together at feeding stations so they won’t munch on the smaller fish in the exhibit. A well-fed shark is a happy shark. The black-tips in Predator Reef are so well conditioned to humans, they usually just go about their business as if the divers are any other kind of non-prey fish.”

  All I could do was shake my head and try not to laugh. My brother was repeating the same exact facts I’d told him that morning. He was laying it on thick for Aly. I snuck a peek over at Aly and saw her give a little smirk in Joe’s direction while pretending not to notice him showing off for her.

  A minute later she walked over with the other diver, a guy everyone called Big Chuck. Big Chuck worked with Aly teaching the scuba classes (and just in case it wasn’t obvious from the nickname, Chuck was not a small dude). Big Chuck was wearing a big wet suit, and Aly had on a Bayport Aquarium hoodie.

  “Oh hi, Aly, I didn’t see you there,” Joe hammed it up for his crush. “I was just telling my brother about some of the sharks in the exhibit, right, Frank?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I said, biting my tongue to keep from laughing. I hoped Aly didn’t notice.

  “Okay, Aquaman,” she said to Joe with a kn
owing smile. “I’ve got to take care of some stuff so I can’t hang around, but Big Chuck is going to be supervising the dive to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Joe said. “I’m practically a pro.”

  “Not yet you’re not. You still have your big certification test coming up tomorrow,” she reminded him.

  “I’ve got it in the bag,” Joe bragged. “I think the instructor likes me.”

  Aly laughed and turned to Big Chuck. “Take good care of them, Chuck. It will make me look bad if Joe drowns before passing the exam.”

  Joe’s confidence drained away as soon as Aly walked off. Something else had grabbed his attention.

  “Um, hey, Frank,” Joe whispered, making sure Aly didn’t accidentally overhear. “We don’t have to worry about them when we dive, do we?”

  He pointed to the Shark Row tank, where the big sharks slowly circled the aquarium lobby. It wasn’t crazy of him to be nervous. While the vicious-looking sand tigers were actually (usually) pretty docile around divers unless provoked or threatened, they were still fearsome predators. The aquarium staff took every precaution to make sure there were never any incidents.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I reassured him. “All the big ones stay in Shark Row. There aren’t any sand tigers in Predator Reef. The exhibits share a holding tank where animals can be moved for veterinary care, but it’s always kept sealed off from one side. That way the big sharks can’t ever get into the reef exhibit, where they might be tempted to feed on their smaller cousins.”

  “Ugh, they’re cannibals?” Joe grimaced. “As if they weren’t scary enough.”

  “They’re a lot more likely to eat each other than people,” I said, taking the chance to give my brother a better understanding of sharks. “Statistically, more people are killed every year by cows than by sharks. People are afraid of sharks, but the truth is that sharks have a whole lot more to fear from us. Shark hunting, commercial fishing, and the illegal shark-fin trade have decimated global shark populations to critical levels.”