Framed (10 page)

T
he electronic bracelet was tight and uncomfortable and squeezed his leg. Griffin was never going to get used to it — just like he was never going to get used to the idea of why he had to wear it.

“The PEMA unit sends a wireless signal to the monitoring hub we’ve installed in your basement,” intoned Detective Sergeant Vizzini, who had just clapped the device onto Griffin’s ankle.

“PEMA?” asked Mr. Bing weakly.

“Police Electronic Monitoring Anklet. I’ve set the range for two hundred feet, which should cover the house and most of the yard. Anything beyond that triggers an alarm at headquarters. The warning light will flash green, and you’ll have ten seconds to get back in range. After that, it goes
red.” He looked at Griffin with expressionless eyes. “You don’t want that.”

The worst thing about this was that Mom couldn’t look at the anklet without sobbing. “I can’t believe this is happening to us! Our son is not a criminal! What would he want with Mrs. Egan’s grandmother’s brooch? Don’t you understand that he’s looking for the ring because he doesn’t have it?”

“What I understand,” said Vizzini, “is that he was under court-ordered house arrest, and he ignored it. Now — if you try to remove the anklet, the alarm sounds. If you try to move the hub, the alarm sounds. If you try to tamper with any of the settings, the alarm sounds. Bottom line, you’re under the same house arrest. The only change is that this time you have to do it. Any questions?”

“What about school?” asked Griffin.

“You’re authorized for that. Don’t abuse it. JFK will be giving us updates throughout the day. And don’t worry about showering. This thing’s indestructible.”

Before leaving, Vizzini took Mr. Bing’s credit card imprint. That was the biggest insult of all. The Cedarville Police Department actually made you pay for your own PEMA monitoring — $39.95
a day, plus a security deposit. Like he was going to steal this fabulous fashion accessory.

“Well, Griffin —” His father looked like he hadn’t slept in a long time. “You don’t need me to tell you you’re in deep trouble here.”

“But I’m
innocent
,” Griffin protested. “You said you believed me.”

“We do,” his mother whimpered softly. “But I look at that awful thing on your ankle and wonder what difference it really makes. I may be crazy, but I’d rather have you guilty and getting away with it than innocent and clapped in that leg iron.”

“One thing’s certain,” his father went on grimly. “It definitely didn’t help that you had such a reputation with the local police. So when it came to believing you, why should they?”

For Griffin, it was the ultimate blow. Throughout this whole nightmare, the one thing he’d always had going for him was the fact that his parents were on his side. They still were — sort of. But they also seemed to blame him — as if this misfortune, which he’d had no hand in, was somehow his fault. It was almost like the fact that he was innocent didn’t even matter to them.

If your own mom and dad didn’t support you, who would?

His friends? They were the best, loyal to the end. But this might really
be
the end. On the phone, Ben had mentioned that all five of them were having major hassles with their families over Operation Stakeout — especially Savannah, whose parents had the evidence right in their attic. At least the others weren’t in trouble with the police, since Dr. Evil had never found the webcams in his trees or the microphone down his chimney. But everybody was banned from having anything to do with Griffin Bing.

The Man With The Plan was The Man With The Blame. He had the ankle bracelet to prove it.

And after all he’d suffered, all the anguish he’d caused his parents, and all the trouble his friends had gotten into for his sake, the most important question was not a single millimeter closer to being answered:

Where was Art Blankenship’s Super Bowl ring?

I
t was after eight p.m., and Celia White was still at her desk.

This was nothing unusual. She always worked late. Uncovering the dark side of Cedarville and surrounding areas didn’t happen during a nine-to-five shift. What was different was that she was all alone in the offices of the
Herald
. Back when she’d first started, this newsroom had bustled well into the night, filled with reporters following breaking stories and fine-tuning articles and features to perfection. Now the norm was journalists who didn’t care — oh, how she missed the old days!

Well, maybe none of her colleagues took pride in their work; Celia White had a responsibility to her readers. She would stay here as long as it took to finish this latest column on youth run wild in her hometown.

But not without a little dinner.

As she left the office in search of the cheese sandwich in the glove compartment of her car, the closet door opened slowly and a shadowy figure stepped out into the room. Pitch Benson hurried to the desk, moving stealthily through the empty room. If Dr. Egan didn’t have that ring — and even
that
wasn’t 100 percent certain — one of the other suspects did. There was no chance for Griffin to find the real culprit now — not with an electronic bracelet on his ankle. It was up to his friends to take action on his behalf.

She began riffling through the drawers, searching….

The gym bag, fully packed, sat directly under the sill.

Ben crouched outside the Vader home, peering in through the glass. No sign of Darren. Ben would never have a better chance than this.

The window sash was open about three inches — just enough space for him to reach in with his father’s old beach metal detector. He passed the scanning dish over the duffel, ears alert
for the beep that would indicate the presence of metal — the metal of a Super Bowl ring.

“Going to practice, Mom!” came Darren’s foghorn voice from inside the house. “I’ll just grab a Gatorade first.”

Uh-oh. Ben withdrew the device by its long handle and ducked into the bushes, peeking in over the sill with one eye.

After a moment, Darren appeared, a half-gallon jug of Gatorade in his meaty fist. Hastily, Ben dropped out of sight and pressed himself up against the side of the house.

Darren strode over to his bag, uncorking the bottle and taking a long pull. Then, in a single motion, he threw the window wide and dumped the rest of the contents into the bushes.

The big boy smiled in satisfaction at the cry of shock that came from below.

“Hey, Slovak,” he called out the window. “You stink at spying. Tell Bing he better not even think about trying to pin this rap on me. Got it?”

Drenched, muddy, and thoroughly humiliated, Ben crawled onto the Vader lawn in retreat, the metal detector dragging behind him.

“And you owe me a Gatorade!” Darren shouted after him. “You made me spill this one!”

A damp and sticky Ferret Face glowered plaintively up at Ben from his collar. A quick murmured “Sorry, pal” was all the apology Ben had time for. He had to drop the metal detector at home and meet the rest of the team at school before calisthenics.

Melissa pulled the papers from her printer and stuffed them in the computer bag that served as her backpack. Ever since the fiasco at Konrad’s, she had been monitoring the e-mail of the four suspects, Celia White, Darren Vader, Tony Bartholomew, and Dr. Egan.

The meeting place was Ben’s locker. This was for two reasons. First, it was close to the entrance, so they could run outside quickly when calisthenics started. And second, it was right next to Griffin’s locker. That closed vented door — and the friend who was not there to open it — served as a reminder that they could not give up until they had won justice for The Man With The Plan.

Ben, Pitch, and Logan were leaning against
the beige metal row when Melissa arrived. Only Savannah could not attend. Since the discovery of the command center, her parents had been watching her every move. To leave for school an hour early would have seemed suspicious when so much heat was on. Savannah was walking on eggs.

“Celia White’s a dead end,” Pitch was telling the others. “There was nothing but junk in her desk.” She turned to Ben. “Any luck with Vader?”

“If getting slimed with Gatorade counts, it was the luckiest day of my life,” Ben replied bitterly. He squeezed the front of his sweatshirt, wringing out a trickle of yellow liquid. “His gym bag’s clean, though. The metal detector didn’t beep.”

“I struck out with Tony Bartholomew,” Logan confessed, shamefaced. “I used the Stanislavski method to portray his cousin from Arizona, but he saw right through it. I probably didn’t have enough time to prepare for the role.”

“Probably,” Pitch agreed sarcastically. “Either that or he recognized a kid he sees around school every single day.”

“I might have something on Tony,” Melissa ventured, taking the papers from her bag. “He sent an e-mail asking about Super Bowl rings and how
much they’re worth. That could be because he’s trying to sell one.”

“Or he could just be pricing them since he thinks the missing one is his,” Ben said with a sigh. “Face it, we’re right back where we started. We can’t even totally rule out Dr. Evil. Just because the ring wasn’t in the box he brought to Konrad’s doesn’t mean he hasn’t got it stashed someplace else.”

Melissa parted her curtain of hair to reveal a furrowed brow. “There must be something we’re missing here.”

Pitch nodded slowly. “You know what always bugged me? How could a Super Bowl ring sit in the custodian’s supply closet for all those years without anyone noticing it?”

“Maybe nobody recognized it for what it was,” Logan suggested.

“No way,” Pitch countered. “Mr. Clancy’s head practically exploded when I mentioned the sixty-nine Jets, and he’s in that closet, like, twenty times a day. I say we check it out.”

The storage area doubled as offices for the building custodians. It was located down a half flight of steps by the back entrance. On one side of the space was the school’s loading bay. On the
other, the staircase continued to the furnace room in the basement.

The team approached cautiously, hugging the banister. The storeroom was off-limits to students. No one wanted to have to explain what they were doing there.

Pitch peered around the wall of the landing. No custodians. “All clear,” she whispered.

They stepped out into the loading bay and saw it immediately. Mr. Clancy’s work area was a symphony of blue and white. Colts posters, pennants, and bumper stickers were everywhere. The walls were plastered with photographs of great Colts players from Johnny Unitas to Peyton Manning. A Colts stadium blanket held the place of honor, draped over the custodian’s desk chair.

Ferret Face stopped sucking on Ben’s Gatorade-soaked collar to gaze at so much bright color.

“Whoa,” said Ben. “Now we know why Mr. Clancy always wears that blue and white headband.”

Logan was confused. “I wonder how he got to be such a big Colts fan. I heard he’s from Maryland, not Indianapolis.”

“The Colts used to play in Baltimore before moving to Indy,” Pitch explained. Suddenly, her
eyes were wide. “Hold on! Nineteen sixty-nine — Super Bowl Three! The New York Jets beat the Baltimore Colts in the greatest upset in history! Colts fans are still bent out of shape about it!”

“So?” All at once, Ben clued in. “Wait a minute! You’re not saying that Mr. Clancy is so mad about a football game that he stole the ring just so he wouldn’t have to
look
at it? It was more than forty years ago!”

“He
did
call it the worst day of his life,” Logan reminded them.

“Dr. Evil said he has the only key to the display case,” Melissa added. “But that’s probably not true. The custodians must have a copy somewhere.”

Ben was unimpressed. “I don’t know, you guys. Isn’t this kind of far-fetched?”

“Probably,” Pitch agreed. “But at this point, far-fetched is the best we’ve got.”

T
he command center was just an attic again. It had taken some doing. Melissa had hauled off her three laptops and their related wiring. The card table and tripod were folded and stowed again. The telephoto lens was in the trash along with the broken glass. Also at the curb, in green garbage bags, were the many pizza boxes, fast-food containers, and drink bottles that had sustained Operation Stakeout through the long, hungry hours.

Now all that remained was to straighten up the chaos caused by Ben and Logan’s wrestling match. How crazy was that? Neither of them would discuss the reason behind their fight, but they were both still mad. Ben refused to talk to Logan, and Logan vowed to exclude Ben from his Oscar party guest list when he got famous.

Savannah got down on her knees and began to toss plastic plates and cups back into an overturned picnic basket. A moment later, Cleopatra was at her side, helping.

“Thanks, Cleo. You’re the best.”

An offended whine came from Luthor as he turned over on a pile of rolled-up carpets.

“Don’t be so sensitive, Luthor. I told you not to eat those lima beans. It’s not our fault you got a stomachache.”

The monkey tossed in the final napkin ring, and Savannah closed and latched the basket. She hefted it and jammed it onto a high shelf.

And gawked.

There, lined up neatly in the space that had been concealed by the basket, was an array of random objects — a silver Olympic coin, a cuff link, a tiny bell from a Christmas wreath, a gold pen cap, a rhinestone earring, a shard of broken crystal, and a gleaming black sequin from an old Halloween costume. It was the strangest collection of unrelated items she’d ever seen. Why, the only thing this stuff had in common was —

When full understanding came to her, Savannah the animal expert sat down in the middle of the floor, gaping in astonishment.

Mrs. Bing answered the frantic knocking at the door.

“Savannah, I’m happy to see you, dear, but maybe you shouldn’t be here. I know your mother said —”

“I have to talk to Griffin
right now
!” Savannah blurted.

Mrs. Bing was worried. “This is just a friendly call, right? There’s been enough trouble already.”

“I promise,” Savannah swore. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Griffin.”

Mrs. Bing stood aside and Savannah pounded up the stairs. When Griffin heard this, he’d freak. This was the proof that he was innocent!

She knocked. “Griffin! It’s me, Savannah!” She threw open the door to reveal The Man With The Plan, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring listlessly at the wall. He looked like he’d been in the same position for the past ten hours.

She dropped the bomb. “Griffin, I know where the ring is!”

Four thousand volts of electricity could not have brought Griffin to his feet faster than this statement.
“Where?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly, but I know what happened to it. Remember that rat in our house? Turns out it was a
pack rat
! A pack rat, Griffin! Isn’t that amazing?”

Griffin’s face dropped the distance between
I know where the ring is
and
it was a pack rat
. “I’m not following you.”

“Listen — pack rats are attracted to shiny objects — like a retainer, or a Super Bowl ring!”

Griffin frowned. “How could a pack rat in your house steal a ring that’s at school?”

“I’m not telling it right!” Savannah grabbed two handfuls of her own hair. “Okay — pack rats don’t just collect shiny things; they swap their old stuff when they take a new object. What if you lost your retainer at my house — we thought so, remember? The pack rat was attracted by the metal and took it up to the attic. When I was cleaning up the command center, I found his stash — a whole lineup of glittery junk.”

Griffin looked puzzled. “But my retainer ended up in the display case at school.”

“Here’s the thing: Somehow, the pack rat must have crawled into my knapsack, or hidden in my science project or something. That’s how he got out of our house. So there he was at school, with
the retainer. And what does he see? A big, gold, diamond-studded ring!”

Griffin was skeptical but interested. “How did he get inside a locked display case?”

“He’s small,” she explained, “and his bones are soft. Rodents can squeeze through a half-inch opening. There’s at least double that gap in the case where the two pieces of sliding glass lock together. It would be easy for him to drag the retainer in and the ring out.” She fixed him with a piercing stare. “Don’t you get it? The ring is in his secret stash, somewhere in the school!”

She expected him to be excited — overjoyed — jumping and cheering. Instead, he lay down on his bed, looking even gloomier than before. His pant leg rode up a little, and she could see the electronic device on his ankle, its indicator light a steady green. She gulped and glanced away.

“Well, I guess anything’s possible,” he said finally.

“Possible?” Savannah was bewildered. “What’s the matter with you? It’s a slam dunk! You don’t even have to find the ring. Just explain what happened.”

“Are you kidding me? That would be like saying the dog ate my homework.”

“Dogs don’t eat homework,” she insisted. “But everybody knows that a pack rat —”

Griffin shook his head sadly. “Not everybody. Only you. Your mind is so into animals that this story is the most obvious thing in the world to you. To anyone else, it’s going to seem like an excuse to get myself off the hook — and a crazy one at that. I’d practically be saying that the pack rat planned all this to frame me.”

“A pack rat is incapable of advance planning and evil intent,” she argued. “You’d be saying that he did what pack rats always do — steal one thing and leave another in its place!”

“If I tell a story like that to Judge Koretsky, my next PEMA bracelet will be around my neck.”

She was adamant. “It’s not a story. It’s what happened. I know it as well as I know my own name.”

Griffin sighed. “Pitch has a new suspect, too. She thinks it might be Mr. Clancy because he’s still mad at the Jets from nineteen sixty-nine —”

“It’s not. I already told you —”

“— and I suppose there’s always the others — Vader, Tony …” He went on as if no one had spoken.

“Grif-fin!”

But as much as she begged, badgered, and threatened him, he would not accept her pack rat explanation as the truth. To him it was one theory of many, and he didn’t try to hide the fact that he considered it to be the wildest of the bunch.

By the time Savannah left the Bing house, she was feeling even lower than Griffin, her feet dragging on the pavement. She had seen him discouraged, flustered, disappointed, intimidated, terrified, and even in the depths of despair. But she had never — not once — seen The Man With The Plan give up.