Gold Medal Murder (3 page)

“Hey guys! So, for this mission, it's going to be the three of us out in LA.”

This just kept getting better. We'd had a few recent bad matchups with other agents on missions, including one who had tried to kill us in the Florida Everglades. But working with Vijay was always awesome. He was as good an agent as he was a fun person.

On the TV screen, Vijay continued to break down the mission for us. He would mostly be working remotely, in charge of the computers and communications end of things. This mission was going to be spread over a lot of territory filled with a lot of people, and we couldn't be everywhere at the same time. Our primary goal was to keep Scott safe.

“As for you two,” Vijay continued, “Frank, you're going to be posing as the head of the Bayport chapter of the Scott Trevor Fan Club, as well as an amateur swimmer—and the winner of a recent “Biggest Fan” competition held by Sportztime, the mega–sports website and TV channel. As the winner, you've been granted the right to follow Scott around throughout the entire Olympics, with a backstage pass that should get you entry to pretty much
everywhere except the women's locker room.”

“Joe, you're going to be Scott's new personal assistant. Anyone who wants to talk to Scott is going to go through you. As will all his e-mail, phone messages, etc. If anyone tries to slip anything to Scott, you're going to intercept it.”

“Woo-hoo!” Frank and I shouted in unison. Almost as though he had heard us, the Vijay on the screen held up one hand.

“There is, however, one catch. Scott will know Joe is with ATAC, but Frank, you're going to be in deep cover on this mission. No one—not even Scott—will know that you work for ATAC. You two will have to act as though you don't know each other. Most of your communication will have to go through me. These threats could be coming from anyone, even someone close to Scott, and we need to have someone that Scott can't accidentally give away.”

Frank and I looked at each other. This was going to be tough. We worked together really well. It was, in fact, what made us the best agents in ATAC. Working separately was a whole different story. We'd be able to check in, but still. This mission was going to try our abilities to the limit.

“Good luck guys,” said the recording of Vijay. “I'll see you out in LA in three days. Until then—enjoy ZOMG Kill 4!”

Since ATAC hadn't provided us with a cover story for our parents, Joe and I came up with one of our own. We were both on the swim team at school, and it wasn't hard to make up a story about a field trip to LA for the Olympics. We faked a permission slip for our Mom to sign. If our dad, Fenton Hardy, hadn't known the truth about ATAC and been able to cover for us, it probably wouldn't have worked. But with him on our side, it wasn't too hard to get our mom and aunt Trudy to believe that Bayport High was sending us to Los Angeles for two weeks, all expenses paid.

We had a few days to prepare before we left for LA, which Joe spent playing ZOMG Kill 4. He said it improved his “hand-eye coordination,” his “strategic
survival skills,” and his “likelihood of surviving an all out zombie/human war.” Mostly, it seemed to give him calluses on his hands and kept him from sleeping at night. By the time we left, he looked as much like a zombie as any one of the bad guys in the world of ZOMG.

I decided to spend some time doing research on Scott Trevor, since I was supposed to be his number one fan, after all. I was already a little familiar with him. It was hard not to be, really. His face was everywhere: cereal boxes, TV commercials, ads for shoes. I never understood the shoe ads. You didn't wear shoes for swimming. But I guess a famous face can sell anything.

I watched videos of him at the 2004 Olympics, where he'd beaten his own world record in the one hundred meter freestyle event. I memorized his times, his height, and even his favorite food (pad thai with lots of tofu—he was a vegetarian). If he had been a subject in school, I would have gotten an A+. By the time we were ready to leave, Scott Trevor had even begun to appear in my dreams! And boy, were those some strange dreams.

Joe and I took separate flights from Bayport to LA. He would be meeting up with Scott first, in an official ATAC briefing so that Scott would know exactly who and what he was. The next day, I would be presented to Scott as the winner of the “Biggest Fan” competition held by Sportztime. Sportztime was currently filming
a documentary about Scott, and our first meeting was to be captured on camera. I just hoped that we had the case wrapped up before it aired!

The taxi from the airport dropped me off outside of Scott's giant house/complex, which was right outside LA, along the water. In all the interviews, Scott said he preferred swimming in the ocean to the pool, unless he was racing. I was struggling up the walkway when a voice yelled out to me.

“Wait! Stop! Go back.” A man came running out of the house toward me with a microphone in his hand. He was exactly what I thought people from LA would look like: tan, tall, blond. Though in his forties, he was obviously still in good shape. A cameraman came running after him. I almost did a double take when I recognized Vijay, who pulled the camera away from his eyes just long enough to shoot me a quick wink.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm—”

“Frank Carson, I know.” Carson was the fake last name ATAC had given me for the mission. The man with the microphone continued talking. “I'm Alex Smothers, founder of Sportztime. And I wanted to get you exiting the taxi for the doc, but now the taxi's gone and the shot's ruined. Oh, well, let's get you inside.”

Alex Smothers had been an Olympic swimmer in the 1980s, and had managed to turn his fame into a lasting
sports media empire. He also didn't seem to breathe between any of his sentences. If he could swim as fast as he could talk, no wonder he had been so famous! I'd done some reading on him, too, since he was the host of the “Biggest Fan” competition I had supposedly won. The competition had been real enough—ATAC had just rigged the results for me.

Scott's house wasn't just big, it was a complex. There were wings and levels and gardens, all climbing up a hill in some prime waterfront real estate. We entered through the gym. And this wasn't some basement home gym, with a few weights and one of those “total workout machines” that were advertised in my spam mail. This was a full private gym: treadmills, barbells, weight machines, sauna, and Jacuzzi. And, of course, a full-size Olympic pool.

Scott was doing laps when I entered. I'd seen the same thing in a lot (a
lot
) of television clips, but seeing him in person was a whole different experience. The way he moved was unreal. It was as though the water parted to make room for him. He was so at home in the water it was like he was a merman or a dolphin—something definitely not human or meant to live on the land. Before I'd even begun to grasp how fast he was moving, he had already crossed the length of the pool and was climbing out near me.

A man ran over to hand Scott a towel. In my mind,
I checked him off from the list of people and names with which ATAC had provided me. It was Lee Singh, Scott's manager. Singh had “discovered” Scott at the age of twelve, when he'd been Scott's coach on his middle school swim team. He had been a close friend and advisor ever since, though it was only recently that he'd taken up the position of manager as well. There were a number of other people in the room as well: Joe, in his role as Scott's new personal assistant; Lexi Adams, Scott's girlfriend and fellow Olympic athlete; and Lexi's manager, who looked (from the strong resemblance) to also be her father.

With a broad smile on his face, Scott walked over to me.

“Hey man,” he said. “I'm Scott Trevor. I hear you're my number one fan. Good to meet you.”

I stuck out my hand, and he grabbed it firmly in both of his. As we shook, I could feel Vijay going in for the close-up. For a moment, I didn't know what to say. It wasn't hard to pretend to be a nervous fan around Scott. He was pretty awe-inspiring.

“Uh, yeah! That's me. Your fan. I mean—it's great to meet you, Scott. Sir. Mr. Trevor.”

Scott laughed. “Call me Scott,” he said. “So I hear you're a swimmer too?”

“Yeah,” I said. “A little.”

The conversation halted. Neither of us knew quite what to say. Luckily, Alex stepped in.

“Scott, what sort of advice would you have for Frank, as an aspiring swimmer, and all your other fans out there?”

I stepped aside as Scott began to talk into the microphone about the importance of daily training and really “going for it.” I didn't pay a lot of attention. It was clear that I had served my purpose for the documentary, and my job now was to stand here and smile. Occasionally, Alex would direct a comment my way, like “Isn't that interesting?” I would nod and smile, and he would turn back to Scott so they could discuss their shared experience of being Olympic gold medal swimmers. Joe and Vijay took turns making faces at me when no one was looking, and I tried not to burst out laughing.

At one point, I could feel Scott getting a little tense. I tuned back in to the conversation.

“Now, up until recently, you were romantically linked to your former manager, Elisa von Meter,” said Alex. “But there were some people who maintained that you and Lexi were always together, and that Ms. von Meter was a red herring. Would you care to comment on that?”

“No,” said Scott firmly. Watching the interview, I could see the angry look on Lexi's manager's face. Yup, no doubt about it—that was her dad.

“Well,” Alex started again, “how long have you and Lexi been together?”

Lee Singh stepped between Scott and the camera.

“I'm so sorry,” he said. “But we're running a little behind schedule, and I'm afraid Scott has to do his warm down and eat. He's on a strict schedule these days. I'm sure you understand the pressures of being an Olympian, right, Alex?”

Alex didn't look pleased, but he knew how to take a hint. He put down the mic and gestured to Vijay to stop filming. While they began to pack up their gear, I asked Scott if I could use the restroom.

“Oh, yeah, sure. You could just go in the locker room, but it's a little gross in there. So take the third door over there, go through the long hallway, up the stairs to the next floor, and it's the fourth door on the left off the living room.”

This was what I'd been hoping for. Aside from meeting Scott officially, my other job this afternoon was to help hide a series of video cameras around his house. Vijay would be monitoring the cameras from the Communications HQ he had established off-site, so if anything went down, we'd know about it.

It was also a great chance to check out the rest of Scott's house. Unlike the training facility, which was full of equipment and people, the house was quiet and empty. Not empty like he hadn't moved in, but empty like he wanted it that way. Everything was white, from the walls to the carpet to the furniture. In the hallway,
there was a giant white vase filled with white flowers. The staircase was a spiral staircase, all white, made out of iron, and it seemed to go all the way up to the top of the house. Sun streamed down from a skylight somewhere far above.

The place was insanely neat. Everything was in its place and there was no dirt anywhere. But it couldn't have been too hard to keep it that way—there was nothing to get out of place. He didn't even have any books, at least not that I could see. No wonder Scott could swim for hours a day—he had nothing else to do!

It was hard to place the cameras in such empty rooms, but I did the best I could. They were small, about the size of a quarter. I hid one among flowers and another few on the staircase. I tried to find Scott's bedroom, but to no avail. There were doors everywhere, leading to more white hallways and empty rooms. It was a house you could easily become lost in.

Finally, I found myself in the living room Scott had mentioned. It was ginormous! But everything in it was white, making it hard to tell where the floor ended and the walls began. Maybe it was all an optical illusion, and it wasn't as big as it looked? Or maybe it was even bigger. It hurt my eyes to try to focus on anything too carefully.

About halfway across the room, a flicker of motion
caught my eye. I looked down. Had something brown just flitted underneath the couch I was passing? I paused for a second, but saw nothing. I started to walk forward again.

And then I heard it. The telltale sound of a hollow rattle, followed by a slight slithering. Rattlesnake!

If I was close enough to hear it rattling, that meant I was close enough to be in danger of being bitten. I stood as still as I could, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. It must have been under the couch I was standing next to. Or the little footstool. Or the small decorative table. Or… The more I looked around, the more I realized the room was full of furniture and things that were hard to notice before, because everything in the room was white. The snake could be anywhere!

Correction: Make that snakes. I heard a second rattle, somewhere off to my right. Then a third, close by the second. It wasn't unusual for snakes and other animals to find their way into new homes in LA while they were being built—there just isn't much room for wild things to live anywhere, so they like empty houses—but something told me that this had just gone from coincidence to attempted murder. And while I may not have been the intended target, I just might end up the victim.

I looked around. Close by was a white statue of a
tree, about three feet tall. It was solid at the base, and I felt pretty sure no snake could be hiding underneath it. Very, very slowly, I climbed on top of it. With a little bit of height, I could see around the room. Right off the bat, I spotted two more snakes lazily slithering between pieces of furniture. This room was a reptilian minefield! There was no way I could chance walking back.