The Ghostwriter Secret (4 page)

Rick was over for dinner onigh. Remember I wro e you abou him? He said he could wri e a be er de ec ive book han you. I almos laughed in his face. He doesn' even


The phone rang. Steve stood to go answer it, but his mom got to it first.

“Steve, phone!” she yelled from the living room.

“Who is it?” Steve yelled back.

“Don't yell from upstairs, Steve!”

“But you're yelling too!”

“Don't be a smart mouth! Come get this phone!”

He ran down to the living room and took the handset from his mom.

“Is this Mr. Brixton, the detective?” asked a quavering voice on the other end of the line.

“Yes,” said Steve.

The man on the phone exhaled. It sounded like a beach on a windy day. He paused. “Mr. Brixton,” said the man, “this is Victor Fairview.” He said his name like he expected Steve to recognize it, and Steve did. Victor Fairview was the richest man in Ocean Park. “Please come to my estate immediately. I have a case for you.”

T
HE YELLOW TAPE
, hanging at a height of five feet and blocking the winding path up to Victor Fairview's mansion, read, in bold black letters,
POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS
. Steve Brixton, four feet ten inches tall, walked under it without ducking.

“Hey, kid! What do you think you're doing?” shouted an officer, who hurried over to Steve. The officer's police-issue slicker, which kept out the damp from the fog, looked like a cape as he ran. “Can't you read? This is a crime scene. You can't come in here.”

Steve, who was wearing shorts and had cold legs, walked over to the officer, reached into his pocket,
and pulled out a Velcro wallet. The sound of it ripping open was the only noise in the night. Steve withdrew a card and handed it to the officer:

The sergeant tensed and his eyes opened wide. “Sorry, Steve. Couldn't tell it was you in the fog and the dark and everything.”

“No problem, Officer Johnson.” Everyone was impressed with Steve's new business cards. He'd typed them up on the computer and printed them on some heavy paper, then cut each one out by hand. The edges didn't all come out even, but you couldn't tell unless you were looking at more than one of them, and who was ever going to get more than one
of Steve's business cards? The part about being “fully licensed” wasn't exactly true—his detective's license had come in the mail after Steve had sent twelve cereal box tops and $1.95 shipping and handling to an address in Kentucky. And the part about being bonded wasn't true at all—Steve didn't even know what “bonded” meant. But it sure looked good on a business card.

“I didn't know you had a brother,” said Officer Johnson.

“I don't,” said Steve.

“But your card says ‘the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency.'”

“Yep.”

“So why does it say that if you don't have a brother?”

Steve sighed. “It just sounds cooler.”

“Oh,” said Officer Johnson. “Right.”

They stood quietly for a few seconds in the fog.

“Well, I better get up there,” said Steve, nodding toward the main house. He could feel goose bumps popping up on his arms and legs.

“All right,” said Officer Johnson with a wave.

Steve was so cold that he wanted to sprint up the path to Fairview's mansion, which was well lit and sure to have central heating. But that wouldn't
have looked very detective-like.
The Bailey Brothers' Detective Handbook
says, “Ace sleuths must always keep their cool—even when the danger is red-hot!” And although there was nothing red-hot about the present moment, Steve still didn't want to look like a chump. So he put his hands in his pockets and slowly sauntered up the winding path, clenching his jaw hard so that his teeth wouldn't chatter.

The front door was tall and black, and it had one of those handsome brass lions with a ring in its mouth. Steve rapped three times.

An alarm went off inside the house. Spotlights illuminated the mansion grounds. Steve could hear shouts inside.

A
FEW SECONDS LATER
the alarm stopped. The door opened with a creak.

The man who answered the door had a large cordless drill in his gloved hand and a piece of lettuce in his blond hair.

Great. It was Rick.

When Rick saw Steve, he rolled his eyes.

“Terrific,” said Rick. “The Great Detective is here.”

“Hi, Rick,” said Steve.

“Don't you have homework?”

“Finished it.” Steve nodded toward the drill. “Did you give up police work and become a handyman?”

Rick's face went cloudy. “What? Oh. This? No. This is a … Who called you, anyway?”

“I did.” An old man appeared next to Rick. He wore a purple paisley smoking jacket and a scowl. “I don't remember authorizing you to answer my door, Officer …”

“Once again, my name's Elliot, Mr. Fairview.” Rick straightened. “Sergeant Elliot. I figured since you were busy turning off that alarm again, and since I'm the lead investigator on this case—”

“You figured wrong,” Mr. Fairview said, and then turned to Steve. “You looked taller in your newspaper picture.”

“Everybody says that,” Steve replied.

Fairview nodded. “Come inside. I've just been robbed.”

The diamond case had been ransacked!

“T
HIS IS THE
D
IAMOND
R
OOM,”
Mr. Fairview said, waving his hand carelessly around him. “Although now it is without a diamond.” Steve's eyes adjusted to the dark. He walked into the middle of a tremendous atrium, and his footfalls echoed. The floor was an alternating pattern of marble squares, black and deep red, like a checkerboard. Steve had never been in a room this big in his life. Or a room this strange. The whole place was empty except for a black pedestal on a red square in the center of the room, illuminated by a powerful spotlight. On top of the pedestal was a
clear box with a large hole cut in it. The box held a black pillow, and nothing else.

The room was filled with the sound of Rick's hurried footsteps as he ran up behind them. “I really don't know why he's here, Mr. Fairview. The Ocean Park Police Department has the situation under control. We've secured the crime scene, and there's really nothing left to—”

“Please, Officer …”

“Sergeant Elliot.”

“Yes. Listen. This is my house. I called the detective here for a reason. I want him on this case. He is now my employee, and my guest, and you will treat him with respect.”

Rick's sigh bounced off the Diamond Room's walls.

Mr. Fairview continued. “This pedestal is where I kept the Nichols Diamond, rated by
Billionaire
magazine as one of the top three diamonds in the world.”

“I've never heard of
Billionaire
magazine,” said Rick.

“Why am I not surprised?” said Mr. Fairview.

Steve hadn't heard of
Billionaire
magazine either, but that didn't keep him from chuckling.

“The diamond is priceless,” said Mr. Fairview. “Although if I had to put a price on it, I'd say three hundred and four million dollars.”

Steve tried to give a low whistle, but he wasn't a great whistler. So instead he asked, “What does it look like?”

“It is bright red, about an inch long and half as wide. It's the only thing in my house that I really care about. And not just because it's the most expensive, which it is. My wife used to wear it around her neck.” Fairview looked past Steve, remembering.

“A red diamond?” Steve asked.

“Red diamonds are the most valuable color of diamond, Steve,” Rick said.

“And I believe you learned that fifteen minutes ago, when I told you, Officer,” said Mr. Fairview. Steve liked this guy.

“You just left the Nichols Diamond out in the open?” Steve asked.

“I like to look at it. But I was confident the diamond was secure. The diamond has a microscopic chip attached to one of its faces. If it's removed from this room, an alarm sounds, and all the exterior doors and windows lock. The thief will be trapped inside the house. It's a very expensive system. Top of the line.”

“Then how did—”

“It didn't work. Earlier tonight, right after I finished my dinner, I heard a noise in the house. I thought it
was nothing, but moments later someone came up behind me and put a rag up to my mouth and nose. And everything went dark.”

Steve nodded. Chloroform. Baddies were always knocking guys out with chloroform in the Bailey Brothers books.

“The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the rug underneath my dining room table. I called the police. They came right over, and we checked the house for any signs of the robbery. Nothing—until we got to this room. When I discovered the Nichols Diamond was missing, I called you. I don't understand it. The thief must have shorted the alarm. The thing didn't go off until much later, after the police arrived.”

Rick smirked. “And then it wouldn't stop,” he said. “The thing keeps going on and off, on and off. Old man Fairview keeps having to reset it. It's totally screwy—the robber must have introduced some sort of computer virus or something into the security system. Just shows you, all the technology in the world's no match for the brainpower of a smart crook. But even a smart crook is no match for a good investigator.” He knocked the knuckles of his free hand against his skull.

Mr. Fairview stared at Rick for a moment, then resumed. “So what do you say, Steve? Will you take
the case? Anything you could do to recover the diamond and bring the thief to justice would be greatly appreciated.”

Steve nodded. He took off his backpack, unzipped it, and removed a big brass magnifying glass. Then he started looking around the pedestal for clues. Nothing. He heard Rick snort. Steve took a look at the hole cut into the box. It was perfectly round and big enough to put a hand through. But no fingerprints. Rick chortled. Steve moved on to the floor, examining the marble for hairs, clothing fibers, anything, any kind of clue. Finally Rick spoke.

“Hoo boy! The Great Detective at work. You really think you're in one of those Bailey Brothers books, don't you? Look: You can put away that magnifying glass, Steve. I've already combed the place. And I found a clue as soon as I got here. Didn't need a magnifying glass, either.” He raised the drill in his right hand and squeezed the trigger. A high-pitched whir sounded through the room. “The thief forgot his drill,” Rick shouted over the noise. He released the trigger. “The idiot left it right by the pedestal. And it's covered with fingerprints. We'll take it back to the station, run the prints through the computer, and we'll know who this guy is in no time. He may have been smart, but Rick Elliot's smarter.”

“Can I see that?” Steve asked.

Rick shook his head. “Sorry, Steve. Evidence. I'm not letting this out of my hands.”

Rick pretended to draw the drill like an Old West gunslinger and pointed it at Steve.

“He's been carrying it around all evening,” said Mr. Fairview. “He seems to enjoy making that noise.”

Steve started pacing around the room, keeping to the black squares. His brain worked better when his body was moving. Rick continued talking.

“Sorry, Steve. I'm afraid I've already cracked the case wide open. It's only a matter of time before Rick Elliot gets his man. And the diamond, too, assuming it hasn't been sold.”

Steve stopped. “I don't think it's been sold.”

“Trust me, Steve,” said Rick. “Thieves tend to sell jewels right after they're stolen.”

Steve fixed his eyes on Mr. Fairview. “The diamond hasn't been stolen.”

“O
H, COME ON
,” R
ICK SAID.