I So Don't Do Famous Page 7

  “Sixty-five miles per hour,” Junie says.

  I glare at her.

  “Yep. Sixty-five is what I clocked you at. And you’re in a construction zone.”

  Dad groans.

  The officer reaches out a beefy hand. “Driver’s license.”

  Dad fumbles with his wallet, trying to slide his license out from where it’s stuck in a little plastic pocket. “Baked in by the sun,” he mutters. He’s frowning the whole time. Sixty-five miles per hour? In a construction zone, which means an added penalty. He’s an accountant and knows the value of money.

  The officer eyes the license. “Arizona?”

  “Yes, Officer,” Dad says. “We’re here for five days. My daughter won a trip to Hollywood through—”

  “I’m gonna run this.” The officer waves the license in the air and lumbers back to his car.

  Dad rubs his forehead. He doesn’t look so happy and carefree now.

  Junie’s phone beeps with a text. She reads it and a smile plays around her lips. Must be Nick. She’s immediately thumbing in a response.

  The officer marches back. With his teeth, he pulls the cap off a pen and balances a thick pad on one palm.

  “You know, Officer,” Dad says, his voice higher than usual, “we’re actually on our way over to your home away from home, the Beverly Hills PD. To fulfill our civic duty.”

  The officer raises a bushy eyebrow.

  “Yes, that’s correct,” Dad continues. “We attended a fancy dinner last night at the Roosevelt Hotel. An evening put on by the Hollywood Girl people. These two”—Dad jerks a thumb at us—“figured out who stole the purse with the diamond clasp, and they have photos to show the detective in charge.”

  “Is that right?” the officer says. He couldn’t sound more bored without being asleep. “Half the country seems to think they can solve this case.” He scribbles out a ticket, then tears it off the pad and hands it to Dad. “Have a good day.”

  Like there’s a possibility of that happening.

  We crawl the remaining distance to the police station. Seriously, any slower and the engine will choke and die. A deep line creases Dad’s forehead. Probably he’s imagining sharing the details of this escapade with The Ruler.

  Junie loosens her seat belt and is a happy and relaxed passenger. She and Nick are texting up a storm. Each ping is a stab to my heart, a reminder that Josh and I will never text again. At one point, Junie even chortles. She is oblivious to my pain.

  I’m about to point out that she’s wasting her vacation with her nose stuck to her screen, when Junie stops grinning and texting, shoves the phone in her purse and slings her camera case over her shoulder. It’s journalist time.

  From the street, the Beverly Hills Police Department looks like a Spanish-style church. We nose slowly into the covered parking lot. Dad parks carefully between the white lines. He’s definitely back to being a dad.

  The three of us walk through the parking lot and up a cement ramp to double glass doors trimmed in turquoise. The sign above reads POLICE DEPARTMENT.

  “Here’s some Beverly Hills trivia,” Junie says. “No one is born or buried in Beverly Hills because there are no hospitals or cemeteries.”

  Once inside, we approach the counter, which is surrounded by glass. Probably bulletproof glass.

  We wait while the police officer behind the counter finishes sorting through papers in a wire basket. He moves the basket to a low shelf. When he straightens up, I can read his name badge. Officer Mullins. He’s short, with unruly hair and a belly like a shelf. He reminds me of a penguin.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Did you guys recently move?”

  He shakes his head. “Why?”

  “With all the turquoise accents, the staircase and your little protected area, it doesn’t look even close to the police station in the Beverly Hills Cop movies.”

  “Not one of those movies was filmed inside our station.” His voice, filtered through a mic, is tinny.

  Gazing around, I nod. I knew something didn’t add up.

  “What can I do for you, folks?” the officer asks.

  Dad leans his chin in toward the mic in the glass. He clears his throat. “Well, my daughter here, Sherry Holmes Baldwin, is somewhat of an amateur sleuth. A successful amateur sleuth.” He pats my shoulder. “We’re very proud of her.”

  Ack. This is so embarrassing.

  Officer Mullins smiles at me, the way you smile at someone’s poodle. “She’s too young for a ride-along”—he shuffles around under the counter—“but we do have some coloring books somewhere.”

  “We’re not really into coloring books, but thanks.” I take over for my dad. “Actually, we’re here because we have some important information about the theft of the purse with the diamond clasp at last night’s Hollywood Girl’s gala.”

  “Oh yeah?” He opens a small door in the glass and slides through a pad of yellow lined paper and a pencil. “Jot it down, and I’ll get it to the detective in charge of the case.”

  “I think Detective Garcia would be very interested in the photos we took at the dinner,” I say.

  “Detective Garcia doesn’t have time to meet with every person who wanders in here with a lead,” Officer Mullins says. “You go through me first. That’s the process.”

  Junie holds up her camera case. “I shot the photos with this digital single-lens reflex camera. I used one of the sharpest lenses available. Great pixel density.” She starts to veer into even more detail, like counting photons and diffraction.

  Officer Mullins looks to my father for help.

  Dad shrugs. “Teenage girls.” He shoots a quick, secret wink at Junie and me. “They have more staying power than you or I.”

  “Let’s see the pictures,” the officer says.

  Junie turns on her camera and tilts it toward him so that he has a view of the small screen. She starts clicking through last night’s shots while I give a running commentary.

  “I’ve seen enough.” He picks up the phone. “A couple of teens and their dad are here with photos of the Hollywood Girl gig. I’m not sure there’s anything of interest.” He listens. “You do want to see them?” He hangs up. “Go up to the third floor, then follow the signs to the Detective Division.”

  chapter

  thirteen

  We climb the stairs, hanging on to the cute turquoise banister. We walk along the hall, passing a restroom and a door with TRAFFIC DIVISION above it. At the end of the hall, there’s another officer sitting behind yet more bulletproof glass.

  Before I have a chance to introduce myself, the door next to him opens and a woman in uniform bursts through. “I’m Detective Garcia.” She’s got her hair pulled back in a ponytail and is wearing adorable pink lipstick.

  We introduce ourselves.

  Detective Garcia eyeballs Junie’s fancy camera. “Come on back and show me what you’ve got.” She’s very down to business.

  We follow her past clusters of desks and tall filing cabinets. Officers talking on the phone or writing notes glance at us, but not much more than that.

  At the back of the room, Detective Garcia stops at a super-messy metal desk littered with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups wrappers, a few open cans of soda, several file folders and a brand-new shiny desktop computer. At my house, Detective Garcia would not be getting her allowance.

  Nonchalantly, I glance at the sticker on the top folder. The Beverly Hills Bandits!

  “The pictures?” Detective Garcia prompts.

  Junie turns on her camera.

  Personally, I believe a story is best told from the beginning. I take a breath. “I wrote an essay on true love for Hollywood Girl magazine. Surprise of all surprises, I won.”

  “So, you’re the Blaylock Dear Elle mentioned in her news interview,” Detective Garcia says. “I thought you said your name was Sherry.”

  “Sherlock. Sherry, for short,” I explain. “Anyway, I won a trip to Hollywood for me, my dad and a friend, which is why Junie and her camera were a
t the awards dinner.”

  “I’m taking over as editor for our online middle-school paper,” Junie adds.

  Detective Garcia makes a hurry-up signal with her hand.

  Junie taps a couple of buttons, then holds the camera up so the detective can view the screen. “These two girls, Lorraine and Stef, are in line to have Dear Elle sign a book. In the lower right-hand corner, right here”—Junie points at the screen with her pinkie—“you can see the purse.” Junie forwards to the next photo.

  “And in the second shot,” I say, “only Lorraine is in line. Then, here in the third shot, Lorraine’s showing something in the book to Dear Elle. But she’s not even paying attention to Dear Elle. She’s looking over her shoulder at someone. Who? It must be Stef.”

  “And then I snapped this fourth shot at the same angle as the first shot,” Junie says. “Here’s where the purse should be hanging. It’s gone.”

  “The purse is only in the first two pictures of this scenario,” Detective Garcia says. “There’s no way to tell when it was stolen.”

  “I think”—I blow out a breath—“looking at the photos this way doesn’t give you the sense of timing we have as bystanders who were actually at the signing table.” This is not a cop who thinks outside the box, who sees possibilities and shades of gray. This is a black-and-white-thinking kind of cop. I have a sinking feeling.

  “Apparently not,” the detective says dryly. “But there’s an undefined amount of time for when the purse could have been lifted. Not to mention it could’ve been taken by someone who was never in the signing line.”

  “My daughter has somewhat of a reputation as an amateur sleuth,” my dad says, trying to help out.

  The detective sighs. “And the woman who was in here an hour before you said her tea leaves told her the purse is on a boat with yellow markings.”

  “But Sherry has actually solved mysteries.” Dad’s eyes flash.

  Detective Garcia stares at her desk and waits, like she’s counting to ten. “Look, Mr. Baldwin, there are only so many hours in the day. My best bet is to follow the strongest leads. The two teens in these photos aren’t my strongest leads.”

  What started out as a sinking feeling morphs into a we’re-dead-ducks feeling. I have less and less faith this detective will crack the case. I know Lorraine and Stef stole the purse. But Detective Garcia’s totally dismissing their involvement. I can’t have this mystery hanging like a dark cloud over my reputation with the Academy.

  Why did I have to get Lorraine and Stef into the awards dinner? My first Beverly Hills fans? More like my first Beverly Hills felons.

  Detective Garcia turns to Junie. “Those are all the photos from last night?”

  “Uh, no.” Junie grins. “There’s a couple hundred more.”

  The detective’s eyes bug. “And they’re here, stored on your camera?”

  Junie nods.

  “I’ll upload them to my computer.” The detective reaches for Junie’s camera.

  Junie pulls it closer, like a favorite stuffed animal. It’s instinctive. She doesn’t like people messing with her stuff, especially her electronic stuff. It’s sort of an only-geek-child behavior.

  “This is a good camera,” she says. “Which I bought with my own money. And which I need for taking pictures for our school paper.”

  “Okay.” Detective Garcia chews on her lower lip. “Maybe we can compromise.”

  I blink. Detective Garcia thinks Junie wants to trade the photos for insider info about the case!

  The detective chews off what’s left of her cute pink lipstick. “We’ve narrowed the ringleader of the Beverly Hills Bandits down to two suspects. I want to examine your photos to see if either of them attended the event.”

  “So you’re sure the same person is responsible for the celebrity break-ins and Dear Elle’s purse?” I ask. “The MO is so different.”

  Her eyebrows raised in a subtle question, Detective Garcia stares at Junie.

  Junie unzips the side pocket of her camera case and pulls out a cable.

  “For connecting the camera to my computer?” says Detective Garcia, palm up.

  “I’ll do it,” Junie says. Sharing is definitely not that girl’s strong suit.

  “What MO are we talking about?” My dad is blind to the delicate negotiations taking place between Junie and the detective. Actually, I think Junie is blind to them too; she’s just safeguarding her camera.

  With her cable, Junie attaches her camera to the detective’s computer.

  “The MO. The modus operandi. No, obviously, it isn’t the same,” Detective Garcia says. “The Beverly Hills Bandits break into the homes of young celebrities. Celebrities about the same age as Dear Elle. In fact, Dear Elle is friends with some of the victims.” Detective Garcia leans over her computer, pressing keys to start transferring JPEGS from the camera to the hard drive.

  “On the news, they were saying that someone tried to burglarize Dear Elle’s house but got interrupted and didn’t get anything,” I say. “Still, why target her purse? I mean, it’s cool, and it’s probably worth a bunch. But not compared with all the things you can steal from another house. Plus, stealing the purse in front of everyone was risky.”

  “Actually, there are two hundred fifty-three pictures,” Junie exclaims, watching the computer screen. “Who knew I was so shutter happy?”

  “Two hundred and fifty?” The detective sighs. “Fine. This is not for general consumption.” She pauses. “At every break-in, a key is stolen. Usually a house key. The thief never uses the key to break back in at a future date. It’s more like a souvenir. The burglar didn’t get a key from Dear Elle’s house. Last night, the thief got his souvenir. Dear Elle’s house key was in her purse.”

  A boring old house key as a souvenir? That doesn’t sound like Lorraine and Stef.

  My dad’s cell phone rings. He pulls it from the pouch clipped to the waistband of his jeans and glances at the screen. “Work. I’ll take this outside.” He leaves.

  Detective Garcia flips open the top file in the middle of her desk and pulls out two head shots. “Were these men at the dinner?”

  The two suspects! The first guy has a long, thin face, wavy hair combed off his forehead and wire-rimmed glasses. The second has eyes spaced closely together, flared nostrils and Dumbo ears.

  Junie and I both shrug. “The ballroom was packed,” I say.

  “Just because he doesn’t look familiar doesn’t mean I didn’t get a picture of him.” Junie knots her cable and zips it up in the case with her camera. “There are several crowd shots. You can zoom in on your computer because of the high resolution of my photos.”

  “Garcia,” calls a detective from a desk behind a row of filing cabinets. “Ya gotta sec?”

  “What’s going on, Bowen?” she calls back.

  “I got an informant on the phone who only speaks Spanish. Come translate.”

  “Sure.” Detective Garcia jogs to the middle of the room.

  I make a snap decision. “Junie, quick! Turn your camera on!” I open the Beverly Hills Bandits’ folder and set papers out on the desk.

  “Sherry! Put those back!” Junie’s eyes go wide.

  I grab the camera case out of Junie’s hand, unzip it and yank out the camera. Then I’m turning it upside down and sideways, trying to find an On/Off button.

  Junie grabs it back.

  “This cop can’t see that Lorraine and Stef are involved. She’s never going to wrap up the case,” I whisper frantically. “I’m solving this mystery myself so I get off probation with the Academy.”

  Junie frowns at me.

  “Please,” I say. “I’ll owe you big.”

  “Fine.” In a flash, the camera’s on and Junie’s squinting through the viewfinder. “I’m going to hate myself for this.”

  As she clicks, I scoop up papers, then lay out fresh ones. I even set out the two head shots, then flip them over so Junie can snap the names. I’m concentrating and trying really hard to put everything b
ack in the folder exactly the way it was.

  We’re totally focused on the contents on top of the desk.

  Überly focused.

  “Girls, what are you doing?”

  It’s Detective Garcia!

  chapter

  fourteen

  My back hunched over and shielding the desk, I sweep the last few papers back in the folder. Then, standing tall and straight, I slap my hands on my hips and an attitude on my lips. Offense is usually the best defense. “Detective Garcia, were you trying to erase all the data off Junie’s memory card?”

  “What? No, no, not at all.” Flustered, the detective pushes flyaway hairs off her forehead. “Did I really do that?”

  “Yeah, well, we spent a bunch of time recovering pictures for the school paper,” I bark. “Plus, my dad’s in the parking lot and texting us to hurry up. I’ve already spent enough of this year grounded.”

  The detective tugs open the drawers of her desk. They’re overflowing with crinkled papers and clips and pens and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. “What if I make you a CD of the photos from my computer?” She rummages around in the mess. “I don’t understand how I erased data. It’s a new computer, though, and I’m not a techie.”

  “Uh, it’s okay. I got it, uh, figured out,” Junie says. She’s not as quick and spontaneous as me in a tricky situation. She bundles her camera up and tosses the case strap over her shoulder, all set for a quick getaway.

  “Are you sure?” The detective’s still poking around her desk. “Someone here will have a blank CD.”

  “All is saved,” I say.

  Junie and I skip out of the Detective Division. Then we barrel down the stairs to the exit.

  My dad’s leaning on the metal rail outside the door, Velcroing his cell back in his belt holster. “Girls, now that we’ve got that chore out of the way, it’s time for a little tourist fun.”

  Junie perks up. Running risks and breaking the law do not agree with her. Even in the best interests of a case.

  Personally, I’m not up for fun. I’m on probation with the Academy of Spirits and I want off. Detective Garcia and her ineptness can only worsen my situation. I have to solve the case of the Beverly Hills Bandits. Before it’s time to return to Phoenix. Nope, no fun for me. I’m totally in detective mode.