Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble (8 page)

Riley touched down on the ground. “Yeah. Him.”

“Dag,” was all Jamal had left to say.

“Your hunch, then, was most likely correct,” said Jake. “If Chief Brown is involved with whatever's going on in the creek, bad people are undoubtedly responsible for killing the fish. The kind of bad people who could quite easily compromise a legitimate investigation.”

Riley nodded. “So we forget the EPA until we know more. For now, we only work with people we trust.”

“Such as?” said Briana.

Riley grabbed the backpack from Mongo. “First stop: Mister Guy's Pet Supplies on Main Street.”

“Ms. Grabowski?”

“Right.”

Ms. Jenny Grabowski worked at the Main Street pet store. Just out of college, she had a soft spot for animals, which Riley hoped extended to fish as well as cats and dogs.

Ms. Grabowski had helped Riley and his friends pull off what Mongo now called Operation Doggy Duty (because it made him giggle whenever he said Doggy Duty). She was also studying to become a vet tech and might have access to fish autopsy equipment, if such equipment even existed.

“Briana?” said Riley. “You're with me. We'll ask Ms. Grabowski to help us.”

“Okay. But we need to cook up a good story for why we're bringing her a bunch of dead fish.”

“Maybe you bought a bad aquarium!” suggested Mongo. “They sell aquariums at Mister Guy's Pet Supplies.”

“Not an aquarium,” said Riley with a mischievous glint in his eye. “A pond.”

“Yes!” The story started to sweep Briana away. “My mom and dad built a pond in our backyard and stocked it with all sorts of fish and shrimp and scallops.”

Jake raised a finger to offer a suggestion.

“What?” said Briana, who hated interruptions when she was on a roll.

“You might want to skip the shrimp and scallops. They live in the ocean, not freshwater ponds.”

“Okay. Fine. Whatever. I'm improvising here. Work with me.”

Jake shrugged.

“So,” said Briana, “they stocked it with all sorts of freshwater fish. Trout. Bass. Other stuff. And then, all of a sudden . . .”

Now Briana was really into it. She held her hand to her heart. Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes.

“I went out back to play fetch with Binky, my favorite fish.”

Jake raised another finger.

“Okay, fine,” said Briana. “Rewrite: I went out back to bask in the beauty of Binky, my silvery, shimmery fishy friend and . . . and . . . she was dead, Ms. Grabowski! Dead!”

Here Briana fell to her knees and wept a bunch.

“That'll work,” said Riley, with a nonchalant nod.

“That was beautiful,” said Mongo.

“You were amazing,” added Jake.

“Personally,” offered Jamal, “I think you overdid it a little with the weeping.”

“Fine. I'll make an adjustment. I'm an actress. I can take notes. Let's go, Riley. We're on!”

“OH MY,” SAID MS. GRABOWSKI
. “That's horrible, Briana.”

“Yes,” sobbed Briana. “As you might imagine, I am devastated.”

“How are your parents holding up?”

“Hmmm?”

“Your parents. You said this was their fishpond.”

“Oh. Right. They're totally bummed, too.” She gripped her hands together in the classic beggar gesture. “We need to know what killed our fishes, Ms. Grabowski! Can you help us? Please?”

“Of course, Briana. And it's fish.”

“Whaa?”

“The plural of fish is
fish
.”

“I know. But I'm overwrought with emotion and, when I'm overwrought, my grammar suffers.”

“Have Pepe and Amigo been in your backyard?”

“My Chihuahuas?”

Ms. Grabowski nodded. “If they drank any of the pond water, they might need to be taken to the vet. Immediately.”

“Fortunately,” said Riley, “Briana's dogs are not allowed in the backyard.”

“My parents are afraid they'd scare the fish.”

“So,
whew!
” said Riley. “We don't have to worry about the dogs. Just the fish.”

“Well,” said Ms. Grabowski, “we haven't really gotten into aquatic autopsies at vet tech school. Not yet anyway.”

“Do they have a lab?” asked Riley.

“Several. But . . .” She pried open the plastic Baggies on the checkout counter.

Rotting fish funk filled the air.

The stench was overwhelmingly awful because the carcasses had been sealed up inside hot plastic.

“I don't dink you beed a lab, Riley.” Riley figured Ms. Grabowski was trying to say she didn't think they needed a lab. But she was holding her nose.

“How com-buh?” Riley was holding his nose, too.

“Dis meddy bifferet fish.” She quickly resealed the bags. “This many different fish, we know what killed them: water pollution.”

“You're positive?” asked Riley.

“Yes. If only one species of fish had died, then it would be possible that the cause of death was some kind of virus endemic to that species.”

“Endemic?”

Where was Jamal when you needed him?
thought Riley.

“Sorry,” said Ms. Grabowski. “College word.
Endemic
means ‘exclusively confined to one species.'”

“Like they caught flounder flu?” suggested Briana.

“Or something else. Maybe a strain of bacteria that only attacks trout. But since there are several
different
species in your sample, then you're most likely looking at lack of oxygen in the water caused by pollution.” She turned to Briana. “Do your parents use lawn fertilizer in the backyard? Do they pour on lots of chemicals to kill weeds?”

“No,” said Briana. “They're totally organic. Antichemicals, antifertilizer. They probably use composted banana peels.”

“Well, do you live downhill from a factory or a gas station or any kind of toxic chemical dump?”

“I sincerely doubt it. We live in a very ecologically friendly environment.”

“They have their own windmill,” added Riley.

“And solar panels,” said Briana.

“Well, something bad got into your pond water. You need to get a sample and have it tested for contaminants.”

The next morning, Riley, Jamal, and Mongo returned to the rutted dirt road behind Mongo's house and, once again, followed it up into the forest.

“This time, I packed my lock-picking tools,” said Jamal.

“Excellent,” said Riley.

“Hey, Riley?” said Mongo.

“Yeah?”

“What're we gonna do with the water once we scoop it out of the creek?”

“Take it to Ms. Kaminski.”

“The science teacher?”

“Yep. She's totally into all sorts of forensic stuff. She watches every one of those CSI shows on TV and has set up her science lab to be like a mini–crime lab.”

“So,” said Jamal, “she could check out our water. Put it under the microscope and tell us what kind of toxic chemicals are floating around inside it.”

“Exactly. And if she can't, she'll know who can.”

They reached the chain-link fence.

There was a new, fluorescent orange sign attached to it:

No Trespassing

By Order of

Fairview Police Department

“Uh-oh,” said Mongo. “They could arrest us for trespassing if we go any farther.”

“Nah,” said Riley. “They'll arrest us for breaking and entering first. Jamal?”

Jamal grabbed the padlock and inserted a slender metal tool up into its keyhole. The sleek pick looked a little like that thing a dentist uses to poke your teeth to see if you have cavities.

“Cake,” said Jamal when the lock's hasp popped open.

“Okay,” said Riley. “I plucked most of the dead fish out of a pool just beyond those bushes.”

“Should I relock the gate?” asked Jamal. “In case somebody else comes along while we're down by the stream?”

“No need,” said Riley. “This will only take like a second.” Riley pulled a twenty-four-ounce sports bottle out of his backpack and twisted open the lid.

The three friends hurried up the path, through the woods, and down to the muddy creek bank.

“This is horrible,” said Jamal.

“Yeah,” said Riley as he crouched to scoop up the water sample.

Jamal and Mongo were staring at the water in disbelief. Dozens and dozens of dead fish floated in the shallow pond where water pooled behind a row of rocks before rippling its way downstream. There were so many white-bellied fish littering the surface of the creek that it looked like someone had dumped tons of upside-down hamburger buns into the stream.

“We got to figure out what's killing these fish,” said Mongo. “It could probably kill us, too.”

Jamal just nodded. He was struck dumb by the sight of all the poisoned fish.

“That should do it,” said Riley, tightly resealing the cap on his water bottle. “I sent Ms. Kaminski an email last night. Told her, even though school was officially out, me and Mongo were working on a science project. She was impressed. Said she'd meet us in the lab at eleven.”

Jamal glanced at his watch. It was ten. “We better hustle.”

“Yeah. Come on.”

Riley, Mongo, and Jamal clambered up the creek bank.

As they neared the gate, they heard voices.

“Quick!” said Riley. “Hide!”

They ducked into the bushes.

“You see?” said a very familiar voice. “I had my men post a few more signs. Should keep out any looky-loos till your people clean things up.”

It was the police chief!

“WE DON'T NEED TO CLEAN
it up, John,” grumbled the second man. “We own it.”

Riley recognized the second voice, too: Sara's father, Mr. Paxton, the country club president.

“Well, Prescott,” said the chief, “don't forget who foreclosed on this land for you in the first place. Made it possible for you to snatch up the whole forest, dirt cheap.”

“
Nyes
, Chief. I just wish you had moved a little faster.”

“Sorry,” said the chief, not sounding sorry at all. “I got busy.”

“Right,” said Mr. Paxton. “That thing with your mother and the dogs.”

“We were framed. Set up.”

“I'm certain you were. My goodness, something smells fetid.”

“Huh?”

“Something stinks.”

“Hey,” said Brown, “don't look at me. I took a bath last night. It's the fish. All that rain Sunday must've stirred things up.”

“We should hire a crew to cart away the carcasses,” said Mr. Paxton. “Before someone complains about the odor!”

“Don't worry. My son's all over it. He and a few of his high school buddies will swing by and eliminate all the evidence.”

“You hired high school students?”

“Yeah.”

“But—”

“Don't worry, Prescott. I handpicked the kids. These boys won't squeal about this to anybody. They wouldn't dare. I have outstanding warrants on all of them.”

“They're criminals?”

“I prefer the term
juvenile delinquents
.”

Riley crawled a few inches forward. Through a break in the brush, he could clearly see Mr. Paxton and Chief Brown.

“So,” said the chief, “what about Kleinman?”

“What about him?” said Paxton.

“People might've reported this stench to
him
. There's a whole tract of houses just beyond that treeline.”

“I'll take care of Kleinman,” said Mr. Paxton. “He's swinging by the club at four. I've invited him to be a celebrity judge at the talent show this coming Saturday.”

“Celebrity? Kleinman? He's bald.”

“Look, John—you take care of the little fish, I'll deal with the bigger ones.”

The two men quit talking.

Riley heard someone jiggle the lock.

“John,” said Mr. Paxton, “why is this gate unlocked?”

Riley's heart leaped up into his throat.

“Gavin,” muttered Chief Brown. “He hung the extra signs for me last night. Forgot to lock up. That boy fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.”

The chief snapped the lock shut.

“What if somebody else went in
after
Gavin?” asked Mr. Paxton. “What if it was Kleinman or some of his people?”

“Then I would've heard something by now. Relax, Prescott. You're fine. Now let's get out of here. I hate the woods. Too many bugs.”

The two men walked out of view. Car doors opened and closed. An engine roared to life. Wheels rumbled down the dirt road.

Riley, Mongo, and Jamal remained frozen until they heard the car accelerate onto the paved roadway a quarter mile away.

“Can we breathe yet?” Mongo finally whispered.

“Yeah,” said Riley. “They're gone.”

“Brown
and
Paxton?” said Jamal. “They're both mixed up in this thing?”

“So it seems,” said Riley, standing up and brushing dirt off his jeans.

“Might I say, Riley Mack, that you were wise not to report this matter to the proper authorities because, if you ask me, the authorities around here aren't all that proper.”

Riley nodded. His mind was racing a mile a minute. What could Brown and Paxton be working on together? And who was this Kleinman guy they both seemed to be so worried about? Why did they need to bribe
him
into silence?

“I need to be at the country club at four p.m. to check out this Kleinman character.”

“I'll come with you,” said Jamal. “Do they let black people into this country club?”

Riley shook his head.

“They don't? What is this, 1952 or something?”

“No, I mean I don't want you coming along. You're too young. This is too risky.”

“Risky? Risky is my middle name.”

“Really?” said Mongo. “Mine is Horatio.”