Swindle Page 9

  If she had shouted, she might have awakened Ben, who was a mere six feet away, curled up asleep at his post in the bushes, like he was in a featherbed.

  “Luthor, what’s wrong?” Savannah asked the Doberman for the umpteenth time. “Why are you acting so strange?”

  The dog whisperer had been trying to calm Luthor’s nervous restlessness. It couldn’t be done. Savannah prided herself on being able to read an animal’s thoughts from its body language. But all she could get from Luthor was agitation. Even more upsetting, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the creature was trying to tell her something important.

  Whining and twitching, Luthor again grabbed her by the sleeve and began dragging her toward the staircase.

  “Okay, I’m coming. Don’t pull so hard.” It was an effort to keep her feet as she was towed down the steps and across the checkered tile of the main hall. Scrambling to keep up, she realized that the dog had a very specific destination in mind — a makeshift office near the front of the house. The closer they got to the door, the jumpier Luthor became.

  Intrigued, Savannah played her flashlight over the room. She almost missed it. Stretched out asleep on a small rug was the largest German shepherd she’d ever seen. Even as she watched, the huge dog stirred and raised its massive head into the beam. Its eyes fixed on her, glowing.

  Savannah Drysdale had never been afraid of an animal in her life. Yet the savagery she saw in this shepherd’s eyes, coupled with the whimper of fear from the Doberman at her side, triggered a split-second decision. She slammed the door shut. The impact of a heavy body against the other side convinced her that she had done the right thing.

  She took hold of Luthor’s collar and raced back up the stairs. Full-throated barking resounded throughout the house.

  She arrived, panting, in the master bedroom, where Griffin was partway through burning a large hole into the side of the safe. Acrid smoke hung in the air, and the metal glowed bright orange along the track made by the blowtorch.

  Pitch sat on the bed, resting her injured leg. “What’s all that barking? What’s the matter with Luthor?” Her bewildered gaze fell on the Doberman, standing docile at Savannah’s side. “Oh —”

  “There’s another dog!” blurted Savannah. “I think it might be a trained attack dog!”

  Griffin looked up in alarm. “Is it loose?”

  “He’s trapped in a room downstairs,” Savannah quavered. “At least, I think it’s a he. I can’t imagine a female that size. I’m afraid he’ll find a way to break through the door!”

  “Can’t you whisper him down?” Darren demanded. “That’s supposed to be your job!”

  “This isn’t the time to try,” Savannah insisted. “There are too many people around — intruders in a house he’s trained to protect! Plus he could set off Luthor — the poor baby’s terrified of this monster!”

  With sinking hearts, the heist team realized that their dog whisperer was right. Savannah’s words were punctuated by enraged barking and violent slams against a wooden door.

  “Nobody panic,” Griffin ordered. “Another few minutes and I’ll be into the safe. We’ll have our card, and Melissa has found us a way out — the plan is still on track.”

  Luthor’s uneasy whimpers indicated that he didn’t think so.

  23

  The backgammon tournament stood at 13–9 when the barking started.

  “Listen to that racket,” Eli Mulroney complained. “Leave it to Pal-o-Mine to have the two loudest dogs in creation.”

  Logan sprayed a mouthful of ginger ale all over himself. “Two dogs?”

  The old man nodded in disgust. “I thought Luthor was bad enough. A couple of days ago, Pal-o-Mine brought in that Rent-a-Beast. Makes Luthor look like a hamster. I hear he’s got some baseball card that’s supposed to be valuable.”

  There was nothing Logan could do but continue the game and try not to think about what might be going on across the street. Besides, he reflected, the team had a lookout — Melissa — in the bushes. If things got too awful, Griffin would walkie-talkie her to go for help.

  A shiny black SUV moved slowly up the street, its driver hanging out the window, peering at address numbers. It passed the Mulroney house, then made a U-turn and pulled up in front of the porch, big motor idling.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for 531 Park Avenue Extension.”

  Mr. Mulroney pointed to the Palomino home. “That’s it right there. Can’t see a blamed thing with the streetlight out. The way they run this town should be a federal crime.”

  “Thanks.” The SUV moved away from the curb, pulled into the Palomino driveway, and parked.

  Mr. Mulroney handed Logan the dice. “Your turn — Logan? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  It was much worse than that. Logan was watching the driver get out of the car and walk up the steps to Swindle’s front door.

  Griffin’s eyes stung from the sweat pouring off his forehead and under his safety goggles. His stocking cap was drenched with perspiration. He had seen his father working with this blowtorch so many times. Never could he have imagined that it was so exhausting. Or maybe it was the excitement building inside him as he held the flame to the last quarter-inch of metal.

  The thrill was indescribable. Barely a thread remained between him and the final realization of the greatest plan he would ever be a part of. It was so many things all at once — victory, justice, revenge. Not to mention a boatload of money.

  And then the piece tumbled to the carpet, and he was staring in the open flank of the lockbox. Darren positioned his flashlight so Griffin could see inside. Careful not touch the red-hot edges of the hole, he reached in and removed the safe’s contents.

  There were some papers, a handful of collectible coins, and three hundred dollars in cash.

  All five team members rifled through the box and everything that had been removed from it.

  The Bambino was not there.

  Darren put all their agony into words. “Bing, you idiot! Where’s the card?”

  “I thought it was in here!” Griffin shot back. He was almost too shocked and upset to argue with Darren. “I didn’t burn into this thing for my health, you know!”

  Pitch shook her head in grudging admiration. “That guy Swindle — he’s one tough nut.”

  “He beat us,” Savannah admitted sadly.

  “This isn’t over yet!” Griffin vowed. “The auction people expected to pick up that card today! It’s in this house somewhere!”

  “This is just great!” Darren seethed. “I nearly fell off the roof, there’s a vicious dog chewing its way through a door, and now we’ve got no card. How could it be worse?”

  The doorbell rang.

  Lamar Fontaine pressed the button for the second time.

  Ding-dong.

  The house was dark, but he could have sworn he saw movement in a front room.

  Besides, he was a bonded courier, entrusted with receiving and delivering an item worth as much as a million dollars. People did not stand him up, even when he was hours late.

  He rang one more time and then tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened wide.

  The feeling was too familiar — fighting his way through cotton wool, struggling with that terrible “where am I?” feeling. And then Swindle’s front bush was all around Ben Slovak.

  Oh, no! The heist!

  There was hooting coming from across the street, and he struggled to remember what that might mean.

  The signal!

  Why would Logan be giving him the emergency signal?

  He looked up and saw the answer. A tall man was letting himself in through the front door.

  He pulled out his walkie-talkie and pressed the button. “Griffin — there’s a guy coming into the house!”

  “We know,” came the whispered reply. “Is it Swindle?”

  “No, definitely not Swindle. It must be somebody looking for Swindle.”

  Cautiously, Ben crept up the steps and peered ins
ide through the side windows.

  The newcomer was in the foyer. “Mr. Palomino?” called the man. “Courier service. Mr. Palomino …”

  He crossed the hall and opened a door to peer inside.

  What happened next was an image so horrifying that it would remain forever burned into Ben’s memory.

  24

  A hulking animal exploded out of the room and pounced on the intruder. Terrified, the man swung his briefcase and cracked the German shepherd across the snout. Yelping with pain and rage, the dog fell back for an instant. By the time it gathered itself for another charge, Lamar Fontaine was hightailing it across the tiles toward the basement steps. He slammed the door behind him a split second before the shepherd plowed into it, howling with fury as it re-injured its sore nose.

  It was preparing for another run when it heard a bark from above. That brought the guard dog galloping upstairs.

  Ben sounded the warning, for all the good it was going to do. “Griffin! All of you! Hide!”

  But there was no time for hiding, or even thinking. The rest of the team was trapped in the master bedroom. The shepherd appeared in the doorway, menacing them all and cutting off any avenue of escape.

  The dog whisperer stepped forward. “Hi, big guy,” she said in her most soothing tone. “You don’t want to hurt anybody. We’re all friends here. Let’s not get ex —”

  With a malevolent roar, the monster leaped at her. Seeing Savannah in danger, Luthor flung himself into the path of the attacking shepherd. The two dogs met in midair and fell, snarling and wrestling, to the floor.

  The heist team wasted no time getting out of the room and down the stairs, Griffin and Darren half carrying Pitch.

  Ben met them on the midway landing. “There’s a dog after you, and it isn’t Luthor!”

  “Quick! The kitchen!” ordered Savannah.

  Darren was wild-eyed. “Why? Are you going to whip up a soufflé?”

  “I’m going to find some meat to distract that brute from killing poor Luthor!”

  Nobody gave her an argument. In a fight with the much larger shepherd, the Doberman was David facing Goliath. There was no question that Luthor had risked his life to protect Savannah.

  The team hit the main floor and ran into the kitchen. Savannah ripped open the freezer and began rummaging for meat.

  “Any steaks?” Ben asked helpfully. “Dogs love steak.”

  “I can’t find anything! This is in the way!” She lifted out an enormous frozen turkey and dumped it on the tiles.

  And there, in the middle of all that chaos, a strange calm descended over Griffin. It tuned out his heist-mates, and even the fact that there were two warring dogs one flight up. He heard his own voice from days before: Oh, sure! Like a nasty, obnoxious crook knows enough people willing to sit down and eat a twenty-pound turkey with him! And that expert on the web clip, holding the card, asking: Why is it so cold?

  Suddenly, he was on his knees over the frozen bird, reaching his hand into the breast cavity.

  Darren was disgusted. “I always knew you were crazy, Bing, but I never thought you were the type to go digging in a turkey’s butt!”

  In answer, Griffin pulled out a Ziploc baggie. There was a picture peering through the clear plastic.

  Babe Ruth in a Boston Red Sox uniform.

  Savannah pulled the shrink-wrap off two T-bone steaks. She ran to the bottom of the staircase and flung them up to the top landing. In an instant, the two dogs had forgotten about each other and were chewing on the cold, hard meat.

  Griffin removed the card from the Ziploc and held it lovingly. “This is the greatest moment of my life.”

  “Yeah, mine too!” Darren snatched the prize out of his hand and ran for the front door. “Sayonara, suckers!”

  It was so shocking, so unexpected, that the team just stood there, openmouthed, and watched him go.

  Then, total wild action — a stampede in hot pursuit. Even Pitch was running full-tilt, hopping and limping through her pain.

  Griffin led the charge. Of all the things he’d planned for, all the in case ofs and what ifs, how could he have overlooked the most obvious possibility — a double cross from one of his own people? Especially Darren, who had always been an enemy and an untrustworthy jerk.

  But what a price to pay for one mistake!

  Darren pounded down the front steps. Griffin followed, losing his breath momentarily to a gust of wind. Hot on his friend’s heels, Ben vaulted up onto the porch rail and hurled himself like a flying squirrel at Darren’s fleeing form.

  He missed the takedown, but his flailing arm caught Darren on the ankle. The big boy lost his balance and hit the ground like a ton of bricks. The Babe Ruth card popped out of his hand.

  Suddenly, the Bambino was airborne, riding a mammoth blast of wind. The team watched in agony as the million-dollar collectible fluttered higher and higher, swirling on the turbulent air currents. The wind played with it for a few more seconds before depositing it in the lacy upper branches of a very tall maple tree.

  With a cry of frustration, Darren got up, rushed to the trunk, and began climbing like a madman.

  Griffin turned to Pitch.

  “No way,” she said, reading his mind. “Not with this ankle. And I don’t want any of you idiots trying it. You’ll wind up dead, and probably so will he.” She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Darren, you’ll never make it!”

  “What about the ladder?” Ben suggested.

  “Not high enough,” Pitch told him. “That tree towers over the house.”

  Griffin was nearly insane. “It’s a million-dollar card! There must be some way to get to it!”

  “Dream on,” Savannah said unhappily. “Not unless you’ve got some miracle tool that can reach forty feet up, pick out the tiniest thing, and bring it back down safely.”

  The look of shocked realization on Griffin Bing’s face was like nothing anyone had ever seen before.

  25

  With the streetlight out, no one could see what was happening at the Palomino house. But there was no mistaking the sound of scuffling feet and raised voices. Some kind of commotion was going on across the street.

  Eli Mulroney jumped to his feet. “What the blazes —”

  Logan was bewildered. He and the team had been over the plan so many times, and no part of it included running around outside and yelling. The plan must have jumped off the rails somehow, but he couldn’t admit that here. So he said with a straight face, “I don’t hear anything.”

  But obviously he didn’t “sell” the line, because the old man slapped a fist into his palm. “That does it! This neighborhood is going down the drain. It’s gotten to the point where a man can’t enjoy a few quiet moments on his front porch! I’m calling the police!”

  Whatever was going on, Logan knew he had to do something. In theater lingo, it was called an ad-lib — when an actor broke from the script and followed his gut for the good of the show. It was time for a beauty right now.

  Logan braced both feet flat on the floorboards and launched himself rearward with all his might. The rocker swung back and flipped over, tossing him off the porch and into a bank of juniper bushes.

  “God bless America! Logan, are you okay?”

  The young actor was better than okay. While the old man was dabbing iodine on Logan’s many cuts and scratches, no one was calling the police.

  What a performance!

  He had just covered the better part of a mile in a full sprint, but Griffin felt none of the ache in his legs or the fire in his lungs.

  He approached his own home almost as stealthily as he had Swindle’s. As far as Mom and Dad knew, Griffin was at Ben’s — a marathon work session on a science fair project.

  The garage could be opened from the outside by keypad code. The mechanism whirred to life and the door began to roll up and away. It seemed louder than a twenty-car pileup, but no one came bursting out to investigate the noise. Maybe Mom and Dad were too absorbed in one of their spirited checkbo
ok-balancing sessions to notice.

  He shrugged out of the acetylene tank and entered the garage, setting the blowtorch kit down on the concrete. The only light was the dim glow coming in from the streetlamp. Farther in, it was pitch-dark. He bumped the edge of his father’s workbench and held his breath as tools jarred and resettled. A few screws or bolts pinged against the cement floor.

  Griffin felt around the blackness until his hand closed on the aluminum pole. It was time to give the SmartPick its first true test.

  Opting for speed over stealth, he jumped on his bike, the device balanced on his lap as he pedaled for Swindle’s house. He crossed town in record time, very nearly losing his father’s invention as he wheeled onto Park Avenue Extension.

  It was hard to see anything in the area of the broken streetlight, but the clamor of excited voices was unmistakable. He jumped off his bike and ran onto the scene, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He thought he spied Darren halfway up the heavy trunk. But no — the figure was too small. It was Pitch, climbing gingerly and grimacing in pain with every movement of her injured ankle.

  He ran up to Ben, who stood with the other team members, gazing at the big maple. “Where’s Darren?”

  Ben pointed. “Maybe he really is part gorilla.”

  Griffin gawked. No wonder he hadn’t spotted Darren at first. The big boy was thirty feet up, barely a body-length below the Babe Ruth card. He clung to a narrow branch, swaying in the wind as he shinnied ever closer to the million-dollar prize.

  Savannah regarded the SmartPick dubiously. “You sure picked a strange time for a fishing trip.”

  “It’s my dad’s invention! It can get us the card! Hey, why did you guys let Pitch go up there with her bad leg?”

  The drama unfolding in the tree had unmasked Melissa. Her curtain of hair was permanently parted, her wide eyes riveted on the two climbers. “I don’t think she’s after the card. I think she’s trying to rescue Darren.”

  “Looks like Darren’s doing just fine on his own,” Ben observed nervously. “Another few feet, and he’s got it.”