Megan Stine - Long Shot

Jupe shook his head sadly. “Now I know why police departments never buy Porsches. If they did, they’d never go anywhere and never solve a case — exactly the predicament we’re in.”

Suddenly the car lurched forward with such force that Jupe felt welded to the leather seat. Tires spun, spitting gravel at first and then digging in and launching the car like a rocket out onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Wow!” Pete said, steering and shifting gears in quick, precise movements. “I just barely stepped on the accelerator.”

The blue Porsche buzzed down the curving road and kept accelerating as Pete wound out each gear. Jupe watched the traffic ahead. One second a car was in front of them. A blink later it was behind.

“I wanted you to catch up with Michael Anthony — not beat him to wherever he’s going!” Jupe said.

“What?” asked Pete. He was in another world.

“What color is his car?” Jupe asked.

“Oh. Black Thunderbird. Brand new,” Pete said, bringing the Porsche safely down to the speed limit.

Jupe leaned forward and checked the glove compartment, the ashtray, and the map pocket on the door. “There’s no registration,” he reported. “Not a scrap of evidence that anyone owns this car or has even driven it before. We’ll have to run a check on the license plate. Maybe that will tell us who Mr. Anthony really is — or who he works for. Although something tells me that name probably has been well camouflaged.”

“There he is up ahead,” Pete said.

“Stay far back,” Jupe warned when he spotted the black car. “We don’t want him to know we’re following him.”

“Yeah, no prob,” said Pete. “I just hope he drives around forever. Is this car heaven or what?”

For a moment Jupe let himself sink into the firm padded seat and imagine the faces of all his Rocky Beach friends as he and Pete drive by. He could just see their looks of disbelief and envy.

“Hey — he’s turning,” Pete said, snapping Jupe back into the chase. “Right into Oceanside Country Club.”

“Well, this is interesting,” Jupe said. “The most exclusive country club in the area.”

“Jupe,” Pete said, braking at the start of the long, winding driveway that led to the country club, “what do we do now? They’ll throw us out.”

“Let him get ahead. Then we’ll drive up and ask who was in the black Thunderbird, turn around, and leave,” Jupe said confidently.

Pete pulled up to a valet parking stand in the shadow of an enormous white painted brick mansion, the clubhouse. Beyond the building lay acres of trees and grass with tennis courts, swimming pools, and an 18-hole golf course.

Pete stopped the car and lowered his window to ask one of the parking attendants about the black Thunderbird.

But the young man quickly opened the door for Pete. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

Pete turned to Jupe with a look of surprise.

“Can you tell us,” asked Jupe, “who was in the black Thunderbird that just pulled in?”

“Sorry,” the guy said. “I just started working today. I don’t know who anyone is.”

“Well,” Jupe said, suddenly sounding as if he had belonged to the club for years, “he looked just like an old friend of my father’s. We’re going to go say hello.”

“Sure,” said the car attendant, handing a parking claim check to Pete. “Great car.”

“Thanks,” said Pete. “Want to see the engine?”

“Save it, Pete,” said Jupe, leading the way up to the clubhouse.

Inside, Jupe and Pete stepped into a large lobby filled with comfortable chairs and couches, fragrant flowers, and soft music.

Slowly they wandered across the soft Oriental carpeting toward the dining room, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. It was a huge glass-enclosed patio filled with round dark wooden tables and straight-backed wooden chairs with colorful seat cushions.

Jupe and Pete stopped in the doorway.

“See him?” asked Jupe.

“Yeah,” Pete said, stepping back out of the line of sight. But he gave a quick nod in the direction of a small table near one window.

Michael Anthony was having lunch with a beautiful young woman. She wore a bright green dress that made her suntanned skin and reddish-brown hair stand out in the room even more.

“Maybe she’s the one he’s working for,” Pete said.

But then Michael Anthony reached across the table to hold the woman’s hand. “It doesn’t look like a business partnership to me,” Jupe said. “Still, I wonder if she has a direct connection to this case.”

“Hey,” Pete said, poking Jupe, “someone’s coming this way, definite manager type.”

“Probably the maître’d” Jupe corrected.

“I don’t care if he’s the welcome-wagon lady. He doesn’t look happy to see us. What do we do?”

Jupe sighed. “I wish we could stay for lunch. The shrimp scampi looks delicious.”

Pete and Jupe went back to wait in the Porsche for Michael Anthony. Jupe kept an eye on the steps to the clubhouse, while Pete set the radio presets and adjusted the graphic equalizer.

“Six speakers,” he said, trying to impress Jupe.

“Five more than the House of Representatives,” said Jupe, not very impressed. “Try to find where to put the key. Here comes our man.”

Michael Anthony walked down from the clubhouse still holding hands with the young woman. But they got into separate cars.

“Follow her?” asked Pete.

“Follow him,” said Jupe.

They drove south past Rocky Beach, past Santa Monica and El Porto Beach. Then Anthony got off the main roads and took several smaller ones that ended at a stone wall with an iron arch. The large brass plaque on the stone wall said Costa Verde college.

Jupe’s mind spun with ideas. It was as if after days of wandering around without water, he had suddenly come upon an ocean.

“Costa Verde — Shoremont’s number-one rival!”

Jupe said, thinking out loud as Pete slowly followed the black car up ahead. “Here’s an interesting possibility: Michael Anthony is working for Costa Verde College — maybe for Coach Bernie Mehl. Knowing that Duggan’s reputation is already suspect, they’re paying off Shoremont players to start a scandal.”

“That’s what Coach Duggan thinks. He practically said so in a TV interview after the game last night,” Pete said.

“Really?” Jupe said. “I didn’t see it. What did he say exactly?”

“He said something like ‘Bernie Mehl’s trying to start a scandal and ruin me.’ ”

“Hmmm.” Jupe was silent for a moment. “Perhaps the bribery scheme is bigger than just one school. Michael Anthony may be the messenger at a number of schools.”

Pete’s face fell.

“These are just possibilities, Pete.”

“Yeah, but if it’s that big, we’ll never be able to get enough proof,” Pete said.

“Come on,” Jupe said as Pete pulled into a parking place. “This is a start.”

They had to follow Anthony on foot now. He seemed to know exactly where he was heading as he strode along the sidewalks of the small college. Pete and Jupe jogged behind, trying to keep him in sight and dodge the students walking by.

“Hey, you fat, featherbrained weasel!”

The voice was so angry that Jupe stopped in surprise to see what was going on. He saw four guys standing under a nearby tree. Instantly he recognized two of them.

“Uh — oh,” said Pete. “Looks like numbers 32 and 52 — the basketball players who roughed you up last night. No sweat. We can handle them again.”

The four Costa Verde jocks dropped their books under the tree and started coming at Jupe.

“Hey, guys. I think Polly here wants a mouthful of broken teeth!”

“Pete,” Jupe said, “I don’t think we can handle four of them. My advice is run!” Jupe took off.