Megan Stine - Long Shot

Immediately he powered up the coach’s computer so that he could print something out and compare it with Pete’s note. But the noise of the printer made him nervous. Could it be heard outside the office? Maybe. Worse yet, it prevented him from hearing anyone who might be coming in.

While the printer hammered away, Jupe went through the papers on Duggan’s desk, being careful not to move them. He read memos, scouting reports, game-play books, and equipment invoices. He even looked through the coach’s own personal checkbook register, which was sitting there in full view.

But three quarters of an hour later Jupe had to give up. There was absolutely nothing on the desk to incriminate Duggan. And the computer printout didn’t match the note.

Now what? Jupe wondered. Did this mean Duggan was clean? Or was Duggan simply too smart for them? Or was there another suspect entirely — someone they had overlooked?

There was one other possibility, Jupe decided as he rode home on the bus. Maybe the mysterious Michael Anthony wasn’t working for anyone. Maybe he was working for himself!

On Monday the case came to a Grinding Halt. It was a holiday, so there were no classes at Shoremont, or at Costa Verde, either. Halfheartedly Jupe called Coach Bernie Mehl at home, thinking that maybe he could ask a few questions. But Mehl wasn’t there.

So Jupe and Pete spent the day hanging out at Headquarters, playing video games and tinkering with electronic equipment. It was the closest thing to a vacation day they’d had since the two-week winter break began.

Tuesday, however, was different. Jupe had a gut feeling that something big was going to break in the case. Maybe it would be a clue or a lead at Cory Brand’s party that night. Jupe spent the afternoon in his workshop getting ready for the party.

When Jupe heard the workshop door open behind him, he snapped off the VCR.

“Jupe, I’ve got news,” Pete said, rushing in. “Hey, what were you watching? An old movie?”

“No, nothing,” Jupe said. He tried to change the subject quickly. “What’s your news?”

Pete stared at Jupe’s guilty face. “What were you watching?”

“ Nothing ,” Jupe said even more firmly.

“Then why’s the monitor on, and why do you have the remote in your hand? I’m one of the Three Investigators , remember?”

Jupe cleared his throat. “Okay, I was watching something.”

“Let’s see it.”

Jupe tried to block Pete as he made a move for the VCR. But Pete dodged and hit the play button.

The video started and onto the screen came Jupiter Jones, standing in the workshop wearing blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt that said: I want a second opinion. Jupe turned around, modeling his outfit for the camera. Side view... back view... Then the picture flickered, and in the next shot Jupe was wearing a pair of bright-colored shorts and a T-shirt that said: if life’s a feast, why am I on a diet? Then the picture changed again. This time Jupe was wearing sweatpants with a T-shirt that said: verbal jogger: I RUN OFF AT THE MOUTH.

“What is this — The Jupiter Jones Show ?” Pete asked.

“Uh, no. Uh, our surveillance camera needed some repairs, so I was working on it,” Jupe said.

“No, you weren’t. You were trying on stuff to wear to Cory Brand’s party tonight,” Pete said.

“Absurd,” said Jupe, turning off the VCR.

“Hey, they all look perfecto to me,” Pete said. “But maybe we aren’t going to the party.”

“And why not?” asked Jupiter.

“I told you I had news, Jupe. Good news,” said Pete. “I finally talked to our contact at the police station. Their computers were down all weekend — just got fixed today. So he helped me track down the Porsche’s registration.”

“Who owns it?”

“Barry Norman, 45 Lyle Street, Manhattan Beach, California,” Pete said, handing Jupe a computer print-out from his back pocket.

Jupe double-checked the printout before saying, “Let’s go talk to him.”

The two friends climbed into the Porsche, and about an hour later Pete pulled up in front of 45 Lyle Street. It was a small four-story concrete and glass office building.

“You’d better park a few blocks away,” Jupe said. “We don’t want Mr. Barry Norman to see the Porsche and run. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

A minute later Pete pushed through the front door of the lobby and found Jupe reading the black building directory on the wall. It listed all the tenants in small white letters.

“Barry Norman... suite 421. This is almost too easy,” Jupe said, leading the way to the elevator.

Suite 421 was locked. There was a gold nameplate in the center of the black wooden door.

“Barry Norman, Esquire,” Jupe read. “He’s a lawyer.

“He’s going to need a good one when we’re through with him,” said Pete, knocking on the door. He knocked quietly the first time, louder the second time. And the third time he practically shook the door off its hinges. “Nobody home.”

“I concluded that after the second try,” Jupe said, already halfway back to the elevator.

Outside they climbed into the Porsche, but they couldn’t see Barry Norman’s building from there. So Pete cruised around to Lyle Street again and slipped into a spot near a pay phone.

Then they waited and watched.

Every time a man entered the building, they gave him a few minutes to get upstairs. Then Pete ran to the pay phone and called Barry Norman’s office. No one ever answered the phone.

“Seven o’clock, Jupe. I’ve had all the sitting around I can take,” Pete finally said. “He’s not coming back.”

“The logical explanation is that he didn’t come back because he was in court or meeting with a client,” Jupe said. “But I’ve got a strange feeling that something else is going on. I wish I knew what it was. But I don’t think we’re going to find out anything more today.”

“All right! Time to party!” Pete said, revving up the Porsche. “On to Cory Brand’s condo!”

“Not yet. I have to go home and change.”

The party was going full blast when Pete and Jupe finally arrived. Jupe was wearing a purple and white Shoremont College sweatshirt — the one he had bought at the bookstore last week. Music was shaking the walls of the large modern apartment. And college students were talking and dancing everywhere — in the living room, in the kitchen, on the couches. Jupe spotted some basketball players and cheerleaders.

“What a great place,” Pete said, looking around. “I’d love to have a college apartment like this.”

“You could if you went to Shoremont,” Jupe said pointedly. “Keep your ears open. This is an excellent opportunity to find out which players are taking bribes. And don’t forget your cover story: you knew me last year at Rocky Beach... we ran into each other, and I invited you along. Got it?”“Yo, Jupiter!” Cory Brand called. He pushed his way through the crowd to meet them at the door. “Hey, Polly want a cracker? Get it? Huh? That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

“You could have fooled me,” Jupe mumbled to Pete. “Cory, this is my friend Pete.”

“ Hi, Pete .” Cory had to shout to be heard. “Hey, guys. Don’t stand there empty-handed. Grab yourselves something to drink and let’s party before the cops close us down.”

Cory laughed and walked away. So Jupe and Pete wandered through the crowd. Occasionally Pete stopped to munch some chips and jalapeno dip, but Jupe kept circulating.

“Hi, Jupiter.”

Jupe recognized the sweet Southern voice instantly. He turned around, trying to think of something clever to say. “Uh, hi, Sarah,” he said. Someone danced into him, pushing him closer to the pretty cheerleader.