Stacey and the Mystery Money Read online

  We found a bench in a sunny spot and sat down to eat. For a few minutes, we just concentrated on our pizza. Then, when my stomach had stopped growling and my curiosity had gotten the better of me, I looked at Terry and said, “Okay, what did you want to tell me?”

  He stared down at his pizza. “It’s like this,” he said. He stopped and heaved a big sigh. “Oh, man, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” He paused again.

  “Telling me what? You haven’t said anything yet.”

  “I know,” he said. “Stacey, this is really hard for me. You’ll have to be patient.”

  I sat back and folded my arms. “Okay,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “It’s just kind of hard to explain.” Terry looked down at his pizza again. He seemed to be fascinated with it, but I knew he was just stalling. “See, the thing is, my father has kind of a strange job,” he said finally. “He’s with the Secret Service.”

  I gasped. “You’re kidding!” I cried.

  “Nope,” Terry said, shaking his head. “I know it sounds like something out of a James Bond movie, but it’s true. My father is an undercover government agent.” He was talking in a really low voice, so I had to strain to hear him. He was also looking around, as if checking to make sure nobody could overhear him. “His job is to infiltrate areas where counterfeiters are operating. He works on each case until it’s solved, which can take anywhere from a few weeks to a few years. Then he moves on. We all move on.”

  My head was spinning. “You mean — you mean that’s why you moved here?” I asked. I was feeling incredibly relieved. I wasn’t going to be rubbed out after all.

  He nodded.

  “And — and that’s why you knew so much about counterfeiting?” I asked.

  He nodded again. “I was kind of worried when I heard you and your friends were involved. Counterfeiters can be tough criminals,” he said. “They don’t like anyone getting in their way. But I couldn’t tell you about my father, since his identity has to be a secret. Now you really may be on to something, though, and I think you should talk directly to him instead of going to the police first.”

  I was still thinking, hard. “So, this is why your family hasn’t unpacked yet?” I asked. “Because you may be moving on soon?” I felt a pang at the thought of Terry leaving, just when I was getting to know him better.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever lived in one place for more than a couple of years.”

  “And do you change your name when you move?” I asked, thinking of his two middle names — and of Tasha’s ID with another name on it.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember who I’m supposed to be. We have drills when we get our new names. Dad fires questions at us, like, ‘What’s your name? What’s your brother’s name?’ and we have to answer really quickly. We just say the names over and over again until we feel comfortable with them.” He looked kind of lost and sad.

  “Will you tell me your real name?” I asked. “The one you were born with?”

  “Why?”

  “I just want to know it. So I know the real you.”

  Terry took my hand. “Stacey —” he said, and then he stopped and looked deep into my eyes. “My name is David Hawthorne,” he said finally. “Dave.”

  “David,” I repeated softly. “Hi, David.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Hi, Stacey,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  We laughed, but Terry — David? — still looked sad. I guess his life isn’t an easy one, with all that moving around. I could hardly imagine it, even though I’ve moved a few times myself. What about friendships? What about — relationships?

  “Hey, it’s time to pick up those pictures,” said Terry. (I’ll just call him that to make it simpler.) He stood up and stretched, looking relieved at having finally spilled his big secret.

  “Great!” I said. “Let’s go.”

  He grabbed my arm. “Stacey,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For being understanding. And for asking me my real name.”

  I smiled at him. “Thank you,” I said. “For telling me the truth.” We headed for the camera store, holding hands.

  Terry and I picked up the pictures, and I took them out of the envelope before we had even left the store. I couldn’t wait to see what our counterfeiter looked like. I knew he had brown hair and that he was about average height, but that was all I’d seen. I had been too busy snapping pictures to notice much else.

  I pulled Terry over to a bench outside the store and we sat down to flip through the pictures. “He doesn’t look like a criminal,” I said when I’d found the first one I’d taken.

  “Most counterfeiters don’t,” said Terry. “They tend to look pretty normal.”

  “This guy could be my next-door neighbor,” I said, flipping to the next picture. Then I saw something that made me gasp. “Except,” I said, “that my next-door neighbor doesn’t have a blue tattoo of a moon and a star on his ear!”

  “Let me see,” said Terry, taking the picture. “Wow!” he said. “That should make identification pretty easy.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “This has got to be the same guy Claudia saw. That’s wild.”

  “I never understand why people get tattoos if they’re going to be criminals,” said Terry. “Like, you know those posters in the post office? The ones that say ‘Wanted’? I mean, half of those guys have tattoos all over their bodies. Doesn’t seem smart, does it?”

  “Nope,” I said, grinning. “But I’m not complaining. Mr. Blue Tattoo must be our man, and now we have proof! Let’s go show these to your dad.”

  Terry found a pay phone and called his father to ask him to pick us up. “He says he’ll meet us on the corner near Bellair’s,” he said. We walked over there and waited until a white car pulled up. “Hi, Dad,” said Terry as we climbed in.

  “Hi, Terry,” said the man driving the car. Then he turned to me. “Hello, Stacey,” he said.

  My mouth dropped open. The man in the front seat was one of the “officers” who had questioned me at the police station that afternoon. He had been the one who seemed to be in charge, the one who was dressed in a regular suit instead of a uniform. “Uh — hi!” I said. As soon as I recovered from the shock, I realized it made perfect sense that Mr. Hoyt would have been involved in the questioning.

  “Let’s head on home before we talk,” said Mr. Hoyt. “Terry tells me you may have some interesting information.”

  I nodded. “I do, I think,” I said. I sat back in my seat and tried to calm down as we drove to the Hoyts’. I suddenly realized that trusting Terry could have been dangerous. I had believed him right away when he told me his father was an undercover agent, and it had turned out that he had been telling the truth. But what if Mr. Hoyt actually had been the counterfeiter? I could have been walking straight into a trap. Was it luck? Or was I a good judge of character? Anyway, I knew now that Terry’s father was who Terry had said he was, and that from here on he could take over. My friends and I had done a lot of work — good work — on the case, and now it was time to let the professionals step in. Finally, I could relax.

  When we reached the Hoyts’, Terry’s dad led me into a little den that was off the living room. Terry joined us and sat on a leather chair, and his dad sat on another. Mr. Hoyt asked me to sit on the couch. “Okay, Stacey,” he said. “I understand that you have some pictures for me to see. But first, I’d like you to tell me what you and your friends have been doing since the last time I saw you. Terry tells me that you’ve been up to some detective work.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I wanted to clear my name after I got hauled in to the police station.”

  “In my book, your name was always clear,” he replied. “But I understand. Go on.”

  I told him about our work on the case. I explained about Charlotte and her spy notebook, and about staking out copiers and the office supply store. Then I
remembered about tailing Mr. Fiske. “Oh, no!” I said, putting my hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe we thought it was my English teacher.” I told Mr. Hoyt about following Mr. Fiske all over school.

  “As long as he didn’t see you, he’ll never know you suspected him,” said Mr. Hoyt, grinning.

  “I hope you’re right. I would be so embarrassed if he knew.”

  “Now,” said Mr. Hoyt. “Tell me what happened today.”

  I told him how Charlotte and I had gone downtown, and what we had done there. Then I told him about the running man and the bag full of money. “So I called my friends, and they brought a camera downtown, and we waited for the guy to come back, and we got his picture!” I held up the envelope. I felt pretty proud of myself.

  Mr. Hoyt looked stern. “You know, don’t you, that you put yourself in great danger by acting as you did?” he said. “Catching counterfeiters is not a game. You should have informed the police as soon as you found that bag of money.” He turned to Terry. “And you should never have let them wait for that man to come back,” he said. “You know better, son.”

  Terry and I tried to look serious. “We know it was wrong,” I said. “But wait till you see these pictures.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Terry added. “I just felt I couldn’t interfere then.” Mr. Hoyt nodded at Terry, and then he turned to me.

  “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” I handed him the pictures, and he looked at each in turn. “Hmmm,” he said. “Interesting.”

  I pointed to one of the pictures. “What about this?” I asked. I was pointing to the blue tattoo.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Hoyt. “The blue tattoo. Just what we needed.”

  “Needed?” I asked. “For what?”

  “It may be the piece of evidence that we were missing,” said Mr. Hoyt. “We’ve been narrowing down the scope of our investigation, focusing on several known counterfeiters. This man is one of them, and this may be enough to bring him in.” Mr. Hoyt stood up. “Stacey, I want to thank you for your help. Your procedures were incorrect and dangerous, but they may have been successful. Now that we know exactly who we’re after, my guess is that we’ll have our man within a few days.” He shook my hand and hurried off.

  “Wow!” I said, turning to Terry.

  “I think you’ve caught a counterfeiter,” said Terry, giving me a high-five.

  We smiled at each other. Then I checked my watch. “I should get home, I guess,” I said.

  “Wait,” said Terry. “I have to talk to you about something.”

  “Another secret?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “I thought I knew them all.”

  Terry looked serious. “Not another secret. Just more about the one I already told you. The thing is, I didn’t tell my dad that I told you who he is. I pretended I just told you he was a police officer. If he knew I had told you everything …” Terry looked pale. “You have to promise me you’ll never tell anyone what I told you. You could put our lives in jeopardy if you did.”

  I nodded. “I understand,” I said.

  “I don’t know if you really can understand, but thanks. I never should have told you my family’s secret, because now it’s yours, too. I’m sorry. My whole life is one big secret, and I guess it was suddenly just too much for me. I couldn’t help telling you.”

  I crossed the room and put my hand on his shoulder. “You have my promise, David,” I said. “I’ll never tell a soul.” He smiled up at me. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I knew I would keep my pledge.

  I hate lying to people. It’s something I never do. Well, almost never. But this was a special case. I had made a promise to Terry, and I had to keep it. So I didn’t even tell Claudia, my best friend in the world, the whole truth. When I called her that night, I tried not to tell her any actual lies. Instead, I did what my mother calls “lying by omission.” That means that instead of telling an untruth, you just leave things out. For instance, I told Claudia that Mr. Hoyt was in charge of the counterfeiting case, and that he was “some sort of police officer.” I didn’t tell her what he really did for a living. I just left that part out.

  Claudia, along with my other friends, seemed a little miffed at me for going directly to Mr. Hoyt. “I mean,” said Claudia, “even if he is in charge and everything, you could have called us. We wanted to be there when you showed those pictures to the authorities.”

  “I know,” I said. “I just thought it was better to act quickly.”

  “But we were all working on the case,” said Claud. “I mean, who brought you the camera? If you hadn’t had that, you wouldn’t have been able to take any pictures.”

  “I know, I know. And I’m really grateful to you for everything you did. But isn’t the most important thing that the case might be solved soon?”

  “I guess you’re right. I still would have liked to be there.” Claud sounded hurt, and I could understand why she felt left out. But there wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  I spent a tense four days after that, waiting for news about the case. Claudia — and everyone else — had forgiven me, but they still weren’t acting as friendly as usual. Then, after supper on Tuesday evening, I got a phone call.

  “Stacey? This is Mr. Hoyt.” I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to say. “I just wanted to let you know that, with your help, the counterfeiters have been captured. It will be in the news tomorrow.”

  “Wow!” I exclaimed.

  “The man you took pictures of was wanted for several other crimes. He and a couple of his pals are already safely behind bars.”

  “That’s great!”

  “The work that you and your friends did was very helpful,” said Mr. Hoyt, “and I want to thank you. But I also want to warn you against getting involved in a case like this again. What you did could have been very dangerous.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I guess we got carried away.”

  “Well, it ended okay,” he said. “Now, I think there’s someone here who would like to talk to you, so I’ll say good-bye.”

  Terry got on the phone. “Hi, Stacey,” he said. “I was wondering if you could meet me somewhere for a few minutes. I want to talk to you.”

  We agreed to meet at the playground at the elementary school, and fifteen minutes later I was sitting on a swing, Terry beside me on the next swing. It was pretty dark out by then, and it felt strange to be at the playground at night. Strange, but kind of special, too.

  “So, congratulations,” said Terry.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I wanted to see you so I could say good-bye.”

  “You’ve leaving?” I felt shocked, even though I had known this would happen.

  He nodded. “Very soon, probably,” he said. “We never stick around after a case is solved. We’re packed already, and we’ll be on our way as soon as Dad has his next assignment.” He reached over and took my hand. “I wish we didn’t have to go,” he said.

  “So do I,” I answered, squeezing his hand. “But I’ll always remember you — David.”

  He smiled that sad smile again. Then he jumped up from the swing, and pulled me up off mine. Then he gave me a kiss — maybe the sweetest kiss I’ve ever had. “I’ll always remember you, too,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Stacey.”

  I looked into those hazel eyes for a long moment. “Will you write to me?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I can’t. Too dangerous. But somehow I think we may meet again.”

  “I hope so.” We kissed again. “And don’t worry about your secret,” I said. “It’s safe with me.” Terry gave me a big hug, and then we said good-bye. I walked home, feeling a strange, bittersweet sadness. I probably wouldn’t have the chance to get to know Terry better. But I was really glad I had met him, and I knew I’d never forget him.

  The next morning, the story of the counterfeiters — and their capture — was all over the news. Counterfeiters Nabb
ed shouted the headline in the paper. The morning news on TV covered the story, too.

  I read the newspaper article carefully. It didn’t mention me or my friends, but I hadn’t expected it to. After all, the operation had been pretty much top secret. It didn’t mention Mr. Hoyt, either, at least not by name. The article talked about an undercover government agent, who, acting on “tips given by alert civilians,” had cracked the case of the mystery money.

  Alert civilians. That was me and my friends. Pretty cool. The man with the blue tattoo had been caught, along with several of his buddies, when they walked into a trap set up by Mr. Hoyt and the police. It was a sting operation. The criminals were set up to believe that they were going to be able to convert a lot of their counterfeit bills into real cash. Apparently, Mr. Hoyt had posed as an “underworld figure” who was willing to take the fake bills off their hands.

  It worked like a charm.

  At school that day, everybody was talking about the case. And when I got home that afternoon, Charlotte called to tell me how glad she was to find out that my name had finally been cleared.

  That afternoon at our BSC meeting, we talked about how amazing it had been that the criminals had been nabbed. “I didn’t think much of Charlotte’s little notebook,” Kristy admitted. “It was, like, just a fun game. But all that work paid off.”

  “Stacey’s the one who really cracked the case,” said Claudia. She pulled something out from under her bed. “Here, Stace, I made this for you. So you’ll never forget your first counterfeiting case.”

  First and last, I thought to myself. And I knew I’d never forget it anyway. I took the package Claudia handed me and unwrapped it. Inside was a framed painting of a “counterfeit” bill. It was a large red, white, and blue bill, with a great sketch of me in the middle. “This is terrific!” I said. Now I knew that Claudia had completely forgiven me.

  “Just don’t spend it all in one place,” Claud said, grinning.

  We cracked up.

  “I’ll hang it over my bed,” I said. “I love it. Thanks, Claud.”

  Then the phone started ringing, and we spent the next few minutes lining up jobs.