Jex Malone Read online

  “Okay. So, nobody say anything about what we did today,” Cissy pipes up. I look at her appreciatively. Cissy doesn’t talk much, but when she does at least she is the levelheaded one.

  “I think Cissy’s right,” I interrupt. “We’d all get in huge trouble for this. I know my dad. He’s kind of a letter-of-the-law kind of guy. He’d feel like it was his civic responsibility to tell your parents you were sleuthing.”

  “Um, honey, we don’t do that sleuthing thing around here,” Deva corrects me. “We were just, um, browsing.”

  “Okay, well where I come from, what you did was sleuthing,” I retort. “And I think … ”

  “We’re pretty good at it?” Nat interjects with a grin. “By the way, the original term was sleuthhound and it means to track or trail. It’s a term from 1200. A Middle English word—and a very good one.”

  How does she know this stuff?

  “My brain is about to explode,” Deva announces.

  I stop short to think for a moment. Well yes, you are pretty good at it. I could have lived in this room all summer and not figured out how to find those files on the computer or dug out the ones in the closet.

  “Well, yeah—you are pretty good at it,” I reluctantly announce.

  “So what do you think about this?” Nat replies. “Hear me out, I have an amazingly great idea.”

  “Okay,” I respond cautiously while my stomach does a triple flip.

  “I’m suggesting we solve the case,” Nat says, watching three heads, including my own, pop up so hard that it’s a miracle we don’t have instant whiplash and require neck braces.

  “Look, I know you don’t know me. But I’m sort of self-taught when it comes to major crime investigations,” Nat says with pride as she stares me down.

  “What?” Deva and Cissy respond simultaneously while I look at Nat like she’s nuts.

  Because, clearly, she is.

  “We’ve known you since birth. What crime have you ever solved?” Deva demands.

  “I’d like a shot at it,” Nat replies. “Look, some police departments actually let citizens in on cases and give them a chance to figure it out. It’s a really successful approach. Turns out you have to be at least twenty-one to get into those kinds of programs. That’s … discrimination! Age discrimination! I don’t want to wait—and I won’t put up with discrimination of any kind.”

  My brain is in overdrive. How did I go from wanting to keep these girls’ mouths shut about snooping around my dad’s files to Ms. Crazy “Let’s Solve the Case” thinking she’s living an episode of Law and Order … as one of the cops?

  These girls are nuts.

  Okay, Okay … Jex, think fast.

  Now, I’m thinking to myself in a rapid-fire way. I have to get them to keep their mouths shut or trouble is coming. Big, big, fat uber-trouble! What do people from New Jersey do when they want other people to keep their mouths shut?

  No, I can’t go all Tony Soprano on them, although it’s tempting.

  Okay, but the mob is good at getting people to shut up. I need a mob-like solution like a hit man … no, too bloody … like someone getting whacked … no, too violent … I need something mob-ish like an oath! Like when wise guys pledge eternal loyalty. I need …

  “A club, but not really a club,” I blurt out. “We need to make this official and form a real detective agency! To solve the case! Like Nat said, ‘Let’s solve it.’”

  “A what?” Cissy asks. “Solve what?”

  “An agency, a real detective agency,” I announce. “I think if we’re going to do this right and solve the case, we need to be official. Secretly official, but still official.”

  “A real-life detective agency,” Deva replies, raising her eyebrows. “Is this like a club? Is it like the Girl Scouts? Because I don’t do that shade of green.”

  “No, no, no—not like the Girl Scouts—and not a club. What are we? Twelve years old? We’re a little too old for a secret club,” I interrupt, adding, “but, if we’re going to do this right, let’s form something real and have some rules about who is going to do what so that we don’t waste anyone’s time.”

  “If we form our own little agency, our work will have some, um, organization to it,” I ramble, which I’m good at under dire circumstances like this one.

  “Oh, I see what you mean,” Nat says with a tone in her voice that seems to say: “I have no idea what this girl is talking about, but I still want to solve the case.”

  My mind is racing because I’m trying to figure out how to make some logic out of what is coming out of my mouth before the words are released into the universe. I know I’m not doing a very good job of making any sense.

  “That’s how we do it in New Jersey,” I tell them, now really making it up as I go along. “We are just very organized people. I mean, since it is my dad’s stuff, at least do it my way by all of us forming this union.”

  “Right, a group,” Deva responds, letting it sink in. “What are we now? Silly little freaking Nancy Drews? Aren’t we really too old?”

  “Well, that’s a great idea, Deva,” I say, slanting her words. “But we’re not the Nancys or the Drews. We’re the … uh … um … I got it. We’re the Drew-Ids.”

  Nat jumps off the couch and nearly falls over her own feet. “I’m getting chills. Real chills!” She holds out both arms that are covered by her hoodie and cries, “Did you know that IDS is law enforcement shorthand for Intrusion Detection System?”

  Of course, I don’t know that.

  Deva touches her manicured fingernails to her head. “Stop, Nat, you’re giving me a migraine,” she says.

  Racing over to the computer, Nat punches in the word. “In German, Drew means trustworthy. In Greek, it’s courageous. It means wise in Welsh,” she says in a breathless voice.

  “I’m breaking out in hives now,” Nat continues in a voice that’s made up of all parts pure joy.

  “Shut up, Nat,” Deva begs. “We can be the Drew-Ids if you don’t give us one more fun, noninteresting fact about what it all means.”

  “And it’s an homage to Nancy,” Nat says with reverence, like she equates Nancy Drew with Princess Diana or Mother Teresa. “I read all forty-seven books.”

  Cissy, Deva, and I stare hard in her direction. “You read all fifty-six Nancy Drew books. No judgment,” I say, reminding myself that I read most of them, too, but I don’t have to confess everything to these strangers.

  “Nancy will do,” Deva says. “She looked so cute in those candy-striper uniforms.”

  “Nancy was my best friend—other than you guys,” sighs Cissy. “She wasn’t afraid of anything.”

  Nat smiles and says, “Nancy was the best. Okay, I’m shutting up now. Really. Lips locked.”

  For a split second, I wonder if we should do a blood oath or even a pinky swear.

  “There needs to be a list of rules. This ain’t a free-for-all. So, let’s write down three or four rules. So it’s officially official,” I say.

  “I’m not slicing my finger and doing a blood oath. Infections,” Deva announces. “Not you, Cissy. Or Nat. But I don’t know about Jex. No offense.”

  “These will be our bylaws,” Nat says with a sigh. “I’m studying business law in my advanced placement college class. We go to school in Nevada, too—when we’re not sweating or tanning.”

  “Yeah, we know you’re smart, Nat. But back to business. Break these rules and you’re out of the Drew-Ids, as in your little can kicked to the curb,” Deva says.

  Half an hour later, we have agreed to ten rules that were read aloud in an almost religious and reverent way. Each girl took her turn reading what was now officially official.

  The Drew-Ids Code of Honor

  If lucky enough to be inducted into the Drew-Ids, you must swear on the life of Tatum Ryan (or insert any prized actor of your choice) that you will abide by the following rules:

  There is no such thing as the Drew-Ids. Just in case anyone asks. In other words, don’t spy and tell.


  That said, a Drew-Id member is a teenage girl who has a detective gene just bursting to come out. She has the ability to snoop until a case is solved or there is no need to snoop any longer.

  That said, you will not use your Drew-Id skills to snoop on a boy you like in class, which just belittles the entire idea behind this group. You can, however, be hired for $1 by a friend or fellow D-ID to unearth things for her. It just takes the romance out of everything if you spy for yourself.

  The Drew-Ids founders respect the ways of great girl snoops of the past, including Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, and the grandma of all snoops, Angela Lansbury. (Face it: You enjoyed watching some of those Murder, She Wrote episodes with your grandmother.) If you need to go undercover, you will use their names.

  You will never do anything entirely illegal in the name of official Drew-Ids work, but there is no exact definition of “entirely.”

  You will never choose any activity with a guy over what needs to be done for the good of society. Also, romantic heartbreak is no excuse for ignoring your D-IDS duties.

  You will keep no documentation of your cases. The written word is tricky, and parents have a way of doing their own snooping when you’re not home. So be smart, keep facts in your head, and in rare cases of paper trails, shred, shred, shred.

  You will never ever ever leave a scene without your Drew-Ids sisters. Ever.

  You must never forget about your Drew-Ids sisters, even if you’re thousands of miles away from them. They’re only a phone call away for a quick consultation.

  In the end, you’re working to save the world. Now, get out there. Stay hungry and alive. And keep your nose out of nothing.

  And remember the number one rule. If you don’t stand for something, you’re going to fall for everything.

  In keeping with rule 7 (no documentation), Cissy, Deva, Nat, and I immediately put all of our doodles and the bylaws that Nat jotted down through my dad’s very professional shredder.

  Shred, shred, shred. It is the law.

  Our law.

  Chapter 7

  Famous Girl Detective Quote:

  “Undoubtedly, we shouldn’t be doing this. We should be studying for our math finals or doing anything else.”

  —Trixie Belden

  Is this situation totally nuts? I ask myself the zillion-dollar question while pretending to be asleep. As if I could sleep. Daddy Dearest has to work late tonight. Not his fault. He will make it up to me. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  Whatever. Whatever.

  So I pretend the pull out couch with the pancake-flat mattress is a king-size pillow-topped bed at some swanky hotel. Obviously, it’s some five-star joint that allows big drooling dogs. The pooch is at my feet licking my toes, and she is pretty cute while being totally starved for attention. We have so much in common.

  With the air conditioning so cold I can almost see my breath, I pull the covers over my head, light things up using a police department–issued flashlight I found in the garage, and slide out the first thick file in Patty’s missing persons case.

  Missing person. That’s what it still says marked on the file. They never could call it a murder case since they never found the body.

  This much I know.

  Every now and then, I’d overhear my parents talking about the case when Dad would make his weekly call to check on me. Not often, but usually around the anniversary of Patty Is Gone Day, I would hear my mom say on her end of the conversation: “Yes, John, I know what day it is. How could I possibly forget the big case? The only case.”

  Mom and Dad usually don’t talk long on the phone when and if he calls. Usually it’s just a “Hey, how are you? Good, glad to hear everything is fine and Jex isn’t wounded or dead” exchange of pleasantries. I know Dad then rushes to say, “Put Jex on the phone because I’ve only got a minute to talk.”

  That’s his escape hatch for me, too, just in case we don’t have anything to say to each other that week or nothing big has happened like I somehow invented a cure for cancer or rocketed to the moon. My mom jokes that our phone calls sound a lot like roll call at the beginning of a cop’s shift: Report in with what happened that day so everyone is on the same page and knows what’s going on. Then go about your business.

  Oh, and stay alive out there.

  “Oh, and be safe out there,” he says. Yeah, my dad actually says that at the end of every single telephone call. Right after he says “love you” really fast. More like “lvya.” Who has time to enunciate an actual vowel? Remember, he only has an actual you-can-time-it-on-your-watch minute to talk.

  His stupid flashlight is the big, heavy metal kind, and it kind of hurts my wrist to hold it at an angle, but I still manage to read the file under the covers. Thank God my dad has the neatest handwriting in the world. It’s like a teacher’s penmanship to the point that it almost looks like typing.

  I feel like Indiana Jones searching through some paperwork in Temple of Doom. I wonder if a snake will jump out and bite me every time I fold the page back, but here goes nothing.

  I clear my throat.

  No sound.

  I clear it again.

  The first report was written the morning after Patty disappeared. My dad had a blue pen in his shirt pocket that night with thick ink, which has managed to hold up even though these files are so old now. He wrote down the address of the call first. That must have felt weird since it was just around the corner from our—I mean his—house.

  He wrote the date—July 5, 2001—and the time of arrival at her house in military time: 0715 (all police do that). He checked the “missing person” box at the top of the report and jotted down her address.

  He checked the boxes for “white” and “female” at the top of the form and then wrote out her full name and date of birth:

  Patty Ann Matthews, DOB: 03-MAR-1985. Hair: Blonde. Eyes: Blue. Height: 5-foot-6-inches. Weight: 120 pounds.

  Caller is subject’s mother, Ricki Matthews, and says that her daughter, who is 16 YOA (that’s years of age in cop acronyms) did not return home following a neighborhood block party.

  Subject was last seen in the vicinity of the above address at a neighborhood block party. Shortly around 10 P.M., a severe thunderstorm occurred and complainant says she saw her daughter run with the other teenagers down the street to take shelter.

  Subject had a curfew of midnight and was not in her room when caller awoke this morning to tend to subject’s younger brother. Caller reports that her daughter is not the kind to stay out at night and fears foul play.

  Attempts to reach the two other subjects who were friends with her daughter have been unsuccessful. Subject was last seen wearing cutoff jeans and a purple tie-dye T-shirt. Subject’s bedroom is undisturbed and it does not appear that her bed was slept in the night before.

  Caller was asked if her daughter has run away or would have reason to run away. Her response: “Absolutely never.”

  My dad writes that they’ll need to track down the boyfriend and the best friend and notes that’s usually all they need to do to find missing teens. It’s his first wrong assumption.

  I flip a few pages and read about the rest of the neighbors who were home on that Saturday gathered in the middle of the street for a Fourth of July block party. Some were wondering if this was serious or just another call about some kind of trouble that happened regularly at the Matthews’s address.

  Oh, this is interesting—a copy of an older report stuck haphazardly in the file. It turns out this was not the first police visit to the Matthews’s house. The cops had been by there a few months before when the neighbors complained of loud fighting between the parents, Ricki and Frank Matthews.

  No one left in handcuffs.

  The police report noted that Frank was unemployed and known to have a drinking problem. A jail-booking sheet attached to the police report showed Frank had been arrested many times. A copy of his mug shot shows him glaring at the camera with an animalistic look in his black-brown eyes, which were also vaguely bloo
dshot. You could tell he had been drinking.

  Dad talked to Frank, who informed him he’d spent much of the evening at a friend’s house where they drank until they passed out. He couldn’t remember which friend or how he got home the next day. Dad signed and dated the report.

  I let my fingers walk through the rest of the paperwork. Apparently, Patty hadn’t been seen by anyone at the actual block party. Some neighbors noted that in years past, she loved the block party and usually stayed until it was over.

  My dad circled that in red pen to highlight the obvious discrepancy.

  More notes: At midnight, Ricki went to sleep, not bothering to check on Patty or her younger brother, Cooper, because she was “beyond exhausted” and they were “good kids who tucked themselves in.”

  I flip through more pages of reports in triplicate. They’re getting awfully repetitive. “My daughter doesn’t have tons of friends,” Ricki reported. “She doesn’t have many friends at all and she likes to wander around with her sketchbook and draw pictures of natural stuff like trees and flowers.”

  “Did you see her before you went to bed that last night?” Dad asked her.

  Again.

  Very Law & Order.

  Trip her up, Dad. Go for it.

  “I don’t know,” said Ricki. It was noted that she lit up many Marlboros during this little talk.

  “How could you not know?” Dad said. “She’s your teenage daughter. She must have had a curfew. You must have checked every night and made sure your children were safe and at home before you locked your front door.”

  Dad noted that Ricki just took a drag of her cigarette, blew a smoke cloud into the air, and looked away.

  Guilty. Wait. I can’t go there yet. There is another suspect, a guy, and a former boyfriend of Patty’s. At least she had a boyfriend named Billy, but I can’t be too jealous because maybe he killed her.

  C’mon Billy, what do you have to say for yourself? I keep reading.