Framed! Page 10

  “The name of the team at Howard is the Bison,” she said, putting it together.

  “Yep,” I replied. “And judging by this onesie, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were born at Howard University Hospital.”

  Her eyes lit up. “That’s a-mazing,” she said, dragging out the word. “I can’t believe I missed that.”

  “Well, you had a lot going on. That’s why you hired me, remember?”

  “Let’s go to the hospital and look at the records from the week I was born,” she said excitedly. “We can find the answer right now.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I told her. “They won’t just show you hospital records. There are privacy issues involved.”

  Her elation turned to frustration.

  “But we can go over there and look around,” I suggested. “You said that just being at the firehouse helped. Maybe visiting the hospital will help too.”

  The hospital was on the other side of the campus. It was nine stories tall and a couple blocks wide. According to the directory, Labor and Delivery was on the third floor. While we waited for the elevator, Margaret grabbed a brochure from an information stand in the lobby.

  “ ‘Howard University Hospital was founded in 1862 to care for freed slaves,’ ” she said, reading from it. “ ‘It was originally called the Freedmen’s Hospital.’ ”

  “A hospital with history,” I said. “How cool is that?”

  “Yeah,” she replied as we stepped onto the elevator. “The question is, am I part of that history?”

  On the third floor we made it only as far as the waiting room. You have to be the family member of a patient to get beyond that. Still, we found something interesting. On one wall of the waiting room was a giant collage made up of pictures of babies who’d been born at the hospital. In some of the older-looking pictures, many of the babies were wearing the exact same onesie that Margaret had on in her picture from the firehouse.

  “Look,” she said, pointing at it. “It’s identical. This is the place.”

  “That’s how TOAST works,” I reminded her. “One little detail at a time.”

  After the hospital, we went back to my house and I dug some leftover Chinese food out of the fridge for lunch. “You want chicken lo mein? Or beef and broccoli?” I asked, holding up both cartons.

  “I’m not much of a broccoli girl,” she said as she took the lo mein. “Got any leftover egg rolls?”

  “Never,” I said with a satisfied smile on my face. “I always finish off the egg rolls. It’s too risky to leave them for later.”

  “Risky how?”

  “Three reasons: One, my dad could eat them; two, the electricity could go out and they could spoil in the refrigerator; and three, in the event of the zombie apocalypse they would remain uneaten for all eternity. Total tragedy.”

  “Clearly you’ve thought this through.”

  “That’s the kind of thoroughness you can expect from Florian Bates Investigations,” I said. “So, why don’t we work on the case?”

  Inspired by what we’d seen at FBI Headquarters, we made a case board using an old corkboard the previous owners of the house had left in the basement. I printed a copy of the picture of Margaret and the firefighters and pinned it in the middle. We also put up the list of the firefighters who were on duty that night and the brochure from Howard University Hospital.

  “Before we continue, there’s something I’ve been trying to figure out,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Do you think we should give our cases numbers or names?”

  “That’s what you think is important?” she asked, incredulous.

  “You’re the one who wanted to start the New FBI,” I reminded her. “We have to figure out everything. Even stupid little organizational details. And nothing helps organization more than consistency. So is this case one? Or do we give it a name?”

  “We should definitely give it a name,” she said. “Numbers will be hard to remember later, but names will stick out.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. So what do we call this one?”

  She took a bite of lo mein while she thought about it. “How about Hornet’s Nest?”

  “I like it,” I said. “It’s much better than the name I was thinking of.”

  “What name did you have?” she asked.

  “The case of Finding Out Who Margaret’s Birth Parents Are,” I replied.

  “Very clever.”

  “Clever is what I was going for,” I joked.

  She took the shoulder patch with the Hornet’s Nest logo and stuck it to the top of the case board.

  “Now it’s official.”

  We went online and tried to track down the other firefighters who were on duty the night Margaret was left at Engine House Four. Their names were:

  Tom Munson

  Vince Jackson

  Jerry Cavanaugh

  Bill Baker

  John Reynolds

  Unfortunately, these were very normal names. It’s a lot easier to find people with unusual ones like Philo T. Farnsworth (who invented the television) or Bronko Nagurski (who was one of the first-ever football stars). It turned out there were seventeen different Vincent Jacksons living in Washington and eleven Bill Bakers. Finding the right ones was going to take time. However, we did get lucky with Jerry Cavanaugh.

  On the website for the DC Fire Department, we found a link to the Emerald Society, a fraternal organization made up of local firefighters of Irish descent. It’s a social group that raises money for charities, and on one of their pages, we found a picture of Jerry Cavanaugh marching in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. He was wearing an emerald-green beret and had a thick mustache. Even though he was older and his mustache had grayed, it was easy to recognize him from the picture we already had.

  “It says he’s a captain with Engine Company Twenty-One,” Margaret said. “We should call.”

  “Nobody’s stopping you,” I told her.

  She flashed a nervous smile and dialed the number. It turned out he was off duty, but it was still a step in the right direction. She wrote “Engine Co. 21” by his name on the case board.

  The least common name on the list also turned out to be the most frustrating. None of the Tom Munsons we found in the DC area had any connection to the fire department. After the seventh one, Margaret stood up and stretched.

  “You want to call it a day and start up again tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I can’t tomorrow,” I said. “I got a text from Agent Rivers. I’ve got training.”

  “What type?”

  I shrugged. “FBI training, I guess.”

  “Well, we’ll get to it soon,” she said. “Thanks for today.”

  “My pleasure,” I replied. “And we’re going to find them. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Florian Bates Investigations uncovers the mysteries of the world, one case at a time.”

  She smiled. “You see? It’s catchy.”

  16.

  Quantico

  AGENT RIVERS PICKED ME UP at precisely seven fifteen in the morning, just like he said he would. This time there was no black, armored-plated SUV with bulletproof windows. Instead he drove a maroon hybrid with a parking permit for the Harvard Club of Washington, DC. So, while we didn’t have any extra protection from random gunfire, we were well prepared should an emergency philosophy discussion break out. His usual uniform of dark suit and matching tie had been replaced by sweatpants and a T-shirt, both neatly ironed and bearing the shield of the FBI.

  “Ready for your big day?” he asked as we merged into the traffic heading south on the interstate.

  “As ready as I can be considering I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I replied. Beyond the pickup time and the instruction to bring gym clothes, the text was pretty vague on details.

  “It’s just some introductory training,” he replied. “If you’re going to be a consultant with the Bureau, you’ll need to do this every now and then. It’s what we ca
ll a necessary evil.”

  “And we’re training together?”

  “No. I have to take a couple recertification courses,” he said. “I’d already scheduled them about a month ago and figured we might as well take care of yours at the same time. And this way your parents don’t have to drive you down to Quantico and wait in the lobby all day.”

  Quantico is a Marine Corps base in rural Virginia that’s home to the FBI training center. It took us about an hour and a half to get there, and during that time I learned the following things about Agent Rivers:

  1. Although his car was almost as clean as his office, a pair of empty cups in the cup holders indicated he’s a fan of gourmet coffee.

  2. Unlike the agent who drove us in the SUV, he never goes so much as one mile over the speed limit.

  3. Judging by his reactions to sports talk radio, he’s an avid fan of the Washington Nationals baseball team.

  4. When I asked him about a trumpet case in the backseat, he told me he plays in a band called Funk Brothers Incorporated that performs at Bureau parties and weddings and is made up entirely of fellow agents.

  We got off the interstate at a town named Garrisonville, and I started to get a little . . . I don’t know if “anxious” is the right word, but I was definitely curious about the day ahead.

  “Can you tell me what kind of training it is?” I asked. “Or is it top secret?”

  “It’s not a secret from you,” he said. “Your schedule is sticking out of the briefcase behind my seat.”

  I reached back and grabbed the paper.

  As I read it, my mood turned to instant excitement. “Are you serious?” I exclaimed. “This is going to be epic. We’re talking the best day of my life.”

  “See, I told you,” he answered.

  “Tactical and evasive driving. Weapons training. Explosives!” I shook my head in amazement. “Explosives?!”

  “Oops,” he said. “That sounds like my schedule. Yours must be the other sheet.”

  I reached back and grabbed another piece of paper, and when I saw it I came straight back to reality. “Classroom study. Self-defense. Hostage preparedness.”

  “That sounds more like it,” he said.

  “Don’t you mean that sounds more boring?” I replied.

  “Trust me,” he said. “It may not be the most exciting day of your life, but it’ll be more fun than you think. Besides, you’ll probably be able to hear the explosives go off, and the boom is half the fun.”

  “Who’s Johan Blankvort of Bethesda, Maryland?” I asked, reading the name off the top of the schedule.

  “You are,” he said. “Which reminds me. There’s a present for you in the glove compartment.”

  I opened it but didn’t see anything presentlike. “What am I looking for?” I asked.

  “The wallet,” he said.

  “You’re giving me money?” I asked, confused.

  “No, the wallet is the present,” he said. “It’s one of those recycled deals. They’re very hip right now.”

  Normally, when adults say something’s hip, it definitely isn’t. But the wallet was kind of cool. Inside there was a student ID from North Bethesda Middle School, a Montgomery County library card, and a summer YMCA pool pass, all made in the name of Johan Blankvort, but with my picture. There was also a Scooper-Star loyalty club card from the Wow Cow ice cream shop.

  “Am I going undercover?” I asked.

  “Kind of,” he said. “But not like you think. You’re only lying to the rest of the FBI. We don’t want the name Florian Bates to appear anywhere in the Bureau’s records. For you to be a true covert asset, we need to fully protect your identity.”

  “Then how do we explain why Johan Blankvort is getting a day of FBI training? Won’t people find that suspicious?”

  “He—I mean you—won an essay contest about ‘What America Means to Me.’ This is first prize.”

  “Nice,” I said. “I hope my essay was good.”

  “Moved me to tears,” he replied with a laugh. “You should be very proud. Also, one more cone at Wow Cow and your next one’s free. So you’ve got that going for you.”

  I’d never been on a military base before and it took a bit to get used to the Marines carrying guns, but the training center had its own little section and looked like a small college. I checked in, as Johan Blankvort, and was told to go to Gymnasium 4. Rivers had time before his first class so he showed me the way.

  There were already several training sessions under way once we got to the gym, and it didn’t take a detective to notice what the instructors had in common. Each looked like he belonged in a mixed-martial-arts cage match.

  Except for mine.

  My instructor looked like she taught kindergarten. She was barely five feet tall, had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wore knee-length black workout pants and a gray T-shirt with FBI written in big black letters across the chest. She was doing some stretches and smiled when she saw us.

  Agent Rivers talked to her off to the side so no one could hear what they were saying. Judging by her expression and the way he put his hand on her shoulder, I got the impression they knew each other well. Once they were done, he took care of the introductions.

  “I’d like you to meet Agent Cross,” he said.

  “Just call me Kayla,” she added, offering her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Kayla,” I answered as we shook. “I’m . . . Johan.”

  They laughed. “Actually, Kayla’s the one person here today who knows who you really are. But that’s good. Keep it up,” said Agent Rivers. Then he turned to her and added, “I told you he was sharp.”

  “Good to know,” she said. “Come on, Johan. Let’s see how sharp you are on the mat.”

  I already felt self-conscious because of my age and the elementary-school feel of my instructor. But then we started doing yoga poses and it became downright ridiculous. I noticed guys smirking as they did their push-ups nearby.

  “Ignore them,” she said, reading my reaction. “Training tip number one: Do your thing and don’t worry about what anyone else thinks. You only need to worry about you.”

  I nodded. “Got it.”

  “Now here’s the scenario,” she said once we were limbered up. “I’m the victim and you’re the perp. That’s what we call the bad guy. I’m walking home all alone on a dark street and you attack me. Show me how you do it?”

  My specific memory of what happened next is sketchy. I do recall approaching her from behind and trying to wrap my arms around her. There was an iron grip around my wrist and a high-pitched scream. I’m pretty sure the scream was me. (Okay, I’m positive the scream was me.) Then I remember flying through the air upside down. When I landed on the mat, the image that ran through my head was that of my mother slamming dough against the counter when she makes homemade pizza.

  “Unfff,” I said as the air rushed out of my body. It took me a second to catch my breath, and when I opened my eyes I saw Agent Rivers. He’d leaned over to look at me, and from my point of view he was upside down.

  “Oh, by the way, don’t let her appearance fool you,” he said. “She’s kinda like a ninja.”

  He cackled and walked away promising, “I’ll pick you up at four. Try to stay in one piece.”

  Kayla was my instructor for the entire day and somehow maintained her cheery disposition, no matter what we were doing. We spent another hour and a half practicing self-defense, and my biggest accomplishment was that I went the last twenty-five minutes of that exercise without going airborne. The classroom session was all about standard FBI protocols and procedures, and while it was beyond boring, my aching body needed the rest. Lunch was in a massive cafeteria called a “mess.” I had a sub sandwich and chips. She had quinoa salad and a bowl of soup.

  “Let me guess,” I said halfway through the meal. “You’re a vegetarian and you grew up in Philadelphia.”

  She smiled. “That’s right. How’d you know? I still have the accent?”

  �
��Not really,” I answered. “But you called my sandwich a hoagie, and that’s a total Philly thing.”

  “And you guessed vegetarian because it was the only way to explain why I’d pass up everything else for quinoa and vegetable soup?”

  I nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “You’re good, Johan Blankvort,” she joked. “Very, very good.”

  Hostage preparedness class involved a lot of role-playing scenarios. Each one had an exotic name like Tokyo Takeaway or Stockholm Surprise. Kayla would put me in a situation—such as tying my hands behind my back and placing a hood over my head—and ask me what I should do next. I’ll admit that I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have, but at the time, getting kidnapped seemed about as likely as going to the moon. (I know, crazy stupid.)

  Our final session was my favorite. We went to Hogan’s Alley, which is a fake town located on the base. It has houses, a diner, a post office, and other small businesses, and it’s populated by real people, except they’re actors. You’re supposed to interact with them like you’re an FBI agent.

  The exercise was a team competition. Kayla and I were paired as partners and put up against two cadets from the academy. I don’t know for sure if they were smirking during yoga, but they totally seemed like the type.

  A senior agent was in charge and explained the situation. “The Bank of Hogan has just been robbed. You two are the lead team,” he said, pointing at the others. “And you two are support,” he said, pointing at us. “I want you to go inside, inspect the scene, and question witnesses. You’ve only got ten minutes. When the time is up, you need to give me a full rundown of what the next steps should be.”

  Before we started, Kayla pulled me to the side for a little pep talk. “The key to any team is knowing its greatest strength. What’s ours?”

  I thought about it for a second. “The fact that these two guys don’t think there’s a chance in the world that a woman and a kid can beat them.”

  She flashed a devious grin. “That’s exactly right. And what are we going to do?”

  “Destroy them.”

  “I like you more and more all the time, Johan Blankvort.”