“Hi. How’s it going? You were great at the game. You’re going to be the parrot again this week, aren’t you? Because Steve’s still limping around.”
“Uh, gee, I guess so,” Jupe stammered.
Cathy sat down close to him. “Jupiter, could I talk to you about a philosophy paper I’m supposed to write? I bet you have a lot of good ideas. What do you say?”
Just what I don’t need, Jupe thought. Real homework and real papers to write! So far, by skipping around from class to class, he’d avoided doing any real class work at all. And Jupe wanted to keep it that way.
Jupe stumbled around, trying to answer without saying anything. Finally Walt Klinglesmith arrived.
“Sorry I’m late, Jupe,” Walt said. “Hi, Cathy.”
“Hi, Walt,” Cathy said.
“Jupiter, sorry, but I’m whipped. I can’t study today. Coach practically killed us in practice. I’m going home to Z out.”
Jupe frowned, hearing that his chance to find out more about the bribery scheme was going to take a nap.
“Hey, don’t look so serious,” Walt said. “Why don’t you come party with us at Cory Brand’s condo on Tuesday night? Big crowd. Bring a friend if you want.”
“Good idea, Jupe. Maybe we can talk philosophy’ there,” Cathy teased.
“Yeah, sure,” said Jupe with a smile.
A party at Cory’s condo — it sounded like a terrific place to get information about the case. But the case couldn’t wait until Tuesday night. Time was running out and the pressure was on — especially now that moneyman Powers was breathing down their necks. Jupe decided to spend Sunday morning focusing on their prime suspect: Duggan. A trip to Duggan’s office was long overdue, and the gym should be empty at that hour, Jupe thought as he hurried across campus.
Wrong. The sound of bouncing basketballs echoed through the halls the minute Jupe entered the building. Jupe peeked into the gym and saw the whole team. Duggan worked them hard, Jupe realized, calling practices all weekend long. No wonder the team was planning a party on Tuesday night. With a Sunday-morning practice they didn’t dare party on Saturday night!
Jupe sneaked toward Duggan’s office, taking the hallway that ran behind the gym so he wouldn’t be noticed. Maybe this was a lucky break in disguise.
Jupe’s heart pounded. If Duggan came back while Jupe was snooping around... if Jupe got caught... it would blow the case and destroy his cover.
He paused in the hallway outside Duggan’s office, looked both ways, then tried the doorknob. It opened. Quickly Jupe slipped inside and stood in the outer office. Now he had to work fast.
With slightly sweaty hands, Jupe put a piece of paper in the secretary’s typewriter and typed a few words. Then he held it up to the light with one of the bribery notes behind it. Did the typefaces match? It took a moment to decide — but no. So Jupe moved quietly into the coach’s private office and closed the door.
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?”
“
“Then why’s the monitor on, and why do you have the remote in your hand? I’m one of the Three
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
“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.
