somehow his fault. It was almost like the fact that he was innocent didn’t even matter to them.
If your own mom and dad didn’t support you, who would?
His friends? They were the best, loyal to the end. But this might really
be
the end. On the phone, Ben had mentioned that all five of them were having major hassles with their families over Operation Stakeout — especially Savannah, whose parents had the evidence right in their attic. At least the others weren’t in trouble with the police, since Dr. Evil had never found the webcams in his trees or the microphone down his chimney. But everybody was banned from having anything to do with Griffin Bing.
The Man With The Plan was The Man With The Blame. He had the ankle bracelet to prove it.
And after all he’d suffered, all the anguish he’d caused his parents, and all the trouble his friends had gotten into for his sake, the most important question was not a single millimeter closer to being answered:
Where was Art Blankenship’s Super Bowl ring?
19
I t was after eight p.m., and Celia White was still at her desk.
This was nothing unusual. She always worked late. Uncovering the dark side of Cedarville and surrounding areas didn’t happen during a nine-to-five shift. What was different was that she was all alone in the offices of the
Herald
. Back when she’d first started, this newsroom had bustled well into the night, filled with reporters following breaking stories and fine-tuning articles and features to perfection. Now the norm was journalists who didn’t care — oh, how she missed the old days!
Well, maybe none of her colleagues took pride in their work; Celia White had a responsibility to her readers. She would stay here as long as it took to finish this latest column on youth run wild in her hometown.
But not without a little dinner.
As she left the office in search of the cheese sandwich in the glove compartment of her car, the closet door opened slowly and a shadowy figure stepped out into the room. Pitch Benson hurried to the desk, moving stealthily through the empty room. If Dr. Egan didn’t have that ring — and even
that
wasn’t 100 percent certain — one of the other suspects did. There was no chance for Griffin to find the real culprit now — not with an electronic bracelet on his ankle. It was up to his friends to take action on his behalf.
She began riffling through the drawers, searching….
The gym bag, fully packed, sat directly under the sill.
Ben crouched outside the Vader home, peering in through the glass. No sign of Darren. Ben would never have a better chance than this.
The window sash was open about three inches — just enough space for him to reach in with his father’s old beach metal detector. He passed the scanning dish over the duffel, ears alertfor the beep that would indicate the presence of metal — the metal of a Super Bowl ring.
“Going to practice, Mom!” came Darren’s foghorn voice from inside the house. “I’ll just grab a Gatorade first.”
Uh-oh. Ben withdrew the device by its long handle and ducked into the bushes, peeking in over the sill with one eye.
After a moment, Darren appeared, a half-gallon jug of Gatorade in his meaty fist. Hastily, Ben dropped out of sight and pressed himself up against the side of the house.
Darren strode over to his bag, uncorking the bottle and taking a long pull. Then, in a single motion, he threw the window wide and dumped the rest of the contents into the bushes.
The big boy smiled in satisfaction at the cry of shock that came from below.
“Hey, Slovak,” he called out the window. “You stink at spying. Tell Bing he better not even think about trying to pin this rap on me. Got it?”
Drenched, muddy, and thoroughly humiliated, Ben crawled onto the Vader lawn in retreat, the metal detector dragging behind him.
“And you owe me a Gatorade!” Darren shouted after him. “You made me spill this one!”
A damp and sticky Ferret Face glowered plaintively up
If your own mom and dad didn’t support you, who would?
His friends? They were the best, loyal to the end. But this might really
be
the end. On the phone, Ben had mentioned that all five of them were having major hassles with their families over Operation Stakeout — especially Savannah, whose parents had the evidence right in their attic. At least the others weren’t in trouble with the police, since Dr. Evil had never found the webcams in his trees or the microphone down his chimney. But everybody was banned from having anything to do with Griffin Bing.
The Man With The Plan was The Man With The Blame. He had the ankle bracelet to prove it.
And after all he’d suffered, all the anguish he’d caused his parents, and all the trouble his friends had gotten into for his sake, the most important question was not a single millimeter closer to being answered:
Where was Art Blankenship’s Super Bowl ring?
19
I t was after eight p.m., and Celia White was still at her desk.
This was nothing unusual. She always worked late. Uncovering the dark side of Cedarville and surrounding areas didn’t happen during a nine-to-five shift. What was different was that she was all alone in the offices of the
Herald
. Back when she’d first started, this newsroom had bustled well into the night, filled with reporters following breaking stories and fine-tuning articles and features to perfection. Now the norm was journalists who didn’t care — oh, how she missed the old days!
Well, maybe none of her colleagues took pride in their work; Celia White had a responsibility to her readers. She would stay here as long as it took to finish this latest column on youth run wild in her hometown.
But not without a little dinner.
As she left the office in search of the cheese sandwich in the glove compartment of her car, the closet door opened slowly and a shadowy figure stepped out into the room. Pitch Benson hurried to the desk, moving stealthily through the empty room. If Dr. Egan didn’t have that ring — and even
that
wasn’t 100 percent certain — one of the other suspects did. There was no chance for Griffin to find the real culprit now — not with an electronic bracelet on his ankle. It was up to his friends to take action on his behalf.
She began riffling through the drawers, searching….
The gym bag, fully packed, sat directly under the sill.
Ben crouched outside the Vader home, peering in through the glass. No sign of Darren. Ben would never have a better chance than this.
The window sash was open about three inches — just enough space for him to reach in with his father’s old beach metal detector. He passed the scanning dish over the duffel, ears alertfor the beep that would indicate the presence of metal — the metal of a Super Bowl ring.
“Going to practice, Mom!” came Darren’s foghorn voice from inside the house. “I’ll just grab a Gatorade first.”
Uh-oh. Ben withdrew the device by its long handle and ducked into the bushes, peeking in over the sill with one eye.
After a moment, Darren appeared, a half-gallon jug of Gatorade in his meaty fist. Hastily, Ben dropped out of sight and pressed himself up against the side of the house.
Darren strode over to his bag, uncorking the bottle and taking a long pull. Then, in a single motion, he threw the window wide and dumped the rest of the contents into the bushes.
The big boy smiled in satisfaction at the cry of shock that came from below.
“Hey, Slovak,” he called out the window. “You stink at spying. Tell Bing he better not even think about trying to pin this rap on me. Got it?”
Drenched, muddy, and thoroughly humiliated, Ben crawled onto the Vader lawn in retreat, the metal detector dragging behind him.
“And you owe me a Gatorade!” Darren shouted after him. “You made me spill this one!”
A damp and sticky Ferret Face glowered plaintively up
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