Iced!: The 2007 Journal of Nick Fitzmorgan Read online

  Copyright

  Photos: p. 11/Library of Congress; pp. 33, 71/Ablestock; p. 52/Laura Miller; p. 55/L. C. Casterline; p. 135/Riccardo Salmona

  The Inspector photos: p. 1 (top) Corbis, (bottom) L. C. Casterline; p. 2 (top) Ablestock, (bottom)

  KRT/Newscom; p. 3 (top) PR Newswire Photo Service/Newscom; (center right) Mario Ruiz/Zuma Press/Newscom; p. 4 (top right) Worth Conoy/Icon SMI/Newscom, (top left) L. C. Casterline, (center left) PR Newswire Photo Service/Newscom

  Text copyright © 2006 by Bill Doyle

  Compilation, illustrations, and design copyright © 2006 by Nancy Hall, Inc.

  Crime Through Time is a trademark of Nancy Hall, Inc.

  Developed by Nancy Hall, Inc.

  All rights reserved

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-316-08457-4

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  June 2, 2007: 12:30 PM

  June 2, 2007: 4:30 PM

  June 2, 2007: 7:30 PM

  June 2, 2007: 9:30 PM

  June 5, 2007: 2:15 AM

  June 6, 2007: 3:15 PM

  June 7, 2007: 9:20 PM

  June 8, 2007: 8:35 PM

  June 9, 2007: 11:45 AM

  June 9, 2007: 3:50 PM

  June 9, 2007: 5:15 PM

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A thank-you of historic proportions to Nancy Hall for making this book and the Crime Through Time series a reality. To Kirsten Hall for her insightful grasp of the overall picture, to Linda Falken for her skillful editing and amazing eagle-eye for detail, and to Atif Toor for bringing the books alive visually.

  Special thanks to the editors at Little, Brown: Andrea Spooner, Jennifer Hunt, Phoebe Sorkin, and Rebekah Rush Mckay, who are always dead-on, always incisive, and never discouraging. And thanks to Riccardo Salmona for his constant support.

  THE SWAMP

  June 2, 2007

  12:30 PM

  I felt something slimy curl around my ankle—and I froze.

  Insects buzzed around my head, and the surrounding swamp gave off the sickening smell of rotten eggs. But I forced myself to stay still. My legs were submerged in waist-high water, thick with muck. I had no idea what creature had wrapped itself around my leg, and I didn’t want to startle it. For all I knew, it could be a friendly little snake—or it could be an angry cottonmouth with really sharp fangs and dangerous venom. After a few tense moments under the sweltering sun, I felt the creature uncoil. There was a tiny ripple on the grayish-brown surface as it slithered away.

  I continued wading through the gunk, forcing myself not to hurry even though that unplanned stop might have cost me the mission.

  This morning, I had been given specific instructions to trail the Suspect—and to do so without being spotted. Losing him in the swamp would mean failure, and failure isn’t something I handle so well.

  Around me, the swamp gurgled like something out of an old horror movie. Dead tree trunks sprouted up here and there. To my left, the swamp was edged by massive weeping willows that blocked the sight of the nearby dirt road.

  Could the Suspect have gone that way? I wondered.

  As if to answer me, I heard the snap of a twig coming from the direction of the trees.

  I ducked behind a hollowed-out tree trunk. I was just about to risk peering through a hole in the rotted trunk — when a hand reached through and grabbed my shoulder. I jumped and let out a little yell.

  MR. BULLDOG

  The hand released me. I looked through the hole and saw a pair of reflective sunglasses staring back at me. They were worn by a guy who was in his late twenties and had a face like a bulldog. He had a crew cut so short it made him look almost bald, and he was a wearing a dark suit. “Judge Pinkerton would like to see your,” Mr. Bulldog said in a gravelly voice.

  I shook myself free of his hand and walked around to his side of the tree. Mr. Bulldog—a nickname the students had given him—was one of the top detectives at the facility and an ace at moving with stealth. No wonder I hadn’t heard him. “I’m on a training mission,” I told him.

  “It’s been terminated,” he growled.

  My stomach sank in disappointment. “But what about the Suspect?”

  “Your training partner has been informed,” Mr. Bulldog replied over his shoulder. He was already walking back toward the dirt road, knowing that I would follow. No one at the training facility would ignore a summons from Judge Pinkerton.

  Passing through the line of trees, I found Mr. Bulldog sitting in the driver’s seat of a souped-up golf cart, which was part ATV, part lunar rover. The huge, balloon-like wheels and the flexible axles could handle the rocky terrain in the area. The cart could cruise easily over fallen trees that might block the road.

  After shaking off as much of the muck from my jeans as I could, I hopped into the passenger seat. Mr. Bulldog drove us along the dirt road that wound its way through the 600-acre Private Detective Academy. Spread over a landscape of mountains, forests, clearings, and a swamp, PDA was like a small town.

  PDA

  PRIVATE DETECTIVE ACADEMY

  But to live in this town, you had to want to be a detective—and you had to be eighteen or older. Of course, that isn’t true in my case. I just turned fourteen last month. Judge Pinkerton, who started PDA, had made an exception in my case and let me attend a special four-week training program.

  For the past three weeks, I’d been part of a kind of detective boot camp. Each day started at six in the morning with a four-mile run, followed by training exercises, classroom instruction—including stuff on forensics (my favorite!)—and more training exercises.

  Not exactly what most kids would do on summer break, but I was happier than I could remember. Even though at first, my chest had burned during the outdoor training. Surrounded by mountains, PDA was several thousand feet above sea level, and my lungs had struggled to suck oxygen out of the high-altitude air. But after a few days, I’d made the adjustment.

  PDA HEADQUARTERS

  To my surprise, we didn’t go back to the main building that held the facility’s offices. Instead, we headed in the opposite direction, straight to the private airstrip. There, I spotted a sleek Learjet on the tarmac, its idling engines whining.

  We pulled up next to the plane. Judge Pinkerton stood waiting for us, her purple silk scarf and silver hair blowing in the breeze. Judge was an old friend of both the Fitzmorgans and the Moories, the two branches of my family.

  WORLD’S FIRST PRIVATE EYE

  Allan Pinkerton was born in Glasgow, Scotland. In 1842, he immigrated to the United States, where he settled in Chicago, Illinois. After helping round up a gang of counterfeiters, Pinkerton became a deputy sheriff and then Chicago’s first detective. In 1850, he founded the first private detective agency and, while working for a railroad company, he became friends with attorney Abraham Lincoln. In 1860, it was Pinkerton who prevented president-elect Lincoln from being assassinated. At Lincoln’s request, Pinkerton formed a secret service to spy on the South for the Union.

  JUDGE IS A PINKERTON

  Looking at Judge, it’s easy to forget that she’s over a hundred years old. Her back is still straight and she’s nearly six feet tall. Unlike other older people I know, the skin on her face didn’t sag with age. It just thinned slightly and grew tighter over her high cheekbone
s. The only heavy wrinkles were the laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. Judge used a cane made of strong driftwood, a gift from Uncle Mal, but she could still get around pretty well. And her bright blue eyes had never lost their intensity.

  JUDGE

  Now those eyes were burning more brightly than ever. “Nick, thanks for coming so quickly,” she said as I hopped out of the cart and walked over to her.

  “Hi, Judge. What’s up?” I expected her to present me with another challenging mission.

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” she said. “I’m going to have to cut your training short.”

  I was stunned. “What?”

  “I’m sending you home.” She must have seen the concern on my face because she held up a hand before I could speak. “No, don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong with your dad. Henry is fine.”

  That was a relief. But it didn’t answer any of the other questions that suddenly flooded my mind. “Then what’s the problem, Judge?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she signaled to Mr. Bulldog, who strode over to us. He carried my green duffel bag in one hand and my journal in the other. Normally, I keep this journal on me at all times, but I knew we’d be getting wet in today’s training and didn’t want to take the chance of dropping it in the swamp.

  Mr. Bulldog handed me my things and went back to the cart.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  “Speed is of the essence, my friend,” Judge said. “So I asked my aide to grab your belongings on his way to pick you up. You can change into a clean pair of jeans on the plane.” Before I could say anything, she continued, “My pilot, Maura, will fly you to Hanahan Airport outside Los Angeles.”

  I turned to see a young woman—almost a girl—standing at the top of the steps leading up to the plane’s doorway. She must have been inside when I arrived. About nineteen, she was athletic looking and wore a sleek, dark suit over an immaculate white shirt. Her red hair was cut short and her angular face was dusted with freckles. But this sweet face was set in an all-business expression.

  MAURA, THE PILOT

  “Please make sure Nick gets home safely,” Judge instructed.

  The pilot nodded curtly and disappeared kick into the plane.

  “She seems friendly,” I joked under my breath.

  Judge smiled. “Maura was top in her class here and is my best pilot. And you two have more in common than you might think.” She patted my arm. “So on, now.”

  This was unbelievable! She was sending me away without an explanation. I felt a -flash of frustration. “Why did you spend three weeks training me if you won’t let me help when something’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Nick,” Judge replied.

  The skin at the base of my neck prickled as I looked at Judge’s face. My detective radar was running at full blast.

  Tec Tip

  FROM ESME HUNTER’S DETECTIVE HANDBOOK

  THE BODY LANGUAGE OF LIARS

  LOST YOUR LIE DETECTOR* NOT TO WORRY!

  ONE OR MORE OF THE SIGNS LISTED BELOW

  COULD INDICATE YOUR SUBJECT IS LYING.

  CHECK TO SEE IF HE OR SHE IS…

  • Blushing or showing patchy red spots on the face

  • Avoiding eye contact

  • Rubbing the back of the neck

  • Involuntarily shrugging the shoulders

  • Speaking with a shaky voice

  • Showing facial or muscle twitching

  • Sweating even when the air is cool

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve had the ability to “read” people. My dad and Judge are always joking that I’m like a walking lie detector.

  At the orphanage where I spent the first seven years of my life, I could tell in a fraction of a second whether or not potential parents were thinking about taking me home. My senses naturally zoomed in on a person’s facial expressions, changes in body language, and even the way they talked. Each time, I was correct.

  My perfect record continued when Henry Fitzmorgan walked through the door of the orphanage with Judge Pinkerton by his side. I knew at that exact second that I had spotted my new family.

  And that’s why watching her face now, I knew Judge wasn’t telling me the truth. Something was definitely wrong.

  But she wasn’t sharing.

  Fine, I thought, trying not to pout. She must have her reasons for being secretive. “Okay, thanks for everything,” I said and hefted the duffel over my shoulder. I started up the steps to the plane, my mucky sneakers squishing. “See you later.”

  “Wait,” Judge suddenly called after me. I turned back and saw she had moved closer to the stairs. “Forgive me, Nick. You’re old enough to be told what’s happening.”

  “Thanks, Judge,” I said, feeling instantly better.

  But her face remained grave. “Have you heard about the Notabe case I’ve been working on?”

  I nodded. Everyone in my family knew about the Notabe case.

  ASYLA NOTABE

  Asyla Notabe, a wealthy woman who had recently tripled her fortune by investing in a cloning program, had been in and out of the lives of my family and Judge for about a century. Whenever Asyla appeared, trouble would follow. Lately, Asyla had made it her quest to convince the government to ban private investigators. She argued that because PI’s worked for private people, they could be hired as a private army. She said they were dangerous to national security.

  It turns out Asyla might be the true threat. Judge had caught her passing bribes to elected officials. Asyla had been trying to buy votes so that her “anti-private detective” bill would pass.

  Now Judge was saying, “There are a few loose ends I need to tie up to make sure Asyla’s trial goes well. It’s something I hadn’t expected. My work will take me away from PDA, and I’ll be out of touch for the next week.”

  “You mean you’re going undercover?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. A sudden smile lit up her face. “Even we old people still like to get out in the field.” Then, more seriously, she added, “I won’t able to oversee your training here as we’d planned. But we’ll complete your courses at another time, okay?”

  I nodded. I didn’t like leaving, but at least she was being straight with me. “I’m glad you told me the truth, Judge,” I said.

  “Your radar wouldn’t allow anything less.” She reached out and tousled my hair. “I spoke to your dad early this morning. I told him what an amazing job you’ve done here and that you’d be home later today. I’ll contact him again to let him know your exact time of arrival.”

  “I’ll call him from the plane,” I said. “You’ve got enough going on.”

  Judge’s bright blue eyes searched mine. “So are we okay?”

  Before answering, I took a few more steps up toward the airplane door. Then I turned and said with a smile, “Always, Judge.”

  She beamed at me. “Bully for you, Nick!”

  MAURA TALKING TO THE LIMO DRIVER

  June 2, 2007

  4:30 PM

  A long black car picked us up at the private airport outside of Los Angeles. The squat driver showed us his PDA badge, and Maura said a few words to him. I tossed my bag in the trunk and hopped in the backseat. When Maura climbed in next to me, I said, “I’m okay. You don’t need to take me to my house.”

  Maura gave me a cool look that could have frozen the sun. “Judge Pinkerton told me to take you home.”

  “Did I mention she also said you should buy me a new big-screen HDTV?” I asked.

  Sure, it was a dumb joke, but Maura’s expression didn’t change at all. I wondered if she had ever smiled in her life.

  I had tried calling my dad from the airplane. But I hadn’t been able to get through to either our home phone or his cell. There had been two or three rings, and then a strange click followed by a high-pitched buzzing. Must’ve been some kind of interference from the plane’s phone.

  I thought about asking to borrow Maura’s cell phone but wasn’t sure how she felt about sharing. B
esides, I was almost home. I might as well just surprise Dad with my early return.

  During the forty-five minute ride to my house, Maura sat ramrod straight. I was glad she didn’t feel like she had to make chitchat. I’m not so good at that and find it even more exhausting than a 4-mile run in the mountains.

  The car wound its way through the twisty streets of my neighborhood in the Hollywood Hills. We pulled up in front of my one-story house. The sight of the curving stone walk and my dad’s brightly colored flower garden made me realize that I had really missed this place — and my dad.

  Maura coolly scanned the little house. “I’ll ask the driver to wait until you open the front door”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Bye, then.”

  She nodded. I grabbed my things and got out of the car. Feeling Maura’s eyes on me, I walked to the front porch, unlocked the door, and opened it. I gave her a wave, and the car sped off down the street.

  Gee, nothing like a teary good-bye, I thought as I went inside.

  “Hi, Dad!” I shouted. “Your favorite son is home!”

  MOM AND DAD

  That’s our little joke. Actually, I’m his only son.

  Like everyone else in my family, my day is a detective.

  He turned one of his most famous cases — the one about that serial bank robber in Florida — into a script. The script was turned into a hit movie that won an Oscar. Ever since then my dad has been writing scripts, turning true mysteries into exciting movies.

  Dad’s life hasn’t always been like a happy Hollywood ending, though. His wife died ten years ago, and he grieved for her for a long time. He always says Judge was the one who got him through that tough time.

  Three years after his wife passed away, he adopted me. I was just seven at the time. Now, it is just the pair of us in the house. We’ve become extremely close and share a stronger bond than most biological sons and fathers.