Chapter 1: Criminal Mischief 1 Criminal Mischief LATE NOVEMBER IN MIAMI CAN be colder than most people would think, but my hoodie was still soaked in sweat. That's how fast I was pedaling. Although I'm sure my nerves had something to do with it too. I was in an industrial part of the city that never made it onto postcards or into travel shows. Windowless buildings and vacant warehouses lined uneven roads that made my bicycle shudder as I raced over them. It was a cloudy night, and I rode along empty streets until I reached my target, an abandoned soft-drink bottling plant. For decades this was where a "secret blend of lemons, limes, and citrons" was turned into Mandarina soda. Now it was where I jumped the curb onto the sidewalk and took the leap from honor student to outlaw. "STAMP," I said aloud as I got off my bike and began pulling supplies from my backpack. Breaking the law didn't come naturally for me, so I'd devised an acronym to make sure I didn't skip any steps. (How gangster was that?) "Stencil, tape, air mask, paint." The stencil, which featured a cartoon monkey, was large enough that it had to be folded twice to fit into my bag. After flattening it out, I taped it to the wall and put on my mask, which not only protected me from inhaling aerosol chemicals, but also hid my identity in case there were security cameras nearby. The spray paint was labeled SRA 94 Tangerine. I shook the canister, rattling the ball inside, and shot a blast of colorful mist into the air to clear the nozzle. One deep breath later, I began my career as a graffiti artist. It started poorly, with the can too close to the wall, so the paint was gloopy and dripped. Then I overcompensated by holding it too far away, which painted outside the edge of the stencil and all over my hand and sleeve. I was still trying to get the hang of it when the police arrived on the scene, and everything was suddenly bathed in a swirl of red-and-blue light. "Hands in the air and turn around," commanded an officer. I dropped the can, which clattered against the sidewalk, and turned to face him. Or rather, them. There were four police cars--strategically parked to block possible escape routes. As if that wasn't enough, a helicopter arrived and trained a spotlight on me. A pair of officers--one male, one female--approached me. "Show your face," instructed the male officer. Despite the temperature, he wore short sleeves that were snug on his muscular arms. His name tag read Vogel. "Do it slowly. No sudden moves." I carefully pulled back my hood and removed the mask. It was obvious from his reaction that he was expecting someone else. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Not who you're looking for?" That was my first mistake. It sounded more antagonistic than I intended and started our interaction off on the wrong foot. The female officer, named Higuera, pointed out the obvious. "He's just a kid." Vogel quickly scanned the scene, checking for accomplices lurking in the shadows. "Where's your spotter?" he demanded. "My what?" I asked, confused. "Your lookout," he explained. "The person who warns you if someone's coming." I laughed. (Also not a good idea.) "I think the fact you got four cars here without me noticing is a pretty good sign I missed that class in graffiti school." Higuera had to suppress a smile, but Vogel was not amused. I may not have been who he'd expected, but he'd brought the cavalry and couldn't just turn to the others and say "Oops." Instead he started barking orders. "Two of you search the building and make sure no one's inside. Two of you bag all the evidence and impound his bike." "Wait, you can't do that!" I exclaimed. "I need my bike to get home." He scoffed. "You're not going home." I couldn't believe it. "You're arresting me? For a little spray paint on an abandoned building?" "That's criminal mischief," he replied, as though it should carry a life sentence. "And just one of the charges you'll be facing." I had no acronym for this situation because I'd felt certain that, if caught, I'd be let off with a warning. At worst I thought I might be assigned a court date to explain myself to a judge. "I'm only twelve years old." "Your point?" asked Vogel. "According to police department regulations, unless there's a pressing safety issue, which there isn't, you can't put a twelve-year-old in handcuffs without permission from a lieutenant," I replied. There were advantages to being the son of a lawyer. "He's right," said Higuera. Vogel's cheeks turned crimson, and he growled, "Then get permission." While Higuera reached out to their lieutenant and the others processed the scene, Vogel led me off to the side. So far I'd been unintentionally confrontational, and I was determined to choose my words more carefully. "What's your name?" he asked. "Alex, sir." "What's in your pockets, Alex?" "Just my phone." He held out his hand, and when I gave it to him, he smiled smugly. I worried that I'd just fallen for some sort of legal loophole trick. Technically, he hadn't asked for the phone; I'd just surrendered it. While I considered this, he took it a step further by holding the screen up to my face to unlock it. "Hey, you can't do that!" I protested. "That's an illegal search." "You seem to know a lot about the law," he said as he fiddled with the phone. "Is that because you're always breaking it?" "No," I replied. "It's because my mother's one of the best defense attorneys in the city." This gave him pause, but he quickly recovered and said, "Then she'll explain that I did nothing illegal. I only used your face to unlock the phone to put it in airplane mode so no one can erase it remotely. We'll secure it with the other evidence and wait until we get a search warrant before we start digging around." I was trying to remember if there were any photos or text chains that might prove embarrassing, when an officer came over to brief him on what they'd found. "There's not much here. It's a Funky Munky stencil, but there's no lighter or matches in his bag." "What about an accelerant?" Vogel asked. "Just a can of orange spray paint," answered the officer. This was when I made my next mistake by failing to resist my lifelong compulsion to correct people when they misstated a fact. "Tangerine." "What's that?" asked Vogel. "The paint's tangerine, not orange." "You got a smart mouth on you, Alex," Vogel replied, annoyed. "I'm not trying to be smart," I said. "I'm just pointing out that there's a difference between orange and tangerine. In fact, that difference is a key to solving this case." "And what case is that?" "The one that made you overreact and bring four cars and a helicopter to arrest a twelve-year-old with a can of spray paint," I answered. (So much for nonconfrontational.) Vogel looked like his head might explode. Luckily, Higuera came to my rescue before that happened. "Lieutenant says bring him in: back seat, no cuffs," she informed him. "Why don't I handle it and take care of the paperwork while you wrap up here?" Vogel stewed for a moment. "Fine. Get him out of my sight." As we walked to her cruiser, I turned to Higuera and softly said, "Thank you." She gave me a displeased look. "You strike me as an intelligent kid, but none of what you just did was smart. You realize that, don't you?" "Yes, ma'am," I answered, chastened. "Then act like it from here on out," she replied. "Just be glad he didn't recognize you." "Why would he recognize me?" She gave me a don't bother look. "I saw you on the news and in the Herald . You're one of those kids who helped solve that cold case about the hotel robbery and the guy who died in Hurricane Cleo. What was his name again?" "Ignacio Gonzalez." "And now you just confirmed it," she replied with a wink. "You see, I thought it was you, but the fact you know his name tells me for sure." "I wasn't trying to hide anything," I said. "But I would like to stress that it was never our intention to embarrass the police." "The FBI blew that case, not local law enforcement," she answered. "You can embarrass the feds all day every day as far as I'm concerned." This was a relief. "So, you like what we did?" "Clearing the name of an innocent victim was impressive." She nodded back at the wall. "Your little paint job, however, is nothing but stupid." "Believe it or not, this is the first time I've ever done this," I said. She looked at my "art" and chuckled. "Yeah, I believe it." "I'd just gotten started," I said defensively. "It would've looked like a monkey... eventually ." "Keep telling yourself that. Now get in the car." She opened the back door, and we were greeted by a putrid odor. "What's that smell?" I asked with an upturned nose. "That's the foul stench of bad decisions," she answered. "I recommend you breathe it in deeply to help you remember to avoid it in the future." I never used to get arrested. In fact, I never used to get into any sort of trouble at all. That changed when I started solving mysteries as a member of the Sherlock Society. The group included my sister, Zoe; our grandfather; and my two best friends, Yadi and Lina. Our motto was "It is our business to know what others do not." Unfortunately, part of that business meant sometimes finding ourselves in unsavory settings. Like the back seat of a police cruiser. It was so cramped, I had to scooch in at an angle for my legs to fit. When Higuera closed the door behind me, the smell got even worse. Yet, as we headed to the police station, I couldn't help but smile. Our plan was working beautifully. Excerpted from Art Attack by James Ponti All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. 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