Chapter 1: Biscayne Bay 1 Biscayne Bay MAYBE IF OUR LAST NAME was Baker, we would've sold cupcakes. Or if it was Walker, we might've taken care of people's dogs while they were on vacation. But it's Sherlock, so starting a detective agency just seemed like the thing to do. Especially compared to more traditional middle school moneymaking schemes like babysitting (boring), lawn mowing (sweaty), or cleaning out the attic (boring and sweaty). My name is Alex Sherlock. I'm twelve years old, and my sister, Zoe, is thirteen. We'd had enough of bratty kids and weed-filled yards and wanted something new and exciting for summer. Tempted by the lure of adventure, we jumped at the chance to become detectives. Then, three weeks later, we had to jump into Biscayne Bay. That's because we were passengers on a yacht that exploded. (Okay, maybe we were more like "stowaways" than "passengers," but let's not focus on that part yet.) Just know that while Sweet Caroline was sinking to the ocean floor, we were clinging to floating debris and trying to figure out how to make it back to land. In every way imaginable, we were in over our heads. And as we treaded water with the acrid stench of burning fiberglass in the air, boring and sweaty suddenly didn't sound so bad. "We should've mowed lawns," I said, looking up at the plume of black smoke spiraling into the sky. "Ya think?" Zoe responded, giving me the stink eye as she tried to wrap her arms around a cooler that was bobbing up and down in the water. "What gave it away? The explosion? Or the sinking ship?" "Technically, it's a 'boat,' not a 'ship,'?" I replied, instantly regretting my words. "Are you seriously correcting my vocabulary out here in the ocean?" she exclaimed. "Who are you trying to impress?" Even in this stressful situation, I couldn't help myself. "Whom." Her face scrunched up like she was trying to stop her head from exploding, and I thought she might drown me right then and there. "Do you know what your problem is? You don't know when to--" Plonk. She was interrupted by a bright orange life vest that bopped her on the head. Another one landed right in front of me, splashing my face. "Stop arguing and put these on," our grandfather said as he dog-paddled toward us. "You're wasting energy, and we've got real problems to solve." "Problems, plural?" Zoe asked. "You mean there's something more to worry about than making it to shore without becoming shark bait?" "Sharks aren't a concern. If you run into one, all you've got to do is punch it in the snout and gouge out its eyes," he said, as if that was no big thing. "The apex predator that worries me here is your mother. She's going to blame me for this." He had a point. Even though it had been our idea to sneak onto the yacht, as the responsible adult in the room where the plan was hatched, he probably should've at least tried to talk us out of it. According to the business cards Zoe insisted we have professionally printed, Grandpa was Director of Transportation and Logistics for the Sherlock Society. This was a fancy way of saying he drove us around in his old-school Cadillac convertible. But Grandpa being Grandpa, he did more than just drive. He was great at problem-solving in the field (he figured out where to hide on the yacht) and often noticed things Zoe and I overlooked (hello, life preservers). "What about you?" I asked, while trying to wriggle into mine. "There're only two vests but three of us. Why don't Zoe and I share one so you can have the other?" "I don't need a life preserver," he scoffed, his pride wounded. "I'm like a fish. I've told you I swam the four-hundred individual medley in college. They called me the Barracuda." "We know," I said, because he mentioned it at least once a month. "But it's a lot farther than four hundred yards to the shore." "Besides," Zoe added, "that was, like, nine presidents ago." He shot her an indignant look and was no doubt about to make his oft-repeated claim of being the healthiest seventy-three-year-old in Coconut Grove when we heard the shrill sound of an approaching siren. "And the hits just keep on coming," Grandpa moaned. "Now we've got cops." Zoe and I turned to see a Marine Patrol boat racing to the rescue. We were elated, but Grandpa seemed dismayed. "You two get your vests buckled and wave them over," he said, his voice quickening. "They'll pluck you out of the water and get you back to safety." "Don't you mean pluck us out and get us back?" I asked, confused. "You're minors, they'll go easy on you," he replied. "But I've got something of a checkered history with the Miami Police Department. I'm going to swim for it." "Swim for it?" Zoe asked incredulous. "You think you can outrace a Marine Patrol boat?" "Four minutes, thirty-seven point two seconds," Grandpa replied, proudly reciting his best time from college. "This stretch of water is the old boat racecourse. I'm going to speed through it just like those powerboats did when I was a kid." Before we could try to reason with him, he began swimming toward a hulking concrete grandstand known as Miami Marine Stadium. Long abandoned and covered with graffiti, it was where fans had once come out to watch boat races. "Powerboat?" Zoe called out to him. "More like pedal boat!" He gurgled back an unintelligible retort and kept on swimming. As the police neared the wreckage, we got their attention by waving our arms and blowing on whistles attached to the life vests. There were two officers onboard, Sanchez and Del Castillo. (I know their names because our mother made us send each of them thank-you notes for saving our lives, as well as handwritten three-hundred-word essays titled "I Promise Not to Be Stupid Around the Water Again.") Sanchez was driving. As they got close, she put the engine on idle as Del Castillo leaned over the side and reached out to us with a long pole called a boat hook. "Are either of you hurt?" he asked. "No," Zoe answered as we grabbed it, and he pulled us in. "We're fine. No injuries." Sanchez came over to help. "What about the others? Is anyone still onboard?" "They escaped on Jet Skis right before the explosion," I answered. "It's just us." The officers shared a confused look, and Del Castillo asked, "Why'd they leave you?" "Uh, they may not have realized we were onboard," I admitted sheepishly, not wanting to delve too deeply into the Pandora's box of our stowaway status. "It's complicated." "What about him?" Sanchez motioned toward Grandpa, who was moving through the water at a very un-barracuda-like speed. "Is he complicated too?" "More than you can possibly imagine," Zoe replied. Once we were onboard, they ran us through a quick battery of tests to make sure we weren't in shock and didn't have concussions. Then they began what was undoubtedly the slowest chase in the history of the Miami Police Department. We puttered alongside Grandpa until he finally gave up his swim for freedom and raised his hands in surrender. He'd only made it about 150 yards, not even half the distance he swam in college and nowhere close to reaching the stadium. After receiving some emergency oxygen and chugging a bottle of Gatorade, he managed to catch his breath long enough to proclaim, "We answer no questions without our attorney present." He started to say something else, but instead decided to lie down on a padded bench and stay quiet. Excerpted from The Sherlock Society by James Ponti All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
