Page 62 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“One of—? How do you—?”

“—send it while making it look like it’s coming fromherphone?”

Oh for sure, that wasexactlywhat I was going to ask.

“Easy. I set up a partition.” She boop-boops on the phone then holds it back up to me. Now there’s a profile photo of a middle-aged woman with short gray hair and blue eyes behind funky thick-rimmed glasses. Under the photo it says “Shoshanna’s phone.” She dials a number, waits for the voicemail line, taps the screen, and lets the recording play out.

Okay, color me impressed.

I sigh and silently apologize to Claudia, the universe, and Marlowe’s hopefully not litigious lawyer mom.

“Fine. And only because I do, actually, need your help,” I admit.

I’m acting on pure feral instinct here, but if Claudia was butt-texting Marlowe and murder-texting me, she clearly had access to her phone. Maybe ours weren’t the only messages she sent. And maybe we can figure out who else she was in contact with.

And then there’s the doorbell camera. That’s probably on her phone, too, right? Claudia must’ve had an app or something that showed her the footage. So if someone came to the door, or near the door, or pulled up in a car around the time she was killed, well, that’s a clue, isn’t it?

“Her phone,” I say. “We need to figure out how to get into Claudia’s house and find her phone.”

“Way ahead of you,” Marlowe says, typing away at herownphone. “And I know just who can help us.”

At this point, I’m fully expecting this kid to be best buds with a cat burglar, or maybe a mob boss, but instead she shows me a YouTube video. It’s titledImpersonate to Infiltrateand it features an old guy with a little mustache and a big bulbous nose trying on different hats and saying: “Nobody pays attention to yourface, all they see ishat. Trust me, it works,” in a Chicago accent that gives Claudia’s a run for its money.

“Rodney O’Malley, PI. Best in the biz,” Marlowe says.

“What biz is that, exactly?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m worried they’re going to pop. “Um, private investigator?”

PI, right.

I scroll his account, and there are like a thousand videos with titles likeTailing Suspects 101,Whose Clues?,Red Herrings = Indegestion,andYou Can Pick Your Friends, You Can Pick Your Nose, You Can Pick That Lock: A Six-Week Course.Each one has over a million views.

“I did his lockpicking course. You got a door? I can get in it.” She tries on this guy’s Chicago accent, and I snort.

“That’s great that you’re becoming a tween criminal,” I say, handing the phone back. “But I’m not letting you pick Claudia’s locks.”

“We don’t have to,” she says. “See? The door’s wide open.”

Sure enough, they must be airing out Claudia’s house because the doors and windows are flung wide.

There are also several firefighters, a couple cops and EMTs, and a whole passel of gas company workers milling around outside and chatting like it’s an emergency barbecue.

Marlowe sees my concern and pats my arm. “We just have to get you the right hat.”

Chapter 20

As I crouch by the corner of the construction fence, trying to avoid the rampant dog pee, I wonder what Hannah would think of Rodney O’Malley. After all, isn’t “wear a hat” just a version of “act confident”? I’ll run it by her later, if this works out and it’s not a massively embarrassing failure. Which it could—

“NOW!” Marlowe whispers in my ear as she shoves me through the hole and onto the construction site.

She gives me so much momentum, it’s a miracle that I manage to stay on my feet, especially when I hit the patch of gravel and have to wave my arms around to keep my balance. Thank goodness the mesh on the chain link keeps me hidden in here—that graceful move would have blown my cover immediately.

Like most of the kids, Marlowe is well-acquainted with the empty lot, and she told me what to expect. At first glance, there’s not much except dirt and gravel, some concrete chunks, a few stray metal rods, and a giant ladder hooked over the edge of what looks to be a bottomless pit. No thank you, bottomless pit.

And then, across the lot, I see what she sent me in here for.

A lone hard hat, abandoned over by a mound of dirt.