The Sherlock Society

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.

2

The Lawyer of Lost Causes

OFFICER SANCHEZ DROVE FAST ENOUGH that we had to hold on to a metal railing to keep our balance, and the sounds of the wind and engines were too loud for us to talk without raising our voices. Not that we needed to speak. As Zoe and I looked back at the smoldering wreckage, our anxious expressions said it all: How did we get caught up in this mess?

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the police marina. We zipped past the skyscrapers of downtown Miami and between semiprivate islands with mansions belonging to movie stars and billionaires. Through it all, Grandpa lay on the bench with his eyes closed, and Officer Del Castillo never took his eyes off us. I couldn’t tell if it was because he was concerned for our well-being or if he was looking for any hint that we might be guilty of something.

Zoe and I exchanged nervous glances when we slowed down and approached the Sabal Palm Yacht Club. This was where we’d snuck onto Sweet Caroline a few hours earlier, and it seemed like we were returning to the scene of the crime to be confronted. I felt a wave of panic and was about to blurt out a full confession before I realized that Marine Patrol was headquartered right next door.

Are we under arrest? Grandpa asked as the officers led us into a two-story stucco building with dingy white paint and police-blue trim.

Not yet, Sanchez answered in a tone that managed to be humorous, threatening, and teasing all at once. But you’ll need to answer some questions so we can figure out what happened.

You can call your lawyer from my desk, said Del Castillo. Then a squad car will pick you up and take you downtown for the interview.

The inside of the building looked like a cross between a police station and a dive shop. The office was on the second floor, and we climbed a narrow flight of stairs lined with life vests hanging from hooks and scuba tanks neatly lined up, one per step. I gulped when we reached the top, and I spied a pair of handcuffs dangling from the end of the railing. Instinctively, I rubbed my wrists, the words not yet fresh in my ears.

Grandpa handled the call to our attorney, who also happened to be our mother. Even standing a few feet away, we could hear her as she ran through all the emotions, from shocked to worried to furious to relieved that we weren’t hurt. There was plenty of yelling, and Grandpa even flinched a few times. Fortunately, by the time it was our turn to talk, Mom had shifted into take-charge mode and was on her way to the police station for our interview.

Are you both okay? she asked as Zoe and I leaned together so we could share the phone.

Yes, we assured her. We’re fine.

Good. She took a deep breath and transformed from concerned mother into all-business attorney. Now listen closely. Don’t say a word to the police until I get there. Understand?

Yes, we replied.

I mean it. Don’t antagonize them. Don’t be rude. Just tell them that you can’t answer any questions without me in the room. That’s vitally important.

We understand, Zoe assured her.

Have they read you your rights?

No, I answered.

Good. Let me know if that changes.

Since our clothes were still soaking wet, Sanchez offered us some used Police Athletic League sweats and T-shirts. There was no way of knowing what assortment of cops, criminals, and detainees might have worn them before us, so Zoe and I passed. Grandpa, however, jumped at the opportunity.

Never turn down free, he advised. Or dry, for that matter.

They’re free for a reason, Zoe said. Besides, it doesn’t matter if the clothes are dry if your underwear’s still wet.

Underwear? he said with a raised eyebrow.

Ew, we both replied, and quickly dropped the subject.

Since we weren’t under arrest, they didn’t put us in a holding cell. Instead, they had us wait in the break room with the door locked. There was a table, stackable plastic chairs, and a counter full of small appliances, including a microwave that looked older than Grandpa. There was also an air-conditioning window unit, whining and straining but doing little to actually cool the air.

How much trouble are we in? I asked once we were alone and could talk openly.

"With whom? Zoe replied, stressing the word so I wouldn’t correct her again. The cops or Mom and Dad?"

Both, I guess.

We should be fine with the police, Grandpa said. We haven’t broken any laws.

Zoe gave him a disbelieving look and started counting off our transgressions on her fingers. Breaking and entering, trespassing, unlawful recording of a private conversation—

Stop counting like that, Grandpa said as he made a hushing motion with his hands. There are eyes and ears everywhere. I’m just saying we haven’t done anything that a lawyer of your mother’s caliber shouldn’t be able to take care of.

A profile in the Miami Herald once dubbed our mom the Lawyer of Lost Causes, because she regularly took on seemingly unwinnable cases, far more concerned with right and wrong than dollars and cents. She’d represented migrant workers who faced deportation, fought to save a senior center that was about to be demolished to make way for condominiums, and filed a lawsuit against a golf club that wouldn’t admit women as members.

Each case seemed impossible to win, except that was exactly what she did. Oftentimes her clients couldn’t afford to pay her, so they showed their gratitude by coming to our house with delicious homecooked meals ranging from country fried chicken to beef empanadas to oxtail soup.

This, however, was the first time she’d be representing stowaways in relation to the sinking of a luxury yacht. We hoped she could keep her winning streak alive.

Okay, say Mom gets us out of here, I offered. How much trouble do you think we’re in when we get home?

That depends, Grandpa said. When does your father get back from Honduras?

Late tomorrow night, Zoe answered.

Then we’re doomed, he said.

Our father was a marine biologist at the University of Miami. He’d taken a team of students to Central America to collect coral samples. As you might expect from someone who spent much of his time on a beach, Dad had a no shoes, no shirt, no problem view of the world. He was a pushover when it came to discipline, but this time he wouldn’t be there to argue on our behalf.

Your mother may be a compassionate attorney, Grandpa continued. But when we get home, she’ll be judge and jury, and her justice will be swift and unforgiving. We are going to be grounded for a very long time.

‘We’? I asked. She can’t ground you. You’re her father.

I live in her house. I live on a limited fixed income. And I nearly got her children blown up at sea. She can absolutely ground me.

He looked out the window toward the yacht club parking lot.

You know, Roberta’s right over there, he said, referring to his car. Maybe it’s not too late to make a run for it.

How do you propose we do that? Zoe asked. Crawl through the window and climb down the wall like Spider-Man? Let me guess, in addition to being on the swim team, you were also once a cat burglar?

Grandpa gave her a stern look and said, You know, if you weren’t so negative, you might have more friends.

I barely like the friends I’ve got, Zoe said. The last thing I want is more of them.

We waited nearly two hours with no sign of the police officer who was supposed to pick us up. Twice we heard muffled voices in the hall, but both times the people walked away without coming in. When the door finally opened, we were surprised to see who it was.

Mom? Zoe exclaimed. What are you doing here?

We thought you were meeting us at the police station, I said.

So did I, she answered. But when I got there, they told me to come here instead.

We both stood up, and she enveloped us in a huge hug.

You’re sure you’re okay? she asked.

Positive, I answered as I squeezed extra tight.

Yeah, Zoe said. Just a little wet.

Well, now so am I. Mom flashed a reassuring smile as she looked at the two kid-shaped water stains on her suit.

Even though she made a point of not looking at him, Grandpa chimed in, I’m okay too, if you’re interested.

Rather than answer, she just made a hmm noise.

We started to fill her in on the basics of what had happened, but before we could provide many details, a bald man in a black suit came into the room. His cheeks were flushed, and there was a sweat stain forming below his collar. His wardrobe definitely wasn’t Miami-friendly, which made me think he was from out of town. He had a New York accent, and I recognized his voice as belonging to one of the people who’d been speaking outside the door.

Are you the mom-slash-attorney? he asked in an unsuccessful attempt to sound hip.

Yes, I am, she answered in an assertive professional tone. Melinda Lassiter.

He smiled. They tell me that you’re the one who takes on all the unwinnable cases?

Then they tell you wrong, Grandpa interrupted. "She’s the one who wins all the unwinnable cases." Cold shoulder or not, his daughter was his pride and joy.

Nice to meet you, said the man. Why don’t we sit down and get started?

Actually, why don’t you tell me who you are first, Mom replied.

Of course, he said. I’m Special Agent Dale Tyree.

Special agent? she asked, surprised. You’re FBI?

Secret Service, he answered. I’m down from Washington. He said this as if it would intimidate her. It didn’t.

The Secret Service investigating a yacht sinking in Biscayne Bay seems unusual, Mom said. So does holding an interview in a break room at Marine Patrol instead of the police station. What’s going on here, Special Agent Tyree?

If we sit down, I’ll tell you what I can, he said. "I’ve just