Boardwalk Bust (10 page)

“That guy is some kind of businessman,” I said.

“Joe,” Frank said, “doesn't it strike you as a little odd?”

“Odd?”

“Somebody finds a ring, and fifteen minutes later, this guy's got enough metal detectors to make a killing selling them? You think that's a coincidence?”

“I guess it is kind of strange.”

“Come on,” Frank said. “Let's go find out how he got so lucky.”

It took a little while to get to the front of the line. Nobody likes people who cut. But our instant tycoon wasn't going anywhere—not while his supply of metal detectors held out.

From the looks of it, he must have brought a whole truckload of them. “How did he get them here so fast?” I wondered out loud.

“Maybe he knew there would be a jewelry hunt.”

“Huh?”

“If he stole the stuff himself, he could have
planted it here, knowing somebody was bound to find it. Then all he had to do was be ready with his merchandise.”

“Yeah, but Frank, he didn't even
have
to do that. He could have just taken off with the stolen jewelry. Why even bother?”

Frank, as usual, was ready with an answer: “Because it's hard to find a buyer for stolen jewelry. Remember, that first ring was engraved. And the store owners must have put out a list with descriptions of the stolen merchandise. Jewelry is unique. It can be tracked. Even pawnshops would be given the list by the police, and they'd be watching for stolen goods.”

My reasoning still led me to think it would be easier and more profitable to just steal the jewels and run.

We were edging closer, and now we could hear our man shouting at a customer.

“I don't give bargain!” he was saying. “You want bargain, go someplace else! Here, is one price fits all. You buy, or no buy, what I care?”

Hmmm … our man had a thick Russian accent, just like the guy who found the first ring. There seemed to be quite a community of Russians here in Ocean Point—the saltwater taffy man, these other two …

I wondered if maybe they were all in this together.

“Frank, it could be the Russian Mafia!”

I felt like I'd stumbled onto the solution. With one stroke of pure genius, I'd cracked the case!

“Easy, there, Joe. Just because three people have the same accent, it doesn't make them all criminals.”

My bubble instantly burst, and I came back down to Earth. “I guess you're right. But you've got to admit, it's a possibility.”

“One of
several
. We'll add it to our list, okay?”

“You want buy?” the Russian guy asked us. We'd reached the front of the line.

“What we want,” I said, “is to know how you knew to show up here just in time to cash in on this treasure frenzy.”

The guy scowled at me. He had a big, bushy mustache that drooped down on either side of his mouth, and his gray hair was long and wild. He obviously hadn't combed it in a
very
long time.

“You shut face, okay?” he said to me. “Why it's your business what I do? Is free country!”

“You've got to admit,” Frank said, “it
is
pretty suspicious looking, your getting here so fast.”

“What you are, junior police officers?” the man asked, sticking his chin out at Frank, then at me. “I
come to this country to make decent living and be free. Not to live in police state, okay? Now, get lost. In this country, I have right to sell what I want.”

“Nobody's arguing with that, sir,” Frank said, trying to calm the guy down.

“Is free enterprise!”

“Yes, sure … um, what's your name, sir?”

“None of your business.”

“No, of course not. I just wanted to call you by your name, that's all. My name's Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe.”

The guy made a face, but decided to back down a little. “Vladimir Krupkin,” he said, and gave us a little nod. “Now get lost, okay? I busy now. You want talk, come back later.”

“Just one question, Vladimir,” Frank said, “and then we'll leave you alone, okay?”

Vladimir looked at the crowd behind us. “Make quick,” he said.

“You were right about us,” Frank admitted. “We
are
kind of junior police officers. And the thing is, we know that some of the jewelry people are finding was stolen from local jewelry stores.”

Vladimir crossed his arms on his chest. “Really?” He didn't look one bit surprised. “So you think I steal jewelry, then bury in sand, then come here to sell metal detectors?”

SUSPECT PROFILE

Name: Vladimir Krupkin

Hometown: Moscow, Russia

Physical description: Age 45, 5′10″, 220 lbs., graying, uncombed hair, pot belly.

Occupation: Opportunist. Something different every time you look.

Background: Grew up in Russia, came to America to escape Communism. When Communism fell, he didn't go back because he'd gotten several good rackets going.

Suspicious behavior: Showing up on the beach with a ready-made business to exploit an opportunity he couldn't have known was coming unless he was in on the thefts.

Suspected of: Conspiracy involving jewel theft.

Possible motives: Money.

Then he let out a laugh so loud you could hear it in Atlantic City. “You think Vladimir is such a stupid? Why I steal jewelry and then throw away? Is crazy! Ha!”

He had a point—it didn't make any sense. But
then, nothing about this case was making much sense. Yet.

We could still hear him laughing as we climbed the stairs to the boardwalk.

“I can't think when I'm hungry,” I said to Frank.

“That's right—we never got our Texas wieners!”

We ate our lunch, topped off by some of the best soft ice cream cones we'd ever had, and tried to get our heads straight about this case.

“Mmmm,” I said, licking off the chocolate drips before they fell on my shorts. “Nothing like ice cream for clearing the mind.”

“Mmmm,” said Frank, nodding in agreement.

“So—something's rotten in Ocean Point.”

“Definitely.”

“But what? And who's behind it?”

“That
is
the question.”

“So what's the answer? Got any ideas?” I asked.

Stupid question
. Frank
always
has ideas.

“Let me ask you this, Joe: Who would benefit if a bunch of people found jewelry lying around the beach?”

“Um, the people who found the stuff?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Besides them.”

“Okay, um …” I stared at my dripping ice cream cone. Then it hit me. “Ice cream vendors!”

“Right. And?”

“Hot dog stand owners, and tattoo parlors, and hotel owners, and parking lot owners, and restaurants, and clubs …”

“Exactly. And so on. If thousands of people want to come to a place, prices go up, and all the local businesses profit.”

“And your point is …?”

Frank smiled. “It's the one motive that explains everything that's happened so far.”

“Yeah, sure. The only problem is there are hundreds of merchants in Ocean Point, and they'd probably all benefit—”

“—except the jewelry stores, maybe. But they'd get their insurance money,” Frank finished.

“Right. How are we going to figure out which one of them is behind the scheme?”

Frank nodded. “Or which
ones
? It could be a bunch of them working together in a conspiracy.”

“So how do we narrow it down?”

All this time we'd been working on our cones, and Frank had now finished his. He bought a bottled water and used some of it to wash his sticky hands. Then he handed it to me, because I was more of a mess than he was.

“I don't think,” he said, “that a little popcorn stand or souvenir store owner would throw away millions of dollars of jewelry just to increase
tourism. Only a very wealthy person could afford to throw away gold and diamonds. Anyone else would try to turn it into straight cash.”

“Okay. That still leaves us with a lot of people as suspects—and most of them we haven't even met yet.”

Frank didn't answer. Instead, he turned around and started talking to the ice cream vendor, an older guy who looked like he'd been around here forever.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you own this place?”

“Me?” The guy laughed—a big, hearty belly laugh. “I don't own the shirt on my back, kid.”

“Well, who does own it?”

“Same guy who owns half the shops and restaurants on the boardwalk—Carl Jardine.”

“Carl Jardine? Is he the richest man in town?”

“Oh, by far,” the guy told Frank. “He's a multigazillionaire. You'd think he'd spread it around a little—give his workers health benefits or something—but no. He just uses his money to buy up more stuff.”

The guy was on a roll now. Frank just let him go on, nodding once in a while to show he understood and sympathized.

It's amazing how being a good listener makes people open up to you and talk their heads off.

“You think he works hard, like everybody else? No way!” the man said, his voice starting to get a little loud. “No, he spends all his time on the beach, building sand castles and stuff.”

Frank chuckled.

“You think I'm kidding?” the man added. “That's him right down there! You don't believe me, go see for yourself!”

12.
The Richest Man in Ocean Point

We walked over to the railing near the beach and scanned the area, expecting to see a man building a sand castle.

What we saw was the Taj Mahal.

I kid you not—this sculpture was so big that the man building it looked like a midget next to it. He could barely reach the top of the Taj's tower to finish it off. In fact, he was standing on a big cooler to do it.

We thanked the ice cream man for his time and headed over to meet the richest man in town.

The closer we got to it, the more incredible Jardine's sand sculpture was. The thing was the size of a small house, but it was the details that were really amazing.

I'd seen pictures of the Taj Mahal—a tomb built by an emperor for his lady love. A lot of people say it's the most beautiful building ever built.

Jardine had done it proud, down to the lakes and gardens that surround the building. The lakes even had water in them! He must have lined them with something so the water wouldn't drain out.

Fascinating. I wondered about the mind of this man. It was obviously brilliant and talented, but was it also the mind of a criminal?

“Mr. Jardine?” I said.

“Yes?”

“I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe. We're Junior Chamber of Commerce members in our home town, Bayport, and we're doing a piece for the September edition of our high school paper….”

“Oh, you want to interview me, huh?” he said, squinting up at us.

He had to be seventy years old, but Carl Jardine was still in good shape. He wore a beach hat, bathing suit, and flip-flops, and his skin was tanned and leathery. This guy had spent a lot of time in the sun. But he had a pretty good build for an older guy.

“All right, why not?” he said. “That's pretty good, tracking me down on the beach like this. I like initiative. Key to success!”

SUSPECT PROFILE

Name: Carl Jardine

Hometown: Asbury Park, New Jersey

Physical description: Age 72, 6′2″, 200 lbs., gray hair, leathery skin, well-preserved older man.

Occupation: Retired. Or is he …?

Background: Grew up in Asbury Park, moved to Ocean Point as a young man. Bought first taffy stand at twenty-three. Now owns dozens of properties and businesses. No one knows what he does with all his money, except to buy more businesses. Could his empire have a shaky foundation? One that needs shoring up with illegal schemes?

Suspicious behavior: Mostly circumstantial. He fits the profile, spends lots of time on the beach, and wouldn't blink at throwing away tens of thousands of dollars worth of jewelry just to bring in more customers to his many, many businesses.

Suspected of: Seeding the sand with stolen jewelry. Lying about it.

Possible motives: Money, money, and more money. Some folks can never have enough.

He kept working as he spoke. I don't know what he thought he was doing; his Taj Mahal looked pretty perfect as it was.

“This is incredible!” Joe said, meaning the sculpture.

“Did it all myself,” Jardine said. “I do everything myself. Only way to get something done right!”

“I understand you're the richest man in Ocean Point?” I said, trying to steer the conversation around to our case.