Bonfire Masquerade Read Online Free PDF Page A

couldn’t see the recent calls, and all the text messages looked like they were written in Swedish. But we were able to check out all of Andrew’s music—a large and boring collection of the latest pop hits.
    â€œHe must just download every song that hits the Billboard charts,” Frank said as we scrolled through pages of music.
    We had more success with the recent videos. There was one filmed on the day Andrew’s phone was stolen. Frank clicked on it, and the television filled up with a jerky, rapidly moving image.
    Six or seven—or maybe eight?—people in costumes were running down the street, laughing. They all seemed to be carrying purses.
    â€œThis is weird,” I mumbled.
    â€œNo, it’s footage from the robbery! They broke into a women’s accessories store!” Frank was excitedly pointing to one of the pieces of paper he’d hung up on the wall.
    It was hard to make out much from the video. I couldn’t even tell if the person holding the phone had turned on the camera on purpose. It was so jerky that they might have just accidentally bumped it. We could see the gang, but they were so covered up it was impossible to get any distinguishing marks. We couldn’t even see their hair!
    Then, as randomly as it started, the video clicked off.
    â€œLook—,” Frank started to say, right as the image disappeared.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œRight there, before the video ended. I think there was a sign! Scroll back.”
    It was hard to get the phone to cooperate, but after a few tries, I got it to go through the video, frame by frame. Finally, in the last shot of the video, I saw what Frank had seen: a street sign in the upper right corner of the picture.
    â€œCan you read that?” I squinted, but I couldn’t make it out.
    â€œOne second.” Frank pushed a few more buttons on the remote control. The image enlarged, but it was now too blurry. A few more buttons, and it sharpened again.
    â€œMazant!”
    I pulled up the phone’s map function and typed in Mazant Street, New Orleans. A map of the city filled the TV screen. Thankfully, Mazant was a small street only a few blocks long, right by the Mississippi River in a neighborhood appropriately named the Bywater.
    â€œLooks like we’ve got somewhere to start,” I said.
    Since our goal was to go undercover and find out who these thieves were, ATAC hadn’t given us a flashy car this time around. We had a pair of old, beat-up-looking bikes.
    I was a bit disappointed, but they turned out to be the perfect thing for getting around the city. The streets were narrow and jammed with people getting ready for Mardi Gras. Driving would have been impossible. But the bikes made it easy to zip around the city. In no time at all, we were down in the Bywater.
    It was, quite literally, on the wrong side of the tracks. We rode our bikes over them and bump-bump-bumped our way into the neighborhood. It was an industrial area, although there were lots of residential streets. But there were also many big warehouses, some active, some abandoned. The streets were quieter here. After the craziness of the French Quarter, it was almost a relief.
    But it was also a bit spooky. We rode past entire blocks without people. Once, a dog chased us down thestreet, growling and barking up a storm. Thankfully, it dropped off at the end of the block. We rode past graffiti left over from Hurricane Katrina that read LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT .
    Finally we passed a coffee shop, which seemed a likely place to start our investigation. Outside were two small tables, filled nearly to overflowing with punks and hippies. Two large brown mongrel dogs lounged by the side, kin to the one that had chased us.
    We pulled over a few blocks away and locked up our bikes.
    â€œYou want to do the talking, or should I?” I asked Frank.
    â€œYou can take this one,” said Frank. “I’ll hold the bag.”
    We’d worked out a