Riley Mack and the Other Known Troublemakers by Chris Grabenstein Page B

start the door-to-door search for Noodle.
    Or so they had told their parents.
    Briana, on the other hand, didn’t have to tell her mom and dad much. They were earthy-crunchies. Aging hippies with severe tree-hugging tendencies. They both wore a lot of beads and clothes made out of hemp and encouraged Briana to “blossom wherever she was planted,” which basically meant she didn’t have a curfew but always had to carry an extra granola bar in her backpack in case she missed dinner.
    â€œJamal,” said Riley. “Good to see you. Thanks for lending a hand.”
    â€œMy pleasure, Riley Mack. We’re gonna bust that old lady for scratchin’ up my iPods, am I right?”
    Riley nodded. “We will. Soon as Gavin turns over Noodle.”
    â€œSure. I understand. You need to prioritize. You know what that word means?”
    â€œYeah. First things first.” Riley rubbed his hands together and paced around the basement rumpus room, which Jake had tweaked out with maybe six different custom-made computers, all sorts of monitors, blinking routers, cables everywhere, and, of course, Jedi posters on the wood-paneled walls. Jake was extremely nerdly. In the good way.
    â€œYou have Rebecca Drake’s number?”
    â€œCheck,” said Jake.
    â€œMan, we had that in like two seconds,” boasted Jamal.
    Jake arched an eyebrow. “We?”
    â€œI meant Jake. You shoulda seen him clacking that keyboard, tapping into some kind of database that looked like a swimming pool full of glowing green numbers. My man Jake has wicked mad skills, y’all.”
    â€œYeah,” said Briana. “We know.”
    â€œOkay,” said Riley, still pacing, “what would a high school cheerleader’s favorite radio station be?”
    â€œEasy,” said Jamal. “Z One Hundred. Got that DJ from American Idol . Plays songs by that fifteen-year-oldwith the curly hair and dimples. Chicks dig the curly hair and dimples, man.”
    Jake was glued to the computer screen, scanning the results of his most recent internet search. “Jamal’s right. According to the ratings data, Z One Hundred is top with teens in the metro area. Says so on their website. Good job, kid.”
    â€œThat’s because I know my demographics,” said Jamal. “Find them fascinating. Do you know what—”
    â€œVital or social statistics of the human population,” said Briana before Jamal could finish asking if anybody knew what demographics meant.
    Riley barged in: “Briana? Can you do a Z One Hundred DJ voice?”
    â€œShuuuuuure,” she said, the single word coming out silky and smooth. “‘I’m playing the hits while you’re spraying your pits.’ That’s for a morning DJ.”
    â€œJake? Patch a landline phone into your digital recorder. Briana, the Z One Hundred DJ, is going to call Rebecca Drake.”
    â€œThis. Is. Zeeeee One Hundred ,” said Briana, getting into character.
    â€œGood,” said Riley. “Tell Rebecca she’s about to win the one-hundred dollar jackpot. That’ll get her talking, even if she’s still supposed to be cheering. Maybe ask her a couple trivia questions. Music junk. Get her gabbing.”
    Briana nodded.
    â€œYou’ll need enough material so you can imitate her voice.”
    â€œSo I can call Gavin!”
    â€œExactly.” Riley powered up the digital camera. “We need Brown’s cell number, too,” he said to Jake.
    â€œAlready got it.”
    â€œI told you he had mad skills,” said Jamal.
    Riley flipped his camera around so Briana could check out the display screen. He thumbed through a couple of the close-ups he took of Gavin at the game. Briana cringed when Riley flashed her the hot-dog-stuffing shot.
    â€œFaunky.”
    â€œYeah. Jamal? You get on that other computer. Find the high school sports site, track the game. Thirty minutes after it’s over,