Last Panda Standing Page 6

  Pandini’s nostrils flared as he hung up the phone. He took a deep breath and slammed his fist on the desk. He looked across the room to see that he had caught Zengo off guard.

  “No decision is ever easy in my line of work,” he said. “I’ve worked with the owner of Nutter’s Nut Factory for years.”

  “That must have been a tough call,” said Zengo.

  “Business is full of tough calls.” Pandini picked up the phone and asked his office manager to connect him with his fish supplier.

  Zengo crossed over to the window, and thought again of O’Malley and Cooper, cruising around in O’Malley’s car. If I can’t check this out, someone should. He slipped his phone out of his jeans pocket and texted his old partner.

  KALAMAZOO CITY STREETS, DOWNTOWN, 9:20 A.M.

  Detective Corey O’Malley steered the cruiser angrily through the streets toward Kalamazoo U. Plazinski had told him and Cooper to go back there to see if they could dig up any more clues about the assaults on Pandini. O’Malley was pretty sure the trail there was cold, but he didn’t have any better ideas. For an instant, he wished Zengo were riding shotgun again. That crazy kid would probably have come up with some half-baked theory by now that just might lead to a break in the case.

  He glanced over at his new partner, who was flipping through the case folder. Cooper’s work habits were like his—methodical, slow and steady, by the book. He was better off teamed up with someone like her. A break would come, sooner or later. Sooner, he hoped.

  He was stopped at a red light when his phone beeped. He slipped it out of his back pocket and flipped it open. It was from Zengo.

  The light changed. “There’s a text from Zengo,” he said, passing the phone to Cooper before stepping on the gas. “What’s on his mind?”

  “Not much,” said Cooper. “‘Pandini says investigating McGovern is a dead end. Had argument with Nutter’s Nuts exec.’ Is he trying to give us a tip?”

  O’Malley also wondered what to make of it. Zengo was in a tough spot, instructed to stick to Pandini like feathers on a duck. Was this some sort of signal?

  “I wonder if the comment about Nutter’s Nuts has something to do with Pandini’s campaign pledge about nut allergies,” said Cooper. “You know? How he’s going to reduce the amount of nuts in his restaurants and then, if he wins, across the whole town?”

  “The folks over at Nutter’s must be none too pleased,” said O’Malley.

  “Does that sound like a possible motive to you?”

  O’Malley smiled and nodded at his partner. “Just might be,” he said. “Shall we take a swing by there?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Cooper. “Except . . .”

  “Except what?” said O’Malley, turning onto the ramp to the highway.

  “If there is anything going on at Nutter’s, the last thing we need would be for the culprits to see us sniffing around the place. And I wonder if we’re jumping the gun by pointing the finger at a disgruntled vendor?”

  “A vendor that sells nuts,” said O’Malley. “Foraging and selling nuts is the backbone of the squirrel economy in this city, and Nutter’s Nut Factory has been owned by the same family for generations. Pandini Enterprises runs nearly a quarter of all the restaurants in town. Losing his account is going to be devastating to the Nutter family.”

  “But does that make them potential assassins?”

  “Of course not,” said O’Malley. “But it’s a big company, there’re bound to be a few wing nuts. . . .”

  NUTTER’S NUT FACTORY, 9:45 A.M.

  O’Malley pulled into a visitor’s parking space at Nutter’s Nut Factory. Dark gray smoke billowed from rusty smokestacks, staining the clear blue sky. It was a much gloomier place than was suggested by the commercials featuring Professor Nutter, the goofy cartoon character who was the company’s mascot. Professor Nutter sported goggles, a bushy mustache, wild hair, and a lab coat, and sang about how nutritious nuts were.

  “So what’s the plan?” asked O’Malley.

  “We’re going to go on the tour,” said Cooper, pulling out a bag from her briefcase. “But we’re going in undercover. I happen to have a few items here that I picked up when we were casing the costume shops. I think ‘Janice’ and ‘Buck’ are going to enjoy learning about the fascinating peanut-butter-making process. No sense going in with boomerangs blazing when we’re just on a recon mission. According to the Nutter website, the tour visits every department in the factory. We’ll get a look at just about everybody who works here.”

  Cooper tipped over the bag and an array of costume pieces spilled out—wigs, glasses, hats, even a fake mustache.

  O’Malley liked this idea—a lot. He grabbed a mullet wig that came with large, pork-chop sideburns. He pulled it on over his big head. “‘Buck,’ reporting for duty. Let’s do this!”

  They quickly donned the rest of their disguises, and “Janice” and “Buck” were soon at a ticket counter splashed with the Nutter’s Nuts logo.

  “Welcome to Nutter’s Nut Factory—home of Kalamazoo City’s famous salted nuts and our award-winning peanut butter,” said the cheerful ticket vendor. O’Malley thought she was unusually peppy, considering she was a very old squirrel. Probably been giving this greeting her entire life. He was impressed that she kept a straight face at the sight of their ridiculous getups. In addition to the mullet wig, O’Malley wore a fake goatee, a sleeveless T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. Cooper wore a wig that towered a few feet above the top of her head and a purple velvet sweat suit.

  “Hiya,” said O’Malley. “Me and Janice are here for one of them factory tours.”

  “Wonderful!” said the greeter. “We have a tour leaving in just a moment.” She gestured toward the group of schoolchildren bouncing around excitedly in the waiting room. There were at least twenty six-year-olds who couldn’t contain their enthusiasm. They looked as though they might explode.

  “Super,” said Cooper. One of the children threw a rubber ball against the wall, and it bounced off, zooming straight toward Cooper’s wig. Barely looking in the ball’s direction, Cooper swiftly lifted her webbed hand and caught it.

  “Evan McCallister!” scolded the teacher. “You say you’re sorry to that nice lady!”

  The boy sheepishly approached Cooper and muttered an apology. She tossed the ball back and said, “Don’t worry about it, kid.” O’Malley was impressed by Cooper’s reaction speed. Had that been him, he’d probably be nursing a bump on his noggin.

  The door marked “Tour Entrance” swung open. Out popped an oversize squirrel in a hard hat. He had the same markings as the receptionist, and by the looks of him, he was probably the factory’s single largest peanut butter consumer.

  “WHO’S READY TO GO NUTS?” he hollered. The schoolchildren jumped up and down giddily and cheered.

  “I’m Gerald, and I’ll be your tour guide today! You each get to wear your very own hard hat!” The children cheered even louder as he handed out construction helmets with the Nutter’s Nuts logo on them.

  O’Malley and Cooper joined the group tour. And O’Malley had to admit it—he was kind of excited to see how peanut butter was made.

  Gerald explained the process. “Mountains of nuts are taken from the giant silo at the center of the room. They are shelled individually by teams of experts.”

  Cooper and O’Malley watched as an army of squirrels cracked nuts and then put them on conveyor belts. Overhead, flying squirrels were gliding between catwalks.

  “This place is lousy with squirrels,” said Cooper as they passed a loading bay.

  “You got that right,” said O’Malley. He wriggled. “Kinda makes me feel . . . squirrely.”

  He had evidently spoken a little too loudly. He realized this as a bushy-tailed squirrel with black spots strutted past, pushing a hand truck. The spotted squirrel gave him a dirty look.

  “Sorry,” said O’Malley.

  The squirrel gave an annoyed sniff and walked onward, blending almost instantly into the mad cru
sh of workers on the factory floor.

  “I have a feeling we might be in the right place,” whispered O’Malley. “But there sure are a lot of possible suspects.”

  “How are we going to know which one is the culprit?” asked Cooper. “That is, if the culprit is even here?”

  They turned their attention back to the tour, where Gerald was proudly gesticulating as he pointed to all the specialized equipment. “Our state-of-the-art sorting system separates the nuts and sends them into one of two directions—either to be salted and canned or mashed and turned into peanut butter!”

  Must be backbreaking work, thought O’Malley.

  Cooper whispered to O’Malley, “I wonder if any of them know that their jobs are about to get cut?”

  O’Malley nodded and muttered, “If so, they might be pretty desperate. And desperate people take desperate measures.”

  “Any questions?” asked Gerald, looking right at Cooper and O’Malley, his big, wide grin starting to fade. Either he doesn’t like folks chatting while he’s giving a tour, thought O’Malley, or he’s onto us.

  “Buck here and I were just wondering: How many nuts get shelled in an hour?” asked Cooper without missing a beat. “We have tried to shell our own nuts at home and man, lemme tell you—it ain’t easy. I’m just so impressed with how quickly your employees shell them nuts!”

  O’Malley smiled and nodded. It was a good save on his partner’s part.

  “Well, I’m proud to tell you that almost a quarter of a million nuts are shelled every hour of the day. We are the number-one supplier of nuts for the entire KC metro area!” Gerald turned to the kids. “Now, who wants to go check out the peanut butter mixer!” Unsurprisingly, they all jumped up and down and cheered.

  NUTTER’S PEANUT BUTTER PROCESSING CENTER, 10:30 A.M.

  “Nutter’s Nuts is proud to bring you the creamiest, richest peanut butter! That is—unless you prefer chunky. We have that, too!” Gerald, chipper as ever, gave the tour a chuckle. “From our factory to your sandwich! We are one of the nation’s leading innovators in peanut butter technology!”

  Cooper and O’Malley were now standing with the schoolchildren in a massive room where shelled peanuts from the adjacent room traveled via conveyor belts in a dizzying configuration. The scent of peanuts was overpowering. And both detectives were scanning the scene in every direction, wondering which of the countless squirrels they saw around them—if any of them—might have been the perpetrator. With so many squirrels to choose from, how would they ever figure out if there was a suspect in their midst?

  “Come!” Gerald beckoned. “We can watch from the observation deck! The nuts are about to get ground up and turned into that sweet, delicious goop we all love!” Gerald smacked his lips so loudly his head mike popped. He directed the group to a metal staircase that led up to a catwalk overlooking the operation.

  The peanuts made their way up a ramp and onto a flat surface. The nuts were rhythmically pulverized with mallets that looked like giant meat tenderizers, to make them ready to mix.

  Smoke billowed out of the top of the contraption with every compression. What was left of the nuts was almost a powder. This continued to journey on the conveyor belts, which ended at a giant mixing bowl. There, oil and sugar poured forth from tubes above. Then, an alarm rang out and giant mixing blades descended from the ceiling. “This is where you all will want to stand back!” yelled Gerald.

  The whirring of the blades filled the room with a bit of a gust until they sunk into the ingredients.

  O’Malley wasn’t paying attention, though. He was too busy trying to keep track of every squirrel he saw. It wasn’t easy. He wished he had a bit of Zengo’s sixth sense for spotting criminals. What would Zengo notice that was escaping O’Malley? He thought back to the gawky squirrel with the dolly back at the loading bay who had eyeballed them earlier. He had seemed suspicious. But maybe he was just curious.

  “I keep thinking about that little creep with the hand truck,” O’Malley whispered to Cooper, his mouth barely moving, after first making sure that Gerald was distracted. He did not want to be the target of another hairy eyeball from the guide.

  “You mean that guy?” whispered Cooper.

  O’Malley was startled. What was the spotted squirrel doing here, clear over on the other side of the factory from where they had first seen him? Was it the same guy? O’Malley squinted to make sure. The squirrel’s tail was spotted—just like the other one. And he seemed to be watching the tour group out of the corner of his eye. Or was that just O’Malley’s imagination? This was by far the hardest thing about the job.

  O’Malley decided to do his best to keep an eye on the squirrel while pretending to be completely fascinated with the peanut-butter-making process. This was not easy. He was no actor. He knew four eyes were better than two, so he pulled Cooper to the back of the tour crowd to share his suspicions.

  “What makes you so sure?” she asked.

  Though O’Malley hated to admit it, he did not have much to go on. “A hunch?” he said.

  Cooper looked back at him skeptically. “Okay,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll try to keep an eye on him. You do the same. Why don’t we split up and each go to one edge of the group. We can pretend we’re each checking out a different part of the process.”

  Now Cooper too was on full alert. Soon, she signaled O’Malley and pointed to a bushy tail, covered in black spots, sticking out from behind a barrel by the exit. The markings were unmistakable. It had to be the same squirrel yet again. Why was he shadowing them?

  O’Malley looked away, and when he looked back again, the squirrel was gone.

  “That’s it,” he said, breaking away from the group to go after him, but Cooper grabbed his arm.

  “Stop!” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t blow our cover! He’s not even a flying squirrel!”

  “He knows something!” whispered O’Malley. “I can tell!”

  An instant later, a ball bounced past Cooper’s feet.

  “My ball!” shouted Evan McCallister, the troublemaking kid from the waiting room. The ball bounced right off the observation deck and into the vat of peanut butter, where the mixing blades were now rotating at a dizzying speed. And the boy was running right after it.

  “STOP!” shouted Gerald, running toward the boy. Cooper ran toward the kid, too. But they were both too late. The boy lost his footing and fell off the platform, his arms flailing helplessly as he fell with a splat into the mixing bowl. Cooper didn’t hesitate. She leaped off the platform like an Olympic diver, sailing through the air, her beehive wig blowing off as she did. She landed with a plop in the sticky brown vat of goop, right next to the boy. As they struggled to stay above the surface in the swirling sea of peanut butter, she reached for his arm and pulled him close to her.

  Gerald fumbled with his walkie-talkie and yelled, “CODE RED! CODE RED!” The sound of machines slowing to a halt left only the sounds of the screaming students and the chaperones who feared for the boy’s life.

  But Evan McCallister was in good hands—Jo Cooper’s. She safely kept the boy afloat and maneuvered past the mixing blades each time they approached. As soon as the mixing bowl came to a complete stop, she lifted him to the emergency workers, who carried him to safety via a cherry-picker truck.

  O’Malley cringed. Would strands of Cooper’s wig end up in some kids’ sandwiches?

  He looked over and spied the spotted squirrel again. This time, he didn’t take his eyes off him, and the squirrel took off toward an area of the factory marked “DANGER—OFF-LIMITS.”

  Having confidence that Cooper would handle the situation with the boy, O’Malley slid down the railing of the catwalk staircase and gave chase. He was certain the squirrel had kicked the boy’s ball out of his hand and into the peanut butter. A clever distraction, but not clever enough. “Cooper! Come in, Cooper!” She radioed back, but her voice was muffled. O’Malley couldn’t hear what she was saying; he was just glad that she wasn’t over her head in pe
anut butter.

  O’Malley put his radio away and rushed through the maze of pipes and barrels that littered the Nutter’s Nuts Factory floor, careful to not lose sight of the spot-tailed assailant.

  Employees were scattering in every direction. The suspect jumped up to a ladder that was on the side of the supply silo and scaled the wall at a pace faster than O’Malley could keep up with. The detective withdrew his boomerang and shouted, “Platypus Police Squad! FREEZE!” The squirrel didn’t even look back, but continued to climb upward. O’Malley took a deep breath. He aimed just above the fleeing squirrel. The boomerang struck the supply tower and created a gaping hole, which sent nuts shooting out. O’Malley ducked for cover underneath the conveyor belt as nuts continued to spew, bringing the squirrel down with it. The rumbling sound of the avalanche was deafening.

  O’Malley dug his way out of the rubble, but he was too late. The squirrel had chewed his way out faster. The squirrel pushed past the other factory workers toward the end of the room. As he swung open the emergency-exit door, he looked back at O’Malley and grinned.

  But Jo Cooper was waiting for him on the other side of the door. She socked him across the muzzle and jumped on top of him, pulled his arms behind his back, and cuffed him.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” she began.