5

Chris knew more about Bella Tessio than pretty much everyone. Me and Matty took that for granted, but maybe I should explain why to you.

Chris's dad, Christopher Lafonte III, is a lawyer. One of the best in town. He has his own firm—Lafonte, Lafonte & Associates—which, by the way, he inherited from his father, Christopher Lafonte II, who, in turn, had inherited it from his father, Christopher Lafonte I. The office of Lafonte, Lafonte & Associates faces City Hall. And I'm not quite sure which building came first. The firm is a Kinnard institution, I guess is what I'm trying to say.

Not only do the Lafontes breed lawyers, they also bear community servants. Chris's mom chairs the library commission and the museum board of directors. She also runs all varieties of drive, campaign and benefit. Chris's uncle Gord is a city councillor. Even Chris's dog Sherlock has posed for pictures in the local press.

Because of the Lafontes' standing, Dr. Tessio hired Chris's dad to negotiate the sale of the Aztec treasure with the Smithsonian. He made a fat commission too. One guy wrote an article in the Kinnard Quotidian about how Mr. Lafonte was a crook, making so much money off someone else's work. Not much else to write about, I guess. Of course, Chris's dad meant no harm. He was a hardworking man who earned every penny.

During the negotiations, Chris's dad stayed quiet about the whole thing. But Chris wanted to learn more. No more nosy and entitled than the average kid, Chris snuck into his dad's home-office from time to time to go through Tessio's file. Chris felt very comfortable reading it (maybe too comfortable, all considered) as he had been trained to take over the firm ever since he was a sperm. Chris would report his findings to us afterwards. First, he'd make us swear on our mothers' lives that we'd keep it a secret. Then, he'd advise us that we were committing a federal offence. Finally, he'd warn us that if we told anyone, he'd flatten us into rugs.

The wind-up was always more impressive than the pitch, though. Chris only shared little things. Like that Professor Tessio was in New York for a big meeting. Or that his dad thought the opposing lawyer stunk, since he got the job through connections, and couldn't negotiate a kick in the pants . . . whatever that meant. We told Chris his information wasn't worth more than a sack of you-know-what. That is, until today. In fact, I think Chris ran into the room excited to tell us about Dr. Tessio's discovery, not just to get it out, but also to show us that he had finally found something worthwhile.

The day had begun like any other for Chris—eating Peanut Butter Puffs and flipping between sports highlights—except for one key difference. His dad had left the door to his office open. Typically locked, the open door permitted Chris to do what, as I said, only comes natural to a kid—like it's a duty as well as a privilege—go through his dad's personal effects.

This time, Chris wasn't even looking for files on Bella Tessio. By now she was old news. Chris was instead conducting a general search for the usual artifacts—hidden accounts proving his parents were richer than his eyes were wide; top secret communiqués with the mafia, CIA or illuminati; treasure maps to priceless heirlooms passed from Lafonte to Lafonte for time out of mind, and so on, and so on. It ain't a crime for a kid to dream, right?

Unfortunately, Chris had barely begun searching when he heard footsteps, quick and many, approaching the office. Without a thought to who it was, Chris sprung to the door to leave. But the door handle started turning before he could grasp it. Chris doubled back and slid under the desk. Watching from a space at its base, Chris saw his dad's slippers, escorted by two pairs of black boots, enter the office.

'Please have a seat, officers,' Chris heard his dad say.

The boots approached the desk, where Chris was hiding. His chest swelled with anxiety. Silently he bargained with God: If somehow he escaped, Chris would give himself, wholly and eternally, to his Lord and Savior, the King of Kings.

Then, Chris heard his dad speak again. 'No, please, by the windows. Let's keep this conversation relaxed, informal.' The desk wasn't the only place to sit in Mr. Lafonte's office. Across the room, by the windows, two cushy yellow chairs faced a cushy yellow couch. In between was a round glass table.

Chris watched in relief as the boots turned away from the desk, marched towards the windows and remained there. He quickly forgot his deal with God, and listened.

'Good to see you, Mr. Lafonte. So what's the reason you called?' One pair of boots said.

Chris pressed his ear to the desk, his imagination running. Why did his dad call the police? Was the man in trouble? Were the officers crooked? Was he bribing them? Even drifting in thought, Chris was careful that his shadow didn't peek from under the desk. If caught, he was sure he'd be shot, or, at the very least, he'd miss the rest of the morning's sports highlights.

'Dr. Tessio, she's done it again,' said the slippers.

'You sure, Mr. Lafonte?' said a female pair of boots. 'We've heard that before.'

'I'm sure,' the slippers responded. 'I saw it myself.'

'Whadja see?' said the male pair of boots, tapping anxiously.

'I can't tell you, not yet. What I can tell you is the reason I called: Tessio's latest discovery, it's . . . it's just outside Kinnard. Near Camp Okanagan.'

'Unbelievable!' said the female boots.

The male boots stopped tapping, and held still.

'Unbelievable, indeed,' said the slippers. 'As soon as Tessio announces her discovery, the city'll erupt. We may have reporters visiting from around the world. Every crazy in town will interfere. We'll need protection: Officers at the university, at her house, and, most importantly, at the site of the discovery. I think buyers may pay tens of millions for this one.'

'What is this one?' said the male boots, now tapping at top speeds.

'Can't tell you that, Chief,' said the slippers.

'Okay, okay, so what's the timeline?' asked the female boots.

'Well, see, that's where things get tricky. I can't give you exact dates.'

'What's the hold up?' asked the male boots.

The slippers didn't respond.

'What's the hold up?' the boots repeated.

Again, the slippers didn't respond.

'Has she found anything? This better not be another false alarm, Lafonte.'

Finally the slippers spoke: 'It's real this time. She just . . . hasn't dug everything up. According to her, the job isn't done. She wants more time.'

'How much time?'

'Well, she's already taken a year. But she thinks she's really got it now. So we've decided on a week. If, by next Tuesday, she can't find the rest of it—'

'The rest of what?' the male boots blustered.

'Listen, you'll know soon. Is a week enough time to prepare?'

'Yeah, a week should be fine,' said the female boots calmly. 'Rushed, but fine.'

'Good,' the slippers continued, 'but even before that, we need officers at the excavation site. If someone wanders over accidentally, that's a whole new set of concerns.'

'No problem,' the boots assured the slippers. 'But we'll have to run it through the mayor. Do you have a few hours to spare? We have same paperwork for you to fill out beforehand.'

'Sure thing. Why don't I take you two for lunch first?' the slippers offered.

'Why not? Things are going to get pretty busy, pretty soon.'

Chris then watched all the footwear (except his own) exit the room. He didn't get up, though. He didn't even breathe, sure that at any moment the officers would return, and pull him out of hiding. Gotcha weasel—we knew all along! But once Chris heard the cars leave the driveway, he figured he was safe. He caught his breath, inhaling the sweet air of a spy returning from enemy lines, and crawled out from under the desk. Knees red, hands sweaty, head whirring, Chris ran to us.   

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