“Justin’s okay,” I called back. “What caused the explosion?”

  Frank twisted around to get a view of the other side of the ship. “Uh, false alarm,” he called.

  “What?” I demanded. “What are you seeing?”

  “Off to starboard,” Frank said. “Another ship.”

  “Another ship was firing at us?” I said. “That’s crazy!”

  I had to see what he was talking about, but my position on the rigging had me facing the wrong way. I slipped my foot off the rope rung and snaked it around the outside of the rigging. I replaced it pointing the opposite way. It was an extremely awkward position, and I quickly reached around and grabbed the rope. I was able to shift my whole body around, though I set the rigging swinging. I gripped the ropes hard and concentrated on steadying myself.

  Instantly I saw that Frank was right. A new ship had appeared starboard—that was what had created the powerful wake. It was full of people in pirate costumes, and there was a smoking cannon in the middle of the deck.

  I had the really unpleasant feeling that we had just made major fools of ourselves. That’s when I remembered the poster advertising some kind of reenactments. I guessed we were in the middle of one of them.

  “You! Get down from there!” a furious voice below us shouted.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Do they put people in jail for unauthorized climbing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Frank. “But I have a feeling we aren’t going to be welcome to come back any time soon.”

  We quickly descended the ropes. By now there were three guys wearing Seaport T-shirts surrounding us.

  “You can’t climb the rigging!” the bearded one yelled at us.

  I had to come up with something quick. No way were we going to go to jail, pay a fine, or walk the plank. “You’ve done a great job,” I told the group. Frank stared at me like I was crazy, but I just went on. “We can absolutely recommend this location. Your security is top-notch.”

  “What?” the bearded guy snarled.

  “Justin Carraway is over there being interviewed.” I pointed toward the ship Justin was on. He was helping Emily to her feet. “He was thinking about having a private party here.” I started walking away, hoping Frank would follow. “We can honestly report that it’s an excellent idea. Very good job, sirs.”

  By now we were practically jogging. But they weren’t stopping us. Frank and I waved, turned, and ran down the gangplank.

  “That was a close one!” said Frank. “How do you come up with excuses like that?”

  “Just my natural brilliance, I guess,” I said.

  We hurried back to the little schooner. Justin and Emily were still on the deck. Both looked pretty shaken. Justin probably would have handled the fake cannon fire better if we hadn’t just told him about Phillip.

  “It’s all fine,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Justin glared at us.

  “I think the interview is over,” Emily announced. Caroline and Jessica looked surprised. When did she become the boss? “Justin is too upset to continue.”

  He did look freaked. I guess hearing that a guy has risen from the dead can do that. And then thinking that he was being fired on by pretend pirates had to send a dude over the edge.

  “I think we have enough,” said Jessica. “Caroline?”

  The photographer nodded. “Got plenty to choose from.”

  “We’ll contact you if we need anything else,” Jessica said.

  As Caroline and Mark packed up the equipment, Justin and Emily left the ship and vanished in among the tourists.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” Frank asked.

  I shrugged. “To buy Emily another present? Get some free ice cream samples?” I rubbed my stomach. “I could go for some of that too. I saw someone giving away mango-flavored ice cream.”

  “You can get ice cream later,” Frank said. “We need to talk to ATAC. Try to find out if there’s any chance Phillip survived his drop into the ocean.”

  I sighed. “I guess you’re right. And that’s not a call we can make from tourist central. I guess it’s back to the hotel.”

  A limo had driven us to South Street Seaport, but Emily and Justin must have taken it. So we had to find our way back to the hotel using the New York City subway system. That took awhile. The way Frank acted, you’d think I got us lost on purpose.

  “Finally,” he announced, flopping down on his bed. We were sharing a double room. “I thought I’d never see this place again!”

  “Hey,” I complained. “We weren’t that lost.”

  I was about to hit the remote and see what was on cable when I heard a strange sound, like birds chirping.

  “What’s that?” I asked Frank.

  “No idea.” He looked puzzled. We started searching the room.

  “It’s in your overnight bag,” I said.

  “It’s not mine,” Frank insisted. He opened his bag and rummaged through his clothes. A knowing look crossed his face. He pulled out a slick-looking PDA.

  “Phillip’s,” he declared. “It fell out of his pocket during our fight on the helicopter. I completely forgot I had it!”

  “Answer it,” I said. “It might be helpful to know who’s trying to reach him.”

  Frank hit a button. “Hello?” he said. He paused. “No, who’s this?” He looked at me and hit another button. “He hung up.”

  “Did you recognize the voice?” I asked.

  Frank shook his head. “He sounded surprised that I wasn’t Phillip.” He looked back down at the phone. “I was about to hand this over to the cops when Rick showed up with the news about Ryan. I figured it would have evidence about the bootlegging ring.”

  “Everything got so crazy after that,” I said.

  “I never really unpacked after we got home from Atlantic City because we left again so quickly.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you’re still wearing the same clothes? Do I need to stand downwind?”

  Frank just rolled his eyes. He does that a lot. I wonder if I should be offended.

  Then the PDA made a little beep. “Incoming message,” said Frank. He held out the device so I could read the text with him.

  Give it back. Or else.

  I stared at the PDA and then at Frank. “Did we just receive a message from a dead guy?”

  FRANK 8

  Texts from Beyond?

  I stared at Phillip Wu’s PDA. “Who sent this text?” I wondered.

  “Whoever called you, I mean Phillip, on that thing now knows that Phillip doesn’t have the PDA anymore,” Joe pointed out.

  “But why would the caller care?” I asked.

  Joe shrugged. “Only way to know that is to find out who the caller is. See if the caller sent the text.”

  I scrolled through the log of incoming calls. No names appeared, so I wrote down the numbers. “We’ll have to do some kind of reverse look-up,” I said. I knew ATAC would have those resources.

  “I want to know what’s on the PDA that would make someone threaten us,” said Joe.

  I clicked buttons and found the document files. I opened one. “It’s in Chinese,” I said. I opened the rest of them. “All of them are in Chinese.”

  “We know someone who can help us with that,” Joe pointed out. “Tom Huang. And he might have some inside info that even ATAC doesn’t have. He knew a lot about Phillip’s underground activities.”

  “Good idea.” I quickly grabbed my own phone to dial Tom. I didn’t want to add any numbers to the PDA’s call log. At some point we were going to have to turn it over to the authorities, and I didn’t want anything strange to turn up on it that would lead to complicated questions. Like why we were using evidence to make calls.

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Phillip Yu

  Hometown: Hong Kong

  Physical description: 6”, late twenties, slim, longish dark hair, Chinese-American, supercool dresser; megarich and shows it.

  Background: Murky. Lots of very successful legit business practices, but also leader of a dangerous Chinese gang operating in Hong Kong and Atlantic City. Maybe New York, too? High-stakes gambler. Suspicious behavior: Lurking around the premiere with his goons?

  Suspected of: NOT BEING DEAD.

  “Hey, Tom,” I said when he answered. “Think you can come up to New York?”

  “Love to,” he said. “When?”

  “Uh, how about now? We have something we need your help with, and I can’t really go into it over the phone.”

  “Very mysterious. Sure, I can be there in a few hours. But I have one condition.”

  “Name it,” I said, hoping he wasn’t going to ask for something too hard to provide, like a role in Justin’s movie or something.

  “We have to go to my favorite restaurant, the Sleeping Dragon on Mott Street, in Chinatown. Why don’t you meet me on Canal Street, and I’ll take you there?”

  “I think we can manage that,” I said. “So, see you around seven?”

  “See you then.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon acting like typical tourists, checking out the Empire State Building, Central Park, that kind of thing. Then we headed back to the hotel.

  “We still have some time,” Joe said. “Want to hit the pool?”

  “Sure,” I replied.

  We changed into our suits—lucky thing Joe looked up the hotel’s amenities before we packed—and went up to the rooftop pool.

  The pool area was empty except for a lone guy lying on a lounge chair. I recognized that blond hair even from the back. Justin.

  I was about to call out hello, when I noticed something. On the little table beside him was a glass of what looked like water—and a small pill bottle. I grabbed Joe’s arm so he’d hold back. Just as I feared, Justin took a small white pill out of the little bottle and then washed it down with a swig of water. Then he stashed the bottle in a gym bag.

  Was Sydney right? Was Justin on drugs? That might explain some of his erratic behavior. I glanced at Joe and could see he was wondering the same thing.

  Justin stood and stretched, then turned around. He looked startled to see us. I wondered if he was worried that we had seen him take the pill. If he was, he covered it quickly.

  “Hey, guys,” he greeted us with a big smile. “That was pretty crazy down at the seaport.”

  “Sure was,” I said.

  “Yeah, I can’t believe we thought that re-enactment was real!” Justin said, laughing. He seemed to be in a much better mood.

  “Where’s Emily?” I asked.

  “Shopping,” said Justin. “I’m crazy about the girl, but really, there’s only so many stores I can take in an afternoon.”

  “I hear you,” I said.

  “We’re going to dinner later,” Justin said. “Uh…you want to come?”

  I laughed. “Don’t worry, we won’t crowd you. We’re meeting a pal from Atlantic City in Chinatown.”

  “He’s making us go to this restaurant, the Sleeping Dragon, on Mott Street,” Joe said. He shuddered. “I have a feeling he’s going to try to gross us out with the strangest food he can find.”

  I gave Joe a light punch on the shoulder. “Don’t be such a wimp.”

  “I’m not a wimp,” Joe protested. “But my stomach is.”

  Justin had to run to meet Emily, and we waited until we saw him step into the elevator. “We have to find out what kind of pills those were,” I said.

  “Man,” said Joe. “I was really hoping Sydney was wrong.”

  “Me too, bro,” I said. “Me too.”

  “It’s like a different city,” I commented as we climbed up the subway steps and got our first look at Canal Street. We were at the edge of Chinatown.

  The street was completely packed with people. What made it even more crowded were all the tables set up on the edge of the sidewalks. They were mostly covered in exotic fruit—some I’d never even seen before.

  Opposite the street were shops, but they looked more like booths since they didn’t seem to have doors. They sold everything you could imagine: jewelry, DVDs, souvenirs, shoes, and more. Items hung from the ceilings and the walls and were piled up on boxes in front.

  All the street signs were in both English and Chinese. I noticed that some of the stores had signs only in Chinese characters. Most of the people around were Chinese.

  “There’s Tom,” Joe said, waving.

  Tom loped toward us with a big grin on his face. “Hello, Hardys!”

  Tom was a cool guy. He was kind of a tour guide for Chinese customers taking the buses from Chinatown in New York to Atlantic City. He told them stories, brought them to different casinos, and helped arrange other activities. But what he was really into was movies, and he was thrilled when we got him a job working on Justin’s film when we were on location in Atlantic City.

  He was also super grateful when we saved him from Phillip’s goons. We weren’t the only ones who thought his Atlantic City connections would be useful—Phillip Yu had been pressuring Tom into joining his syndicate.

  “How’s the movie going?” Tom asked.

  “Great,” Joe told him. “How’s the tour guide gig?”

  “Not as much fun as the film,” Tom admitted. “But it keeps money in my wallet. Come on, let’s go to the best restaurant in Chinatown.”

  The sidewalks were so packed we had to walk in single file. We followed Tom through narrow, twisting streets. With the sun starting to set, it was pretty dim; we were not in a very well-lit area. I looked up at a cool-looking pagoda-style building with a curving roof and bright red pillars and did a double take—it was a Starbucks!

  We stopped to allow a guy carting big tubs of fish packed in ice to pass. My nose wrinkled—it was pretty smelly around here. I turned my head to get a less direct hit of the stench and thought I noticed someone quickly duck into a doorway.

  We continued walking. I had been trying to keep track of where we were going, but the streets curved around so much I no longer had any idea. Then the back of my neck prickled. Not good. That usually happens when I’m being watched or followed. I snuck a look over my shoulder, but I didn’t see anyone. I glanced up ahead at Joe, wondering if he had the same feeling, but he had already crossed the street, so I couldn’t ask him.

  Tom finally stopped. “This is it!” he announced with a big grin.

  “Are you sure you didn’t take us all the way to China?” Joe joked. “That was some hike.”

  This little hole-in-the-wall was the best restaurant in Chinatown? It didn’t even have a sign out front. Good thing Tom brought us here. We’d never have been able to find this place ourselves.

  I peered through the grimy window. “Looks like all the tables are full,” I said. I figured the fact that the place was packed was a good sign.

  “Of course!” said Tom. “Best noodles in all of Chinatown. Dumplings, too.”

  As we stepped through the door, little chimes rang. A tiny middle-aged Asian woman scurried out of the back, wiping her hands on her apron. When she saw Tom she beamed.

  “Tommy!” she exclaimed. She and Tom chatted enthusiastically in Chinese. She smiled broadly at us, then led us to a table near the back counter, where the cash register was and several people were waiting for take-out orders.

  “For you,” she said, gesturing to the table. She vanished into the back.

  We sat down. “She forgot to give us menus,” I said. “Should I go grab some?”

  “No, no,” Tom said. “She’ll just bring us what she thinks we should eat.”

  I hoped her idea of good was the same as mine. I guess Joe wasn’t the only one with a wimpy stomach.

  I heard the little chimes, and then a customer strode up to the counter. My mouth dropped open.

  It was Mr. Wong, a dealer at a very high-stakes table in Atlantic City.

  “Hi, Mr. Wong,” Tom called.

  Mr. Wong turned. When he saw me and Joe, he looked equally surprised.

  “What brings you here?” he asked, coming over to our table.

  “Tom,” Joe replied. “He claims this is the best restaurant in Chinatown.”

  “He’s right,” said Mr. Wong. “Mae, the owner, is my cousin.”

  “Small world,” I said.

  “Especially in Chinatown,” Mr. Wong said. “Many people are related in this neighborhood.”

  “Remember, I told you that Atlantic City is a popular destination for people living in Chinatown,” Tom said.

  “Some of us relocated,” Mr. Wong added. “But our ties to Chinatown are very strong.”

  I felt a vibration in my back pocket, then heard the sound of birds. Phillip Yu’s handheld was ringing. I pulled it out and quickly shut it off.

  Mr. Wong stared at the PDA and then at me.

  Uh-oh. He had probably heard that very distinctive ringtone often. Phillip Yu had been a regular player at Mr. Wong’s table. He was going to wonder what I was doing with it.

  “Have you heard about Phillip Yu?” Mr. Wong asked.

  That kind of came out of nowhere—or did it? Was he trying to figure out if this really was Phillip’s phone? Or maybe the question was totally innocent. He hadn’t seen us since Philip fell out of the helicopter, and hearing the ringtone may have simply reminded him of Phillip.

  “Phillip Yu?” I repeated. “No, nothing.” I turned to Joe. “You?”

  Joe shrugged. “Did he win big or something?”

  I was glad this was one of the times he picked up on my lead.

  Tom’s eyes flicked from me to Joe. He obviously couldn’t figure out why we were lying. But he was confused enough not to contradict us.

  “Tragic,” said Mr. Wong. “He had some sort of helicopter accident. Drowned.”

  “That’s awful,” I said.

  Mae came out of the kitchen with a bag.

  “Ah, my dinner,” Mr. Wong said, taking the bag from Mae. “Well, good to see you again.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Tom after Mr. Wong left. “Why did you play dumb about Phillip?”

  I tapped the PDA. “Because of this.”

  “It’s Phillip’s,” Joe explained. “And we want to know why someone wants it back so badly they’d threaten us for it.”