The Case of the Lost Song

by Carolyn Keene

  deserted, the stores still closed. Nancy remembered

  noticing an alley running behind Jason's building and

  drove her Mustang into it, parking directly under the

  fire escape.

  She got out of her car and closed the door softly.

  She looked up. “Yesss!” she exclaimed to herself. The

  window looking onto the third-floor fire escape was still

  open. Nancy nimbly climbed on top of the hood of her

  car and was just able to reach the first rung of the fire

  escape ladder. She grasped the iron bar, swung herself

  up, then began the climb to the third floor. She wasn't

  exactly sure how she'd deal with Jason, but she was

  pretty sure that at the very least he would still be

  asleep—and his bedroom was on the other side of the

  loft. If she was really lucky, Jason might still be out

  partying or maybe he had crashed with friends.

  Nancy slipped through the window and gingerly

  eased herself over the sill. She stood very still, listening

  to hear if Jason was up or if anyone was moving about

  the loft. All she heard was silence. She let out her

  breath, then glanced around the studio. It was

  illuminated only by dim morning light coming through

  the north-facing windows. The photo she needed to

  look at was in the exhibit in the front part of the loft.

  Not knowing if Jason was home or not, she was afraid

  to risk venturing past his bedroom to get there. On the

  other hand, his darkroom was right off his office area.

  Like most photographers, Jason probably had more

  than one print of that model in the condo.

  Nancy went to the darkroom, opened the door, and

  cringed as it squeaked on its hinges. She turned quickly

  and realized the study door was open—too late to close

  it now. She tiptoed into the darkroom. There were two

  or three stacks of prints on the counter, and a slew of

  negatives. Other prints were clipped to a line strung

  from one wall of the darkroom to the other. To see

  better, Nancy flicked on the safety light. Reaching up,

  she unclipped the two nearest black-and-white photos:

  they were of a curio cabinet filled with tribal art. Some

  photos were close-ups of particular items. One Nancy

  recognized instantly: the blow dart that had so in-

  trigued George at Lisa's apartment.

  “I don't believe this!” she muttered. Somehow Jason

  had gotten into Lisa's living room and photographed

  her aunt and uncle's collection.

  After tucking the photos in her bag as evidence,

  Nancy turned to the stack of proofs beside the row of

  developing trays. The first two were simply over-

  exposed copies of photos Jason had in his show. But

  the next group of pictures made Nancy want to shout

  for joy. Just as she suspected, the pictures were taken

  inside an apartment baring a strikingly similar layout to

  Lisa's, with the same beautiful view of skyline and lake

  in the distance.

  “Gotcha!” Nancy murmured to herself, and then a

  familiar buzzing sound came from the depths of her

  purse. Nancy jumped, then remembered she had

  probably left her cell phone on. Nancy opened her bag

  and yanked out the phone.

  “Nancy?” George's voice sounded worried and

  frightened. “Where are you?”

  “You won't believe this,” Nancy started to say, when

  suddenly she heard a sound behind her. As she turned,

  she was blinded by a flash of light. Then she heard

  something whoosh through the air above her, and

  finally something crashed down on her head.

  Searing, hot pain exploded through Nancy's brain.

  Her knees buckled, and someone grabbed the phone

  from her hand. She heard the sound of the phone

  snapping closed, breaking the connection with George.

  A moan escaped Nancy's lips as she dropped to the

  floor. She fought to stay conscious in order to focus on

  her assailant. But as the shadowy figure loomed above

  her, the room dissolved into blackness and she passed

  out.

  14. A Clever Ruse

  As if from a great distance, Nancy heard a screech of

  brakes, then felt a sudden jolt. Her body jerked to one

  side, and her arm crashed against something hard and

  cold. As her eyes popped open, a wave of pain roared

  through her head. Her stomach clenched, and she

  fought back the urge to throw up. Closing her eyes

  again, she felt the nausea pass.

  She touched her head and winced. She felt as if

  someone had taken her brain and used it as a bowling

  ball. Where am I? she wondered. Wherever she was,

  she was freezing. This time she opened her eyes slowly,

  and her surroundings gradually came into focus.

  She was in some kind of train that was moving. A

  brief glance around and the daylight coming through

  the windows told her that she was on one of Chicago's

  elevated train lines. When the trains motion had jerked

  her awake, she had bashed her arm against the cold

  metal wall of the car.

  “Hey, there's some kid in here!” someone shouted

  from the far end of the car. Nancy turned her head

  gingerly and saw a uniformed transit worker standing

  in the open door of the car. He motioned to someone

  in the next car, then strode up to Nancy. The man

  definitely looked annoyed, but as he neared, his

  expression changed.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softening with

  concern.

  “Yes. Yes,” Nancy told him. “What line is this?”

  “The Blue Line,” he told her.

  Nancy gasped as the memory of what happened

  flooded back to her. The Blue Line ran through Jason's

  neighborhood. “Look, I've got to get off this train!”

  Nancy said, jumping up. For a moment her legs felt as

  if they might give way, but Nancy grabbed the back of

  a seat and steadied herself. She realized that Jason had

  hit her on the head and then dumped her on this train.

  He wanted her out of his way, and all at once Nancy

  was sure she knew why. “I've got to get back

  downtown,” she told the two men. Where can I

  change trains?”

  “Nowhere around here,” the second man told her.

  “This train's going in for maintenance, and we're on a

  Sunday schedule, so it'll be a while. We're almost in

  the train yard. I guess Manny forgot to check this last

  car at the terminus. But you look like you've been hurt.

  I'm calling 911.”

  “No! What I need is to call a cab.” Nancy reached

  for her bag and her cell phone. Then she saw her bag

  was missing. “My purse!” she cried.

  “Look, I'm going to call the police,” Manny said.

  “Obviously someone did something to you, ripped you

  off, and stashed you on this train.”

  Nancy put a hand over the Manny's walkie-talkie. “I

  promise to call the police. I know who did this. First

  I've got to get back to town. Couldn't you just call me a

  cab and lend me the fare?”

&n
bsp; The men looked dubious, but at Nancy's insistence

  they broke down. Using his own cell phone, Manny

  called a local cab company, telling them to pick up

  Nancy at the train-yard office. Nancy borrowed his

  phone to call Lisa's house but only got the machine.

  Everyone was probably at Old Can Be Gold. Or, she

  realized with a pang of guilt, out looking for her. How

  had George reacted when Nancy answered her cell

  phone, and then not said a word—or had she? Nancy

  couldn't remember the moments just before Jason

  attacked her.

  Fifteen minutes later, after taking Manny's address

  to send him a check to repay him, Nancy was on her

  way back to town. As she rode back in the cab, she was

  furious with herself, and with Jason. What a two-faced

  creep! A two-faced smart creep. The guy had a really

  good scheme going for him, and unless Nancy could

  get back to the condo and into the apartment next to

  Lisa's before Jason did, he'd erase all evidence of his

  crime. He only had to destroy his negatives, then move

  his equipment out of the condo, and he could claim to

  know nothing. The doorman and the super would play

  dumb.

  Nancy barely waited for the cab to come to a full

  stop in front of Lisa's building before jumping out.

  The doorman was the one from the day shift, not

  Carl. He recognized Nancy, who smiled but continued

  straight for the elevator. Fortunately, she didn't need a

  key to Lisa's apartment. When the elevator opened on

  the twentieth floor, Nancy punched in Lisa's door code

  and entered the apartment.

  No one was home. She headed right for the terrace.

  Stepping outside, she shivered in the stiff cold breeze

  blowing off the lake.

  Nancy climbed over the cast-iron divider onto the

  next terrace. Pressing herself against the narrow strip

  of brick wall, she hazarded a glance through the glass

  doors. Now, by daylight, she could see the room was

  filled with photo equipment, but the lights were out

  and it looked deserted. That surprised her. Jason

  should have headed right to the condo to clear out his

  stuff the minute he had gotten rid of Nancy and before

  she had a chance to call the cops.

  Why hadn't he? The doorman! Carl was off until

  four, and the super didn't cover the door until around

  twelve. If Jason had paid Carl and the super to let him

  use the apartment for the shoot, he wouldn't risk the

  other doorman not letting him in the building. Jason

  would wait until the super covered for the daytime

  doorman.

  Nancy checked her watch. It was almost noon, the

  time the doorman broke for lunch. That left her about

  fifteen minutes. The terrace door was still locked, but

  the lock, like Lisa's, was easy to jimmy. Then Nancy's

  stomach sank. Without her purse and wallet she didn't

  have a credit card or even the little picklock set she

  always carried along with her penknife. The penknife!

  Before climbing Jason's fire escape, Nancy had taken it

  out of her bag and stuffed it in her pocket just to have

  it handy.

  She reached into the back pocket of her jeans. The

  knife was still there. Nancy opened it and slipped the

  blade between the doorframe and the door. On the

  first try she pried it open and let herself in.

  Nancy's gaze swept the apartment. Jason had cer-

  tainly camouflaged his activities. The place was still

  partially set up for a fashion shoot, with standing

  tungsten lamps and an old-fashioned sofa set up in

  front of a cloth backdrop. Yvonne Bly's black cocktail

  outfit was hanging on a garment rack, together with a

  couple of men's tuxedos and some fancy silk ties. The

  whole thing looked totally legit, except perhaps for

  Jason's unusual rental arrangement with the building

  staff. Even that was not high crime, not a big deal—but

  assault and burglary were.

  Nancy quickly searched the apartment, but the

  bedrooms were bare, the closets empty. She went back

  into the living room, disappointed, and started toward

  the terrace door. She noticed that the drapery behind

  the sofa was bulging slightly.

  She lifted the creamy fabric and hit pay dirt. Sure

  enough, George's battered reel-to-reel tape recorder

  was there, but was the tape still inside?

  Hopeful, Nancy opened the lid. Two reels of tape

  were set up to play, with the leader already threaded in

  the empty spool. Nancy unplugged one of the lights

  from an extension cord and plugged in the tape

  recorder. The On button lit up. She pressed Play and

  sat back on her heels. There was static, some voices,

  and then Lou Knight and Carey Black jamming what

  became Mama's Bad Boys' last hit song.

  At the end of the song Nancy turned the tape off.

  When she reached for Rewind, she accidentally pushed

  Fast Forward. Just as she punched the Off button, a

  voice exclaimed from behind her, “Girl, you sure have

  one hard head!”

  15. Over the Edge

  “Jason?” Nancy recognized the voice.

  He didn't answer. “Now get up—slowly!” he com-

  manded, prodding Nancy in the back with some kind

  of hard object.

  A gun? Nancy's heart leaped to her throat. She

  started to turn.

  “Don't turn around!” he snarled. He prodded her

  again, pushing her slightly forward. Nancy's hand was

  on the tape recorder. Thinking quickly, she pressed the

  Record button. “Get up! Now!”

  “Okay, okay!” Nancy got up slowly, keeping her eyes

  focused on the glass of the terrace door. It was clean

  and shiny, and Nancy could see Jason's reflection

  perfectly. “Jason, you're only making things worse for

  yourself.”

  Jason's lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. “Don't

  you get it? I'm not Jason.”

  Nancy's jaw dropped, and she started to turn to see

  for herself.

  “No looking. That'd be cheating,” he said.

  As he talked, Nancy felt the pressure against her

  back let up. Maybe if she could distract him, she could

  make a break for it. The terrace door was still half

  open.

  “You know what happened this morning or you

  wouldn't be here,” she said. “Jason must have told you.

  I searched his darkroom and came up with clear

  evidence that he had a shoot here.”

  “Really, that's pretty lame evidence,” Ethan sneered.

  A sliver of doubt entered Nancy's mind. Was this

  really Ethan? Bess had blabbed to Jason, but who else

  knew Nancy was on the case? Then she remembered

  overhearing Inez tell Ethan.

  Nancy ignored his jibe and continued her story. “He

  bribed building staff to let him use this condo for a

  shoot—but only because it was next door to Lisa's aunt

  and uncle's art collection.”

  “Creative thinking, but no way to prove that.”

  “Wrong!” Nanc
y went on. “I saw photos of the

  collection in Jason's darkroom.”

  Nancy saw a sudden movement reflected in the

  terrace door. Someone else had come through the

  front door. It was another man. Nancy's heart sank. If

  this was Ethan's accomplice, she was in big trouble.

  She had a chance at subduing one man, but two at

  once . . .

  “Jason!” the other man exclaimed. “Are you crazy?”

  Whichever twin was behind Nancy spun around.

  Nancy sprang to the side, darting out of reach. She

  made it as far as the terrace door before she noticed it

  was Jason who had just arrived. Or was it Ethan? They

  weren't dressed alike, but their faces were identical.

  The twin who'd held her captive was wearing nylon

  warm-up pants and a matching anorak. Some kind of

  black cloth was draped over his right hand, concealing

  the hard object he'd shoved in Nancy's back. The guy

  at the door was dressed for work in a sports jacket, a

  turtleneck, and dark brown pants.

  One of these guys was Ethan. Nancy had heard

  Ethan earlier at the Old Can Be Gold site, but she

  hadn't gotten even a glimpse of his shoes.

  “Is that a gun?” the newcomer asked, stunned.

  “Of course not!” The first twin tossed aside the cloth

  to reveal a small collapsible tripod. As he did, Nancy

  noticed his watch—a Rolex. It had been Jason all along

  holding her captive. “So how'd you find me here,

  Jason?” he asked, positioning himself between Nancy

  and the terrace door.

  Ethan frowned. “Jason, stop playing this twin game.

  What's going on here? Have you lost it?”

  “You can cut the act. Nancy is probably wise to us

  now.”

  “To us?” Ethan gasped. He closed the front door

  behind him and walked down the steps from the foyer

  into the living room. He was staring in horror at his

  brother.

  “Tell her why you're here, then,” Jason said, folding

  his arms across his chest and jerking his head toward

  Nancy.

  “You weren't at the loft this morning. You wanted

  more information about that tape, and I didn't have a

  chance to tell you last night—it's been stolen,” Ethan

  said. Then to Nancy's horror his eyes lit on the open

  tape recorder.

  Nancy saw Ethan's expression register total shock as

  he realized it was recording. She cringed, waiting for