Trial and Terror

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe looked around, considering this statement. There were other courthouses in the area. Big, impressive buildings where people came to argue every imaginable legal matter—crimes, lawsuits, divorces, child custody, even traffic tickets.

  Suddenly a flock of pigeons fluttered away. Looking up, Joe noticed a young man in a worn leather jacket standing near the bench. He had a smirk on his face and a very bizarre hairdo. Half his hair was dyed bright red, the other half bright green.

  “Mind if I sit down?” the man asked.

  “Not at all,” Joe said, scooting over to make room at the end of the bench.

  But instead of sitting at the end, the man squeezed in between Joe and Frank.

  “Dude,” Joe said, annoyed, “we’re having a private conversation here.”

  Very calmly, the man pulled out a knife from his pocket. He pushed a button, and a long blade shot out.

  “Is that right?” the man said, touching the blade to Joe’s throat. “Well, right now, I want you to have a little conversation with me.”

  9 A Shred of Evidence

  * * *

  Frank thought about grabbing the knife, but the man turned to him, keeping the blade on Joe. “You make a move for me,” the man warned, “and your brother gets cut. Got it?”

  Frank nodded in response. “So, what is it you want to discuss?” he said as calmly as he could.

  “A very simple business matter,” the man said. “I’ve been instructed by a certain party to tell you two to stop being so nosy. If you don’t, I might have to cut both your noses off. Then you won’t smell so good. Get it?”

  The man with the red-and-green hair laughed a maniacal laugh. Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, he returned the knife to his jacket pocket and walked away.

  Joe sprang to his feet, ready to follow the man, but Frank held him back.

  “What are you doing?” Joe said, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “He pulled a knife on me! Let’s go get the jerk!”

  “That’s precisely why we’re not going to go get the jerk,” Frank said, holding Joe tightly. “Violence isn’t going to get us anywhere. But I think this helps us prove Nick’s innocence. Obviously the real culprit told this guy to scare us off the case.”

  “Not necessarily,” Joe said as he watched the red-green man disappear around the corner of a nearby building. “Maybe Garfein sent him, not because he tried to have Karen Lee killed but just because he doesn’t like us nosing into his affairs.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it,” Frank said, finally releasing Joe. “Come on. Since I didn’t let you flatten that creep, I’ll buy you lunch.”

  Soon the Hardys were seated in a delicatessen that was noisy with conversation and clattering plates. Joe was devouring a sandwich piled high with pastrami, while Frank was working on a sandwich of turkey and Swiss cheese.

  “Okay,” Joe said, chewing away. “Even though I think Nick is guilty, I’ve come up with another theory. It’s far-fetched, but it makes some sense.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Frank said.

  “Those reporters said Lisa Velloni will do anything to get a story,” Joe said. “They hinted she might even do something illegal.”

  “She also seemed eager to prove a woman can get a good story as well as a man,” Frank added.

  “When Lee first got her soap role last May, Velloni did a story on her,” Joe said, lifting a bottle of root beer. “Now, maybe, just maybe, Velloni staged a murder attempt on Lee. She probably didn’t intend to kill her. But she knew it would make a story as juicy as this pastrami. And she figured she could get exclusive rights to the story because she and Lee were already acquainted.”

  “I don’t know, Joe—” Frank started.

  “Remember,” Joe continued, “getting exclusive rights to Lee is a big break for Velloni. This trial isn’t a powder-puff piece, and Velloni has the inside track on it. She’s making more money than the other reporters, and when the trial’s over she could even get a book deal. And you’ve seen yourself how angry and aggressive she is.”

  “Okay, I can see how that might be possible,” Frank said after a bite of his sandwich. “But then why would she frame Nick Rodriguez?”

  “To keep suspicion away from herself,” Joe said, picking up a big pickle. “Or perhaps to make for an even juicier story.”

  “But could she be so determined that she’d let an innocent man go to prison?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t think we can answer that until we get to know her better,” Joe said, chomping on the pickle. “And remember, it probably was her we saw in Nick’s apartment last night. And if she has access to Nick’s apartment, she could have been the one who planted the evidence under the mattress.”

  “All right,” Frank said. “We’ll put her on the suspect list. We’ll have a chance to feel her out when we meet her later this afternoon.”

  “So we’ve now got three suspects to pursue,” Joe said. “Fred Garfein, John Q., and Lisa Velloni.”

  “But we still need evidence linking at least one of them to the crime,” Frank said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “And what we really need is proof that one of them did it.”

  “And we need it by tomorrow,” Joe said, sliding his empty plate away. “Good luck to us.”

  After lunch, the Hardys split up. They agreed to call the telephone answering machine at their home in one hour, in case they had any messages to tell each other. Joe set off to locate the apartment of John Q., and Frank walked a few blocks to police headquarters for a look at whatever physical evidence had been collected from the crime scene.

  On the eleventh floor, Frank was taken into a room containing aisle after aisle of floor-to-ceiling shelves. The shelves housed cardboard boxes, each labeled with a number. This was where the police stored evidence collected from every crime scene in Manhattan. They kept the evidence on hand until the crime was completely solved.

  Frank followed Sergeant Tyrell, a burly policeman with a bushy mustache, down a long aisle. “Frank Hardy, huh?” Tyrell said. “You aren’t related to Fenton Hardy, are you?”

  “He’s my father,” Frank said with pride.

  “No kidding,” Tyrell said, glancing back at Frank. “I got to know him a bit when I first joined the force. Terrific fellow. He helped me out of a few jams.”

  Frank and Joe’s father, Fenton, had worked a number of years for the New York City Police Department before he became a renowned private investigator.

  Sergeant Tyrell stopped and pulled down a cardboard box, which he set on the floor. “It says here,” Tyrell said, studying a file of papers he had brought, “the gloves and ski mask are being kept at the courthouse because the prosecutor is using them in the trial. The coat and knife have not been found.”

  “So what’s in the box?” Frank asked.

  “Not much,” Tyrell said, still looking at the file. “It says these are items the police collected from the floor right near where the crime took place. Karen Lee claims she swept her floor shortly before the attack, and the police collected these items shortly after the attack.”

  “In other words,” Frank said, “there’s a chance these items came from the attacker.”

  “It’s possible,” Tyrell said as he opened the box and reached inside. “Let’s have a look.”

  Tyrell handed Frank a sealed plastic packet. The only thing inside was a tiny pink item. It was oval and no bigger than a fingernail fragment. “This is a small piece of metal with painted enamel on it,” Tyrell said, checking the file. “No one has any idea what it is, and it may not have anything at all to do with the crime.”

  Frank stared at the piece of pink enamel a few moments, trying to imagine what it might be. Nothing came to mind. “Anything else?” he said, handing the packet back to Sergeant Tyrell.

  “Just this,” Tyrell said, handing Frank another sealed plastic packet. This one contained a few tiny shreds of a yarnlike substance in a color somewhere between gray and beige.

  “These are carpet or rug fibe
rs,” Tyrell explained. “They don’t match with any carpets or rugs found in the apartment or place of work of Lee or Rodriguez, but they still could have come off one of those two people.”

  Frank was thinking about how the fibers might be of use. “Let’s say I had a suspect for this crime,” Frank said, “and I found this person had a carpet or rug that matched these fibers exactly. Would that help point a finger at that person?”

  “It certainly could,” Tyrell said, “If you could match those fibers exactly.”

  “How would I do that?” Frank asked.

  “First you would have to gather some samples from that person’s home or office,” Tyrell explained. “Then you would need an expert to compare them with these samples. We have a crime lab where specialists are trained for that type of work, but you wouldn’t be allowed access to it.”

  “Not even if it would help establish the truth?” Frank said with a hopeful look.

  “Our facilities are for the police and prosecutors only,” Tyrell said with a shrug. “You’re lucky the judge is even letting you look at this stuff.”

  “But if, say, you wanted to send something to the crime lab for analysis,” Frank said, “you could do it. Because you’re a policeman. Right?”

  “That’s not really my job,” Tyrell said, scratching his mustache. “But I know some of those people fairly well, and, yes, I probably could. But that doesn’t mean I could do it for someone else who’s not a cop or prosecutor.”

  “Not even if that person was the son of Fenton Hardy,” Frank said, locking eyes with Tyrell. Frank did not like to throw his father’s name around, but sometimes it proved helpful. Most folks who knew Fenton Hardy liked and admired him a great deal.

  Tyrell scratched his mustache some more, all the while looking at Frank. “Okay, kid,” he said, lowering his voice. “If you get some fibers, I’ll send them and these over to the crime lab and have them run a quick check. But you need to keep real quiet about it. Understand?”

  “Quiet is my middle name,” Frank said, handing the plastic packet with the fibers back to Tyrell.

  • • •

  Joe climbed out of a subway station and walked east. Right away, Joe could see that this area, the East Village, was where the hip people hung out. Most of the people passing by looked to be about his age, Joe thought. Most were dressed in funky clothing, and many of them had their hair dyed wild colors, from orange to aqua.

  Joe walked along a block lined with stores that sold things like old rock’ n’ roll records and super-cool sunglasses.

  Stopping at a pay phone, Joe dialed his home number, then punched in the code to retrieve any messages. There was a message from Frank, who explained that if Joe got into John Q.’s apartment and if there was a carpet or rug there, Joe should collect a few fibers from it. He then said Joe should meet him near Karen Lee’s apartment house in one hour.

  Soon Joe was walking along a block lined with run-down apartment buildings, most of them with graffiti scrawled on their walls. Joe approached the front door of the building with the address that matched the one from John Q.’s letter. Joe buzzed 4F, John’s apartment. There was no answer.

  Joe waited a moment while a girl with a ring in her nose passed by. I must be the squarest guy in the neighborhood, Joe thought as he pulled a metal strip from his pocket. Every now and then, the Hardys found it necessary to pick a lock, and this was one of those times, Joe figured. After a little fiddling, Joe managed to get the door open.

  The hallway was dimly lit, and the walls were in need of a paint job. Joe climbed several sets of steps and came finally to the door of apartment 4F.

  Joe knocked. After getting no answer, he picked the lock on the door. Then he stepped into the apartment’s living room and relocked the door.

  Joe thought the place was surprisingly neat and well decorated. Posters of movies and plays hung on the walls, and some top-of-the-line audio and video equipment rested on the shelves of an entertainment center.

  Joe heard a click. He froze and listened. Was someone in the apartment? There seemed to be another room or two he had not yet checked. Then Joe was aware of a low, whirring sound.

  After a look at the entertainment center, Joe realized the VCR had just switched on. John Q. must have preset it to tape a program, Joe figured. Wondering what the program was, Joe pushed a button on the cable box, and the television lit up.

  Suddenly Joe was face-to-face with Karen Lee.

  She was on TV, wearing a nurse’s uniform and telling a worried-looking woman that her little son was going to be all right. Joe realized John had preset the recorder to videotape the day’s episode of Lee’s soap opera, Days of Destiny.

  Joe watched the show briefly. At this moment, he realized, Karen Lee was coming into millions of homes all over the country. The scary part was, she had no control over who got to know her and develop feelings for her. If a crazy person wanted to watch her every day, that person was free to do so.

  After turning off the TV, Joe noticed the floor was covered with a gray carpet. He pulled a few fibers and put them inside his wallet.

  Joe heard another click. He thought some other gadget must have switched on or off, but he could not figure out what it was. Then he realized the sound had come from the front door. It was the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Someone was about to enter the apartment.

  10 The Face on the Screen

  * * *

  All Joe had time to do was duck behind a sofa.

  Crouched in hiding, Joe heard the door open. Then he heard shoes moving across the gray carpet.

  A moment later, there was a click, and the television came on. It was Days of Destiny again, and Joe heard Karen Lee discussing some medical situation with a doctor.

  Joe stole a peek around the side of the sofa. He was shocked by whom he saw. It was the clean-cut young man Joe had thought was a reporter. He was standing right in front of the TV, the light from the screen reflecting in his wire-rimmed glasses.

  Joe realized this was John Q. He was at the trial not as a reporter but because he wanted to watch Karen Lee in person. That’s also why he was standing across the street from her apartment building. Joe had just assumed he was a reporter.

  “Hi,” the young man spoke. “How are you?”

  At first Joe thought John Q. might be talking to him, but he was still facing the screen. Then Joe realized John Q. was talking to Karen Lee on TV as if she were actually in the room.

  “Oh, I’m not too bad,” John Q. told the screen version of Lee. “Sorry I had to leave the trial today, but they needed me to come in to work at the video store a little early. You looked awfully beautiful in there. It’s all I can do to stop myself from going up and talking to you. But maybe I will someday. Who knows? Since things didn’t work out with Nick, maybe they’ll work out with me.”

  Maybe he’s the one, Joe thought. He was seeing that John Q. might indeed be crazy enough to have staged the murder attempt on Karen Lee. He felt a sudden thrill, the kind he usually got when closing in on a criminal.

  Then John Q. took off his ski vest and walked into another room. Joe briefly considered sticking around to watch more, but he decided he’d better take the opportunity to slip out the door.

  Thirty minutes later, Joe arrived in Chelsea, on the corner of the block where Karen Lee lived. Sleet was now slanting down from the sky, and Joe found Frank under the canvas awning of a small food market.

  “You were right,” Frank said after Joe had explained about his East Village discovery. “John Q. sounds like a nut.”

  “And here are the carpet fibers from his place,” Joe said, pulling them from his wallet.

  “Let’s see,” Frank said, putting the fibers in one of several plastic packets he had been given by Sergeant Tyrell. “They look like they could be the right color. Thanks, Joe.”

  “So we know John Q. is seriously obsessed with Lee,” Joe said, zipping his coat up higher. “Which lends support to my theory that he may
have staged the attack on her in order to frame Rodriguez.”

  “True,” Frank said, watching people hurry by to get out of the icy sleet. “But it’s still a shaky theory. We still need some kind of hard evidence linking John to the crime.”

  “But the carpet fibers could do it,” Joe said.

  “If we’re lucky,” Frank said. “Right now, let’s move on to the Garfein-Alex theory. That’s why I wanted to meet here. You’ll go to Alex’s apartment. If he’s there, talk to him, especially about his relationship with Garfein. If he’s not there, get in and have a look around. Either way, if there’s a carpet or rug, pick some fibers.”

  “And while I’m in another potentially dangerous situation,” Joe said, “where will you be? Doing some late Christmas shopping?”

  “I’ll be in the basement,” Frank told Joe. “Checking to see if the heat has been turned off. And we all know how dangerous basements can be.”

  Frank and Joe hurried down the block, bracing themselves against the freezing pellets of sleet. “Before we visit Alex’s place,” Joe suggested, “how about we take another look in Lee’s apartment? I saw a bunch of fan letters in there, and now I’m thinking there may be more of them from John Q. Maybe one that contains a link to the crime.”

  “Even if it does,” Frank pointed out, “the letter wouldn’t be allowed in court because we got it by being there illegally. Remember, we’re not really supposed to do that.”

  “Okay, but if we find a letter from John,” Joe argued, “maybe we can have Myers gain legal access to it. He can tell the judge it’s important that he sees all of Karen Lee’s fan letters. That could work.”

  “You’re starting to think like a lawyer,” Frank said as the Hardys came to Lee’s building.

  The Hardys made their way past the building’s front door and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Stepping out of the stairwell, Frank noticed the door with a small window that Nick had spoken of. Did Nick really see a face through that window? Frank believed he had. But whose face was it?