Velloni turned again, driving down a street lined with twinkling lights and Italian restaurants. “Welcome to Little Italy,” Velloni said. “This is where you get the best bread and pastries in town.”
After a few more turns, Velloni was driving down a street with kosher butcher shops and electrical stores. Frank noticed there was Hebrew lettering in most of the windows. “Hey, watch it!” he cried as Velloni plowed through a red light.
With another turn, Velloni was driving down a narrow street in Chinatown lined with stores selling fresh fish and vegetables. When Velloni came to a truck blocking the street, she drove the car halfway onto the sidewalk, forcing several men hauling boxes to leap out of the way.
“You’re as bad as the taxi drivers!” Joe yelled from the backseat.
“Worse!” Velloni said, swinging into another street lined with grimy warehouses and other buildings that looked as if they had seen much better days. A group of people was gathered near one of the buildings. Black smoke was wafting through an open door next to the fire escape on the fifth floor.
“Great, we’ve beaten the fire trucks,” Velloni said, screeching to a stop. Then Velloni slammed out of the car. The Hardys watched her tear up the iron fire escape all the way to the fifth floor. Standing in the smoky doorway, Velloni pulled her camera from her purse and snapped a few pictures.
Then Velloni entered the building.
“She shouldn’t be doing that,” Frank said to Joe. “It’s way too dangerous.”
“Those reporters were right!” Joe exclaimed. “Lisa Velloni will do anything to get a story!”
Two minutes later, Velloni was still in the building and the fire trucks had not yet arrived. “I don’t like this,” Frank said, opening the car door. “We should go in after her. She might be trapped in there by the flames.”
“Or it might be a trap for us,” Joe said.
“What do you mean?” Frank asked.
“I’m getting bad vibes about Lunatic Lisa,” Joe said. “Maybe she really did stage the attack on Lee. And maybe she now realizes we’re onto her. This could be a ploy to get us inside a burning building. If we die in there, we won’t be able to blow the whistle on her.”
“We need to risk it anyway,” Frank said, running a hand through his brown hair. “If you’re wrong, Lisa Velloni may die in there. Come on.”
The Hardys left the car and clambered up the fire escape to the fifth floor. They looked through the open door. Clouds of black smoke drifted through a large room jammed with huge rolls of fabric and tables with sewing machines. The overhead lights were on, but there was no one in sight.
“Lisa!” Joe called into the room. “Lisa!”
There was no answer. “Let’s go,” Frank said, leading Joe through the door.
The smoke curled and twisted. A smell like that of burnt toast filled the room. The Hardys both covered their mouths and noses with their coat sleeves to keep smoke from entering their lungs.
An orange glow radiated from the far end of the room. The Hardys could see the fire jumping and flickering in the hallway beyond.
“Lisa!” Joe cried out.
“Over here!” Velloni’s voice called from the hallway. “Please come! I need help!”
As he moved forward, Joe wished he could see Velloni, but she was out of sight. Was it because she was trapped in the hallway by flames, or was it because she was lying in wait for the Hardys with a weapon? Either way, it was a deadly situation.
Joe’s throat was dry with fear, his eyes now smarting from the swirling smoke.
Frank and Joe both knew they had no choice but to enter the smoky fire.
12 A Race through the Flames
* * *
The smoke grew blacker and denser as the Hardys neared the hallway. Joe coughed into his coat sleeve as he kept moving toward the fire.
“Hurry!” Velloni called.
Her voice was close. Ready to defend themselves, Frank and Joe reached the hallway.
Velloni was crouched several feet into the hallway, looking toward a room at the opposite end of it, as if searching for something. Flames were climbing the right wall near the room, devouring it with a vicious crackle. The orange-scarlet colors of the fire burned bright.
“What are you doing?” Joe cried, pulling at Velloni’s coat. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“We can’t,” Velloni protested. “I was taking some photos through the window when I heard screams. So I came inside. There’s a girl trapped in the room at the other end of this hallway.”
“Hello!” Frank called.
“Help!” a female voice yelled from a room across the hall. “The fire’s in here! I can’t get past it.” The girl sounded terrified.
Joe knew this wasn’t a setup. Velloni must really be trying to help.
“She’s getting weak from the smoke, and those flames are going to spread soon. We have to do something!”
Sirens wailed in the far distance.
“The fire trucks are finally coming,” Frank said. “Maybe we should wait.”
“They may be too late,” Velloni said.
Across the hall, something exploded. The trapped girl screamed with terror.
“That explosion was probably from some kind of chemical dye,” Velloni said. “That’s probably how the fire began in the first place.”
Frank realized Velloni was right. If they didn’t do something fast, that girl might perish in the flames.
“Okay, let’s get her out,” Frank said, glancing around. “Joe, cut off two long pieces of fabric, the thickest you can find. You guys will throw it against the flames in the hallway, and I’ll make a run for it.”
A minute later, Joe and Velloni were each holding the end of a long strip of fabric. Frank closed his eyes, psyching himself up for the death-defying journey he was about to make.
There was another explosion. Opening his eyes, Frank saw a bright flash of flame across the hall.
Joe and Velloni waved the fabric against the hallway’s right wall, covering as much of the flame as they could. Frank dashed through the hallway, hugging the wall on the left. Though the flames were not quite touching him, he could feel the intense heat on his hands and face.
Frank rushed into the next room. Through half of it, fire was roaring and leaping with gleeful abandon. The place was swamped with smoke and as hot as the interior of a furnace. Through stinging eyes, Frank saw a young girl crouched in a far corner, away from the flames.
“You’re going to be just fine,” Frank said, moving to the girl and scooping her into his arms. “Hang on.” Firmly holding the girl, Frank moved to the edge of the hallway and yelled, “Go!”
Joe and Velloni threw another piece of fabric against the flames, and again Frank charged through. Frank’s eyes were watering so badly he could barely see, and the heat was clawing painfully at his face, but he just kept throwing one foot in front of the other until . . .
Panting hard, Frank reached the other side and set the girl down. She was coughing and scared, but for the most part she seemed to be all right.
“The last place we were in was too cold,” Joe said, taking the girl’s arm, “and this place is too hot. Come on, let’s beat it!”
By the time the group reached the ground, four fire trucks, an ambulance, and a police car had arrived on the scene. Firemen with oxygen tanks on their backs barged up the fire escape while others began unrolling a giant hose from a truck.
A paramedic escorted the girl to an ambulance to see what medical care she required. Another paramedic looked over Velloni and the Hardys. In spite of the fact that their hands and faces were blackened with smoke, the paramedic found all three to be in okay condition.
“You guys have got some real guts,” Velloni told the Hardys as they joined the growing crowd of people watching the action.
“We do what we have to do,” Frank said modestly.
The firemen were now smashing out windows on the fifth floor to let the heat escape. As Velloni’s r
ed hair blew in the wind, it reminded Frank of the leaping flames he had just seen.
“So that was you in Nick’s apartment,” Frank blurted out suddenly. “And on the rooftop, too.”
“We’ve just risked our lives together,” Velloni said. “I think we can be honest with each other now. Yes, I broke into Rodriguez’s apartment last night. Picked the lock. When you two came in, I hid behind a couch. Then I ran up to the roof.”
“Why were you in Nick’s place?” Joe asked.
“I have access to Karen Lee for information on this case,” Velloni explained. “But Nick and his family are refusing to talk with me. So I wanted to see what I could find on Nick. And I’ll bet you guys were there for the same reason.”
“So why did you knock my brother off the roof?” Joe said, giving Velloni a light shove.
“I . . . I didn’t,” Velloni said, surprised.
“You knocked me off the roof,” Frank stated.
“What?” Velloni said, looking bewildered. “I just meant to knock you down so you wouldn’t follow me. Then I ran to get out of there. I had no idea I knocked you over the edge. If there’s any way I can make it up to you, let me know.”
“You can tell me something,” Frank said. “Do you have a carpet or rug in your apartment?”
“No, I don’t,” Velloni said, looking confused. “Why?”
“No reason,” Frank said with a shrug.
“Well, fellas,” Velloni said, pulling a tape recorder from her large purse, “if you’ll excuse me, I want to interview the little girl we just rescued. I wonder if she had just been on the premises with someone or if she actually worked here. I might be able to get a really important story out of it!”
Joe watched Velloni hurry to a cluster of women standing near the ambulance. “The fact that she would risk her life to save that girl makes it seem less likely she’s our culprit,” he said, scratching his head. “I just wish we could have gotten some carpet fibers from her.”
“We did,” Frank said, pulling a packet from his coat. “I got some from the carpet in her car, and I get the impression she spends a lot of time there. We’ve got samples now from three suspects.”
“Great,” Joe said, noticing how smoke-blackened his hands were. “Now we just need some good soap.”
• • •
Several hours later, a cleaner Frank and Joe were walking along Fifth Avenue, looking at the elaborate Christmas displays in the store windows. Overhead, white holiday lights glimmered the length of the entire street. The night air was sharp, but a good many people were out strolling, many carrying shopping bags.
“That was a great steak dinner,” Joe said.
“Best I’ve had in a while,” Frank agreed.
Right after the fire, the Hardys had taken all the fiber samples to Sergeant Tyrell, who said he would send them to the crime lab and would have a report, probably before nine that night. Frank and Joe had decided to stay in the city. If the fibers from one of their suspects matched up, they wanted to pay a visit to that particular suspect immediately.
“Maybe you should have gotten Callie one of these,” Joe said. He was pointing at the window display of one of the world’s most famous jewelry stores. Several luminous diamond rings were resting on a drape of red velvet.
“No problem,” Frank said. “These probably don’t cost much more than our family’s house.”
As the Hardys resumed walking, Frank checked his watch. It was ten past nine. Frank’s stomach was jittery. So far none of the leads he and Joe had followed had turned into anything definite. That meant everything depended on the fibers Sergeant Tyrell was late calling about.
As he passed the spectacular structure of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Frank found himself wondering about the other article of evidence he had seen, the tiny piece of pink enamel. What was it? And did it have anything to do with the attempted murder? Frank still could not imagine what the object was.
“Cool,” Joe said as he and Frank came to the plaza at Rockefeller Center. A crowd of people were looking down on a vast skating rink, filled with people skimming across the ice.
“That’s an amazing tree,” Frank commented. In front of a skyscraper across the rink, a huge Christmas tree soared seven stories high, decorated with brightly colored lights and ornaments.
The Hardys both leaned on a railing to admire the holiday scene, but Joe could see his brother’s mind was elsewhere. “You still think Nick is innocent, don’t you?” Joe said.
“Yes, I do,” Frank said, his eyes on the skaters. “Do you still think he’s guilty?”
“After everything that’s happened today,” Joe said, “I’m afraid I still think he’s guilty. But I’m also seeing how important it is for a person to have the best possible defense.”
“Why is that?” Frank asked.
“I had moments this afternoon,” Joe said, “when I considered each one of our suspects guilty—John Q., Alex, Velloni. But obviously that can’t be the case. I guess a fair trial is the best way to keep a jury from making that kind of mistake.”
“And then sometimes a jury makes the wrong decision even if the trial is fair,” Frank said.
Joe watched a skater wipe out on the ice. “Do you really think they’ll convict Nick?” Joe asked.
Frank nodded. “Unless we can come up with something linking someone else to the crime, Nick Rodriguez is going to spend this Christmas and a lot of others behind bars. And the thought of that really bothers me. But so far we’ve got nothing.
“Let’s go call Tyrell,” he said. As he and Joe went to find a pay phone, Frank’s stomach churned. He knew that what he was about to find out could either set Nick Rodriguez free or send him to jail for many years to come.
13 Sing Sing
* * *
“Hello.” Frank spoke into the phone, his heart pounding.
“Hi, Frank,” the voice of Sergeant Tyrell returned. “Listen, I just got the call from the crime lab. None of the fibers you brought in matches those found at the crime scene. Sorry, but that’s how it goes in the detective game. You win some and you lose some.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, his heart sinking. “But I really appreciate the help.”
“It really wasn’t much trouble,” Tyrell said. “Say hello to your dad for me.”
“I sure will,” Frank replied.
As Frank hung up the phone, Joe could read the bad news in his brother’s face. In fact, Frank looked as down as Joe had ever seen him. “Frank, we did our best,” Joe said gently.
The two brothers walked back to the rink. Frank leaned on the railing and watched the skaters gliding across the ice. Some were graceful, and some were clumsy. At the moment, Frank felt a lot like the ones who were falling roughly to the ice. “I just wish I knew what to do,” he said wearily.
He stared at the ice a long moment.
“Maybe there’s one more thing,” he said.
“What’s that?” Joe asked.
“I keep hearing the voice of Zeke Washington saying, ‘In the name of justice, I have to talk to you,’ ” Frank said. “I think we should go to Sing Sing tomorrow morning and see what he was talking about. It may be nothing, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Okay,” Joe said with a nod. “We’re there.”
“Well,” Frank said, casting a last look at the gigantic tree, “let’s head back to Bayport and get some rest. Besides, I’ve got to give Callie her present tonight.”
• • •
At ten-thirty the following morning, the Hardys walked toward the prison after an hour’s train ride from Manhattan. They had learned the train stopped right near the prison grounds and figured it would be faster than driving from Bayport in the van.
After passing through several gates, several guards, and several heavy doors, the Hardys spoke with a prison official, who made the necessary arrangements for the Hardys to speak with inmate 82658—Zeke Washington.
The Hardys were brought into a large room that was divided in half by a wall
of bulletproof glass. Prisoners sat on one side of the glass, visitors on the other. All around, people were conversing with their friends and loved ones who were serving time at the prison. Like everything else at Sing Sing, the room was drab and depressing.
Soon a young man came to sit across the glass from Frank and Joe. He picked up a telephone to speak with the Hardys, both of whom also picked up phones. “I’m Zeke Washington,” the man spoke into his mouthpiece. “I understand you want to see me.”
Zeke wore a light blue shirt with his prisoner number printed over the pocket. Joe had expected to see a hardened criminal. Instead he was face-to-face with a pleasant man only a few years older than himself. Except for the prison attire, Zeke could have been a buddy from Bayport High.
“We understand you have some information for Karen Lee,” Frank said.
“Well, you see,” Zeke Washington said, “I need Karen Lee to help me get out of here.”
“How is that?” Joe asked.
“I’ve been a criminal most of my life, and I admit that,” Zeke said. “I robbed a bunch of places, and I’ve been in and out of prison more times than I can count. Fact is, a lot of folks call me Elmer because they used to say my hands were as sticky as glue.”
Zeke showed a charming smile. Joe found himself liking this man, even though, in a sense, he played for the opposite team.
“But, you see,” Zeke continued, “a year and a half ago I gave up crime for good. Even got myself a real job.”
“Then why are you here?” Joe asked.
“Good question,” Zeke said, turning more serious. “Right after I went straight, I got arrested on an armed robbery charge. They said I held up the clerk of a convenience store at gunpoint. I was convicted of the crime and sentenced to fifteen years. I’ve been here for eight months already. But I didn’t do the crime.”
Frank tapped his foot impatiently. None of this seemed important to Nick’s trial.
“I have a lot of free time here,” Zeke continued. “Instead of just playing cards and watching TV like most of the other inmates, I decided to find out what went wrong in my case and see if there was anything I could do about it.”
Trial and Terror Page 8
