"Where's that door lead?" Joe asked, pointing to a large wooden door opposite Sue's desk.
"That's Mr. Dalton's office," Sue replied.
"What are you looking for?" Callie asked Frank impatiently.
"I'll let you know when I find it," Frank replied absently. He was looking for a microneedle in a computer haystack, and he didn't need any distractions.
Joe paced the small office. Biker was sitting in jail facing an assault charge for beating up Brandon and a murder charge for the death of Frost, and two hoodlums working for a small-time bookie were gunning for Biker, Frank, and Joe. The last two days hadn't been shining ones for the Hardys.
"Yeah!" Frank announced triumphantly.
"What is it?" Joe rushed around the desk and stared at the display terminal. The letters and numbers on the screen meant nothing to him. "Would you mind explaining this to me?"
Before Frank could answer, the door across from Sue's desk creaked open.
Joe turned—just in time to stare into the black eyes of a Doberman springing over the desk toward him, its sharp teeth aiming right for Joe's throat.
Chapter 13
"JOE!" FRANK YELLED as he tossed a ruler to his younger brother.
Joe caught the ruler and smacked the Doberman on the nose. The dog fell to one side, sneezed, shook its head, and crouched to spring again.
"Sit, Trooper!" yelled Sue.
The black Doberman sat down and growled at Joe, exposing large yellow teeth.
"This is your dog?" Joe asked Sue, keeping his eyes on the Doberman and the ruler ready to smack the dog again.
"He's the company's dog," answered a silver-haired man from the open doorway.
"Mr. Dalton," Sue gasped.
"Sue," Mr. Dalton answered in a surprised yet relieved voice. "What are you doing here? Who are these people?"
"Frank, Joe, Callie," Sue said, "this is Scott Dalton, founder and president of DalTime, Inc." "Brandon's father?" Callie asked. "Looks that way," Joe muttered. "Why are you here? I thought you were looking for Biker," Mr. Dalton said.
"Frank and Joe are detectives from Bayport," Sue explained. "Biker asked them to help him. We came here looking for evidence that might prove Biker's innocence."
Joe moved toward Mr. Dalton and was about to explain why they had sneaked into the offices when Trooper stood up and growled.
"Out, Trooper," Mr. Dalton ordered, a deep scowl on his face. The black Doberman gave a small whine and meekly left the room. "Sorry about the dog, Joe," Mr. Dalton said. "I got him shortly after the trial, when the phone calls started." "What phone calls?" Joe asked. "Someone began threatening to hurt me. Although the voice was disguised, I thought it was Biker." Mr. Dalton sat in a chair opposite Sue's desk. Frank could read the weariness and worry on the older man's face. "I used to treat him like a second son."
"Did you really think it was Biker?" Frank asked.
"I know Biker's a pretty wild young man, and the evidence at the trial was damaging. I almost believed he was guilty myself."
"What made you change your mind?" Joe asked.
"The calls kept coming even after Biker's escape. Knowing Biker, I expected him to head for Canada or Mexico. He wouldn't waste time calling up to threaten me."
"What exactly did the caller say?" Frank said.
Mr. Dalton rubbed his forehead as if trying to forget a bad dream. "The caller said he would return the watches for two hundred fifty thousand dollars, about half their value. If I didn't go through with the deal, he would kill Brandon and then me. I'm no coward, but this guy really scared me."
"Mr. Dalton hates guns. That's why he takes Trooper with him wherever he goes now," Sue added.
"When I heard voices, male voices, coming from Sue's office, I naturally thought the caller was about to make good on his threats," Mr. Dalton said. "I'm really sorry if Trooper frightened you Joe."
"Forget it. No harm, no foul," Joe said lightly.
"Is Brandon okay?" Mr. Dalton asked Sue.
"He was before we left Bayport," Sue replied. "Why do you ask?"
"I can't get ahold of him. The hospital said he checked himself out, and there's no answer at the motel."
"Maybe he's at the police station giving a statement about Biker beating him up," Callie suggested.
"I can't believe that Biker attacked Brandon," Mr, Dalton said. "He knew Brandon wouldn't have a chance against him. This is very puzzling."
"Maybe what I've found could clear up some of the mystery," Frank said.
"I've always liked Biker," Mr. Dalton said. "I wish my own son had half his common sense. What have you found?"
"This should reopen the case and reverse Biker's conviction," Frank said. "Look here."
Joe, Callie, Sue, and Mr. Dalton gathered around Frank and the computer terminal.
"Here's Biker's original invoice sheet for the shipment of watches to Boston," Frank said. "Notice the date—March third, the day Biker left on his crosscountry trip."
He handed the paper to Mr. Dalton, who looked the sheet over and nodded his head. Frank turned to his computer.
"But look at this." Frank played the computer keys like a classical pianist. Seconds later a similar invoice sheet appeared on the screen.
Frank pointed to the screen. "Notice that the sales rep's code and invoice number are exactly the same as the numbers on Biker's invoice. But look here." Frank ran his finger straight across the screen to the date column. "March thirtieth," Joe said. "Right. Biker's original order wasn't shipped on March third—it went out the thirtieth."
"That's the day Biker returned from his trip," Joe said excitedly. "And the day of the hijacking," Frank added. "This date could be a typing error," Callie said.
"Maybe," Frank agreed, "except for this." He hit the keyboard again. Another form appeared on the screen.
"Biker's original invoice form!" Joe exclaimed.
"Right again. It was canceled on March fourth, the day after Biker left for his vacation." Frank punched the keys, and the two forms appeared side by side.
"Except for the date, they look exactly alike," Sue said.
"Too much alike," Frank said, "as if someone was trying to hide something." He turned to Mr. Dalton. "Do you often reroute shipments?" "No. That's not the way I run my company," Scott Dalton said. "We process orders as they come in—unless I personally say otherwise. I don't like sales representatives stealing shipments from one another and routing them to special customers. It causes too much friction."
"Well, it looks as if that's what happened here. Biker's original shipment was headed to Boston," Joe said, pointing to the screen. "Then that same order got bumped back and routed to Kansas City!"
"Along the route of the hijacking!" Frank tapped on the desk.
"Then Biker is innocent," Joe said.
"How does this prove Biker's innocent?" Callie asked.
"Somebody changed Biker's order—setting it to go out on the thirtieth instead of the third," Frank explained. "That same person rerouted the shipment west instead of north. And all that time, Biker was out of state. He couldn't have known when the shipment left the plant or where it was going."
"Only two people could have known," Joe added. "The sales rep who rerouted the shipment and the driver of the truck, Nick Frost."
"I'd guess Frost set up the phony hijacking with the help of his Sinbad buddies," Frank concluded.
"Why?" asked Mr. Dalton.
"Frost was a heavy gambler and lost often," Joe explained. "Maybe he used up all his credit with Fat Harold and then started a new account, using Biker's name. When it came time to pay up, Frost dreamed up this hijacking scheme."
"But it didn't work out as planned," Frank added. "Somebody killed Frost."
"What?" Mr. Dalton said, shock in his voice.
"Before leaving Bayport, we were shot at and almost killed in a gas station fire," Joe said. "The police found Frost's body in a ditch nearby. They're holding Biker for the murder."
"I don't believe thi
s," Mr. Dalton said as he sat down.
"Your theory sounds good," Callie said, "except for two things." "What?" Joe asked, rounding on her. "Who killed Frost, and who told Fat Harold we'd be at Frost's apartment?"
"According to Fat Harold," Frank said, "a little birdie told him. Maybe that same little birdie killed Frost."
"Isn't it funny how Sims always manages to be around whenever there's trouble?" Joe said thoughtfully.
Then his eyes widened. "Frank, we've got to get back to Bayport. If Sims is involved in any of this, Biker is in real trouble."
"Let me run a hard copy of these invoices to show to the police," Frank said as he began typing in commands on the computer.
Mr. Dalton stood, strength seeming to enter him. "I'll try to call Brandon and tell him to fire Sims, that you two have proof that Biker is innocent. Sims won't like it, though."
"He's got a real mean streak in him," Callie said.
"Mean?" Mr. Dalton said with a bitter laugh. "Sims's dead-or-alive reputation is no joke. Brandon told me that thirty percent of his fugitives are brought back in boxes. I'm sorry I was ever talked into hiring such a man."
"Callie, you'd better stay with Sue," Frank said as he pulled the black van into the motel parking lot. "If Sims is in on this, he might go after her, too."
"Sure," Callie replied. She and Sue hopped out of the van and headed for Sue's room.
Frank put the van in drive and started out of the parking lot.
"Hey, guys!" Brandon shouted as he pulled his cycle up next to the van. The swelling had gone down, but the bruises on his face were dark blue. "Did your father get ahold of you?" Frank asked. "Yeah. Sims is off the case. You guys did a great job."
"Where is Sims now?" Joe asked.
"He said something about leaving Bayport," Brandon replied.
"Keep an eye open for him," Frank warned. "We think he might be mixed up in all of this."
"Sure thing," Brandon said. "Say, where's this evidence you say you found?"
"Right here," Frank said, patting his shirt pocket.
"Great." Brandon gave him a smile.
"Tell Callie we're going home first, then to the police station," Frank said.
"You got it," Brandon said with a wave.
Frank pulled the van out of the parking lot and headed for home.
"If you hadn't broken the mobile phone, we could have warned Dad by now," Frank said with a smile.
"If you'll remember, it was your girlfriend who knocked me against that thing," Joe replied without humor.
Minutes later Frank and Joe were walking into their living room. Scuffling sounds came from the cellar.
"Dad's office!" Frank whispered.
They bolted down the stairs to Fenton Hardy's basement office. Biker, one handcuff around his wrist, was struggling with Sims for the bounty hunter's pistol.
"Sims!" Frank shouted.
Joe leapt at Biker.
The office echoed with the roar of the 9 mm automatic. Sims jerked backward and crashed to the floor — lifeless.
Chapter 14
JOE WAS MOMENTARILY deafened by the blast of the gun. He watched Sims hit the floor, then lowered his shoulder and smashed into Biker, ignoring the pain from his hurt arm. With lightning speed he grabbed the gun and twisted it from Biker's hand.
Something whipped past Joe and slammed into Biker's chest. Biker doubled over and crumpled to the floor.
Joe spun around. The "dead" Sims stood in a karate stance.
"You're alive," Joe gasped.
"It looks that way," Sims replied. "Not that your friend didn't try his best."
"You looked dead," Frank said.
"That was the idea." Sims nodded at Joe. "Thanks for your help," he said with a smirk. The bounty hunter knelt next to Biker and holstered his gun. He grabbed Biker's arms and cuffed his hands. Biker groaned in pain as the cuffs clicked tighter and tighter.
"Hey! Those are too tight." Joe was furious.
"You don't think I'm going to give him a second chance, do you?" Sims asked. He lifted the groggy Biker and sat him in Fenton's chair. Frank was amazed at how the short, overweight Sims could move with such strength.
"What's Biker doing out of jail?" Joe asked, suddenly startled.
"Question your friend," Sims huffed.
"What happened, buddy?" Joe asked gently.
"I guess I got kind of stupid — I broke out," Biker answered, his speech thick.
"Why?" Frank was shocked. "Here we are trying to clear you and you make a break for it." He turned away and slapped his fist into the palm of his other hand.
"What can I say? I'm a dumb biker." Biker's head fell over on his chest again. He was out of it.
"Well, buddy, sorry, but as soon as you're better, we're going to have to return you to Con and the boys at the station."
"Over my dead body," Sims said.
"What do you mean? He has to go back," Frank stated simply.
"Look, kid, I found him after he escaped, and I'm taking him back to New York to collect my reward." An evil, triumphant smile cut into Sims's round, wrinkled face.
"You can't do that. He's being held on a murder charge here."
"What was that? I seem to have gone temporarily deaf. I couldn't hear a single word you said," Sims said, cupping a hand to his ear.
"I suppose you didn't get a phone call from Brandon, either?" Joe said.
"What call?" Sims asked.
"The one telling you to back off," Joe replied. "Why not check in with your boss?"
"Don't tell me what to do," Sims growled.
"Frank has found evidence that proves Biker didn't hijack that shipment of watches."
"Really?" Sims said with a mocking look.
Frank took the two invoices from his pocket and handed them to Sims. He quickly explained Biker's vacation schedule and the rerouting of the watches.
"It was impossible for Biker to know where and when those watches would go out," Joe concluded.
Sims looked at both invoices. He rubbed the back of his neck and then asked, "Get these from a computer, Frank?"
"From Sue's computer at the watch company," Frank replied.
"You're pretty good with a computer, aren't you, Frank? I bet you'd do just about anything for a friend, wouldn't you?" Sims's steel gray eyes bored into Frank.
Joe glanced at Frank, then at Sims. He knew what Sims was implying.
"Frank didn't tamper with those invoices," Joe said, controlling his slowly rising anger.
Sims threw up his hands in mock protest and handed the invoices back to Frank. "What can I say?"
"There's something else you should know," Frank said. "Biker didn't beat up Brandon."
"Just how do you know that?" Sims asked, curious in spite of himself.
Frank walked over to Biker, who was still unconscious. He gently lifted Biker's hands and turned them over.
"See here?" he said. "No bruises."
"Huh?" Sims looked confused.
"You saw Brandon at the hospital," Frank said. "Whoever gave him that beating would have some badly bruised knuckles."
"Unless the attacker was wearing motorcycle gloves," Sims countered.
"I've seen the difference between someone beaten with gloves and someone beaten with bare knuckles," Frank said confidently. "Brandon was beaten with bare fists, and he was beaten by Frost."
"Impossible!" Sims shook his head in disbelief.
"Remember how badly scraped Frost's knuckles were?" Frank asked.
"That's right!" Joe said.
"What would Brandon have to do with Frost?" Sims asked.
"I don't know, but I want to ask Brandon about Frost, and I want to find out why he lied to us about calling you," Frank replied.
"You two will have to follow that up by yourselves," Sims said. "As soon as Conway revives, I'm taking him back to Queens."
"What kind of detective are you?" Joe was incredulous.
"I'm the best detective there is, sonny boy." Sims's eyes flash
ed with anger and his cheeks turned a dark red. "I do my job. I was hired to bring Conway in. And I don't know anything about a murder charge here. Got that?" Sims grabbed his rumpled hat. "I just stopped in to say goodbye to Fenton and pay him for his services."
"Where is Dad?" Frank asked, hoping to slow Sims down.
"Don't know. 'Bye." Sims grabbed Biker's arm and tried to pull him from the chair. Biker groaned. Joe pushed Sims aside. Both squared off.
"Move off, buddy boy," Sims growled at Joe.
Frank was about to help Joe when the phone rang. He grabbed the receiver, keeping an eye on the other two.
"Hello," he said.
"Frank!" It was Callie, her voice high and shaky.
Frank was about to ask Callie what was wrong when he heard scuffling noises in the background—and then the unmistakable voice of Fat Harold.
"Is this Frank Hardy of Acme Speedy Delivery?" Fat Harold wheezed into the phone.
"What do you want?"
From the dark scowl on Frank's face, Joe knew something was wrong. He forgot about Sims and stood next to his older brother. Frank punched the speaker phone so Joe could hear. "I've got two special delivery packages for you. They're extremely fragile. One is Callie Shaw, the other is Sue Murphy."
"Let them go," Frank ordered.
"Oh, I'll let them go," Fat Harold replied. "But how I let them go depends on you."
"What do you mean by that?" Frank asked.
"We're at a junkyard just outside of Bayport. And Rock — you remember Rock, don't you, Frank? — he's always wanted to play with one of those car crushers. Right now he's got Miss Shaw and Miss Murphy in the front seat of a rusty old Ford. He's just dying to push the button that will turn the car into one cubic foot of metal."
"No!" Frank yelled.
"I knew you'd want these special packages." Fat Harold paused and breathed in deeply. "I want one of three things—the two hundred and fifty grand that Biker Conway owes me, the watches he stole, or Conway himself."
"Where? When?"
"Bruce's Paradise Salvage. Know where it is?"
"Yes."
"Thirty minutes, or Rock pushes the button. It's a fair trade, Frank. You get two, while I only get one."
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