Foul Play

by Franklin W. Dixon

  I grinned. This was kinda fun. It actually would be a good prank for Miller State to pull.

  When I got inside, the locker room was full of players suiting up. John Roque was in the coach’s office, but he hadn’t gotten started on uploading the new and improved playbook. He was busy watching Coach Orman fight with Ken. All I had to do was wait.

  “Mission accomplished?” Joe murmured, coming up behind me.

  “Yup, we’re all set,” I said.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Coach’s voice sounded furious. He’d been arguing with Ken, but now he started yelling. Everyone in the locker room stopped to listen—and to watch through the big windows in the office.

  “Here we go,” said my brother, worried.

  “Hey, Hardy, what’s the deal?” Flynner asked Joe. The quarterback never even seemed to notice me.

  “Ken can’t play on Saturday,” explained Joe. “He’s telling Coach now.”

  “… should bench you for the entire next season for this stunt!” Coach yelled.

  Ken answered him, but his voice was too quiet to hear.

  “Get out!” Coach pointed to the door. “Don’t even bother coming to practice today.”

  “Wow. Looks like Ken is really out,” Flynner said. He ruffled Joe’s hair as if he were a five-year-old kid. “Nice.”

  “Hardy!” Coach bellowed. “Get in here!”

  “I’m guessing he means me,” Joe said. “Wish me luck.” He headed for the office, dread on his face.

  “Both Hardys!” added Coach.

  Uh-oh. I followed my brother.

  Coach was red-faced and angry, but his voice had gone down a decibel. “Roque, give us a minute,” he said. John Roque shot me a questioning look, then went out and closed the door behind him.

  “I thought you clowns were supposed to stop this team from self-destructing,” Coach said angrily. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “But you never thought the players were really planning to throw the game,” I pointed out.

  “That was before my star kicker suddenly decided to skip the most important game of the year,” Coach growled. “You listen, and you listen good. If there is anything—anything—going on with this team, I want you to find it. Now. I will not have my perfect season ruined just because you two are the most useless undercover agents ever.”

  “We’re not the ones who are planning to—,” Joe began.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” snapped Coach. “You better not be thinking about anything but kicking, just in case I have to play you on Saturday. And you—” He stabbed a finger at me. “You better make sure I don’t have to play him on Saturday. Find out what’s happening. And put an end to it. That’s why you’re here.”

  Coach yanked open the door and yelled into the locker room. “Get on the field! Twenty laps!”

  Joe shot me a panicked look, then took off with the rest of the players. Coach stomped after them, along with his two assistant coaches.

  “What was that all about?” John Roque asked, coming back into the office.

  “Yeah, how come Coach wanted you?” said Manzi from behind him.

  “My brother has to start on Saturday. Coach wants me to make sure he’s psyched up for it,” I lied. “He’s worried because Joe is so green.”

  “I can’t believe your brother is gonna get to play.” Manzi shook his head as he headed over to the Gatorade cart. It was his turn to bring it out to the field for practice. “Some guys have all the luck.”

  “It is pretty fantastic.” Roque plopped himself down at Coach’s desk and plugged his Sidekick into the computer. I could tell he didn’t care at all about whether Joe got to play. Manzi had sounded jealous. Roque just sounded bored. The dude seriously didn’t care about football.

  Suddenly the walkie-talkie on Coach’s desk crackled to life. “Roque! On the field, stat!” the coach’s voice demanded.

  Roque jumped in surprise. Coach almost never needed us during practice. As long as one manager was out there to take care of things, the other two were supposed to handle the inside duties. Roque grabbed the walkie-talkie. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Some Miller State joker messed with the scoreboard. Get out here and fix it—now.” Coach sounded like he couldn’t believe his bad day.

  I stifled a smile. “The scoreboard?”

  Roque was already walking toward the door. “It’s easy to rig if you know anything about computers,” he said. “I’ll be back in ten.”

  The instant he was gone, I turned to the desk. Sure enough, Roque’s Sidekick was sitting there, still hooked to Coach’s CPU. Finally we were catching a break in our investigation. I stopped the upload of the playbook, then I used the computer’s keyboard and monitor to call up the directory for Roque’s Sidekick. First I checked to see what kinds of software he had on the thing.

  It was pretty tricked out. He had a ton of games, some that looked as if he’d written them himself. And he had the usual media storage programs for music and video. Tucked away in the middle of the list was an icon I didn’t recognize, a big cartoon mouth. I clicked on it and opened the properties menu.

  It was an audio program, and it seemed to modify the PDA’s speakerphone. According to the menu, the application was called Voice. Under the “Author” category, it just said “Custom.” I whistled. Roque certainly did a lot of programming on his own. He was a pretty serious computer geek. I opened the application, then dialed my own cell number. When my phone picked up, I spoke into the microphone of Roque’s Sidekick.

  I almost dropped both phones when I heard my voice on the other end.

  It sounded flat, and deep, and strange.

  It sounded like the voice I had heard on Anthony’s voice mail message. The one from his blackmailer.

  “Strike one for John Roque,” I said, hanging up.

  Next I opened up his document folder. I quickly scanned the files—the typical mix of e-mails, contact lists, and text message conversations. And one really big spreadsheet. I clicked on it, and it opened up on Coach’s monitor.

  At the top was a title: “Miller State vs. Pinnacle.” And in the columns were lists of names and numbers. There was no other information. But the numbers column had a header with a dollar sign on it. Between that and the title of the spreadsheet, it was pretty obvious. The names were people who had placed bets on the championship game. The numbers were the dollar amounts that they’d placed.

  John Roque was a bookie.

  He was in the business of gambling, taking the money of everybody who placed a bet with him and lost.

  “Strike two, illegal gambling,” I said out loud. Betting on college football was against the law in this state. “And strike three, conflict of interest.” Roque was an official member of the Pinnacle Mountain Lions team, just like I was. He had insider information. Placing bets on the team, or against them, was basically like insider trading.

  “Gotcha,” I told the computer screen. I’d found our mastermind. I quickly stuck a memory card into Roque’s Sidekick and copied the file. Just before I closed it, I scrolled down the massive list of names. He had a ton of clients. Obviously he’d been doing this bookie thing for a long time. The bets were mostly for a decent amount, with a few in the hundreds and most in the thousands.

  And one for $250,000.

  Wait, I thought. That can’t be right. Who would risk that kind of money on a football game?

  I ran my finger across the screen until I got to the names column.

  Dr. Fred Roque.

  My mouth dropped open. Dr. Roque was putting a huge amount of dough on the game. Dr. Roque, who had been trying all year to get Coach Orman fired. Dr. Roque, who had inside knowledge of the team through his son.

  What better way to get rid of the coach than to make it look as if he’d choked in the most important game of the year?

  Everyone in town, everyone on campus, practically everyone in the whole state had an interest in this game. If Pinnacle lost, the boosters would be crushe
d. They’d be angry. They’d want someone to blame. And the easiest person to blame was Coach Orman.

  Dr. Roque’s an ex-football player, so he has a lot of friends in the NFL, I thought. The pieces were all coming together. He can pull strings to get Flynner his top draft slot. And he’s got the money to buy off Marco. And he knows that Anthony’s parents took a bribe, because he was the one who bribed them!

  Still, it was an expensive way to get rid of Coach Orman.

  Dr. Roque must really hate the guy, like Anthony said, I thought. But it doesn’t hurt that he knows the team is going to lose, so he feels safe betting against them. With $250,000 down, he’d probably end up making a huge amount of money on the deal even after paying off his crooked players.

  I heard the locker room door open. Lightning fast, I yanked my memory card out of Roque’s PDA and closed the file. Behind it, the playbook was still up on the monitor. I hit the button to resume upload, then I sprinted for the door.

  Roque came around the last row of lockers to find me wiping down the bench.

  “Did you fix the scoreboard?” I asked.

  “Of course. Nothing to it.” He grinned. “How’s it going here?” “Better than ever,” I said. And I meant it.

  13.

  Fumble!

  “My feet hurt,” I complained on Friday morning.

  “I know.” Frank’s voice came through the speaker in my motorcycle helmet. “You’ve said that five times already.”

  I pulled my bike up next to his as we rode along the two-lane mountain road. “My legs hurt too,” I added. “And my back. Even my butt hurts.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you,” my loving big brother replied. “You’re getting to kick field goals in a famous college stadium with one of the best college football teams around.”

  “They’re not real field goals, they’re just practice,” I said. “And I missed ninety percent of them. The whole team hates me.”

  “Look at it this way, they hate Ken more for being so superstitious that he won’t play,” Frank pointed out. “And Flynner, Marco, and Anthony are totally on your side. If you were really planning to help lose the game, you wouldn’t even have to try!”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Besides, Anthony hates me more than ever. He really doesn’t want to throw the game. I think he hates all three of us for doing it on purpose. And Marco had another freak-out after practice yesterday. He’s worried he’s gonna look so bad that all the professional scouts will write him off.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s almost over,” Frank told me. “As soon as we’re done with Dr. Roque, you’ll give Ken back his sweatband and the rest of the team will forget about the whole thing. Anthony will be off the hook, and so will Marco, as long as he didn’t take any money yet.”

  “Yeah, but Flynner’s the best quarterback in the league. There’s no way he’ll be allowed to play—he’s been actively recruiting teammates to engage in illegal activity.”

  “True,” said Frank. “But Luis is a great backup quarterback. The Mountain Lions could still pull it off. As long as they don’t have to rely on you.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “You know, my feet really hurt.”

  “Here’s the turn.” Frank leaned to the right, easing his motorcycle onto a small, winding road. Well, it looked like a road. But it was really a driveway—a half-mile-long driveway leading through Dr. Roque’s land and right up to his humongous mansion.

  We parked our bikes and checked the place out. Frank let out a low whistle.

  “Maybe we should go into orthopedic surgery,” I said.

  “To get this kind of money, you have to have the professional football career first,” Frank told me. “Even though Dr. Roque only played for five years before he broke his ankle, he made millions.”

  “Okay. I’ll put that on my list of things to do,” I joked. “Become NFL superstar. But not as a kicker.”

  Frank walked up the marble steps to the big front door. He rang the bell.

  After a minute, the door opened, and there stood Fred Roque.

  “Oh, Dr. Roque,” I said, surprised. “I, um, I didn’t expect you to answer the door yourself.”

  The huge guy chuckled. “I suppose I could hire somebody to do it. Just never occurred to me.” He looked us up and down, smiling the whole time. “What can I do for you boys? Nice bikes,” he added, glancing over our shoulders.

  “Thanks,” said Frank. “Zero to a hundred in three seconds.”

  “No way.” Dr. Roque sounded impressed. And friendly. And cool.

  We’re here to bring this loser down, I reminded myself.

  “I’m Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank,” I said. “We’re on the football team at Pinnacle.”

  Dr. Roque’s eyebrows knitted together. “You are? I don’t recognize you. I know everyone on the team.”

  “We’re new,” Frank explained. “Brand-new. I’m a manager and Joe is the relief kicker.”

  Dr. Roque’s eyes bored into me. “Is it true what I hear about Ken bailing out of the game tomorrow?” he demanded.

  “Did John tell you about that?” I asked.

  “John? No.” Dr. Roque looked confused. “I spoke to McWilliams, the offensive coordinator. We’re golf buddies. He keeps me informed.”

  I glanced at Frank. He shrugged.

  “Yeah, it’s true,” I told Dr. Roque. “I made sure Ken wouldn’t play tomorrow. Just like Flynner wanted me to.”

  “Huh?” he asked.

  “I’m one of your boys, Dr. Roque,” I said.

  He stared at me for a second, then at Frank. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. “Okay, I give up. What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe we should come inside,” suggested Frank.

  “Sure.” Dr. Roque opened the door wider, and we stepped into a massive, two-story-high atrium. “We can talk in my study.” He led us across the big entryway and into a smaller, wood-paneled room off to the right. Football trophies lined the shelves next to the fireplace, and framed photos of the doctor with all kinds of famous football players hung on the walls.

  Dr. Roque took a seat behind a supersized desk, and Frank and I sat in the two leather chairs across from him.

  “All right now, Joe and Frank Hardy, tell me what you’re talking about,” Dr. Roque said. “Ken is refusing to kick, and you say it’s your fault?” He frowned at me.

  “Flynner told me that I couldn’t join up unless I proved my loyalty. He wanted me to get rid of Ken, and I did. That way, I can play—badly—in the game tomorrow. And now you know that I’m no snitch.”

  Dr. Roque’s mouth hung open. I had to hand it to the guy, he wasn’t giving up easily. “Flynner … but why would you want to play badly?” he finally asked.

  “To make the team lose. You’re not gonna get your money otherwise,” Frank said. “I saw your name on the list. You bet a quarter of a million dollars on this game.”

  That did it. Dr. Roque’s face crumbled. “Oh, no. Are you cops?”

  “We’re part of an agency that works with the police,” I said. “We could bring you down just for placing that bet. Gambling is illegal—”

  “I know!” he wailed. “I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry. I knew it was wrong, and I’ve never done it before, you have to believe me.”

  Frank shot me a surprised look. Neither one of us was expecting the guy to go all apologetic like this. Criminals usually don’t say they’re sorry.

  “I feel like such a hypocrite. I hate gambling! I do everything I can to fight it,” Dr. Roque said miserably. “It’s just that these guys at the club were talking last week, saying they’d heard the Mountain Lions were going to lose. Like it was an inside tip they had. I couldn’t help myself. I had to stand up for my team. And then one thing led to another, and my pal from the club knew a bookie … and he dared me to put my money where my mouth was….”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you telling us that you bet on the Mountain Lions? You bet that we would win?”


  Dr. Roque blinked in surprise. “Yes. Of course.”

  “So you’ll lose money if we lose,” I stated.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Frank put in. “If the team wins, you won’t be able to get Coach Orman fired.”

  “Well, maybe not,” said Dr. Roque. “I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

  “We know you’ve been trying to get rid of him,” I said.

  “I have,” he admitted. “Orman and I go way back. We played on the same team in college. I didn’t like him then, and I don’t like him now. I’ve registered my complaints with the Pinnacle board. Apart from that, there’s nothing I can do.”

  My head was spinning. Frank looked as confused as I felt.

  “So you bet on the team to win. And did you say that you don’t even know the bookie?” Frank asked.

  Dr. Roque shook his head. “I just called a number and got an electronic voice. Why? Is that who you’re looking for, the bookie?”

  “We’re looking for the mastermind behind the plan to throw the game,” I said. “And you were the one with the best motive. Or so we thought.”

  “Throw the game? As in, lose on purpose? The Mountain Lions?” All the color drained from Dr. Roque’s face. “And Flynner is in on it, is that what you’re saying?”

  He didn’t even seem to realize that we were accusing him of something. The guy was wigging out about the idea of losing.

  “I knew that kid was no good.” Dr. Roque slammed a beefy fist on his desk. “Who knows about this? How are we going to stop it? Wait, didn’t you tell me you’re in on it?”

  This guy was big. Really big. Even though he’d been a quarterback, he was the size of a linebacker. I didn’t want him going against me. “I’m pretending to be in on it,” I said quickly. “Until we find out who’s running the whole thing.”

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  Frank and I looked at each other helplessly. “We’re on it, Dr. Roque,” my brother said. “We always accomplish our mission.”

  He sounded way more confident than I felt. How were we supposed to accomplish anything when our top suspect had turned out to be innocent?

  We didn’t have our guy.