Nightmare in Angel City

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "I'm sorry. I really should have told you where I was going, Frank," she said.

  "It's okay," Frank replied. They reached for each other's hands.

  "Let's get out of here and do something," Joe said.

  "Yeah, let's stop by the campus," Callie said. "There's something there I want to look at."

  They left the motel and walked to the corner to wait for a bus. Joe looked around, watching for the smallest sign they were being followed, while Frank dug into his pocket.

  "Recognize this man?" Frank asked Callie. He showed her the photograph from Patch's file box. It was the tall man with the long hair.

  Callie shook her head. "Should I?"

  Frank sighed with disappointment. "I thought he might be your friend Patch."

  "Patch is not my friend, and he doesn't look all like that," Callie said. "Why?"

  The bus appeared, and they climbed on, taking the seats next to the back door. Frank caugh Callie up on what they had discovered on the beach. Joe didn't like giving Callie any more information than they had to, but he knew there wasn't much he could do about it. Like it or not, Callie was involved.

  Quickly, Callie gave the Hardys the story of her meeting with Patch at the mall—toning down the violence considerably though. "And look what he had with him — this," she concluded, dramatically pulling the black videotape from her bag.

  Frank's and Joe's eyes widened in surprise. "Why didn't you tell us you'd gotten it back?" Frank said angrily. "You've been holding out, Callie."

  "No, I haven't. This isn't even the right tape. I stashed the one with Patch and the policeman at the UCLA tape lab yesterday, after I talked to you."

  "Then why were you upset when this was stolen?"

  Callie smiled. "This tape was worthless to Patch, but it was vital to me. I'd switched the real tape for this one at the lab. The only way I can get the right tape is to bring this one back and switch again, before the tape librarian notices that this one's missing and contacts the last person who checked it out — me."

  Joe frowned. "Pretty complicated."

  "Yeah, but so's this case," Frank said. "Let's see what we've got so far. Okay?" Callie and Joe nodded.

  "Okay, we've got a policeman handing a briefcase to a bum, then trying to kill him. What does that suggest?"

  "Patch was, or is, blackmailing the policeman," Joe said. "The cop wants him out of the way."

  "Right. And both of them want anyone who can put them together, like Callie, gone. So neither of them wants to risk exposure. Patch has a collection of newspaper articles about a robbery, and has a collection of photos of a dead man known to have been involved in the robbery."

  "So Patch and the robbery must somehow be connected," Callie concluded. The bus lurched to a stop across from the gate to UCLA. "Here's our stop."

  They piled off the bus and crossed the street, heading onto campus.

  "Let's head for the video lab," Frank said. "I want to have a look at that tape."

  "All right, but I've looked," Callie replied. "I've looked and looked, and there's nothing on it that gives us any more information."

  "You're missing something," Frank insisted. "You must be."

  Within minutes they reached the video lab. But as they pushed through the door, Callie's face dropped. Every seat in the room was taken. "It's full," she said. "We'll have to come back later."

  Frank nodded. "Okay. In the meantime, I'd like to take another look at those newspaper clippings. I couldn't see them too well last night."

  "But we left them back at the beach," Joe said. "So Patch wouldn't notice them missing."

  Frank turned to Callie. "They were from a Philadelphia newspaper, September or so, ten years ago. Is there a library around here?"

  "This is UCLA," Callie replied. "It has one of the best libraries in the country." They left the video lab and strolled back out onto the private street that ran the length of the campus.

  "Good," Frank said. "I'd like all the background we can get."

  They had to wait half an hour before a projector became available, and Frank, Joe, and Callie crowded into a cramped booth to watch the tiny screen. Callie brought two rolls of microfilm, each with a month's worth of newspapers photographed on them. She slipped them into the projector.

  Joe rolled the film to the date Frank had read on Patch's clippings. "Here it is," he said. "Headline stuff. Pretty much what you said, two guys knock over an armored car and take off."

  "Anything about who they were?"

  "Not yet." He rolled the film ahead to the next day. "Here's a little more. Details about how the cops spotted them as they took off through some drainage grates. No mention of names yet though."

  When he reached the newspaper for the third day after the robbery, Joe said, "Bingo. Seems the guard on the armored car picked Sam Moran out of the mug books."

  "But he died before they could catch him," Frank said. "And they never identified his partner?"

  Joe scanned through the next week's stories. "Nope. No partner, no money. We've got nothing more than before." Suddenly he froze, and adjusted the focus on the projector. "Here's something. Wait."

  "What is it?" said Callie.

  "Uh - huh, uh - huh," Joe mumbled, reading the story. "You know they found Moran and he was burned to a crisp ... well, at least his face was."

  Frank nodded.

  "Seems they found enough I.D. to identify him," Joe said. "Maybe dental records. And he had some money on him that was burned too. But it was definitely identified as part of the heist. The cops figured he was rigging some sort of bomb and it went off in his face."

  Frank sat back and rubbed his neck. "Interesting. Our Mr. Moran was an expert in explosives. Odd sideline for a heist man."

  "Read his specialty," Joe said.

  "Well, well," Frank replied, peering at the screen. "Molotov cocktails. Like the one that almost fried Emma's house."

  "What?" cried Callie, outraged. "You never told me about that. What else have you been keeping from me?"

  The Hardys looked at her in sheepish silence. "Nothing," Frank said. "Have you called her yet?"

  "Yeah, this morning, I let her know I was all right," Callie answered. "Let me see this." She gently pushed Frank's shoulders down so she could stare at the screen.

  Callie screamed and clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. "That man," she said, pointing at the screen. "That man."

  Frank and Joe looked at the photograph that went with the story. "Don't worry about him," Frank assured her. "That's Sam Moran. He's the one who died."

  "That's not Sam Moran," Callie gasped. "At least, not anymore. And he's not dead."

  She stared at the picture.

  "His name is Patch."

  Chapter 10

  "YOU'RE SURE?" FRANK asked. "The picture's ten years old. Look at it again and take your time."

  "I don't have to look," she answered. "I saw him last night. That's him. Don't you see? Moran kills someone and burns the body. Then he fixes the dental records somehow and leaves the poor guy to be taken for him. That's what he meant when he said he'd killed before."

  "It doesn't fit," said Frank. "Patch doesn't have any money or he wouldn't be living the way he does. So where'd the two million dollars go?" He leaned his head back and gaped at Callie. "What did you mean a minute ago? Did he try to kill you?"

  Callie nodded guiltily.

  "You should have told me!"

  "You didn't tell me about someone firebomb-ing Aunt Emma's house. It's the same thing."

  "It's not," Frank insisted.

  "Stop it!" Joe said. "From now on, everyone tells everyone everything, okay?" He checked his watch. "I think we've got all we can get here. How about trying the video room again?"

  "All right," Callie said, and stormed out of the booth. Frank stomped silently after her, his shoulders hunched and hands rammed into his pockets. Slipping the microfilm off the projector, Joe shrugged his shoulders and muttered to himself, "Young love."

>   Much larger than the cramped micro film cubicles in the library, the video booth was carpeted and soundproofed, with a large television and a videocassette player attached to a moving cart. In a semicircle around the cart were a few padded gray chairs. Frank was sitting in one and tapping his foot impatiently.

  "Where is she?" he asked, looking over his shoulder and through the opening into the video lab. He found Callie standing at a large desk, speaking to a middle-aged woman in glasses.

  "Oh, she's all right," said Joe. Stretching his legs, he slouched in the chair next to Frank.

  "Here she comes."

  Callie entered, carrying a videocassette, and slammed the door behind her. "They didn't want me to check it out, do you believe it? A school videotape. I wonder if they suspected anything." She opened the black case in her hand, took out the cassette, and slipped it into the video player.. Glancing furtively around to make sure no one outside the room was watching her, she drew the other cassette from her purse and slipped it into the case.

  "Well, they've got their precious tape back," she said, picking up a remote control and plopping down in the chair next to Joe's. Her thumb jammed the button marked play. "This set's equipped with a special-effects generator, so if you want to do anything fancy, let me know." There was an edge in her voice that made Joe uneasy.

  The tape began rolling. "So that's Patch,, huh?" Frank said as a shabby man crept onto the screen. All around was empty beach. Patch's head popped up suddenly, as if someone had called his name.

  "Callie's right," said Joe. "That's Moran. Wonder what happened to his eye?"

  The policeman stepped into view, wearing his dark aviator sunglasses. In his hand was a pigskin briefcase edged in chrome. Patch poked greedy fingers at it.

  "I wish you had gotten sound," Frank said.

  "Sorry it wasn't a good enough job for the great detective," Callie replied coolly. "The noise of the surf blotted out everything."

  "Can we get close-ups out of this thing?" Joe suggested. "If we can, maybe we can read their lips."

  Frank shook his head. "They're moving around too much. We'd get only a bit of it at most, and then there's no way of knowing if we're right. Not worth the effort.

  "Hold it!" Frank ordered, and Callie hit the freeze-frame button. Patch had opened the briefcase, and the policeman had drawn his gun, and now the policeman faced the camera, frozen in mid movement.

  Frank slapped his forehead. "I should have realized this on the beach. I knew when we were fighting that something about that guy didn't jibe."

  Joe and Callie stared at him. "What do you mean?" Joe asked.

  "Look." Frank walked to the television and ran his finger across the bottom of the screen. "He's wearing sneakers with a regulation police uniform. Whoever he is, he's not on duty. Maybe he's not a cop at all."

  "Then where did he get the uniform?" asked Callie. "Costume shops don't rent police uniforms — it's against the law. And to get one from a uniform store you have to prove you're a cop." She paused. "He could be a cop with bad feet."

  Frank sank back in his chair and scowled.

  "Don't sulk," Callie scolded.

  "Bring his face in tight, Callie," Joe said. She pressed another button, and the policeman's face filled the screen. "Good. Frank, give me that picture you lifted from Patch." Frank dug the photo out and handed it to Joe, who patted his own pocket. "Anyone got a pen or pencil?"

  Callie handed him a pen, and for a few seconds Joe scrawled on the photograph. He handed the pen back to Callie and pressed the photo against the screen.

  "Back it up so the heads on the screen and in the picture are the same size, and come up here," he demanded.

  Puzzled, Frank and Callie stepped up for a look. The photograph, now with a mustache and a pair of sunglasses drawn on the mystery man's face, was identical to the video image of the policeman, except for the long wavy hair. Frank groaned in disbelief.

  "It was in front of us all the time," he said. "How could we have missed it?"

  "You mean—?" Callie began.

  "Right," Joe replied. "The cop is really the other thief. That puts our blackmail theory back in business."

  Excited, Frank paced back and forth, thinking out loud. "Of course. Now it's starting to make sense. Moran — Patch — gets rooked out of his Share of the money. He runs into his old partner out here and tries to force him to hand over the money."

  "It's sketchy," Joe said. "But it's a start."

  "And I've seen both of them," Callie said with a shudder. "That explains why neither wants me alive. Both could go to jail."

  The Hardys stood outside the video room as Callie returned the black case, with the original videocassette inside, to the desk. As they reached the door of the video lab, an Oriental woman in her late thirties entered and smiled at them. "Hello, Callie."

  Smiling back, Callie stopped and said, "Hi, Ms. Ki." She gestured to the Hardys. "These are friends of mine from out of town, Frank and Joe." To them she said, "This is Ms. Ki. She's in charge of my program."

  Ms. Ki held out her hand, and in turn the Hardys shook it. "My pleasure," she said. "Callie, what did you do at Meteoric yesterday morning? The studio called up after the field trip to ask about you—where you lived and all. The man said they were thinking of offering you a screen test!"

  "Screen test?"

  "Have you heard from them yet? I told them you're interested in journalism, not acting, but they wouldn't listen to me."

  "No," Callie said, still dazed. "But I haven't been home much. I'll check with my aunt — "

  "Well." Ms. Ki gave them another big smile. "Break a leg."

  "Thank you," Callie said. Ms. Ki went into the video lab, and Callie and the Hardys left the building.

  "Meteoric Studios?" Frank asked when they were outside.

  "We took a tour there yesterday. I had just been to the video lab and remembered the production class field trip . . ." Callie said, trailing off. All of a sudden her eyes widened. "It was later yesterday afternoon, after I witnessed Patch's meeting with the policeman and after the field trip, that the policeman showed up at school asking about me. And that was the last I thought about the field trip. Is it important?"

  Frank snapped his fingers, an intense look on his face. "Now I know what else about that cop was bothering me."

  "What?" Joe asked, excited.

  "His badge. It didn't have a number on it. We could go back and check on the videotape, but I'm sure — "

  "No need to do that," Joe said. "Now that you mention it, I remember too." He groaned. "How could we have missed that for so long?"

  "So what?" asked Callie. "I don't get it."

  "So the uniform must be a costume," Joe explained to her. "A real policeman would have removed his badge altogether if he didn't want to be identified. Better yet, he wouldn't wear a uniform at all."

  "But with a fake badge and no regulation shoes, chances are very good it's a costume," Frank continued. "And if what you say about it being illegal to rent a police uniform is true — "

  "Then he must have swiped it from a — a studio wardrobe—" said Callie.

  "Bingo!" said Frank. He and Joe beamed at her.

  Callie beamed back. "So, this bank robber works at Meteoric Studios and saw me there yesterday, after he saw me on the beach."

  "It's a long shot," Frank answered. "But it's the only solution that makes any sense. The 'studio' did call your professor to find out about you."

  As they turned the corner of the building, their thoughts were broken by an engine revving to life. A car on a blocked-off street? Callie wondered for a second. Suddenly a van squealed into motion, racing right toward them.

  "This way," Joe shouted, ducking into an alley. As the van zoomed closer, Frank grabbed Callie and pulled her into the alley too. "Don't!" « yelled Joe. "It's a dead end. Get out!"

  As if the driver had heard them, the van wheeled around and careened into the alley.

  Joe reached the dead end and pressed in vain
against the wall. "No good," he yelled. "Solid brick."

  His words were drowned out by the roar of the engine as the huge van bore down on them.

  Chapter 11

  "FRANK," CALLIE SCREAMED. "What are we going to do?"

  Frank barely heard her. "We'll flatten ourselves against the side wall, you go under," he yelled to Joe, keeping his eyes on the onrushing van. In the middle of the narrow alley, flush against the back wall, Joe began to tense.

  "Now!" Joe yelled. Frank slammed an arm across Callie, flattening himself on top of her against the wall. Joe fell to the ground, directly in the path of the van. He pulled his arms in tight to his body to avoid the spinning tires and rolled safely under the center of the van.

  The van just brushed against Frank and Callie and smashed into the back wall. From inside the van came the wail of a car horn. It didn't stop.

  "Joe!" Frank called. Although the van had missed them, the crackup had them pinned in the corner. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine," came Joe's voice from under the van. "Get the driver."

  "We can't," Callie shouted. "No room to open the door." The driver ducked his head and covered his face with his hand. His head down, he stumbled through the van and out the back door.

  "Got him," Joe said. His hand snaked out from under the van's rear bumper and caught the driver's ankle as he hit the ground. But the driver didn't trip. His other heel ground down on Joe's wrist, and Joe splayed his fingers in pain, releasing the man's leg.

  In a flash the driver sprinted to the end of the alley and vanished.

  Joe crawled out from under the van, wincing and massaging the pain from his hand. "Hold on," he told Frank and Callie as he climbed in the back of the van. Then he was in the driver's seat and closed the driver's door.

  "Can you get us out?" Frank asked.

  Joe looked at the dashboard. There were no keys in the ignition, but two colored wires dangled from the steering column. "Just a minute. I think it was hot-wired."

  "Stolen?" Callie said.

  "Probably," Joe said. "Most people don't use their own cars to run other people down." He leaned over, grabbed the two wires, and touched the exposed ends together. The van rumbled to life. Joe shifted to reverse.