"One good note," Frank said.
"What's that?" Joe grunted.
"We're not charged with arson or murder."
"How do you know that?"
"Would Cronkite be releasing us and the van if he really believed we were guilty of murder."
"No," Joe agreed.
"I rest my case."
"Well, you two are living proof that good looks and brains don't necessarily go together."
Frank and Joe spun around. Emmy stood at the opposite end of the corridor, two large manila envelopes in her hands.
Emmy strolled up to the cell. "Here." She pushed the manila envelopes through the bars. One was marked Frank Hardy, the other Joe Hardy.
"How'd you get our stuff?" Joe asked.
"I pulled in a lot of favors to get you two out of here," Emmy announced. She walked over to the steel door and pressed a button.
The cell lock clicked, and Frank pushed open the door. He and Joe headed for the steel door.
"Other way, guys," Emmy said, pointing behind them. "I don't think you want to run into Cronkite right now. He doesn't know you're getting out this early."
"Where's the tape?" Frank asked.
"It's on Cronkite's desk," Emmy explained. "I couldn't palm it with him sitting there."
"That tape is the only clue we have to Chet's location." Frank wadded his empty envelope and tossed it away.
"Sorry," Emmy said softly.
They followed Emmy through a series of hallways and then out a back door.
"Fresh air and sunshine." Joe breathed in deeply.
"You guys really need a bath," Emmy said, wrinkling up her nose.
"No time," Frank said as he adjusted his watch band. "We've got to get to Paradise Salvage."
"I know," Emmy said. "I heard Cronkite ranting and raving about your theory in the squad room. I tend to agree with him. The phone bills are not evidence that Chet is at Paradise Salvage. It does help my theory, however, that Smith was moving stolen parts through Max's place. Probably sending orders over that computer hotline."
"We've got to check out Paradise Salvage," Joe said.
"Yes," Emmy replied.
They walked on in silence for a few moments.
"Hey, where are we?" Joe suddenly asked.
Emmy had led the Hardys several blocks from the police station to a large fenced-in parking lot. Dozens of cars, motorcycles, trucks, and other vehicles filled the area. A sign identified the place as the Southport P.D. Impound Complex.
"Your van won't be released for a couple more hours," Emmy said. "I thought perhaps you might need something from it."
"How are we going to raid Paradise Salvage without the van?" Joe asked, disappointment in his voice.
"We'll use my wheels," Emmy replied as she walked toward a small building. "I'll meet you two out front."
"Man, look at this damage," Joe groaned as they walked up to the van.
The van's armored siding had kept the shotgun blasts from piercing the van's shell but had left several sizable dents. Paint was blown away to reveal quarter-inch deep steel dimples.
While Joe inspected the damage, Frank grabbed a small tool box and another set of dark clothes. Then he and Joe walked to the front gate.
A low rumble caused Frank and Joe to turn. They were stunned by the sight of Emmy's car. A long, low, two-door, black-and-pink 1955 Buick pulled up beside the pair.
"Hop in," she yelled over the engine roar.
Frank recognized it as the restored Buick in the photos. He opened the passenger door, pulled up the seat, and offered the backseat to Joe. Joe raised an eyebrow and reluctantly crawled in back.
Emmy peeled away from the curb.
"Does this dinosaur have a radio?" Joe asked.
"Sure," Emmy said, laughing. She flipped on the radio. A minute later, Buddy Holly belted out the driving rhythm of "Peggy Sue" through squeaky old speakers.
"Don't you have any newer tunes?" Joe asked over the speakers and the engine. "Say from this century."
"Sorry, Joe," Emmy replied. "This radio refuses to play anything other than fifties classics."
"Why are you doing all this for us?" Frank asked.
Emmy didn't answer for several moments. Then she said calmly, "I need your help. If we don't work together on this, you may never see your friend again, and I'll never bring my father's killer to justice."
The word justice hissed through Emmy's teeth like a snake ready to strike. She may have said justice, but the tone said revenge.
A chill raced down Frank's spine. Emmy was willing to sacrifice everything to find her father's killer - maybe even Chet.
"We should be at AutoHaus Emporium when the kidnapper calls at three," Frank suggested. He glanced at his watch. "It's one-thirty now. Meet us back at the motel room in an hour."
"Sounds good to me," Emmy replied.
***
Over an hour later, Emmy and the black-and-pink classic pulled up in front of the motel. Frank once again offered Joe the backseat.
"What took you so long?" Joe asked as Emmy peeled away from the motel.
"I stopped at the station and got a copy of the tape. Fortunately, Cronkite was out of the office." Emmy pulled out the tape and gave it to Frank.
"Thanks," Frank said.
Ten minutes later they strolled through the showroom of AutoHaus Emporium. They found Uncle Ed in his spacious office, his head in his hands. He jerked up as they entered the room, his eyes red and puffy, his face twisted in grief and worry.
"He just called," Uncle Ed gasped.
"Did you record it?" Joe asked.
"No. Somehow he found out about the answering machine. He threatened to kill Chet if I didn't shut off the tape."
Frank shot Emmy a knowing look. Cronkite had to be the mole in the police department.
"What did he say?" Frank asked.
"He wants the one hundred thousand dollars tonight - midnight - or he'll kill Chet." Uncle Ed sobbed. Then he rose and started out of the office. "I've got to get to the bank."
Joe grabbed the shaken man. "Did he say anything else? Where you could find Chet?"
Uncle Ed breathed deeply. "No. I just begged him not to hurt Chet. He only laughed and said his partner was meditating on it. Please! I've got to save Chet." Uncle Ed twisted away from Joe and stomped out of the office.
Frank jumped up and shouted, "That's it!"
Emmy and Joe were startled.
Frank dashed behind the desk and flipped on the power to Uncle Ed's stereo. Classical music erupted from the speakers.
"What are you doing?" Joe couldn't believe that Frank wanted to listen to music at a time like this.
"Something about that first phone call has been bugging me." He shoved the cassette into the tape player. "What did Uncle Ed just say? That the kidnapper's partner was meditating about killing Chet. Who do we know that meditates?"
"Max," Emmy replied quickly.
Frank punched the play button and cranked up the volume. The speakers squealed.
"Frank!" Emmy yelled over the wail, her hands over her ears.
"Are you crazy?" Joe shouted.
The voices on the tape were a distorted jumble of booms and tweets. The hissing of static from the phone line sounded like rushing water. The pictures on the walls vibrated.
"Frank, please!" Emmy pleaded.
"Ssh!"
Frank turned down the bass to lower the voices and keep the speakers from humming. He adjusted the treble so the hissing and high tones weren't as distorted. He closed his eyes, his mind and ears tuned in on the sound that had bothered him for two days, the sound that hung in the background like a cloud in a fog.
The noise was faint, garbled, but distinctive - a steady, persistent humming and banging. A crushing sound.
"Hear it?" Frank asked.
"The crusher at Paradise Salvage!" Emmy yelled.
"Right!" Frank shut off the stereo.
An eerie silence filled the office.
"That med
itating remark and the sound of the crusher are all the proof I need," Joe said, rubbing his ears.
"Cronkite will want to hear this," Emmy said, beaming at Frank. She reached for the phone.
Joe clamped his hand on the receiver. "You're not calling Cronkite."
Emmy's green eyes fired bullets at Joe. "Why not?"
"Someone's followed every move we make, even sent two killers after us. Until we know who, we keep our plans to ourselves."
"Cronkite is not a bad cop. There's a mole in the department, but it's not Cronkite. You have my word on it."
"Not good enough," Joe said.
"Cronkite was the only one who had enough faith in me to put me on this investigation."
"Perhaps he only did that to keep an eye on you," Joe said.
"Why would he need to do that?"
"In case you got close to finding your father's killer," Joe answered.
"Why should that bother Cronkite?"
"It wouldn't. Unless he was the one who killed your father."
Emmy's face became blank, her eyes round and confused. Joe could tell that the thought that Cronkite had killed her father had never crossed her mind. He felt a twinge of sympathy for her.
Emmy gazed at Frank.
"If he's a part of the chop shop gang, he would have had to get your father out of the way," Frank explained. "You said yourself they were friends. I never knew your father, but wouldn't he have reported a bad cop to the authorities?"
Emmy shuddered. "Okay. It's just us then. I'll be here tonight with Uncle Ed. You two find your friend at Paradise Salvage. I'll draw you a map." She turned and left the office.
"I didn't mean to shake her up that way," Joe said.
"She hasn't gotten over her father's death," Frank replied. "Would you?"
A sudden wave of awareness washed over Joe. Frank didn't have to explain any further. Joe knew that if he and Frank made one mistake during the raid on Paradise Salvage, Chet would end up dead.
Chapter 15
Midnight.
Frank and Joe crouched outside the tall chain-link fence on a back section of Paradise Salvage. The full moon showed through a chilling gray mist, causing an uneasy restlessness to surge through the Hardys.
Frank held two heavy-duty dog chains in his left hand and two pounds of hamburger in his right. Emmy had given them a detailed map of the junkyard.
The plan was simple. Either Max or Smith would have to stay at the salvage yard while the other met with Uncle Ed at AutoHaus Emporium. Emmy would be hidden and ambush the kidnapper who showed up for the money; Frank and Joe would surprise the other at Paradise Salvage and rescue Chet.
Frank's only real concern was the two mastiffs, Peace and Love. He hoped they would respond when he gave the Take-it-easy command. If that worked, the hamburger would be a friendly gesture while he and Joe chained the dogs to a stack of cars.
Frank pressed the light button on his watch and nodded to Joe.
Joe began snipping at the chain-link fence with a pair of bolt cutters.
No sooner had they crawled through the opening in the fence, than Peace and Love came rushing toward them, growling furiously.
"Take it easy!" Frank commanded.
The dogs halted and tilted their heads from side to side in confusion. Then they seemed to recognize Frank and wagged their tails and sat.
"Good dogs," Joe said. He took one chain from Frank.
Frank divided the hamburger and tossed it to the dogs. Peace and Love gulped down the meat.
"Good dog, Peace," Frank said. He clipped the chain to the dog's studded collar. Joe did the same to Love. They ran the chains through a smashed grill and around a bumper.
Frank pointed the way, and the Hardys jogged toward the shack. They approached the shack from the back side. It was a small one-room structure located in the middle of the salvage yard. Emmy had said that Max used the shack for extra storage and not much else. It was the most likely place for Chet to be held.
Surrounding the shack were dozens of large wrinkled metal cubes, the remains of cars compressed to two-foot squares by the crusher. In the moonlight, they looked like large square metal prunes.
The shack was dark, quiet. The Hardys moved slowly around to the front, their eyes and ears focused and tuned into the sights and sounds of the night.
Joe slowly rose and peered in through a window. He squinted. Several moments passed before he realized the window was painted black.
Frank put his hand on the doorknob and slowly turned. He cringed as the rusted latch creaked. He took a deep breath before opening the door. He hoped that the door's hinges were oiled.
He pushed the door in. He sighed as the hinges remained silent.
Frank and Joe crept inside and stood on either side of the door, away from the moonlit opening.
Joe pulled his penlight from his pocket and clicked it on.
They gasped.
The beam had fallen directly on Chet. He lay unconscious against the wall across the room.
His nose, cheeks, and lips were swollen and bruised.
Frank and Joe started heading for their friend when a sudden burst of light blinded them. Dark spots seemed to be floating in the air before them.
"Welcome to your nightmare," a cold voice said.
Frank recognized it as the voice from the tape. He rubbed his eyes and blinked. The room came into focus as his pupils adjusted to the light. He could once again make out the form of his unconscious friend.
On either side of Chet stood the two assassins from Skyway Parking Garage, Blackie and Red, in gray suits and sunglasses.
Blackie's .45 was aimed at Chet's head. Red's sawed-off semiautomatic shotgun covered the Hardys.
Both Frank and Joe noticed that Red's left pant leg had a small hole, a dark stain surrounding it.
Emmy stood next to Red, her arms crossed in front of her. "Don't move," she ordered.
Frank was too stunned, too angry to speak. Betrayed!
Despite the odds against them, Joe made a move toward Blackie. He wanted to distract the gunman, get him to turn his weapon away from Chet.
Red swung the shotgun on Joe. "Listen to the little lady," he growled in the same voice he used on the tape. He nodded at the floor.
Joe looked down. He and Frank were standing in a thin pool of water. Two bare copper wires ran from the water and were plugged into an electrical wall outlet. Blackie's free hand rested on the switch above the outlet.
"Over there with your friends," Red snarled. Using the barrel of the shortened shotgun, he shoved Emmy toward Frank and Joe.
Emmy slipped as she stepped into the water. She broke her fall by putting her crossed hands on Frank's chest. Frank noticed that her hands were tied.
"Quite the gentleman, huh, Frank Hardy?" Red sneered. "I knew who you were when that chick cop brought you in here." Red's gloating smile spread the width of his face.
He pulled the red wig from his head, his long gray hair falling to his shoulders. He tossed it to the floor, followed by the sunglasses. Max Elburk's smile was venomous.
"You three were becoming real pains in the neck for my partner and me," Blackie said. He pulled off his black wig and sunglasses.
"Butch!" Joe cried out.
Frank questioned Emmy with his eyes.
"Butch was waiting for me when I arrived at AutoHaus," Emmy said.
"Cronkite in on this?" Frank asked.
"Cronkite?" Max laughed. "That loudmouth yahoo wouldn't know how to be dishonest."
"You're not getting away with this," Joe warned.
"Yeah. You expecting the marines to come and rescue you or something?" Max sneered. "I know you three are alone in this."
"How?" Emmy asked.
"You cops don't pay your dispatchers enough," Max explained, grinning.
"The mole is a dispatcher?" Frank asked, staring hard at Emmy.
"I left word with the dispatcher to contact Cronkite, in case something happened," Emmy explained.
"
Exactly," Max drawled. "You should have sold Butch the garage when you had the chance, Emmy," Max said. "You would have at least gotten some money out of it. Now it looks as though we'll pick up Royce's Garage at a bargain price."
"How's that?" Emmy asked, hate in her eyes.
"At the estate sale, after your sudden but tragic accident - just like your father's."
"Only the killer would know how my father died."
"Yeah. That's right," Max said, cackling.
"You're dead!" Emmy screamed.
She jumped at Max so quickly that Frank didn't have time to grab her and Max didn't have time to move. Emmy slammed into Max, knocking him against the wall. The shotgun fell to the floor.
Frank and Joe made a move for the shotgun.
"Don't move!" Smith shouted, his hand on the switch.
Emmy hit Max in the stomach with her tied fists, and he doubled over. She raised her hands above her head and was ready to strike down on Max's neck when the sudden roar of a gun being discharged into the roof filled the shack.
Smith then brought his .45 down and leveled it at Chet's head, cocking back the hammer. Smoke still streamed from the barrel.
"Back off or Morton's dead," Smith threatened through clenched teeth.
Emmy stared at Smith, then looked down at Max.
"Emmy," Frank said sternly.
Emmy turned toward Frank, her green eyes flashing. Her face twisted with rage and pain.
Frank was prepared to attack Emmy if she didn't back away from Max. He wasn't going to let her put his friend's life in jeopardy.
"You wouldn't be able to live with Chet's death," Frank said.
Emmy lowered her arms, walked over to Frank, and then stood beside him. Frank could tell she was fighting back tears.
Max picked up the shotgun and stood up. "Seems Emmy's the only brave one among you," he sneered, holding his stomach.
"Let's toast them now," Butch said with a grin.
"What about Chet?" Joe asked.
Max looked down at the unconscious Chet. "He doesn't know who we are or where he's been since Sunday. He's only seen us in these disguises. He's our insurance that good old Uncle Ed doesn't call the cops until we feel it's safe," Max replied. "You three, however, know who we are."
"I still say we get rid of Fat Boy now," Butch growled. He kicked Chet's feet. Chet groaned.
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