Frank's voice held a note of deep satisfaction. "I've just studied the film I shot last night. It looks good for my theory. I'd bet anything that somewhere along the way, Lightfoot's making a side trip. Even accounting for traffic snarls, his runs are longer than they need to be by about fifteen minutes."
"Right," Joe said, pulling out into the street. "Now all we have to do is catch him in the act."
"Roger," Frank said. "Stay tuned for further developments." Frank waited for a clear spot and eased the van into the morning traffic. He knew that following Lightfoot was going to be tough.
Below the dash, the computer screen glowed green as Lightfoot's blip moved slowly north on the Manhattan grid that he'd overlaid on the screen. It didn't look like Lightfoot was in a hurry. After the pickup, of course, he'd head downtown.
Frank maneuvered the van around a stalled delivery truck, figuring that his best chance was to park the van on Lexington just south of World-Wide and take off ahead of Lightfoot when he came out. If he kept one eye on the screen and stayed ahead of Lightfoot's blip, he might have a chance. Frank knew from experience that if he tried to follow, he'd lose him at the first traffic light.
For several minutes, the blip on Frank's screen was stationary in front of World-Wide's office. Then it started to move south. Frank pulled out ahead of it. Lightfoot biked down Lexington for a couple of dozen blocks with Frank a block or two ahead. Another dozen blocks later, Frank slowed and let Lightfoot close on him until he could see him in the rear-view mirror.
Suddenly Lightfoot leaned to the left and turned down a side street toward a section of old tenements and rundown brownstones.
"How's it going?" Joe asked through the dashboard speaker. "Has Lightfoot made the handover yet?"
"I think it's coining up," Frank said into the mike. "He's in the East Village, which definitely isn't on the route."
Frank glanced to his left. Unfortunately, the cross street coming up was one way to the right. Past the intersection, he edged the van sharply to the left in front of a large delivery truck. The blast of its horn made his ears ring, but he pushed the accelerator to the floor and squealed left around the next corner, keeping one eye on the computer screen.
Lightfoot's blip had slowed. Still with his foot to the floor, Frank made another left and then, a couple of blocks later, a right. As he turned, the blip disappeared in the block just ahead. Frank muttered something unintelligible and slammed his fist on the dash in frustration.
"Say what?" Joe asked. "I didn't copy."
"He's gone," Frank said, looking around. "Disappeared." Except for the garbage truck making its pickups and a late-model cream-colored van nosed into an alley beside a vacant brick building, the street was empty. No signs of Lightfoot.
Suddenly Frank noticed a weak blip. He was almost on top of it. "No, wait," Frank said. "Something's showing on the screen, very faint. He must have taken his bike inside somewhere."
"Stay with it," Joe said encouragingly.
"Yeah," Frank said. He cruised slowly up the block, searching the buildings for any sign of movement. Of course, he could always park on the street and wait for Lightfoot to come out again. But by then the damage would have been done. The important character — the guy who was photographing the package—would have gotten away.
And then Frank saw it. A movement between the van and the building, in the alley. He glanced over his right shoulder as he passed it.
He punched the brake, sliding to a stop. "Joe," he shouted. "We finally got a break. Lightfoot just climbed into a van down here — bag, bike, and all. This could be it, brother."
Frank pulled into an empty lot just down the street from where he'd spotted Lightfoot. He backed the Hardys' van behind a dumpster, so it would be less obvious to passing traffic.
"I think we've struck pay dirt," Frank said. "Unless I'm dead wrong, right this minute somebody inside that van is photographing the contents of Lightfoot's package."
"Nice trick," Joe replied. "Now what?"
"No way I can break into that tin can. So I wait," Frank said. "And then I tail." few minutes later the van went down the street, heading west. "Here we go," Frank said, and eased his van out from behind the dumpster, letting the other van have a half-block lead. From under the seat, he picked up a small pair of binoculars and read the van's license number. He could see the back of a head — Lightfoot? — through the rear window.
Ahead of him, the van turned right. Two blocks later, it double-parked beside the cars that lined the curb, its hazard lights flashing. The back doors opened. Lightfoot stepped out, bike in one hand. In the van, a stocky figure in coveralls pulled the doors closed behind him.
"There's Lightfoot," Frank reported to Joe, as the messenger mounted his bike with a graceful movement and headed out! "Looks like he's on his way to the branch office." The van's hazard lights went off and it pulled into traffic.
"And the van?" '
"I'm staying with it," Frank said, making a right turn behind the van. "I've got the license number. I'm going to call Dad and have him check it out. Talk to you later." He switched off the radio and punched the buttons on the van's mobile phone, keeping one eye on the cream-colored vehicle in front of him. He heard the phone in the hotel room ringing.
Without warning there was movement to his right. A large delivery truck pulled out with maddening slowness, blocking his path. Frank leaned on the horn and started to swerve to the left, but a yellow taxi was coming head-on at him in the other lane.
He yanked the wheel back and hit the brakes.
When Fenton Hardy answered the hotel phone he was greeted with the sounds of screeching tires, then a sickening thud.
"Frank?" he yelled into the receiver, but no one answered.
Chapter 8
The Hardys' van had stopped inches short of the delivery truck. Frank was thrown forward, his stomach slammed against the steering wheel. The blow knocked the wind out of him.
Frank looked up and watched the vehicle ahead of him make a right turn. He could see that the street ahead was clear — the cream-colored van had disappeared.
Frank regained his breath and groaned. "Lost it."
"Frank?" Mr. Hardy demanded. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me," Frank said with a sigh. "Listen, Dad, I need you to check a registration. Late-model cream-colored van. License number ACQ one fifty."
"Got it," Mr. Hardy said. "What's the story?"
"I was tailing it just now," Frank said. "A delivery truck cut me off, and I barely avoided a smash-up. Lost the other van." Quickly, he told Fenton about Lightfoot.
"Sounds like a good lead," Mr. Hardy said when he'd heard Frank's story and was reassured that Frank was okay. "I'll call you back as soon as I have a fix on it."
Frank stopped for the light, then turned left. He might as well see if he could pick up Lightfoot's signal again as the messenger returned from the branch office.
Meanwhile, Joe had returned to SpeedWay and asked Gus for the afternoon off. He'd prepared a couple of excuses in case Gus seemed reluctant, but the dispatcher only shrugged.
"Yeah, go on," he growled. "There's plenty who want to work, if you don't." He looked up. "Hey, Gypsy, Hot Dog's cutting out. You're taking his place in the rotation."
Several blocks later, Joe raised Frank on the radio. "I'm headed to World-Wide for a talk with Tiffany," he said. "How'd you make out with the van?"
"Lost it," Frank said disgustedly. "Dad's tracking the license. I'll let you know when I hear. What's your line with Tiffany?"
Joe grinned. "What do you think? I'm going to ask her out. In fact, if she weren't involved in the case, I would have done it already." The truth was, Joe knew, that he liked Tiffany, and it wasn't just because she reminded him of Iola. Tiffany was special in her own way.
"Watch it, Joe," Frank said. "We're not on vacation, you know."
"Well, you know what they say," Joe joked, appreciatively eyeing three pretty girls clustered on the corner. "All work and no p
lay ..."
"Yeah, well better a dull boy than a dead detective, right, brother?" Joe sobered as he thought of Frank's warning. He did need to be careful here. All signs pointed to the probability that Tiffany was seriously involved in the case.
Tiffany was standing at the counter of the mailroom window, leafing through a stack of invoices. As Joe moved toward her, he noticed that she was surprised to see him, but her smile wasn't forced. It seemed warm and very genuine.
"Hi, Joe," she said. "I wasn't expecting any deliveries this afternoon. Have you got something for us?"
"Well, actually," Joe said, looking down at his fingernails, "I was just passing by on a return run. I thought I'd stop and say hello — thought maybe you'd like to go out for a soda or something."
"Spending your school money?" Tiffany teased with a grin. "You're a nice guy, Joe. I'd love to, but I can't right now. I just got back from an early lunch." A shadow crossed her face. "And my boss — my dad, that is — frowns on long lunches. He's been known to fire people who weren't back in an hour."
Joe grinned. "Such dedication ought to go rewarded," he said promptly. "How about dinner?"
The shadow darkened. "I can't, Joe. I have to work late tonight to get out a mailing." She sighed heavily and Joe leaned forward.
"Troubles?" he asked gently.
"Trouble in big doses," Tiffany said. She half turned away. "But I'm sure you're not interested in family stuff."
Joe reached for her hand. "But I am interested," he said. "I'd like to hear what's bothering you." It was true. He was genuinely interested. Why did her mouth tighten whenever she talked about her father? Was she angry because he wouldn't give her a better job in the company? Or was there something deeper?
Tiffany looked down at their hands, but she didn't try to pull her fingers away. "It's my father," she said, her voice so low he could hardly hear her. "Sometimes I almost think he hates me!"
Joe blinked. "Hates you? Why?"
"Because of the way I ... " She paused and then looked up, pulling her hand away. She pushed her hair back from her eyes in a gesture Iola had used. Tears welled up in her eyes. "It's because of the way I look," she said.
"But you're beautiful!" Joe exclaimed disbelievingly. "Why would he be angry about that?"
Tiffany blushed and lowered her eyes. "I look like my mother," she explained. "He hates her. He'd do anything to hurt her — anything." She swallowed hard. "She left him two years ago. Sometimes I think he goes out of his way to hurt me — like putting me down here all by myself— just to get even with her."
Joe frowned. He was thinking of the Mr. Chilton he had met, tall, suave, stern. Then he looked around at the bare, bleak workroom. Could Tiffany be right?
Or maybe Tiffany's tears were only an act to get his sympathy. There was no way to be sure.
Tiffany straightened her shoulders. "Thanks for listening," she said sheepishly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I guess I shouldn't have told you, but sometimes I — Well, sometimes it's too much."
Joe nodded sympathetically. Maybe logic worked for Frank, but instinct told Joe where the truth lay. He'd bet his last penny that she wasn't the kind of person to turn to crime for revenge. "Listen, Tiffany, anytime you want to talk, just let me know," he said.
Tiffany looked at him. "You really mean that, don't you?" she said.
Joe nodded. Then his eye fell on something sitting on the corner of Tiffany's desk. He leaned over the counter and picked it up. It was a small circuit board, a type he'd never seen before, but there was something about its configuration that ... Then it clicked. This was the same circuit board that Frank had shown him on the video last night in the hotel room — the one that had been in the package Tiffany had given him to deliver to MUX! He glanced in the upper corner, and there it was. A tiny rectangular chip with the number Z2713 stamped on it.
"What do you use this gadget for?" Joe asked, trying to make his question sound casual.
Tiffany blinked. "It was on my desk when I came back from lunch," she said. "I thought someone meant for me to ship it to one of the other offices, but no instructions came with it. I — "
The phone on Tiffany's desk rang. She picked it up.
"Mailroom. Tiffany speaking."
For a moment Joe didn't pay any attention to Tiffany's conversation. He was intent on the circuit board in his hand.
Then he became aware that there wasn't any telephone conversation. He looked up. Tiffany had gone rigid, her eyes wide, her face drained of color.
"Who are you?" she demanded in a whisper. "Tell me! Who are you?"
From where he stood, Joe heard the distinct click that meant the connection had been broken. For a moment more Tiffany stood silent. Then she started to breathe quickly, almost gasping for air.
"What is it, Tiffany?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
Tiffany's eyes were wide with shock. "I don't believe it!" she choked. "I'm being blackmailed!"
Chapter 9
"Blackmailed!" Joe burst out. "Who was that on the phone ? "
Tiffany sagged into a chair. "I don't know," she said.
Joe's mind raced, the questions coming fast. First he had to know if he was being set up, or if the call was real. "Was it a man or a woman?" he asked.
"I couldn't tell," Tiffany repeated. "The voice sounded like an echo, like it was in a cave or something." Her voice broke. She looked scared. "Whoever it was said I'm in real big trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" Joe asked. He studied her. He'd swear this wasn't an act. She was genuinely frightened.
Tiffany hesitated, as though wondering why she should tell him.
"You need help," Joe said urgently. "I can help you."
Tiffany hesitated. Then she shrugged. "Things can't get any worse," she said. "It's that thing you've got in your hand." She pointed at the circuit board Joe was still holding. "It's top secret. The voice on the phone said that they've been pirating stuff like that. Sending it to the competition—out of this mailroom! And if I don't cooperate with them, they'll make it look like I'm the one who's been doing it!"
"What do they want?" Joe asked. "Did they give you any instructions?"
Tiffany buried her face in her hands. "No, nothing," she said. "The voice said there'd be orders for me later."
She dropped her hands and looked up at Joe, tears staining her cheeks. "What am I going to do, Joe? My father will kill me if he thinks I've been helping his competition!" She shook her head, dazed. "I can't believe this is happening. Maybe it's some kind of joke."
"I don't think so," Joe told her. He wanted to say more, but he wasn't sure how far he should go. If this was some kind of trap, he could blow their whole investigation by spilling too much. But if the blackmail call was genuine, Tiffany needed his help. He had to get some answers, and he had to get them fast.
"Tell you what," Joe said, handing back the circuit board, "do you have someplace to lock this up? Someplace where nobody can get at it?"
"Yes," Tiffany said. "Over there." She indicated a small floor safe.
"Lock it up," Joe instructed her. "I'm going to talk to a friend. Maybe he can help. Give me the number here, and I'll call you later this afternoon." He grinned at her. "In the meantime, stay cool. We'll come out of this okay."
Outside, Joe pulled his headset out of his messenger bag and put it on, trying to look nonchalant. But when he bent over to unlock his bike and speak into his microphone, his voice was urgent. "Frank, do you read me? Frank, come in."
There was a crackle of static. "Roger, copy clear," came the reply. "Got a problem?"
"I need to talk to you and Dad as soon as possible. Where are you?"
"I just tracked Lightfoot on a delivery from World-Wide's Wall Street office up to Midtown," Frank reported. "The run was clean — no side-trips. I just talked to Dad. He's at World-Wide's testing center. He checked out the van's license plate. It's leased—to MUX."
"How about getting together at Rollo's, up by Lincoln Center?" Joe as
ked. "You know, the sidewalk caf6?"
"Sounds good," Frank said. "I'll call Dad. Barring traffic problems, we should be able to be there in less than a half-hour."
"Roger," Joe replied. "Out." He coasted his bike out onto the street and merged into the traffic heading west.
As he got to Eighth Avenue, his bike jolted across a manhole cover that hadn't been replaced tightly. Joe looked back to check out his tire, then frowned. A pair of red wires were dangling from behind his seat.
That's weird, he thought. When he'd bought the bike and tried out the headlight, he'd noticed that the wires that led to the generator were blue. He hadn't seen any red wires. Joe sat up straight and thrust his fingers under the seat where the wires disappeared. His frown deepened. He could feel a small metal cylinder embedded in something that felt like damp putty.
Just ahead of him, the traffic light turned red, and he realized the purpose of the wires!
Without a second thought, Joe swung his left leg over the handlebars and leapt off the bike. He somersaulted into the crosswalk as his riderless bike rolled to the middle of the intersection, where the traffic had momentarily cleared.
Then a deafening roar echoed through the intersection, and Joe saw his bike disintegrate into shards of metal fragments. He got to his knees and scrambled to the curb, his head spinning. The front wheel of his bike had been blown free and was bouncing across the street. As he watched, it hit the curb and sailed away in a graceful arc.
Dazed as he was, ears still ringing from the explosion, Joe only vaguely noticed the cream-colored van that suddenly sped up and drove through the intersection. Taxis and cars began to edge around the fragments of his bike that lay in the middle of the street. Behind him, a small knot of curious shoppers and pedestrians watched.
A police car screeched to a stop across the street, siren wailing, lights flashing. Spectators on that corner pointed in Joe's direction and the patrol car whipped across the intersection and pulled up a few feet in front of Joe.
Both doors flew open. A tough-looking woman officer with revolver drawn jumped out of the passenger side and crouched down, using the door as a shield. The driver, a burly cop with a .357 Magnum in his fist, stepped to the front of the car. Both guns were leveled directly at Joe.
Street Spies Page 5
