“Cozy,” Joe said sarcastically.
Frank surveyed the office. It was clean and neat, but hardly luxurious. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’ve seen jail cells with more furniture than this.”
Two large steel office desks faced the door. Each had a wooden straight-backed chair behind it. In the center of the far wall was a row of four-drawer steel filing cabinets. The cement floor was bare.
The only decorations were some old photos cut from car magazines and taped to the cinderblock walls. The tape was yellowed with age.
A huge copy machine stood against the far wall, next to the row of file cabinets.
Frank went over to the copier. “It has its own computer screen and keyboard,” he noted. “Punch in a program and it practically runs itself.”
“Yeah,” Joe said. He lifted the document cover. “But why would a junkyard need something this fancy?”
Frank could only shrug. “Don’t know,” he said. “Let’s scope it out.” He picked up the phone on one of the desks. “But first, I’m going to call Biff and get us a ride home.”
Greasy black fingerprints covered the receiver. “Why do gas stations and repair shops always have such foul phones,” Frank wondered aloud as he dialed up Mr. Pizza.
“To make you want to use the pay phone,” Joe quipped.
Frank had Biff paged, and a few seconds later a familiar voice came on the line.
“Biff,” Frank said. “We need a little help, buddy.”
“What’s up?”
“We’re out at the junkyard on Route 6. We need a ride back into town.”
“How’d you end up out there?” Biff asked.
Joe called from across the room. “Tell Biff to bring some of that pepperoni pie with him.”
Frank relayed the message. “And we’ll explain everything when you get here,” he added.
Frank hung up and started going through the desk drawers. “Find anything yet?”
“Just some old bills and stuff,” Joe said. “This place belongs to a guy named Ron Quick.”
“Do you see a home address?”
“I think so.” Joe found a pencil and made some notes.
Frank pushed some scraps of paper aside and pulled a large folder from the center drawer of the desk. “Hey, take a look at this,” he said. “Looks like some kind of drawings or blueprints.”
Joe came over as Frank undid the clasps and spread the papers over the desk. “Maps,” Joe said. “But of what?”
“Bayport, I think,” Frank said.
Joe squinted and turned one page to see another angle. “How can you tell?”
The maps weren’t like anything Joe had ever seen before. Lines of green, blue, red, brown, and yellow traced a confusing maze across the pages, intersecting, then branching off in different directions.
“It’s a schematic drawing of Bayport’s utilities,” Frank said. “Instead of showing streets and parks, it shows all the cables, power lines, and gas lines—all that stuff.”
Joe leaned over the map to get a closer look.
“See,” Frank said, pointing to a jagged line close to one edge of the page. “This is the shoreline of the bay. Over here, past where the map cuts off, must be the reservoir and the dam.” He put his finger on a black circle close to the center of the map. “And here’s the power station.”
“Got it,” Joe said. “So what are maps like this doing here?”
Frank traced some lines made in orange Magic Marker. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But somebody’s been studying them pretty carefully.”
“They’ve even marked in some addresses and street names,” Joe said. “Here’s State Street, and over here is Grand Boulevard. They’re both traced over in orange.”
“Let’s make copies,” Frank said.
The paper tray of the copier was empty, so Joe focused the video camera on the maps while Frank spread each of them out on the desk.
When they were finished, Frank put the maps back into the folder and returned the folder to the drawer.
Joe motioned to the door separating the office from the garage. “I want to check in there, too,” he said.
Frank nodded in agreement, but the Hardys soon discovered that the door was locked tight.
“Where’s that strip of plastic I had?” Joe asked.
“I think you dropped it outside.”
As Frank went to open the front door, he heard a car pull up and skid to a stop.
“Is it Biff?” Joe asked.
Frank lifted a corner of the packing paper and peered out. He looked back at Joe quickly and put a finger to his lips, signaling for his brother to stay quiet. “No,” he said in a whisper. “But it’s somebody almost as big.”
“Is he coming in?” Joe crept over and peeked out over Frank’s shoulder.
“No,” Frank whispered. “He seems interested in the torched car.”
Joe watched as a hulking figure in dark green coveralls slowly circled the wreck. The guy had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail and looked to be at least six foot three.
When the figure came around the car and faced them again, Joe backed away from the door in surprise. “Frank,” he whispered. “I recognize him.”
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“The dude’s name is Bart Meredith,” Joe continued. “Dad put him away three years ago.”
“What for?”
“He took out a gas station—beat up the clerk pretty bad. I recognize him from his picture in the paper when he was arrested.”
“How’d he get free so soon?” Frank asked.
“Maybe he escaped” was all Joe said.
The Hardys watched as Meredith stood nervously by his open car door.
“Looks like he’s trying to decide if he should wait around or take off,” Frank observed.
Joe set the camera down and reached for the door. “He’s going to wish he decided to take off.”
Before Frank could stop him, Joe was outside, running toward Meredith.
“Hey!” Frank called. He followed his brother out the door in time to see the big man react. All of a sudden Meredith didn’t seem nervous anymore. He looked very angry and ready to fight.
Joe didn’t slow down. He kept running forward as Meredith calmly reached in under the front seat of his car and came out with a heavy, four-cell flashlight. He held it up high in one hand like a torch.
Frank saw Joe lunge for Meredith. The flashlight arced down, and Frank winced at the sound—the hollow crack of metal on bone.
3 Inside Pitch
* * *
Joe was used to taking on bigger guys on the football field. As the starting halfback on offense, and middle linebacker on defense, he loved a good, solid hit. Meredith was going to go down—hard!
Then Joe saw Meredith pull out the big flashlight. Now he knew he was in trouble, but it was too late.
Joe lowered his head and lunged forward anyway. At the last second his foot hit something hard and he stumbled. Instead of nailing Meredith in the ribs, where he’d aimed, he felt his shoulder smash into the ex-con’s leg.
Joe tried to keep his balance so he could drive Meredith back.
Then it was as if he’d been hit in the back with a baseball bat. Joe crumpled to the ground, his back throbbing with pain.
Frank watched his brother fall and rushed to help. Joe’s tackle had sent Meredith staggering, but the man regained his balance before Frank could get to him.
“Get away from me!” Meredith yelled. He threatened Frank with the flashlight. “Is this some kind of setup?”
“We were going to ask you the same thing,” Frank growled. He was in a karate stance, ready to strike.
Joe writhed on the ground.
Meredith moved slowly toward his car. “This wasn’t part of the deal, man,” he said. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“Stick around—I’ll introduce myself.” Frank moved closer to cut Meredith off.
“No thanks, man!” Meredith threw the flashlig
ht.
Frank saw the light cut through the air straight for his head. He reacted on instinct, ducking as it whirred past his ear.
It was all the time Meredith needed. He jumped into his car and floored it. The car fishtailed around and sprayed the Hardys with dirt and gravel.
The dust kept them from getting the license number.
“How’re you feeling?” Frank asked.
Joe was back on his feet, scuffing his shoes around in the dirt as if searching for something.
Joe twisted a few times from side to side. “I’m okay,” he said. “I would’ve had him, except I tripped on this stupid manhole cover.” He bent down and brushed the dust off the iron disk. Lettering around the edge read Bayport Municipal Water & Sewer.
“Good thing Meredith didn’t crack me in the head,” Joe said. “That would’ve meant lights out for me.”
Frank playfully smacked Joe on the back of the skull. “Sometimes I wonder if there is a light on in there.”
“Bright as the sun. That’s why I’m so hotheaded.”
Frank laughed. “Come on. Get the camera and let’s get out of here.”
“What about Biff?” Joe asked.
“I’m sure he’s on his way. We’ll start walking and flag him down when he drives by.”
• • •
The sky had turned a deep purple, and stars were starting to come out high overhead. Frank figured it had to be around nine o’clock.
The Hardys walked along the shoulder of Route 6, counting on their white baseball uniforms to tip Biff off as he passed.
No cars came down the road, though.
“How far have we walked,” Joe asked after a while.
“A mile. Maybe a mile and a half,” Frank guessed. “It’s only two or three miles back to town.”
“Biff wouldn’t let us down. I wonder where he is.”
Far ahead, Frank spotted what looked like the faint glow of headlights. “I’ll bet that’s him now.”
Frank and Joe stayed clear of the road, expecting the lights to grow brighter as the car approached. The lights stayed exactly the same.
When they got closer, it seemed that one light was higher up than the other.
“Something’s wrong,” Frank said. “That car’s not even on the road.”
The Hardys broke into a jog. The second they recognized Biff’s hatchback, they started running.
“Hoop!” Joe called. “Biff!”
The little car had skidded off the road and both passenger-side wheels had dropped into a ditch. The engine was still running.
Frank got there first and yanked open the driver’s door. Biff was inside, slumped over the steering wheel.
Frank grabbed Biff and pulled him back in the seat. “Biff!” he yelled.
“How bad do you think it is?” Joe asked, his voice tight with tension.
“I don’t see any blood.”
Biff groaned and brought his hand up to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” he said weakly. “Hey, where’s the bozo who ran me off the road?”
Frank smiled with relief. “Sounds like he’s going to be okay,” he said to Joe.
Biff shut off the engine, and Frank helped him out.
“Did you get a look at the car?” Joe asked.
“No,” Biff said. “It was too dark. All I know is that the guy was flying—he came right at me.”
“Had to be Meredith,” Joe said.
Biff rubbed at a swelling knot over his left eye. “You’re saying you know the clown who almost killed me?”
“He’s no friend,” Frank said. “We had a run-in with him back at the scrapyard.” The Hardys proceeded to fill Biff in on everything that had happened to them since the game.
Biff swore to help them track down the two thugs in the black sedan. “And,” he added, “when you find Meredith, I get first crack at him.”
“Get in line,” Joe said. He walked around to the back of Biff’s car. “Frank, you steer while Biff and I push.”
The three friends soon had the car back on the road, and Biff got behind the wheel.
“Watch it, Frank,” he said, as his pal started to settle into the front passenger seat.
Frank glanced at the floor of the car. There, he saw a crumpled cardboard box and a circle of golden brown crust.
“Oh, don’t tell me . . .” Joe moaned from the backseat.
“Yup,” Biff said. “I brought you guys a hot pizza, but it looks like it took a header in the crash.”
Frank gingerly lifted the pie and flipped it back into the box. The floor was covered with a wet, gooey mix of cheese and sauce.
“Sorry,” Biff said.
“Don’t worry,” Joe said, motioning for Frank to hand him the box. “I’m not letting this thing go to waste.”
Biff and Frank grimaced in disgust as Joe scooped up some loose cheese and pepperoni and glopped them on a soggy chunk of crust. He slurped in a stray strand of mozzarella.
“Mmm. Still hot,” he said.
• • •
By the time Biff dropped the Hardys off at their van and they made it home, it was past ten o’clock. They found their mother, Laura Hardy, sitting on the living room couch, reading a magazine.
She looked up and smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re home. Your game must have gone into extra innings.”
Joe glanced at his older brother. He didn’t want to be the one to break the news about their mother’s car.
“Joe pitched a great game, Mom,” Frank said, stalling for time. He clapped his brother on the sore spot on his back. “Ten strikeouts—right, Joe?”
“Eleven,” Joe answered, his jaw clenched in pain.
“That’s terrific, Joe.” Mrs. Hardy got up and led the way to the kitchen. “Did you have dinner? Do you want a snack?”
“No, you sit down and relax,” Frank said. He pulled out a chair for his mother.
Joe was already looking around in the refrigerator. He pulled out sandwich fixings with one hand and placed them on the kitchen table with the other.
Frank poured himself a glass of milk and sat down next to his mother. “Where’s Aunt Gertrude?” Gertrude Hardy was their father’s sister. She lived with the family, and both brothers loved her even though she tended to worry about them more than they liked.
“She’s at her book club meeting,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason. Just wondering.” Frank wanted to tell his mother about her car without his aunt in the room. He could count on his mother to be calm, but Aunt Gertrude was another story.
“Your father’s going to call tonight,” Mrs. Hardy said. “I’m sure he’ll want to hear all about the game.”
“How’s his case going?” Frank knew only that his father had gotten a call from the U.S. Treasury Department a couple of days ago. He’d immediately taken off for Switzerland.
“It’s something about an international counterfeit ring,” Mrs. Hardy said. “He’s helping the Secret Service with the investigation.”
“Cool,” Joe said, sitting down. “Maybe he needs some help.”
“You’d rather go to Switzerland than play baseball?” Mrs. Hardy asked.
“No. I want to do both. Do they have baseball in Switzerland?”
“Yeah, they play on skis,” Frank joked. He watched his brother stack layers of turkey and cheese on a slice of bread.
Laura Hardy got up to get a glass of water at the sink. “So,” she said. “How’s my car running?”
Frank almost choked on his milk. This was the question he’d been fearing. “Well . . .” he started.
The sound of the kitchen phone ringing saved him.
Joe jumped up and grabbed the receiver. “Hardy residence.”
“Joe, hi, it’s Dad. How’s everything?”
Joe briefly recounted the baseball victory for his father, and then went on to describe the attempted bank robbery he’d witnessed, carefully leaving out the part about the auto compactor.
He heard his mo
ther gasp in the background. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked Frank.
“Sounds like you’ve got plenty of excitement there in Bayport,” Fenton Hardy said to Joe.
“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Frank and I want to track down a couple of leads we’ve got.”
“Be careful, Joe. If you find anything concrete, give Chief Collig a call, okay?”
“Will do,” Joe replied. “When will you be home, Dad?”
“In a couple of days. I’m in the middle of something pretty serious. Special printing plates for fifty- and hundred-dollar bills were stolen last month on the way to the mint.”
“So, why are you in Switzerland?”
“The green ink used to print American bills is made here,” Mr. Hardy replied. “Two days ago a shipment was hijacked, and the Secret Service suspects a man named Larry Gainy.”
“Larry Gainy? What kind of name is that for an international counterfeiter?”
Mr. Hardy chuckled. “Well, Herve DuBois is his real name, Joe. Larry Gainy is just one of his favorite aliases.”
Mr. Hardy reminded Joe to be careful, then asked to speak to his wife.
While Mrs. Hardy talked, Frank and Joe went back to the living room and flopped down on the couch.
“Did you tell her?” Joe asked.
Frank rolled his eyes. “Not yet.” He grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV. The evening news had just started.
“Police have not confirmed how much money was taken from the Bayport Savings Bank, but sources have informed Channel Five that the suspect got away with at least two hundred thousand dollars.”
“No way!” Joe gasped, leaning forward.
As the broadcast continued, the Hardys learned the full story. The police had responded to the false alarm that Frank and Joe had witnessed earlier in the evening at First City Bank. While the police were checking that out, Bayport Savings had been hit by someone armed with a semi-automatic pistol.
“Police confirm that the robbery took place at just before six this evening,” the newscaster continued, “minutes before Bayport Savings was scheduled to close, and only fifteen to twenty minutes after the alarm sounded at First City. Police speculate that the thief, unable to break into First City Bank, decided on Bayport Savings as a secondary target.”
The Crisscross Crime Page 2
