Blood Money

"Who said crime doesn't pay?" Joe Hardy asked.

Frank Hardy turned and shot his younger brother, sitting directly behind him in the backseat, a disapproving look.

"Oh, it's not that it doesn't pay." Their father, the famous private detective Fenton Hardy, spoke up from the driver's seat. "If money is all you count, then crime certainly does pay."

"But ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't pay for very long," Frank added.

"I give up," Joe said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "All I meant was, this is a pretty elegant neighborhood for a crook to live in."

"Well, Moran didn't spend all his time here," Fenton Hardy said, backing his car into a parking spot. "In fact, he spent the last ten years of his life in a cell about the size of your van." Looking out the back window, he glanced at Joe, who nodded sheepishly.

"I get the message, Dad."

"I knew you would," Fenton said, nosing the car up to the curb. He turned the key and slid it out. "Better lock the doors, boys. We're not in Bayport anymore."

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Frank had to admit his brother was right about one thing. It was an expensive-looking, elegant neighborhood. Immaculate three-story townhouses, with bay windows and elaborate ironwork fences, lined both sides of the block they had parked on. The street itself was clean and quiet, with large trees (bare now that it was the middle of winter) planted at regular intervals along the sidewalk. Past the last of those trees, at the end of the block, the Manhattan skyline was clearly visible.

Since the building of these Jefferson Heights townhouses twenty years earlier, this area had become one of the most exclusive residential districts in Brooklyn. Apartment space was at a premium because the area was just over the river from Manhattan, convenient to the subways, and the neighborhood was safe.

All in all, it looked like a model for the perfectly planned urban development. But from what Fenton Hardy had been telling them on their drive from Bayport, this model of urban development had a major flaw. The beautiful townhouses had been bought by one of the country's largest criminal organizations.

"I remember when some of this block was a park," Fenton Hardy reminisced. "In the summer there were a half-dozen ball games going at one time." He was silent for a moment, then shook his head, clearing out the memories. "I don't understand this invitation. I helped to get Moran sentenced to jail twenty years ago. He delayed going for ten years, of course. But the last thing I ever expected was an invitation to Josh Moran's house."

"He can't hurt you now, Dad," Frank pointed out. "He's dead."

Which was the reason they were there. Fenton Hardy, much to his surprise, had been notified that he had been named a beneficiary in Josh Moran's will. Along with the notification had come a request to attend the reading of the will that afternoon. Frank and Joe, on break from school, had been only too eager to accompany him.

"I wonder what Moran could have left me," Fenton Hardy said.

"Probably a time bomb," Joe replied.

Frank laughed. He and Joe followed their dad across the street and up the steps of one of the few townhouses that had not been split up into apartments.

"This whole building was all Moran's," Fenton Hardy said, stepping forward and ringing the bell.

Joe whistled in admiration, just as the front door swung open and a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a fashionable, expensive-looking suit, was revealed. He appeared to be about thirty and had the solid, trim build of an athlete.

The man smiled expectantly at Fenton. It was obvious the two didn't know each other.

Joe, on the other hand, recognized the dark-haired stranger instantly.

"I'm Fenton Hardy - these are my sons, Frank and Joe."

The man shook hands with Mr. Hardy. "Glad to meet you, sir. I'm Tommy Poletti."

Joe managed to shut his mouth, which had dropped open when the man answered the door, and mumble a quick hello.

"I'm glad you could make it today," Poletti continued, opening the door wide for them and motioning them inside. As he took their coats, Joe nudged Frank excitedly.

"Do you know who that guy is?"

Frank shook his head. "One of Moran's goons, right?"

"One of Moran's goons?" Joe shook his head excitedly, his eyes wide. "That's Tommy Poletti. He was a quarterback for the University of Southern California - and won the Heisman trophy about ten years ago."

Joe was something of a fanatic about football - not surprising, considering that he played for the Bayport High football team.

"I never heard of him," Frank whispered to his brother.

"Never heard of him? He used to hold all the single-season collegiate passing records!" Joe exclaimed, a little louder than he'd intended.

"Except touchdowns in a season." Poletti turned and smiled. "But that was a long time ago."

"Joe's a running back for his high school team," Fenton Hardy put in. "A pretty good one, if I say so myself."

"Dad - " Joe protested, flushing slightly.

"Fullback, right?" Poletti asked, looking Joe up and down.

Joe nodded. "Yeah."

"We never had a good fullback at USE when I was playing," Poletti said. "Might've won a few of those Bowl games if we had." He leaned forward and spoke directly to Joe. "You want my advice, bulk up a little. They're growing linebackers bigger every year."

"I'll try," Joe said, smiling. As Poletti turned away, a sudden and obvious question occurred to Joe.

What was Tommy Poletti, a former Heisman trophy winner, doing mixed up with a gangster like Moran?

The question echoed in his head as Poletti led them down the hall and through a set of double doors into a large living room. About twenty people were standing there, talking to one another.

Joe recognized none of them.

This time, his father did.

"Hugh!" he called out.

A thin, dark-haired man standing by himself near the fireplace turned. When he saw Fenton Hardy, his eyes lit up.

"Fenton!"

The two men met in the middle of the room and embraced.

"Looks like your dad found an old friend," Poletti said. Just then the doorbell rang again.

"Excuse me." Poletti disappeared through the double doors.

The man their father had recognized looked somewhat older than Fenton Hardy. There were huge bags under his eyes, and as he'd crossed the room to greet Fenton Hardy, Joe noticed that he walked with a slight limp. He wore a wrinkled, ill-fitting green sport coat and baggy gray pants that hung loosely from his skeletal frame. In one hand he was carrying a drink.

Joe, with Frank a step behind, crossed the room to stand beside their father.

"It's good to see you again, Fenton," the man said, his eyes glistening a little. "These are your sons?"

Fenton Hardy nodded. "Boys, this is Hugh Nolan. He worked with me on the force."

"A long time ago. I retired more than fifteen years ago."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Nolan," Frank and Joe said almost simultaneously.

"You look a little like my son Ned," Nolan said to Frank, shaking hands with each of the boys. "I tried to get him to come with me today, but he just got out of the army, and ... " He shrugged. "What's this all about, Fenton?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Hugh."

"I don't have one," Nolan said. "To tell you the truth, I don't understand why I'm here at all - "

Nolan stopped talking abruptly, and stared over Joe's shoulder at the double doors. His face tensed.

"What's wrong, Hugh?" Fenton asked.

Joe followed the thin man's gaze.

A tall, powerfully built black man, dressed in a navy blue suit and white shirt, had just entered the room and was scanning the crowd.

"Chief Peterson!" Frank called out.

The man turned at the sound of Frank's voice and began heading toward them.

Police Chief Samuel Peterson's appearance there was no surprise to any of the Hardys. Immediately after he'd been named a beneficiary in Moran's will, Fenton Hardy had called the chief and discovered that his old partner (the two had been detectives together) had been named a beneficiary as well.

"Whatever Moran wants to leave me I guess applies to Sam as well," Fenton had said. "After all, we're the ones who put him away." The two men had talked, and both had agreed to show up for the reading.

Peterson crossed the room quickly, nodded hellos to both Frank and Joe, and shook hands warmly with their father. Fenton Hardy was clearly glad to see the chief.

Nolan, just as clearly, was not.

When the chief turned to shake hands with him, Joe felt the temperature in the room drop.

Nolan ignored Peterson's extended hand, and the chief finally lowered it and spoke.

"Hugh," he said, nodding. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see me, is it?" Nolan asked, biting off each word. "That must be it. You didn't return any of my calls fifteen years ago when I needed your help - because you were waiting to see me in person."

"I told you I had nothing to do with that decision, Hugh," Peterson said calmly.

"You could've helped me!" Nolan spat out, with such bitterness that Joe took a step aside.

What did Hugh Nolan have against Chief Peterson, anyway?

Joe glanced at his father and received a look that told him to save his questions for later.

"You've got to try to understand that was a long time ago, Hugh," Peterson was saying.

"Oh, I understand," Nolan said bitterly. "I understand, all right." He stepped closer to Peterson, till the two were only inches apart. The top of Nolan's head barely reached the collar of Peterson's jacket.

"Now you try and understand this," Hugh Nolan said.

He drew his arm back and before anyone could stop him, threw the entire contents of his drink in Chief Peterson's face!

Frank and Joe were shocked as Nolan turned and stalked away angrily.

"Hugh - " Fenton Hardy began, then sensed it was useless to start after the man. He turned to Peterson. "Sam, are you all right?"

"Fine," Peterson said, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his face. "Just fine."

"He has no right to blame you," Fenton Hardy said.

The expression in his father's eyes told Frank he'd have to save his questions for later.

He and Joe hadn't seen the chief since the events that had resulted in Fenton Hardy's kidnapping several months before, in the case Edge of Destruction. At that time Peterson had just entered the mayoral race in New York City. Since then, he had withdrawn from the campaign after suffering a mild heart attack.

The chief was supposed to be taking it easy now, Frank knew, and this situation with Hugh Nolan, whatever it was, couldn't be helping matters any.

"I hate to break up the party," Fenton Hardy said. "But look who just walked in."

He nodded over his shoulder.

In the doorway at the far end of the room stood a group of five men, all in dark suits. One, clearly the leader of the group, looked as thin as Hugh Nolan, and somewhat older. But where Nolan's clothes and demeanor had indicated a man who was having trouble making ends meet, this man's bearing spoke of someone who was used to money - and knew how to enjoy it.

With him was a younger man, as powerfully built as Tommy Poletti, but with a cruder, meaner face. The other three - Frank guessed they were bodyguards - formed a rough circle around them.

"The old guy is Johnny Carew. The one talking to him is his son Daniel," Peterson was saying. "They're - "

"You don't have to tell us who they are," Frank said. The Carew crime family was the most powerful on the East Coast, and Johnny was its head - a man who had supposedly controlled judges, congressmen, and even a vice-president.

At one time, Frank knew, Josh Moran had been Carew's most trusted crime lieutenant. That was before he broke away to start his own crime "family." The two groups had been feuding since then - for about twenty years. About the time that Dad got Moran convicted, Frank realized.

"Say," Joe said, nudging Frank. "Who's that?"

A pretty dark-haired woman had just entered the room from another door and was scanning the crowd.

"That's Moran's daughter, Emily." Peterson smiled. "She's a little old for you, Joe." A big heavyset man came over and spoke briefly to Emily. "Billy Delaney," the chief continued. "Moran's second-in-command. He's been running the gang the last few years, and the word is, he's not unhappy that the old man died. The big question is, now that Moran's dead, can he prevent Carew from taking back the territory Moran stole from him?"

Daniel Carew, who had been talking softly to his father, suddenly caught sight of Emily Moran. He called her name and quickly crossed the room to her side.

Carew had barely begun to talk when Emily started to move away. He grabbed her arm. An expression of anger crossed Emily Moran's face, and she coldly removed Carew's hand.

It looked as if, at least as far as she was concerned, the feud between their two families was to continue.