The Crisscross Crime (2 page)

Without warning, Joe pulled his wrist from his brother's grasp and slid back into the car.

“Joe!” Frank shouted. “What're you doing?”

There was no answer.

Four booming explosions, one after another, rocked the car. Frank's first thought was that they were gunshots.

The car jumped, then settled back into the grip of the crushing jaws. Frank struggled to hold on. The tires had exploded, he realized with relief.

Joe's face reappeared in the opening. Then Frank saw what his brother had gone back in for—the video camera.

The space was hardly wider than an air vent. Joe reached out for help. Frank grabbed and pulled with all his strength.

Joe came free. The brothers tumbled off the trunk in a heap just as the mighty steel jaws came together, flattening their mother's car into a solid slab of metal.

Frank and Joe glanced around warily. The two crooks were nowhere in sight. All the Hardys could do was watch as the steel jaws of the car crusher disappeared into the cement platform and a huge hydraulic press came down from the framework above. The final step came when two
more jaws rose up at the front and back ends of the car.

In less than three minutes, their mother's sedan had become a perfect cube of steel, not much bigger than a milk crate.

Joe filmed the whole thing with his video camera.

“That was close,” he said, shutting the camera off and slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to Frank. “How're we going to tell Mom her car's now a three-thousand-pound paperweight?”

Frank shook his head in disbelief. “I say we catch those two thugs and make
them
explain.”

“If we can find them,” Joe said. He nodded toward the black sedan. It was parked a few yards in front of the auto compactor. “The car's there, but it looks like its occupants have vanished.”

“Careful,” Frank warned. “That may be what they want us to think. They might still be around here somewhere.” He surveyed the junkyard. Long rows of cars stacked twenty feet high were set up in a circle around a three-bay garage. The garage was connected to a shabby structure that looked like an office. Next to the building sat a yellow crane with tanklike caterpillar tracks. A huge magnet, as big around as a pitcher's mound, dangled from the boom.

They were less than a quarter mile from the bay, and seagulls swooped and hovered overhead.
Except for their shrill calls everything was quiet.

“They must have taken off on foot,” Joe said. He headed for the sedan. “Let's have a look at the getaway car.”

As the Hardys approached the car, Joe noticed something strange. “The paint's all blistered on the hood,” he said. “But the car's almost brand-new.” He reached for the door handle.

The car door came open, and a terrific blast of heat and fire knocked the Hardys off their feet. Frank found himself flat on his back, watching a bright orange fireball sail up into the evening sky.

“Joe!” he called.

“I'm all right.” Joe sat up a few feet away. He held his arm up to shield his eyes. Flames quickly engulfed the entire car, and the sickening odor of burning plastic and upholstery filled the air. “How'd they booby-trap the car so quickly?”

Frank stood up and brushed himself off. The flames were already starting to die down. “That was no booby trap,” Frank said. “They must have set the car on fire to get rid of any evidence. But the windows were closed, so the fire only smoldered until you opened the door.”

“I get it,” Joe said. “Fire needs oxygen to burn. And when I let fresh air in, the whole thing went up.”

“You got it,” Frank replied.

The brothers walked around the car, checking
for anything the crooks might have left behind. They couldn't get too close because of the heat, but they could see enough to know there wasn't any evidence left. The thugs had even taken the license plates.

“Good thing I shot that video,” Joe said. “I don't remember the plate numbers, but if we're lucky, I got the plate on tape during the chase.”

“We could use a little luck,” Frank said. He started toward the garage. “Maybe we can get some answers in there.”

A hand-painted sign over the office door read Ron's Salvage.

Frank tried the door. It was locked. “Oh, man,” he said under his breath.

“What?”

“My wallet's back in the van, along with my lock picks.”

“No problem,” Joe said. He jogged over to a pickup truck that had been totaled. He wrenched a two-foot-long strip of plastic from the smashed front end. Back at the office door, he slid the thin plastic between the door and the jamb and worked it up and down. The lock popped, and the door slowly creaked open.

The Hardys crept inside. Although there was still at least an hour of daylight left, all the windows of the small office were covered with brown wrapping paper, making it as dark as a cave.

“Close the door,” Frank said. “I'll hit the lights.” His fingers found the switch on the wall, and he turned on a single, overhead bulb.

“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.

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 flashlight.

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.”