Nowhere to Run (7 page)

"His bike was destroyed when it smashed into a brick wall," Joe said.

"How would you know that?" Riley asked, his eyes full of suspicion.

Joe raised his injured arm in its sling. "I was on it at the time."

"What about the bike he took from the Sinbads?" Callie asked.

"Callie!" Joe shouted. He couldn't believe that Frank's girlfriend would betray Biker.

Frank quickly explained to Con Riley about the first run-in with the Sinbads the night before. "But Biker wasn't wearing his helmet or his jacket," he concluded.

"That's right," Joe added. "I have them. They're still in the van." Joe rushed over to the van, pulled out Biker's helmet and jacket, and handed them to Con.

"There's no proof that these are Conway's," Riley said.

"You have my word they are," Joe told him.

Con Riley looked at the jacket and helmet and then at Joe. "This may cost me my badge, but I believe you. It still doesn't clear Conway, though."

"Look at this," Frank said from the ditch.

Joe and Officer Riley joined Frank, who was holding up one of Frost's hands.

"Frost's knuckles are scraped and bruised, as if he'd been in a fight," Frank said.

"You're right," Riley replied. "But I don't see why that's important."

"Look at him," Frank said.

Joe and Con Riley looked at Frost's unbruised face.

"If he'd been in a fight, he should be all marked up, shouldn't be? There's not a cut on him."

Con Riley tilted back his hat and scratched his head.

Just then, Sims's beat-up old Chevy pulled up next to the police cars. Sims and Fenton Hardy got out and walked over to the ditch.

"Nick Frost," Frank explained when his father stood beside him.

"Any suspects?" Fenton asked Con Riley.

"The attendant said that another cyclist pulled up shortly after Frost. That was the last he saw of Frost or the other guy."

"Whoever killed Frost tried to kill us, too," Frank added.

"Conway," Sims growled.

"What?" Joe demanded angrily.

"With Frost gone, Conway has a better chance of having his conviction overturned," Sims replied.

"He wouldn't shoot at us," Joe said through clenched teeth.

"Your friend's a convicted thief. I've dealt with scum like him before. You can't trust him."

"We've got proof that Biker didn't steal those watches!" Joe blurted out.

His words were drowned out as a police radio blared a report. "Suspect apprehended at edge of town."

A triumphant grin spread across Sims's face as he grabbed Biker's license from Con Riley.

"It doesn't matter whether he stole the watches or not. He's a murderer—and now he's locked up."

"I WANT TO SEE Biker and hear his side of the story," Joe demanded.

"Forget it, kid," Sims replied.

"It's best that you stay away from Conway," Fenton agreed.

"Your father's right," Sims went on. "You shouldn't be hanging around a killer."

"He's not a murderer!" Joe shouted. He lunged at Sims, grabbing the older man by the lapels of his jacket. Frank pulled his brother away.

"Settle down," Frank said. "You're not doing Biker any good by losing your temper."

Frank had to drag Joe over to the van, out of Sims's hearing.

"Look, Biker's safe in jail," Frank whispered harshly. "Whoever killed Frost and shot at us will probably try to get Biker, too. Anybody desperate enough to kill once won't hesitate to do it again."

Frank was relieved to see a glint of understanding come into Joe's eyes. "Now, let's go to Queens and search Frost's apartment before Sims gets the idea to do the same thing."

Joe nodded and climbed into the passenger side of the van.

"You still want to come along?" Frank asked Sue.

"Staying here won't help Biker," she replied. "Besides, you'll be able to find Frost's apartment more quickly with me to guide you."

With that, Frank, Callie, and Sue got into the van.

"Where are you going?" Joe asked as Frank pulled away from the burnt gas station. "The highway to New York is in the other direction."

"I know," Frank replied. "I don't want Sims to see us leaving town. So I'll head downtown for a couple of blocks and then take another route to the highway." Frank checked his rear-view mirror several times to make sure Sims wasn't following.

"This is it," Sue said a couple of hours later. Frank stopped the van in front of a dingy five-story apartment building.

"Frost's place is on the third floor," she added, "apartment three-F."

"You two keep watch outside," Joe said as he hopped into the back of the van and opened a box containing various disguises. "Frank and I will handle this."

Callie was ready to protest when Frank raised his hand.

"We'll need some warning if Sims or the cops show up," he explained, then winked at Callie.

Callie smiled as she and Sue got out of the van.

"Acme Speedy Delivery," Joe said as he threw one of two blue jumpsuits at Frank.

They quickly pulled on their disguises. Joe grabbed a clipboard and handed a wrapped, empty box to Frank.

"That ought to do it," he said.

The inside of the apartment building was as dingy as the outside. Frank and Joe had to use the stairs because the elevator had broken down.

"Here it is," Joe said as they walked down a darkened hallway.

Frank put the box on the floor and pulled out a case full of lock picks. He crouched down, inserted a pick in the lock, and in seconds had opened the door.

They entered the apartment and Frank locked the door from the inside.

"This place could stand a tidal wave of disinfectant," Frank said wrinkling his nose at the smell of dirty laundry and unwashed dishes.

Joe was too busy going through Frost's dresser drawers to notice the smell.

Frank walked over to a window and opened it to air out the room. He looked around. The place was a mess. Food wrappers, dirty TV-dinner trays, old clothes, cycle magazines, and record albums littered the floor. Frank kicked some of the stuff out of his way and decided to check under the bed.

Joe took everything out of the drawers but found no clues. He pulled the drawers out to check the bottoms and back. Still nothing. He moved the dresser away from the wall. When he found nothing again, he pushed the dresser over in frustration. It hit the floor with a crash and Frank jumped up.

Then came a pounding on the wall.

"Hey, knock it off in there. I'm trying to sleep," yelled a rough voice.

"Take it easy, Joe," Frank said. "If there's something here, we'll find it."

Joe headed for the closet. He kicked a stack of magazines out of his way. The magazines scattered, several landing next to Frank. He shook his head and looked down. Sticking out of one was an envelope. He pulled it out of the magazine and smiled. Printed on the front of the envelope was the DalTime company logo. Beneath it was Frost's name.

Frank was about to call out to Joe when he heard the distinctive metal click of a gun's hammer. He turned. A large, burly man was climbing through the open apartment window from the fire escape, a steel blue .45 automatic in his hand.

"We've got company, Joe," Frank said quietly.

Joe spun around. Two more men came in the window. The second looked just as big and mean as the first and held a twin to the first man's .45. The third man was small, thin, and pale. His pig-eyes were deep-set and small.

"Gentlemen," the thin man said in a tinny, high-pitched voice, with all the charm of a cobra, "making a special delivery?"

"We were just leaving," Frank said quickly. He turned to leave, hoping none of the men saw him tuck the envelope into his jumpsuit.

The first man moved to the door and leveled his .45 at Frank's chest. Frank noted the gunman's casual, businesslike expression.

"It's rude, just running off and leaving your guests," the small man said. His thin-lipped smile stretched from cheek to cheek.

"Hey, man," Joe said, "we got about ten more deliveries before we can knock off work. I don't want to miss the big game on the tube tonight."

The thin man's expression hardened. He nodded, and the second thug moved to the other side of Joe, his .45 aimed at Joe's stomach. The two thugs now flanked the Hardys.

"Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Mr. Rock," the thin man said with a nod to the thug next to Frank. "And this is Mr. Hard Place," he added with a nod to the thug next to Joe. "You two must be Mr. Stuck and Mr. Between."

The thin man laughed, his high-pitched giggles echoing in the room. "Get it? Stuck between a rock and a hard place?"

"Real funny," Frank shot back. "My partner wasn't kidding. We could get fired if we don't — "

"Shut up," the thin man growled. He walked over to Frank. "You look very familiar to me," he said. "Have we met before?"

"No," Frank replied coolly.

"Let me introduce myself. I'm Fat Harold." The thin man was visibly disappointed that neither Frank nor Joe seemed to recognize his name.

"Fat Harold?" Joe said in disbelief. "A weed like you couldn't get wet running around in the shower."

Fat Harold laughed. Frank grimaced at the grating giggle.

"This is why they call me Fat Harold." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a two-inch-thick wad of folded bills. He began flipping the bills as though he were counting them.

Frank's and Joe's eyes widenedm — all the bills were hundreds.

"You're a bookie," Frank stated.

"Very good, kid," Fat Harold said with a smile as he put the money back into his pocket. "And you're no delivery men."

"Should I kill them now, Mr. Harold?" Rock asked.

Although the question startled Frank, it was the thug's calm tone that disturbed him most. Rock sounded as if he had asked about ordering a pizza.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary," Fat Harold replied. "It's obvious that these two are looking for the same person we are. You see, boys, my pocket change is actually a little short this week, thanks to a thief named Biker Bob Conway."

Frank and Joe glanced at each other.

"Ah, so you know the little welsher. Good. What's he into you for?"

Joe stared at him, confused.

"About ten grand," Frank answered quickly, realizing that Fat Harold was assuming he and Joe were bookies also.

"Petty cash." Fat Harold was unimpressed. "Conway owed me nearly a quarter of a million in bad debts."

"Owed?" Frank asked.

"He missed his last payment deadline when they caught him with the watches."

"Watches?"

"Yeah. Some harebrained scheme of his to pay me two hundred and fifty grand by stealing some watches from the company he worked for," Fat Harold explained. "I didn't get my money or my watches."

"Why did you think he'd be here?" Frank asked.

"I got a call from a little birdie about an hour ago saying Conway would be here," Fat Harold replied. He stared suspiciously at Frank. "What brings you two to these lovely surroundings?"

"Uh, we knew Frost and Conway were friends and thought we'd find one of them here, get our dough," Frank said quickly.

"What happens now?" Joe asked.

"Now I'll take Conway in nice little pieces," Fat Harold said slowly. "It'll be worth a ten percent finder's fee for you two boys if you find him and give me a call."

"Sounds great," Frank said.

"Here's my card."

Frank looked at the business card Fat Harold handed him. No address or name — just a distinctive number 555 - BETS.

"Cool," Frank said. He stuck the card in his back pocket.

Fat Harold stared at Frank's face again. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"

"Positive," Frank answered.

"I don't know," Fat Harold said thoughtfully. "Something about you ... Rock, check his ID."

Frank stepped back to confront Rock, but froze when the big man stuck the .45 against his chest. Rock pulled Frank's wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open.

"His name is Frank Hardy," Rock said, handing the wallet back to Frank.

"Frank Hardy," Fat Harold said slowly. He walked across the room to the window, rubbing his chin in thought. He snapped his fingers. "Hardy! That's who you look like."

Fat Harold stared at Frank's face. "When I first started out in this business, an NYPD detective named Fenton Hardy made my life miserable. He was the only cop who ever put me in jail." Fat Harold walked around Frank. "Yeah, you look like a younger Fenton Hardy." Fat Harold's voice began to sound amused. "Maybe like his son!"

"Hey, man," Joe said. He stepped toward Fat Harold, only to be shoved back by the barrel of Hard Place's .45.

Fat Harold held out his hand, and his thug handed over Joe's wallet. "Another Hardy, huh?" Fat Harold's nasal laugh echoed in the room. "The sons of Fenton Hardy. You almost had me believing you were bookies."

His expression became cold, hard, deadly. "Kill them." The bookie's voice sounded almost bored as he turned and headed for the window.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Harold," Rock replied.

After he had exited through the window, Fat Harold leaned back in from the fire escape and said, "Rock, make sure you get my business card back. Nothing personal in this, boys. We're just settling an old debt. I spent two years in prison because of Fenton Hardy. Two years for two sons. Sounds fair."

His laugh bounced off the walls in the alley as he climbed down the fire escape.

"Let's have the card," Rock ordered. Frank took it from his pocket and flipped it at Rock.

"Stand over there," Rock ordered with a wave of his gun. "Lace your fingers behind your heads."

Frank and Joe moved toward the center of the room, hands behind their heads. Both were looking for an opportunity to escape, but Rock stood behind them and Hard Place in front.

"Like Mr. Harold said," Rock began as he walked around in front of Frank and Joe, "nothing personal. We're just doing our jobs. Kneel down."

Just a job, Frank thought. If not for the guns, Rock and Hard Place would look as if they were taking orders behind the counter at Mr. Pizza.

The two thugs slipped six-inch silencers from their pockets and screwed them onto their pistols. They checked their safeties and locked the hammers into firing position.