The Crisscross Crime (5 page)

“Exactly,” Con said. “Like I said, we made a mistake. I'm sorry we gave you a scare, Frank.”

Frank decided to come clean about their adventure of the night before. “You didn't make a mistake,” he said. “That was our van.”

Con crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Okay, fellas, out with it. I want the whole story.”

Frank let Joe recount the story of the chase with the black sedan, including the miniaturization of their mother's car at Ron's Salvage.

Con looked at both Hardys angrily. “You should've called us about this last night,” he said.

Joe looked at his shoes. “We wanted hard evidence first,” Frank said.

“Hard evidence? This changes everything,” Con said. “We thought the same guy set off the First City alarm and then robbed Bayport Savings. Now we've got two guys in a black car, an ex-con, and some junkyard owner named Ron Quick. It looks like we've either got a whole gang of criminals or just one big wild coincidence.” He sucked in a deep breath, then took off his cap and scratched his head. “Are you sure it was Bart Meredith you saw at the scrap yard?”

“Positive,” Joe said. “He might be this van Loveren woman's accomplice,”

“Did Stendahl tell you about her?” Con asked.

“He seems pretty sure she set things up,” Joe replied.

“Well, I'm not as sure as Stendahl,” Con said. “We questioned her last night but didn't get anything.”

Frank saw that Con had cooled down. “We were hoping we could get a look at the Bayport Savings tape so we could see for sure if Meredith's the bank robber,” he said.

“It doesn't show much,” Con replied. “But I'll make you a deal. Come by the station. Bring that video of your chase and I'll see if I can get you a quick look at the surveillance tape.”

“Deal,” Joe said.

Con turned and strode back to his cruiser.
“Thanks for the Meredith tip,” he said as he got in. “We'll check it out. And let me know if you come across anything else, okay?”

The Hardys didn't waste any time getting back into the van. “Let's get out of here before someone else decides I'd look good in a mug shot,” Frank said. “Ready to get the tape from Phil? I want to see what he found before we give it to Con.”

“I'm with you there,” Joe said. He checked his watch. “It's only ten. Let's give Phil more time while we follow up the van Loveren lead.”

Joe told his brother all the details of his interview with Alex Stendahl.

“Sounds like there's a pretty good case against this bank manager. All circumstantial, though,” Frank said when Joe had finished. “It makes sense, too. A dummy like Meredith would definitely need help planning a bank job.”

Joe retrieved the cell phone from the glove compartment and called information. “There's an S. van Loveren on High Street,” he reported. “Take the next right.”

High Street was in one of the fanciest neighborhoods in Bayport. The road curved around to a cliff high above the slate blue bay. Many of the huge houses were surrounded by stone and iron fences.

“Here it is,” Joe said. “Eight-nineteen High.”

Frank pulled over and they climbed out. The
massive redbrick house sat partly hidden behind trees and thick landscaping. Two stone lions stood guard on either side of an iron gate.

Joe buzzed the intercom and waited.

Frank pointed to a tiny camera perched up in one of the trees. “I'm getting tired of being on tape,” he whispered.

The intercom crackled with static. “Who's there, please?” a female voice said.

Joe looked at his brother. “Who are we this time?”

Frank pushed the button. “This is Frank and Joe Hardy. We were at Ron's Salvage last night, and we've got some questions for Miss van Loveren.”

“Miss van Loveren isn't taking any visitors.”

Frank started to push the button again.

“Forget this,” Joe said impatiently. He grabbed his brother by the arm. “Follow me.”

Joe led Frank down the block, carefully checking for anyone who might be watching them. Even though it was now midmorning, the street seemed deserted except for a dog barking in someone's backyard.

Joe found a place where the house was completely hidden from the street. “Give me a boost,” he said.

“You're kidding,” Frank whispered. “We can't just climb over the fence.”

“Watch me,” Joe said. He leaped high and
grabbed the top rung of iron. With a gymnast's agility, he hoisted himself up and dropped lightly down on the other side. “Coming?” he asked, before disappearing into the foliage.

Frank sighed. Now he had to follow. As he jumped for the top, he heard the barking again and realized the dog was in the yard they were entering. He reached the top and swung over, rolling forward as he landed to cushion the fall.

Now it sounded like more than one dog—more like two, maybe three. And they were close. “Joe!” Frank hissed. “Where are you?” He heard animals running—lots of footsteps.

With a ferocious growl, a black Doberman burst through the bushes less than ten feet from Frank. In two powerful leaps it was on him, fangs bared.

Frank held his forearm out for protection. The big dog slammed into him and Frank tumbled to the ground. His one thought was to protect his neck—he knew the dog would go for his throat.

He kicked out, finding the dog's ribs. It yelped in pain, then rushed him again. Frank could smell its hot breath as it bit at him again and again.

“Off! Off!” Frank heard someone shout. “Off, Mouse! Now!”

Instantly the dog withdrew.

Frank looked up to see a young woman with shoulder-length blond hair standing a few yards away. The black Doberman now sat next to her. She held an even bigger dog at bay with a thick leash.

“Mouse?” Frank muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans to get rid of the dog slobber. “That's a good name for a ninety-pound dog.”

“One hundred and ten pounds,” the woman said. The bigger dog lunged as Frank started to get up, but the woman yanked it back sharply. “And this is Bunny.”

“Figures,” Frank said, checking his arms for cuts. “He looks warm and cuddly.”

Bunny snarled.

“You must be Sylvia.” Frank found a rip in his T-shirt, but other than that, he seemed to be okay.

The woman nodded. “And you must be somebody Hardy.”

“I'm Frank.” Sylvia looked to be in her early twenties. Frank guessed she'd just gotten back from a jog—she wore running shoes and a navy blue shorts and tank-top outfit. “Where's my brother?” Frank asked.

“This way.” Sylvia led Frank around the hedgerow. “Are you by any chance related to Fenton Hardy?”

“He's my dad,” Frank said. “How do you know him?”

“He did some work for my father last year,” Sylvia said. “My father's investment company opened an office in Europe, and your father helped with background checks on all the new employees.”

They stepped into the side yard. There was Joe, perched high in a tree. Another Doberman, this one light brown, sat at the base of the tree, looking up hungrily.

“Off, Lemmy!” The dog trotted over to Sylvia.

“Lemmy?”

“Short for Lemming,” Sylvia said, smiling. “He's very loyal.”

Frank grinned. “So loyal he'd follow you over a cliff, right?”

Joe dropped down from the tree and strode over. “What's the idea of siccing those dogs on us?” he asked angrily.

Sylvia's smile disappeared. “What's the idea of trespassing on my parents' property?”

Frank looked at his brother. “She's got you there.”

Joe was still miffed. “Your parents' house? We thought this was your place.”

Sylvia attached leashes to Bunny and Lemmy. “You thought I could afford a place like this?” she said, giggling. “You must've fallen on your head when you jumped the fence.”

Sylvia started walking toward the house, motioning for Frank and Joe to follow. “My parents spend summers at a cabin in the mountains,” she continued. “I'm house-sitting for them. In the fall I move back to my crummy apartment.”

“See, Joe,” Frank said. “Nothing suspicious in that.”

Inside the house, Sylvia let the dogs loose and sent them scampering off.

“I overheard you guys talking about Dad,” Joe said. “Just because our fathers know each other doesn't mean there's nothing crooked going on.”

Sylvia froze. “Are you talking about the robbery?”

Joe nodded.

“Is your father investigating it?”

“He's in Switzerland,” Frank said. “But Joe and I had some questions.”

“That moron Stendahl sent you here, didn't he?” Sylvia said, leading the Hardys to a book-lined library.

“You and Stendahl don't get along?” Joe asked.

Sylvia sank into an overstuffed chair. “I'm going in this afternoon to tell him I quit.”

“It's that bad?” Frank asked.

“I can't keep working for someone who thinks I'm a criminal,” Sylvia said. “Besides, he treats his employees like dirt. Even though he's only president of tiny little Bayport Savings, he pretends to be some kind of jet-setter, flying overseas all the time. He leaves me to do all the work.”

Frank wandered over to a shelf and looked at the books. They all seemed to be very old. “Stendahl says the bank robber had information only you could've given him.”

“The police have already grilled me about
that,” Sylvia said. “I didn't know anything about it.”

Joe headed to an antique writing desk against the back wall. “Do you know a guy named Bart Meredith?”

“Never heard of him.” Sylvia looked at Frank. “You believe me, don't you?”

Frank didn't say anything.

“I was the one who sounded the alarm. Did Stendahl tell you that?”

“No,” Joe answered.

“Well, I did. Stendahl came running out of his office like a chicken with its head cut off. That's the dumbest thing to do. I stayed in mine and hit the remote alarm at my desk.”

“But the guy got away,” Frank said.

“Only because of that false alarm across town at First City,” Sylvia replied. “If they hadn't been chasing that down they would've caught the thief red-handed.”

Joe lifted up some papers on the desk. There, under the pile, was a pair of crisp new hundred-dollar bills.

“What are you doing?” Sylvia said, jumping up from the chair. “I didn't say you could dig through that stuff!”

“You always leave cash lying around?” Joe asked, holding up the two bills.

Sylvia seemed relieved. “Oh, is that what you were looking at?” She snatched the bills from
Joe. “Those are the newest additions to my collection.”

“Collection?”

“Yeah. Here, I'll show you.” Sylvia opened a file drawer in the desk and removed three or four manila folders. The Hardys watched over her shoulder as she opened the folders, revealing stacks of crisp currency.

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “There must be thousands of dollars in there!”

“Nope, wrong answer,” Sylvia said, handing the Hardys each a fifty-dollar bill. “Care to guess again?”

Frank rubbed the bill between his fingers. “Zero,” he said. His fingertips were smudged with green. “It's worthless counterfeit.”

“You win!” Sylvia said, pointing at Frank.

Joe held his bill up to the light. “Where'd you get these?”

“The bank, of course,” Sylvia said. “You'd be surprised how often customers come in with bad money.”

“Why would someone try to pass counterfeit bills at a bank?” Frank asked. “That seems pretty stupid.”

“Oh, most customers have no idea it's fake,” Sylvia said. “Somebody passed it off on them and they bring it in to deposit into their accounts. They can get pretty sore when the tellers inform them they've been ripped off.”

“That'd be a bummer,” Joe said. “How'd you end up with it?”

Sylvia blushed. “Technically, we're supposed to send all counterfeit back to the Federal Reserve. Every now and then, though, I offer to buy the bills from the customer.”

“So you
are
breaking the law,” Joe said.

Sylvia cringed. “I wish you wouldn't tell anyone. If I didn't buy these, the customer would get nothing. And besides, I figure all this counterfeit is safely out of circulation here with me.”

“Don't worry,” Frank said. “We won't tell, will we, Joe?”

Joe dropped his bill back on the desk. “No, I guess not.”

Frank picked up another hundred-dollar bill. The ink on this one didn't bleed. “How can you tell if they're no good?”

“Lot's of ways.” Sylvia opened another folder. “Here's a real hundred,” she said. “I keep it around for reference.” She held the bill out so Frank could see it. “First of all, the green ink is a special kind that doesn't photocopy well.”

“No way! You mean some people make counterfeit bills by putting money in a copy machine?”

“Sure,” Sylvia said. “It's actually illegal to photocopy currency unless you enlarge it at least one hundred and fifty percent.”

“Wild,” Frank said. “What else?”

Joe tried to act as if he wasn't interested, but found himself creeping closer to watch. “They make that ink in Switzerland,” he said, remembering his phone conversation with his father.

“That's right!” Sylvia said. “I'm impressed.”

“I know a few things,” Joe said.

“How about this?” Sylvia asked. She tilted the bill in the light. The number “100” in the lower right-hand corner shifted from green to black.

“Cool,” Frank said. “It's like a hologram.”

Sylvia then opened the center drawer of the desk and found a magnifying glass. She handed it, along with the bill, to Frank. “Look at Ben Franklin's collar,” she instructed.