The Curse of the Ancient Emerald (6 page)

Joe was right! Kruger wouldn't be careless enough to seek out someone he didn't know. Especially when he already knew someone who could organize a new identity
for
him.

“Is the name in there?”

“Randall Trethaway.”

“Address?”

Joe checked the files and nodded. “Dad kept his eye on Trethaway, too. His address is here.”

“Then we're in business.”

•  •  •

A half hour later I was studying Trethaway's house from the sidewalk. It was a single-story home, white paint peeling from old wooden boards. The windows were covered in wire mesh that was falling away from the frames, and the garden was filled with weeds and cluttered with old newspapers.

“Charming place,” muttered Joe sarcastically as we approached the front door.

“I think this is what Mom would call a fixer-upper,” I replied, knocking on the door. A tall, bald man answered, wearing neon surf shorts and a vest.

The man said nothing, just looked at us and took a big bite out of an apple.

“Are you Randall Trethaway?” inquired Joe.

“Might be. Who's asking?”

“My name is Frank, and this is my brother, Joe. We'd like to talk to you about Jack Kruger.”

Randall brightened at this, which surprised me. In my experience, no one was ever excited to talk to us about a case.

“So you've heard about my book?” said Randall.

“Uh . . . ,” I began.

“Yes,” Joe put in quickly. “We have.”

“You're a bit young for reporters.”

“We're trainees. First year,” explained Joe. “Hoping to . . . uh . . . break a big story.”

Randall nodded seriously. “Well, you came to the right place. Come on in.”

He stepped aside. I looked at Joe, who shrugged and stepped through the door. I followed, entering a sparsely lit living room.

There was an old TV shoved up against one wall. A ratty couch sat in the center of the room, and opposite that was a steel table covered with newspaper clippings. Buried beneath all of them was an ancient-looking laptop.

Trethaway looked around. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “It's the cleaner's day off.” He chuckled at his joke.

“Um . . . so, Mr. Trethaway. You were Jack Kruger's cell mate for how many years?” I asked.

“Ten,” answered Trethaway. “Ten years sharing a cell with one of the greatest thieves in history.”

“That's quite a claim,” Joe observed. “Is that the angle of your book?”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Trethaway,” I said, “have you been in contact with Kruger lately?”

Trethaway glanced briefly at his computer. It was the barest flicker of his eyes, but Joe and I knew to watch for things like that.

“ 'Course I have. Wouldn't be much of a book otherwise.”

“I see. It's just . . . we've tried to track down Mr. Kruger, but we can't find him.”

Trethaway smiled slightly. “Ah, well. It's hard to find a man if he doesn't want to be found.”

Joe tried a different approach. “You were in jail for fraud,” he said.

“Yeah? So?”

“Mr. Trethaway,” said Joe, “I don't want to be rude, but did you organize a new identity for Jack Kruger?”

Trethaway smirked. “Now, boys, that's not the kind of thing a man can go on record saying.”

Bull's-eye,
I thought. Before I could say anything, Joe asked where the bathroom was.

Trethaway nodded at an open door that led into a hallway. “Out there, turn left, second door on your right.”

After Joe had disappeared, I asked, “Mr. Trethaway, would you be willing to give us Kruger's contact details? It's really important for our piece.”

Trethaway shook his head. “He's served his time. He wants to start a new life.”

“If he wants to be left alone, how did you convince him to be featured in your book?”

“Let's just say a favor for a favor.”

I thought about this for a second, studying Trethaway's face. “Let me guess,” I said. “You supplied Kruger with a false identity, and he agreed to help you with your book?”

Trethaway shrugged. “You said it, not me.”

I wondered how much to tell Trethaway. Should I inform him that the Phantom was active again? But why was Trethaway so convinced Kruger just wanted to be left alone? And why would Kruger agree to have a book written about him if he was returning to a life of crime? It didn't make sense.

Joe returned from the bathroom and inclined his head slightly, indicating that we should go.

I stood up. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Trethaway. We appreciate it.”

“That's it?” said Trethaway in surprise. “You're not going to be able to write much of a feature with what you've asked me.”

“No.” I searched around for an excuse. “Not yet, I mean. We'll file a preliminary story at the
Bayport Bugle
, and when you've finished the first draft, let us know so we can write a more complete piece.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“When do you think you'll finish?” asked Joe.

“Another week or so.”

“So soon?” I asked, surprised.

“Been working on it for a year already.”

I nodded. “We'll talk later then.”

“What do you think?” I asked Joe once we were in the car.

“I think we wait for him to leave and sneak in through the bathroom window I left unlocked. Then I think we take a look at his e-mails,” he said.

I blinked, then smiled. “I think I like that plan.”

We had to wait a couple of hours before Trethaway left his house. We slid down in our seats as he headed off along the street. Then we slipped around the back of his house. We climbed through the window Joe had left open and hurried through to the living room.

I headed straight for the laptop and opened Trethaway's e-mail program. I scrolled through his in-box, making sure not to read anything that didn't seem related to Kruger. I had no desire to pry into the man's personal life. I already felt uncomfortable doing this; I had to remind myself that Kruger had threatened our family and friends and was going to commit another robbery that very night.

There were a number of e-mails addressed to someone called Stephen Brody. A quick scan of the messages proved that this was who we were looking for: the Phantom. But as I read further, I got a sense that “Brody” was incredibly reluctant about the whole thing. He frequently asked Trethaway to be let out of the “deal” he had entered into, and each time Trethaway did his best to convince Kruger/Brody that this was a good idea. That it would help him to get his story out. Trethaway mentioned movie rights, TV spin-offs, the works.

“Check his sent folder,” suggested Joe.

I switched folders and typed in the e-mail address Trethaway was using to communicate with Kruger/Brody, memorizing it as I did so. The search brought up a list of ninety-eight e-mails.

I scrolled back to the first one. If I was hoping for a convenient address and telephone number, I was disappointed. Which made sense. They would have created the fake identity before they started exchanging e-mails using this address.

“Frank!” said Joe urgently. “He's coming back!”

Perfect. I started frantically paging through the e-mails, skimming each one for contact details.

“How much time do I have?” I asked.

“About a minute, I think,” he replied.

I frowned and sped up my search even more. Nothing, nothing. Boring. Nothing.

“Thirty seconds!” said Joe. “We gotta go.”

“Just a bit longer . . .” There had to be something. Some clue, some—

There.

Trethaway had met up with Kruger/Brody at his place of work.

I noted the address, exited the e-mail program, then closed the laptop. As Joe and I rushed back to the bathroom and were climbing out the window, I noticed a pile of old magazines in the room across the hallway. At that moment I heard Trethaway's keys in the door, and I sprinted around the side of the house, joining Joe as we ran for our car.

F
RANK AND I DECIDED OUR
best move would be to track down “Stephen Brody” and turn him over to the police. That way, this whole thing could end without anyone getting hurt. We considered telling the police first, but if anything went wrong, the Phantom would be free to carry out his threats against our friends and family. We didn't want to risk that.

His place of business, an auto repair shop and salvage yard, was in an industrial area on the outskirts of town. It was filled with old, rusted car frames and piles of worn tires strewn amid weeds and metal barrels. A heavy pounding came from inside the garage itself. Flashes of blue light illuminated the dim interior as somebody used an arc welder.

Frank nudged me and pointed. Off to the right was a little office partition with glass walls.

Seated behind the desk was Jack Kruger. He looked just like the guy from the article we'd read about Dad catching him; this guy was just a bit grayer around the temples.

Adrenaline rushed through me. Here was the guy who'd been giving us such a hard time—the guy who'd set fire to a priceless painting, who had almost killed me with a sword. The office was the perfect place to confront him; there was nowhere for him to go.

Frank knocked on the door. I tensed, waiting for him to see us and launch into an attack. But all he did was put down the magazine he'd been reading and smile.

“Hi, there. What can I do for you?”

Frank and I glanced at each other uncertainly. This
was
the right guy, wasn't it? It certainly
looked
like the picture of Kruger from the newspaper.

“Mr. Brody?” said Frank.

Kruger got up and came around the desk. He lifted his hand. I tensed, but all he did was hold it out for Frank to shake.

“How can I help you? You got a car that needs fixing?”

“No,” I said. “No car. Actually, we're not looking for Mr. Brody.”

Kruger looked slightly puzzled. “Then who are you looking for?”

“Jack Kruger,” I said.

I watched Kruger carefully as I said his name. I expected anger, fury, a sudden attack. But all I saw was sorrow.

Kruger turned away from us and went back to his desk. “What do you want?” he asked heavily.

“Isn't it obvious?” said Frank.

He nodded. “Money, I suppose. How much?”

Frank shook his head in confusion. “We don't want money.”

“Then what? What will it take for you to leave me alone?”

“Hey. We're here to make
you
leave
us
alone,” I said.

Kruger stared at us blankly. Finally he shrugged. “Sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about.”

I took out the riddle about the samurai swords and dropped it on the table. He leaned forward and studied it, then looked at us quizzically.

“It's a riddle,” he said.

“Uh . . .
yeah
,” I said. “You sent it to us.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You did!” I insisted. “You're the Phantom.”

“I
was
the Phantom. This”—he waved his hand—“isn't me. Are you boys playing a prank?”

“No, listen. You sent this to us. I'm Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank.”

That got his attention. He rose slowly from his chair. “Hardy? As in . . . ?”

“As in Fenton Hardy's sons,” Frank explained.

I suddenly realized that Dad was responsible for putting this man away for fifteen years. He was probably going to hold a few grudges about that.

Frank and I exchanged looks, then took a small step back so we weren't up against the desk. But Kruger didn't notice. He hurried around the desk, went straight toward Frank, lifted his arm . . .

. . . and broke into a huge grin.

He gripped Frank's hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Finally I get to meet Fenton's sons! He mentioned you, back when he caught me. Apparently he nearly missed your third birthday, Frank, because he was after me.”

“I'm confused,” I said. “Why are you so happy to find out who we are?”

Kruger finally released Frank's hand. “Because getting caught was the best thing that ever happened to me. If it wasn't for your father, I'd probably be dead. Please, sit down.”

Frank and I took our seats slowly. To be honest, I was wondering if this was some sort of trick, but Kruger sat back down himself and leaned forward on the desk.

“I suppose you're wondering about the name change?” asked Kruger.

Frank nodded. “That and a number of other things.”

“Well, I can explain about the first. The thing is, when I was in prison, I realized how wrong I was. I was young when I was the Phantom. I had all these ideas in my head about being a modern-day Robin Hood. Stealing from the rich, that kind of thing.”

“Robin Hood gave back to the poor,” I pointed out.

“As did I. It was never made known, but I made sizable anonymous donations to various charities. But still, it was wrong. It took your father to show me that. When I got out of prison, I just wanted a fresh start. I knew I couldn't change my name legally. So I went to the one person I knew who could help me.”

“Trethaway,” said Frank.

“Ah, you've met, have you?” Kruger's face twisted with distaste. “I regret having to go to him, but I had no other choice. He agreed to supply me with a new identity, but only if I'd give him the inside scoop on my life as the Phantom. How I'd planned various heists, that kind of thing. All for this stupid book. I agreed, as long as he kept my new identity secret. Which it looks like he hasn't.”

For the first time since we'd been in his office, Kruger looked annoyed.