Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Blood Money (3 page)
"I don't believe it," Chief Peterson said. He was sitting behind a large gray metal desk, a lot of papers fanned out in front of him that he had obviously been studying until Frank interrupted him. Now he was staring up at the source of the interruption with a half-shocked, half-pleased expression on his face.
Frank Hardy stood in the doorway of the chief's borrowed office, looking slightly ill at ease.
"This case isn't twelve hours old, and the boy genius is here to help already." Chief Peterson gathered up some of the papers he'd been studying and slipped them into a manila folder. "Where's your brother? Working with the detectives?" the chief asked, smiling to let Frank know he was kidding.
Frank smiled back and nodded. "He is. Joe's downstairs with Lewis and Emily Moran."
"I give up!" Peterson threw up his hands. "What took you so long?"
"We just got into town."
"Well, you might as well have a seat," the chief said. He indicated a chair in front of the desk.
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the shooting?"
Peterson laughed out loud and shook his head. "Matter of fact, I was just going to call your dad and tell him about this."
"So you also think this has something to do with Moran's will?" Frank leaned forward, catching a glimpse of the police report on the shooting, which lay open on the desk. Poletti's record was the top sheet of the file.
"No, I think this has nothing to do with the will," Peterson replied.
"But I thought you said - "
"I was going to tell your dad not to worry when he read about this. As far as we can tell, this is a case of jealousy. Two men fighting over the same girl."
"The papers thought that it might be the start of a gang war," Frank said.
Peterson pursed his lips. "I don't think so. Poletti's only involvement with the Moran crime family seems to be with Emily."
Frank nodded. "The papers also said you hadn't charged him with anything yet."
"That's true," the chief said. "But Lewis and I are hoping he'll confess - the evidence is pretty convincing."
"I don't know," Frank said slowly. "I just can't see Poletti killing Carew - "
"Why? Because he's a former Heisman winner? A lot of things could have happened to him since then. We don't really know anything about him," Peterson said.
Frank nodded a little sheepishly.
Just then, a bell began ringing outside in the hall. Frank raised his eyebrows. "What's that?" he asked.
"That," Peterson said, standing up, "is the coffee cart - more popularly known around here as the 'roach coach.' " He smiled at Frank. "Come on - I'll buy you a soda."
Frank rose and followed him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to eat anything from a "roach coach."
***
"How could anyone get locked inside a closet - inside a police station?" Emily asked.
"I don't know if it is a 'someone,' " Lewis said, shaking his head. He rapped the door sharply with his knuckles, then stood for a moment with his ear pressed to the door, listening. "But something's in there, all right. I'll see if I can find some keys." He disappeared down the hall.
"Hang on!" Joe yelled at the door. "We'll have you out of there in a second!"
In fact, it took more than five minutes for Lewis to return. All the time Joe and Emily Moran stood, listening to the muffled thumping on the other side of the locked door.
Finally Lewis arrived with a ring of keys about the size of a softball; the fifth key opened the door.
A man, hands and feet bound behind his back and a gag stuffed into his mouth, lay on his stomach next to the door.
Lewis rolled him over.
"It's Ed!" Lewis said, bending down and undoing the man's gag. Joe helped Lewis untie the man's bonds and get him into a sitting position. The man began taking in huge gulps of air.
"Take it easy," Lewis said, kneeling down by him. "Are you all right?"
"What happened?" Joe asked.
"Beats me," Ed said, his words punctuated by faint gasps. "I was coming out of the service elevator when I hear this noise behind me. Next thing I know, I'm lying in this closet all tied up - with a whopper of a headache. Somebody thumped me over the head but good!"
Lewis looked puzzled. "What would anyone want to knock you out for?" he asked, shaking his head.
"What do you do around here?" Joe asked, kneeling down next to Ed.
"Him?" Lewis spoke first, before Ed could answer. "He's from the food service company. Runs the coffee cart."
***
"What can I get you today?"
The coffee cart, Frank saw, was similar to the pushcarts that were rolled up and down the aisles of airplanes. This one had sandwiches and an assortment of beverages and snacks.
"Where's Ed?" Chief Peterson asked.
"Oh - he called in sick today," the man pushing the cart said. He was a couple of inches shorter and a few years older than Chief Peterson, with graying hair that hung almost to his shoulders. He had on a white button-down shirt and black pants.
"Anything serious?" Peterson asked, rummaging through the contents of the cart. He picked up a sugared doughnut and looked at it longingly.
"Might be - I wouldn't count on seeing him for a while," the man said, shrugging. "That's fresh," he said, pointing at the doughnut the chief had picked up.
"Looks it," Peterson said. "But I'm on a diet." He patted his stomach and put down the doughnut. "Give me a decaffeinated coffee - black. And I'll take one of these." He picked up a small bran muffin and shook his head ruefully. "Good for the old ticker, they tell me," he said.
The man behind the cart nodded and handed Peterson his coffee. "That's what I hear, too. You got heart problems?"
Peterson shrugged. "Nothing serious."
"Good. Just make sure you take it easy," the man behind the cart said.
"I plan to," Peterson said. He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. "That's good coffee. Almost tastes like the real thing."
"I'm glad you like it," the man behind the cart said. "It's a fresh pot." His eyes were the most piercing shade of blue - almost a purple, really - that Frank had ever seen. They were also remarkably unlined for a man who otherwise looked to be in his late forties.
"You want something?" the chief asked Frank.
"A cup of coffee, maybe?" the man asked.
Frank shook his head. "Joe and I had a big lunch."
"Okay, then." The chief nodded to the man behind the cart. "See you later."
"Take it easy," the man said, and disappeared down the hall.
Frank and Peterson returned to the office the chief was using and sat down again.
Peterson took a bite of the muffin, and then another sip of his coffee. "Anyway, no, I don't think this has anything to do with the will. We have about fifteen witnesses who saw Carew and Poletti get into a shoving match on the Brooklyn Heights promenade early yesterday evening. Poletti threatened Carew in front of all of them."
Frank nodded. "One of the other beneficiaries could be setting Poletti up - "
"In order for somebody to get a lot more money, he'd have to knock off Johnny Carew and Billy Delaney - the heads of two of the largest East Coast crime families. Nobody's that dumb." Peterson wiped a hand across his forehead and grimaced. "It feels hot in here all of a sudden. Did they turn up the heat?"
Frank shook his head. "Feels the same to me."
The chief loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Anyway, not only would they have to kill Carew and Delaney, they'd have to get at yours truly, the chief of police. And how are they going to do that?"
"I see your point, but - "
Frank looked at Peterson. The chief was really sweating now, and he also looked very gray. "Are you all right?"
Peterson shook his head. "I'm not sure. I feel dizzy, I - " He stood suddenly and gasped, swaying on his feet.
Frank was at his side in an instant to help ease him back down in his chair. The back of Peterson's shirt was drenched in sweat.
"Frank," the chief said slowly, a look of horror spreading across his face. "I'm having a heart attack!"
"I just hope whoever's got the cart hasn't wrecked it," Ed said, leading Lewis down a long, narrow hallway. Joe trailed a few paces behind; they had left Emily with one of the officers in charge of the holding cells. "I'm responsible for whatever happens to it, you know."
"Let's just find the guy," Lewis said. "Then we'll worry about what he's done."
And why, Joe added silently.
The basement of the police station was a maze of identical cinder-block corridors. Again, Joe was reminded of high school: any second, he expected to hear bells ring and to see students pour out of classes into the halls. There were even lockers along one wall, he saw.
As they crossed another corridor, Joe heard a noise off to his left. He turned and looked in that direction.
About fifty feet away a man in a white shirt had his back to them. He had long gray hair and was stooped over, and he was pushing a food cart with a coffee pot on top. A police officer was walking next to him, and the two were talking animatedly.
"Hey," Ed said, stopping so suddenly Joe almost crashed into him. "That's my cart!"
"Hey!" Joe yelled. The man in the white shirt and the police officer both turned.
"Stop that man!" Lewis called out.
The officer recognized Lewis. With a puzzled look on his face, he reached for the man walking beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder to detain him.
The man in the white shirt straightened up, and it was as if he'd shed twenty years. He moved like lightning, spinning to free himself from the policeman's grasp. He continued his spin into a side-kick. His foot slammed into the officer's chest, sending him crashing against the wall.
The officer slumped to the ground and lay still.
The man in the white shirt shoved the cart out of his path and raced off down the hallway. The cart smashed into the wall, spilling plastic-wrapped pastries and coffee all over.
"Hey!" Ed yelled." "Look what that guy did!"
"Forget it - go get help," Lewis told Ed, physically turning him around and pointing him in the direction they'd come from.
The second the officer hit the wall, Joe was racing full tilt after his assailant.
As he sped through corridors, Joe quickly realized two things. The man he was chasing was fast - and he couldn't be as old as his stooped-over posture had suggested. Or if he was old, he was in fantastic shape, because Joe, who was anything but slow, was losing ground.
He bore down harder. The corridors were deserted. As Joe ran, the only sounds he was aware of were his own labored breathing and the squeaking of his sneakers on the linoleum floor.
He was still losing ground, though he told himself that all he had to do was keep the man in sight - after all, he was trapped in a police station. How could he possibly escape? Up ahead, Joe saw his quarry disappear to the left, as the corridor they were running down ended.
Joe slowed. Lewis jogged up beside him, breathing heavily.
"He turned down here," Joe said as they came to the end of the corridor.
Off to their left, about twenty feet away, was a bank of elevators - and the mysterious man in the white shirt, who stood there, waiting silently.
"You can't get away," Lewis called out. "Why don't you make it easy on yourself?"
The man said nothing. He seemed completely unconcerned by their presence - as if they couldn't do a thing to stop him, whatever he decided to do.
"Give it up," Joe added, continuing to move toward him. Behind them, he could hear running footsteps - more police, no doubt, coming to help them. "You're outnumbered."
The ghost of a smile crossed the man's lips - and at that second the elevator doors opened.
The man stepped inside quickly.
Joe, who was about five feet away, sprang toward him, just as the door was starting to slide shut.
The man spun into another side-kick. But Joe was ready for it. He sidled out of the way, so the kick only caught him a glancing blow.
It still felt as if he'd been struck with a lead weight. He bounced off the closing elevator door and landed on the floor just outside the car.
Joe struggled to his feet and launched himself into the elevator. Something hard slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. He reached up, trying to grab the man to stop him from getting away. He did manage to clasp something - just as another kick sent him spinning backward through the open elevator door.
Whatever he'd grabbed came with him.
Joe landed on the ground, flat on his back. He looked at what he was holding in his hand, then up at Lewis.
"It's a wig," Joe said, holding up a clump of gray hair. "The guy was wearing a wig."
***
"Stay calm, Chief," Frank said.
"My pills, Frank," Peterson gasped. He was having trouble catching his breath now. "Nitroglycerin - my coat pocket." He reached up with his right arm and shakily pointed to the back of the door.
Frank unhooked the coat and reached into the pocket to pull out a small bottle.
"That's it," the chief said. "Give them to me - quick." He took the bottle from Frank and tried to pop the cap off. But his arm was shaking so badly now that he dropped it on the floor.
"Hurry!"
Frank picked up the bottle and got a pill out. He placed it beneath the chief's tongue.
"It's not working," Peterson said, and now there was panic in his voice.
From his CPR course, Frank knew that whatever panic the chief was feeling was only making his condition worse.
"Try to stay calm," Frank said. "I'll get help." A group of three officers was standing just outside the door. "Call an ambulance!" he yelled. "The chiefs having a heart attack!"
They stared at him for a second, trying to place him.
But before Frank knew it, they were inside the office, snapping out orders. Two pulled the chief to his feet; the third spoke to Frank.
"We'll take a squad car."
The two officers carrying Chief Peterson held him as easily as if he were a baby and practically ran through the station and outside with him.
Would they get to the hospital in time to save him? Frank wondered as he climbed into a squad car. They were following the one carrying the chief. His mind ran on that treadmill until they arrived at the hospital emergency room. He and the police officers he'd ridden with spent half an hour in the waiting room, not knowing anything.
Finally one of the emergency room technicians emerged.
"He's over the worst of it," the man told them. "We seem to have stabilized his heartbeat. Took a long time to do it, though," he said, shaking his head. "Anyway, if you hadn't gotten him here so quickly - "
Someone tapped Frank on the shoulder just then.
Joe was standing there, looking concerned.
"Heard all about it at the station," he said. "How's the chief?"
"He's going to make it." Frank studied his brother, who looked somewhat disheveled. "What happened? Did you run all the way?"
"We had a little excitement of our own," Joe said. He told him about the intruder at the police station. "Anyway, by the time we got out to the street, the guy was gone. And nobody had seen him or anything." Joe shook his head. "Lewis is still trying to figure out why this guy was so anxious to impersonate a coffee vendor ... " His voice trailed off suddenly as he caught the look in his brother's eye.
In Frank's mind, things were starting to click into place. "The chief started having his attack a few minutes after drinking his coffee," he said.
"You think he might have been poisoned?" Joe asked.
"All we can do is find out."
They waited until Peterson's own doctor had arrived and finished briefing the police. Then they pulled her aside and told her about their suspicions.
"Chief Peterson's been very good about taking care of himself," she said thoughtfully. "I'm surprised that this attack came on so suddenly. Let me run a blood test, check for poison. It'll take a couple of hours," she added. "So make yourselves comfortable."
By this time a large crowd of police officers and relatives had assembled outside the emergency room. Among them, Frank caught sight of Detective Lewis and Chief Peterson's wife, Anne. He and Joe crossed to her side and sat down with her, to wait for the test results. Almost two hours to the minute, they had their answer.
"The chief was definitely poisoned," his doctor said. "We found traces of an amphetamine in his system. The drug would have simulated all the symptoms of a heart attack - palpitations, shortness of breath, chest pain, and would probably have been fatal to him, without his nitroglycerin pills and prompt treatment. If you hadn't gotten him here so quickly ... " Her voice trailed off.
Frank thought of the unexpected circumstances that had led him to Brooklyn and to his talk with the chief and what might have happened if he hadn't been there to reach those nitro pills when the chief started having his attack.
"You think this might have something to do with the will?" Joe asked, pulling his brother aside.
Frank pursed his lips. "I do. Granted, there are probably a lot of people who'd like to see the chief dead, but this, right on the heels of Carew getting shot - "
Joe broke in. "I think we'd better call Dad to make sure he's okay."
Frank nodded grimly. "And then we'd better find out a lot more about that man in the white shirt - before he strikes again."
