Collision Course (3 page)

"Just about the only old-fashioned part is the open cockpit. It seems as if it would make more sense to cover it with a smooth canopy — just ar they've covered everything else."

"Except the tires, of course. The tires are something of a technological feat themselves," Joe said.

Frank noticed that the rear tires were larger than the front ones and almost twice as wide. "Almost no tread," he observed.

"Touch one of them," Scott suggested. "It's a special rubber. It's sticky. At the end of a race the rubber looks like it's about ready to drip off the wheels. The tires last only about three hundred miles. One race and that's it."

Joe pointed to the V-8 engine. "This is a little old-fashioned, too. They've eliminated turbo-charged engines."

Scott nodded. "They were generating just too much power. Formula One racing was getting too dangerous."

"As if it isn't dangerous now," Frank said, thinking of Angus McCoy's car at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. "It looks a lot like the cars they drive at the Indianapolis 500."

"It is a lot like an Indy car," Scott agreed. "There's a lot of cross-breeding between Grand Prix and Indianapolis. Rear-mounted engines, wings, and ground effects were all developed in Formula One before making the jump to Indy. Indy cars outweigh Formula One cars by about three hundred pounds—even though they carry less fuel and have smaller wings."

"Why the differences?" Frank asked.

"Different conditions," Joe said. "There are pit stops in a two-hundred-fifty-mile Grand Prix race, so you have to start with all the fuel you're going to need. And the wings on a Formula One car have to handle a lot of different and tight turns. Indy cars go in one direction around nice, banked oval curves."

"All of this technology must take a lot of money," Frank commented, looking at Scott.

Scott laughed and said, "There's an old saying in racing circles 'Speed costs money. How fast do you want to go?' " He glanced from one brother to the other. "Did you guys come down here to discuss my finances?"

"No, no," Joe replied quickly. "We just came by to see how things were going."

"Well, they could be better," Scott said.

"Was everybody pretty shook up about the crash yesterday?" Frank ventured.

"I hate to sound callous," Scott responded, "but that's the least of my problems. I feel bad about McCoy, but the show goes on. This is a dangerous profession. At Indy, if there's a big accident on the course, they delay the race until they clear away the wreckage. In a Grand Prix race, they just stick in a guy with a flag to warn you that you're about to drive into a disaster area. McCoy's not the first world champion to die in his car — not even the first to die during time trials.

"I guess if they got really concerned about the dangers, they'd stop having races on the open road. But Grand Prix racing is just starting to catch on in the U.S. now. Cities like Dallas and Detroit realized they could make money off Formula One racing without spending any money to build a track.

" "These cars may be safer than they were twenty years ago, but fatal crashes still aren't all that unusual. A lot of drivers assume that's how they'll go."

Scott scowled. "My problem is far more immediate and practical. One of my crew just got up and quit, and we still have a lot of work to do."

He paused for a second, then looked at Joe.

"Hey, Joe, you said you wanted to get your hands on one of these babies. Here's your chance. It's not driving, but it's hands-on experience. How would you like to join my crew for a few days? Just until the race is over."

"Sure!" Joe blurted out, before his brother had a chance to say anything.

Frank glanced at Joe out of the corner of his eye and then shifted his attention back to Scott. "Actually, we did want to ask you a few questions, Scott," he began.

"No problem," Scott interrupted. "Maybe later. Right now Joe and I have a lot of work to do. Right, Joe?"

Joe hesitated for a moment, torn between his brother and something he had dreamed about — the chance to be part of a Grand Prix racing team. Maybe McCoy's crash had been a simple accident, he told himself. Even if it wasn't, Scott couldn't be responsible for it. Suddenly, finding out who was responsible didn't seem so important.

"Right!" Joe heard himself say, agreeing with Scott.

Scott Lavin put his arm around Joe's shoulder, 1 and together they walked away without Frank.

After checking out the garage for an hour or so, Frank left alone. He didn't know if he should be mad at Joe or worried or both. There's no hard evidence against Scott Lavin, he reminded himself. But Joe's judgment was clouded by friendship and fast cars. If Scott's setting him up for some reason, Joe won't see it coming. In fact, Scott could have offered Joe a job just to get us off the case. Scott knows our reputation.

All these concerns ran through Frank's head as he got in the van and drove off in the direction of Phil Cohen's house. At a traffic light he opened the glove compartment and checked to make sure the electronic device was still where he'd put it before going into Scott Lavin's garage.

Frank didn't know a lot about race cars, but he was sure this thing didn't belong on one. It looked like it had been rigged from something intended for another purpose. But what was its purpose now? Frank still didn't know.

If anyone could find out, it was their old friend Phil Cohen. Anything Phil didn't know about electronics wasn't worth knowing. Frank parked the van in front of the Cohens' house, took the metal object out of the glove compartment, and walked toward the front door. A passing car caught his eye — a silver gray Lotus sports coupe. Not too many cars like that around Bayport, Frank thought.

He shrugged off a nagging feeling that he had seen the car before and rang the doorbell. No one answered. He waited a minute and then tried knocking. Still no response. Frank started to walk back toward the van, and then he realized that Phil was probably out in the garage.

Phil's passion for electronic gizmos had threatened to engulf the Cohen house. They spilled out of Phil's bedroom and into the guest room. Finally, his folks had exiled his electrical empire to the garage, which was fine with Phil. It meant he could work late at night without waking anybody up.

Frank followed the path from the house to the door on the side of the garage. He could hear Phil singing inside. "Sounds more like a goose honking," Frank muttered. "But at least it means Phil's home."

Frank knocked on the side door. No answer, Phil just kept singing. Frank knocked again and greeted by more loud goose noises. He tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and saw Phil sitting at a workbench, facing away from the door, wearing a pair of small · headphones from a portable cassette player.

Something's strange about those headphones, frank thought. But what? He looked more closely. There were no wires leading to the cassette player lying on the workbench. But Phil was obviously listening to something because his head was nodding in time to a beat Frank couldn't hear.

Frank walked over and tapped Phil on the shoulder. Phil jumped up, knocking his chair over in the process. "What — " he exclaimed. "Oh, it's you," he shouted over the music in his ears. Phil took off the headphones and handed them to Frank. "Check this out. I'm working on a set of cordless headphones. Not exactly a radical concept, except I'm trying to come up with an infrared sender-receiver small enough for a handheld portable cassette player."

Frank noticed that the tape player on the bench was wired up to a black box with an infrared sensor. The box was larger than the tape player. "Still needs some work," Frank observed.

"Yeah. Well, but you know me—I'll just keep hacking away until I figure it out. Then I'll patent it and retire on the royalties." Phil grinned. "Think you could figure this out?" Frank asked, handing over the piece of evidence from the fatal crash.

Phil took it, turned it over, inspected the connections of a few of the exposed wires, set it down on the workbench, and began methodically attacking it with a screwdriver. He took off the face plate and revealed several intricate circuit boards. After fiddling with it for a few minutes he said, "I'm not sure. It could be some kind of radio receiver."

Frank nodded. "That's what I thought. But to receive what kind of signal?"

Phil shrugged. "I'd have to run some tests," check out a few things. What's this all about, Frank?"

Frank told Phil everything he knew, and then something clicked in his head. "Check it out completely, Phil. Let me know what you find out."

"It could take a while."

"That's okay. I'll call you later. Right now there's something I have to do."

Frank got back in the van and started driving toward the Bayport Fairgrounds, which had been temporarily transformed into makeshift garages and pits for the race. Something Phil had said about royalties reminded him of the writer, T. B. Martin. Frank was hoping he could find him at the fairgrounds.

It wasn't a straight drive to the fairgrounds. Like much of downtown Bayport, the fairgrounds were blocked off from regular traffic for the duration of the race. Frank parked the van about half a mile away and walked the rest of the Instance. He didn't get there until seven o'clock. if He found Martin in the aluminum shed that served as the portable garage for McCoy Racing. writer was talking to Reinhart Voss, the number-two man on the McCoy team. Martin realized Frank and waved him over. "Frank Hardy, right? I wanted to talk to you and your brother. I'm working on the final chapter of McCoy's biography. It may sound gruesome, but I want to get eyewitness descriptions from everybody who saw the crash."

"Let's make a trade," Frank replied. "Answer a few questions for me, and I'll tell you what I know."

"Sounds good. What can I tell you now that you didn't get out of me yesterday? You guys sure ask a lot of questions. Maybe you should be writing a book."

"Will you make royalties off the sales of McCoy's biography?" Frank asked.

"Posthumous autobiography," Martin corrected him. "Sure. For every copy sold, I'll make a few cents. It won't make me rich, but if the hook hits the best-seller charts, I won't have to worry about a paycheck for a while."

"What happens to McCoy's share of the profits now that he's dead? Do you get it all?" The writer eyed Frank suspiciously. "If you're asking if I'd benefit from McCoy's death, my answer is no. Dead or alive, McCoy's share goes to a company called Clarco Industries. It's in contract."

Martin paused and then said, "What are you getting at, anyway? The crash was an accident, wasn't it? Do you know something that I don't?! "Nothing yet," Frank responded. He noticed that it was starting to get dark out. "Listen, it's getting late. I've got to go."

"Okay—but you owe me an interview!" Martin called after him as Frank headed out the door. Somehow the day had gotten away from Frank, The late start threw him off. He jogged back to the van. It was dusk, and he had to turn on his headlights for the drive back to Scott Lavin's garage. He knew that Scott and his crew would be finishing sometime soon, and he wanted to be there when Scott closed up the garage.

Unlike the out-of-town drivers and racing teams that had to make do with temporary arrangements on the fairgrounds, Scott still kept a private garage in Bayport. Frank had noticed a sophisticated burglar alarm system on his earlier visit, and that was what interested him now.

Frank pulled the van into a dark alley across from the garage, took out a pair of binoculars, and waited. Finally three figures emerged. One of them was the mechanic, one was Scott Lavin, and the third was Joe Hardy. Frank felt bad. He was spying on his own brother.

Frank lifted the binoculars and focused on . The burglar alarm control panel was on the side of the garage. Anyone trying to get in couldn't even open the doors for a second without setting off the alarm. Scott opened the control , and Frank shifted the binoculars slightly to in on the control panel. There was a calculator style keypad with an LED display screen at top. Even in the dark, Frank could see the sequence of glowing numbers that Scott quickly pressed in: 3 - 3 - 1 - 4 - 6 - 1. The alarm was activated, ! Scott closed the control box. Frank watched the trio depart and then waited few more minutes. He climbed between the two front seats into the back of the van and opened the tool chest. "Let's see, I'll need the flashlight — and this — " he muttered, taking out a flat case and slipping it into his back pocket. Then he opened the back door of the van, hopped lightly to the ground, and closed the door softly.

He walked across the street casually, approaching Scott's garage as if he owned the place. Frank strolled right up to the burglar alarm and flipped open the control box. He looked around to make sure no one was in sight. Then he turned back to the control panel and punched in the same sequence of numbers Scott had used earlier. 3 - 3 - 1 - 4 - 6 - 1. Finally he pressed the Alarm Off button. The burglar alarm was now deactivated. No problem. Now came the tricky part. The door was locked, of course, but Frank was prepared. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the soft leather case that he had taken from the tool chest. Unsnapping the cover, he opened the case, revealing an assortment of thin metal strips in variety of lengths and widths — a lock-pick set.

Breaking and entering didn't rate high on Frank's list of favorite investigative techniques. If things had gone down differently, he might have had Joe set up a diversion while he searched the place in broad daylight. But he was working alone now, and he didn't have a whole lot of time. In a few days the race would be over, and Scott Lavin would pack up and head out for the next Grand Prix race, probably in another country. Any chance of uncovering evidence would be gone.

Frank wasn't planning on taking anything. He ' was just going to look around—to see if he could find any radio equipment that might provide a link to the mysterious device now in Phil Cohen's workshop.

He worked the lock like an expert. The Bayport police frequently gave home security seminars, complete with demonstrations of the various burglary tools used to break into houses. Frank always made it a point to attend the classes.