In Plane Sight (3 page)

Davidson shook his head. “Nah. I'm just a middleman, mostly as a favor to Ben Hawkins. How's his China trip going, by the way?”

“Pretty well, I guess,” Jamal replied. “He'll be back next week.”

“Too bad I can't hang around until then,” Davidson said. “In fact I can't even stick around for dinner. My ride's waiting outside. So, if you'll just sign here and take the keys . . .”

“We should check out the plane first,” Frank said.

“Don't worry, guys,” Jamal said. “Davidson's an old friend of Dad's. If he says it's okay, I'm sure it is.”

“The Hawkins family knows where I live,” Davidson said, smiling. “I wouldn't even
try
to put one over on them. I had the airport mechanic check the plane earlier, just in case. He says it's ready to fly.”

“Great,” Jamal said. He signed the delivery receipt and gathered up the keys and ownership papers. Davidson handed him a pouch to put the paperwork in. As he did, a waiter appeared on the other side of the table and laid down some bowls of pastry-topped French onion soup.

“Too bad I have to miss the chow,” Davidson said. “Good luck with the plane, kid. You've got my office number if you need me. You'll find everything in order, though. She's a beaut.”

“Aside from the paint job,” Joe said.

Davidson laughed. “Yeah, aside from that.” He shook hands with them and headed out the door.

“Smooth talker, that guy,” Frank said.

“Yeah. He went to college with Dad. You should hear some of the stories about him.” Jamal arched his eyebrows.

“Maybe after dinner,” Joe said.

The teens took their seats and started the first course. Soon they were joined at their table by Clevon Brooks on one side and a businessman named Tony Manetti with his personal assistant, Rita Davenport, on the other. Manetti was a tall, solid-looking man with slicked-back hair. He wore
a dark suit with thin pinstriping. Davenport was a pretty woman, with an attractive face and dish-water blond hair. Rose-tinted glasses, which almost matched the color of her dress suit, partially obscured her gray eyes.

“You guys seem pretty young to be attending the show,” Ms. Davenport said after they'd finished their salads. “Are you shopping or showing?”

“We're picking up a Sullivan custom plane,” Jamal said.

“Oh, yeah?” Mr. Manetti replied. “You're not another dot-com millionaire, like that Chow girl, are you?”

The Hardys and Jamal laughed. “No,” Frank said, “we're just helping out Jamal's dad.”

“Good,” Manetti said, relieved. “I'm getting sick of meeting kids who're richer than me! That Sullivan job you're picking up—is it a good plane?”

“One of the best,” Jamal replied.

“Mr. Manetti's shopping for smaller planes at this show,” Ms. Davenport said, “but maybe we'll check out a Sullivan sometime.”

“This would be a good place for it,” Joe said. “We've seen quite a few at the show already.”

The rest of the dinner was excellent, though the conversation flagged during the main course, stuffed pork chops. As dessert arrived, the presentation began. Opening remarks by Elise Flaubert gave way to a lecture on the future of aviation by
Dr. Sirkin, a former space shuttle mission specialist and professor from Cal Tech.

Brooks abruptly excused himself during the speech. “Old rival,” Rita Davenport whispered to the teens. She and Manetti didn't stay much longer, though. “Long day tomorrow,” Manetti explained.

The professor gave a good speech, and Jamal and the brothers sat in rapt attention. After Dr. Sirkin finished, though, the talks quickly became less interesting and more technical. The Hardys noticed Jamal's eyes straying toward the exit.

“Let's head out,” Frank whispered, “and check out Jamal's new plane.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jamal replied.

Joe nodded his agreement, and the three boys quietly left the big hangar. The air outside was nippy, and their breath hovered like ghosts over their heads.

“Maybe we should stay in the plane rather than on the campground,” Jamal said, zipping up his old fleece-collared aviator jacket.

“Where's your sense of adventure?” Joe kidded him.

“Frozen, I think,” Jamal replied.

“That new Sullivan custom will get your heart beating again, I bet,” Frank said. He jogged across the airfield toward where they'd seen the maroon-and-magenta plane parked. Joe and Jamal followed.

As they passed by the brick administration office, though, Joe suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” Frank asked.

“I just saw a flashlight beam across those frosted windows,” Joe said.

“You think there's a power outage?” Jamal asked.

Frank shook his head. “The exit light's working. Power's working. So I'm thinking someone's sneaking around.”

3 Unscheduled Appointment

“Check the front door,” Frank said. They moved quickly to the main entrance of the administration building.

“Locked,” Jamal said, trying the door.

“It could be a security guard,” Joe remarked.

“We won't know unless we check it out,” Frank said. “Let's try the back.”

“I'll stick around here,” Jamal said, “in case whoever it is comes out.”

“Good plan,” said Joe. “Stay alert.”

“Shivering will keep me awake.”

Frank smiled. “I'm betting your aviator jacket is warmer than our letterman jackets.”

“I'll take that bet after you catch this guy,” Jamal said. “Now get going before I freeze to death!”

The brothers quickly hiked around the side of the building to the rear entrance. The window where Joe had seen the light was on the second floor, which occupied only the rear corner of the building. A flat roof near the front doubled as an observation deck, with a patio table, chairs, and—incongruously, considering the time of year—a big lounge umbrella in the middle.

The Hardys passed beneath the window as they went, but they saw no more lights. They quietly tried the lock on the rear door.

“Taped open,” Frank whispered.

The brothers crept into the darkened building and quickly found an exit stairway leading up. After cautiously mounting the steps, they entered a short corridor running between two pairs of second-floor offices. The offices had frosted glass windows and doors.
ELISE FLAUBERT—ADMINISTRATOR
was painted on the glass of one door. A slender beam of light peeked out from under that door.

Frank and Joe each stood on either side of the door, and Frank put his hand on the doorknob. On a silent count of three, he pushed the door open, and both brothers barged into the darkened office.

“Hold it!” Frank said, speaking to a figure lurking in the dark shadows on the far side of the room.

“What's going on here?” Joe asked, trying to make out the identity of the black shape behind the desk.

Instead of answering, the intruder doused his
flashlight and dashed his hand across the desk. Papers filled the air. The plastic in-out box sailed past the Hardys and smashed against the far wall. As the brothers ducked to avoid the impromptu missile, the burglar opened a sliding door behind the desk and ran out onto the rooftop terrace.

Skidding on the spilled papers, the brothers scrambled across the room and out the door after him. The burglar ran across the roof, grabbed on to the ledge, and lowered himself onto the side of the building.

“Jamal!” Joe called. “Cut him off!”

“Cut who—ow!” Jamal's startled voice drifted up from below.

The brothers reached the side of the building and lowered themselves just as Jamal got to his feet again. “I didn't see him coming,” he explained. “He knocked me down. Took the wind right out of me.”

“Who was it?” Joe asked.

“I didn't get a good look,” Jamal replied. “He was dressed in black and was wearing a ski mask.” He leaned against the side of the building and tried to catch his breath.

“Call security!” Frank shouted back to him. Both Hardys took off after the rapidly disappearing figure.

The burglar moved quickly. He darted between two of the planes lined up along the edge of the tarmac and went into one of the dark hangars.

The Hardys opened the hangar door, then jumped
back as a falling metal bucket clanged onto the floor.

“Nice makeshift trap,” Joe said, eyeing the big metal pail on the floor.

“You can compliment him
after
we catch him,” Frank replied.

Careful of more traps, they moved quickly into the interior of the hangar.

“Shoot! I can't see anything in here,” Joe said.

“I think I hear him toward the back,” Frank said, heading in that direction.

The old metal hangar housed a number of planes, their hulking shapes obscuring the room beyond. Large, rectangular shapes loomed out of the darkness—toolboxes, the brothers assumed from their silhouettes. Air and water hoses and power cords snaked across the floor. The Hardys had to move cautiously so as not to trip.

“There's a door in the back,” Joe said.

“I see the exit light,” Frank replied, “but I don't see anyone.”

“He couldn't have gotten out any other way,” Joe said. He moved to the door while Frank kept watch behind them.

“It's unlocked,” Joe said, “and I hear someone outside.”

He and Frank burst through the door into the alley behind. As they exited, they nearly plowed into a swarthy man with a dark bandanna, who was pushing a trash cart and toting a broom. Lettering
above the pocket on the man's jumpsuit read “Jose.” The man looked startled to see the teens, but didn't appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“Did you see someone come this way?” Joe asked.

Jose shook his head. “No,” he replied. “No one has come this way.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? What are you doing here?”

“I'm doing my job,” Jose said. “I clean the hangars at night. What are
you
doing here?”

“We were chasing someone who broke into the administration building,” Joe said.

Jose's eyes widened. “That's very bad,” he said. “You have contacted security, yes?”

“We sent for them,” Frank replied. “Are you sure you didn't see anyone?”

“I am sure.”

The brothers looked around but saw no sign of anyone else behind the hangar. There were several smaller maintenance buildings nearby, but no trace of the intruder.

Frank scratched his head. “We've lost him,” the elder Hardy said. He and Joe took a final look through the deserted hangar, then headed back toward the administration building.

“I'd have suspected that janitor,” Joe said as they walked, “but he wasn't sweating or breathing hard.”

“There must have been some other way out of the hangar that we didn't spot,” Frank said.

They saw a light on in the administrator's office when they arrived. Having gone up the back stairs once again, they found Elise Flaubert and Jamal standing in the center of the office, amid the scattered papers. With them was a middle-aged, droopy-faced security guard whose badge read “Mitchum.”

“So, you didn't get a good look at who did this?” Mitchum asked Jamal.

“Sorry,” Jamal replied. “He knocked me down before I could recognize him. My friends, Frank and Joe, went after him, though.”

“But we didn't catch him,” Frank said, entering the room.

“Sorry,” Joe added. “He lost us in one of the hangars.”

“Well,” Ms. Flaubert said, “it doesn't look as if anything's been taken. These show registration papers are in a real mess, though.”

“Why would someone break in, then not take anything?” Frank asked.

“I'll ask the questions here,” Mitchum said. “You think you're a detective or something? Maybe you boys interrupted this thief before he could take anything.”

“Why mess up the place then?” Joe asked.

“Maybe he couldn't find what he was looking for,” Mitchum replied. “Is the safe okay, Elise?”

Elise Flaubert opened a closet in one wall to
reveal a bulky old safe about the size of a minifridge. “Looks fine,” she said.

“The cops will want to talk to you boys,” Mitchum said, noticing the flashing red-and-blue lights appearing outside the frosted windows. “You all wait here. I'm going to check the grounds and see if I can find any clues.”

“Good luck,” Frank said.

Mitchum scowled at him.

“Has the welcoming dinner finished?” Joe asked Ms. Flaubert.

“No,” she replied. “I had stepped out to attend to some business when I ran into Jamal. I hope this doesn't turn into a big incident; I don't want anything to disrupt the show.”

“I think that's probably up to the police,” Frank said, looking at the stern-faced officer coming through the office door.