Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Running on Empty (8 page)
Once they had found Chet, Frank vowed, he would help Emmy find the man who had killed her father.
As the trio approached the office door, Cronkite stepped out, his temples pulsing rapidly from anger and the gum he was smacking.
"Well, if it isn't the Bayport wrecking crew." Cronkite's smile was plastic, mocking.
Emmy remained silent, pushed past Cronkite, and entered the inner office, slamming the door shut.
Frank was about to follow when Cronkite cut him off.
"You two yahoos want to explain yourselves this time?"
Frank and Joe ignored the question.
Cronkite pulled on his mustache. "You know what I just heard on my car radio? Some citizens reported a gun battle at the Skyway Parking Garage. They also saw a black van leaving the scene. By the time my officers arrived, all they found was a burning TransAm. No driver. No bodies. You two wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"We got a call from Smith," Joe said. "He wanted to meet us there."
"Why?" Cronkite asked.
"We never found out," Joe said. "Two gunmen showed up and tried to kill us."
Cronkite seemed unconcerned. "Maybe you can ask him tomorrow morning," he said.
"What do you mean?" Frank asked.
"We're busting Smith's place, at dawn, just like the cavalry."
"You can't do that," Joe protested.
Cronkite snorted. "Oh, yeah? And why not?"
"He's our only link to Chet," Frank replied.
"That's not your problem any longer. You two are out as of this minute."
"I thought we had forty-eight hours," Frank said.
"Forget it. The captain's real anxious to close this case."
"What about Max? Emmy thinks Smith may be using the salvage yard hotline to move the parts." Frank had the uneasy feeling that his hunch about Cronkite was right.
"Max? That cornflake?" Cronkite laughed.
"You've got to give us a little more time," Joe said sternly.
"The only thing I got to do," Cronkite replied, his bulldog face squeezed into a tight frown, his finger thumping Joe on the chest, "is make sure you two cowboys don't get in my way."
"Let's get out of here, Joe," Frank said before Joe could say anything. "It's obvious that Detective Cronkite is right. We'll just be in the way."
Joe knew his brother well enough to realize that Frank was putting on an act. He didn't know what Frank was scheming, but he trusted Frank and would go along with him. He followed his brother to the van.
"Uh, Frank," Cronkite said from the doorway of the office. Frank turned. "I would think such a smart 'detective' as you would know better than to withhold evidence."
"What are you talking about?"
"I stopped by Brooke's place before I came here. That man can't keep a secret." He held out his hand. "I'll take the tape, if you don't mind."
"It's at the motel," Frank lied.
Cronkite turned the answer over in his head for a moment, then sneered, "Just make sure it gets into the proper hands."
Frank and Joe hopped into the van. The detective gave a mocking, insincere wave as they pulled away from Royce's Garage.
"So, what's brewing?" Joe asked after they had gone several blocks.
Frank fingered the tape. Something about the background noise bothered him, but that would have to wait.
"Head for the motel," he replied. "We'll get a few hours' rest and then start the raiding party a little bit earlier than planned."
"You read my mind." Joe smiled as he gassed the van.
***
Frank and Joe stood outside the dark and empty chop shop dressed in the black pullovers and pants they kept in the van for nighttime surveillance. They canvassed the outside of the building, trying to find an easy way in. The building was large, and the early-morning full moon threw deep shadows down the side of the building. They stopped in the back alley.
Joe glanced at his watch. "This place is going to be crawling with cops in about an hour."
"When they get here," Frank began, wrapping a handkerchief around his right fist, "they're going to have to file a breaking and entering report."
Without hesitation, he smashed his hand through one of the blackened windows. Glass shards shattered on the concrete floor inside the warehouse.
Joe looked up and down the alley. "All clear."
Frank reached through the broken pane, carefully avoiding the razor-sharp edges, unlocked the window, and threw it open.
He and Joe climbed inside and stood in the large, dark, open warehouse. Joe flipped on his penlight. The metal skeleton of Uncle Ed's Caddy sat on blocks, parts lying around it, some in boxes, some in the open. The old woman's sports car was nowhere to be seen.
They sprinted across the warehouse to Smith's office.
Frank turned the doorknob. Locked. He had expected as much. He stepped back and kicked the door open.
Joe stepped inside, shut the door, and flipped on the light. Except for a metal desk, a chair, and a wastepaper basket, the office was empty.
No Chet.
Joe wasn't really expecting to find his friend in the office, but he was still disappointed.
"Maybe there's something in the desk," Frank said, reading the frustration in Joe's face. The desk was nearly as empty as the office. A phone, several bills, and an auto parts catalog were on the desktop; the drawers were empty. Frank sat down at the desk. He was puzzled by a large rectangular area of dust on the desk.
Upset by the lack of clues and the stone wall they seemed to have run up against, Joe grabbed the thick catalog and flung it across the office.
"I don't know what you expected to find," Frank said, thumbing through the stack of bills on the desk as he continued to eye the dusty spot. "It's not as though Smith would keep a record of stolen parts lying around."
"You're right." Joe kicked the wastebasket. "But you'd think there'd be something.
They're moving three, four cars a week here. And we're not talking station wagons and sedans, but expensive, classy cars. I don't care what Cronkite says, Smith has someone fencing the parts for him. Even crooks keep tabs to make sure their thieving friends don't steal from them."
Frank wasn't listening. He was staring at the large dusty spot. Something about the shape looked familiar. He closed his eyes and tried to remember where he had seen that shape before.
Frank's face lit up in a smile.
"What is it?" Joe asked.
"Remember last spring when Aunt Gertrude made us clean everything in our rooms?"
"What about it?"
Frank ignored the impatience in Joe's voice and traced the outline of the rectangle. "You know how clean I keep my desk, especially the area around my computer. After Aunt Gertrude insisted I take everything off my desk, I found that dust had gathered under my computer."
"So what?" Joe said.
"It looked just like this," Frank replied, continuing to trace the dusty rectangle.
"Then there is a record!" Joe was suddenly excited. "But where's the computer?"
"Someone must have tipped Smith about the raid, and he took the computer with him."
"He could have just burned the floppy discs," Joe said.
"Smith doesn't seem to be the type who would bother with floppy discs. My guess is that he had a hard drive "He still could have erased the hard drive's memory."
"If you had thousands of dollars of inventory on a hard drive, would you dump it all?" Frank didn't wait for Joe to answer. "It's easier to carry the computer out and start all over someplace else."
"Didn't you say that Paradise Salvage used a computer to track down car parts?" Joe asked.
Frank picked up the phone bill and flipped it open. He smiled again. The phone bill recorded hundreds of dollars' worth of computer modem charges from Smith's garage to a rural number outside of Southport. Frank picked up the phone and dialed the number.
The other end rang several times.
"Come on, come on," Frank grumbled.
"Hello," a man's sleepy voice finally said.
Then the garage was filled with a grating noise. The uproar drowned out the man's voice. Frank slammed the phone into its cradle.
"The garage door." Joe's whisper was barely audible above the clamor. He turned off the light.
He cracked the door just enough so he and Frank could peer across the warehouse floor.
A thin man stood silhouetted against the large opening, the dull yellow of a lone streetlight casting the man's shadow the entire length of the warehouse.
The garage door reached the top and stopped. The renewed silence was deadly.
The thin man lifted what appeared to be a five-gallon can. He poured liquid from it on the wooden crates and stacks of tires. He tossed the rest on the fifty-gallon drums of toxic solvent and pressurized oxygen-acetylene tanks.
Once the can was emptied, he tossed it toward the back of the warehouse. The can bounced and spun and slid until it hit the office door with a thud.
Vapors from the can burned Joe's eyes and throat.
The man lit a match, the flame's yellowish glow illuminating the pinched features of Snake, his face twisted in a triumphant smile.
Snake tossed the match to the floor. An eerie whoosh! filled the garage, and Snake disappeared behind a wall of angry thick flames.
In two seconds the flames fanned out through the warehouse, lapping up the gasoline in a feverish gorge, engulfing the wooden crates, tires, fifty-gallon drums, and welding tanks.
The crunching of the flames was joined by a loud grating as the garage door began its descent - trapping Frank and Joe inside a giant, monstrous furnace!
Frank and Joe bolted toward the closing garage door. The inferno cut them off from the doorway and the windows around the garage. Flames and heat chased them back to the office.
Joe flipped on his penlight. "No windows here!" he said, coughing.
Smoke was filling the small office space. The Hardys fell to the floor, where the air was fresher.
The white paint on the plywood walls turned brown, then cracked and bubbled and smoked. The plywood itself began to pop as it reached its ignition point, finally bursting into flames.
"The ceiling!" Frank shouted above the infernal roar.
Joe followed Frank's finger. The ceiling was nothing more than suspended cork tiles.
"Maybe we can climb through to the beams and work our way behind the flames to one of the windows," Frank explained.
They jumped to their feet. Frank leapt on top of the desk and punched a ceiling tile with both fists. It crumbled to the floor, dusting Joe.
Frank sprung up, grabbed a steel beam, and hoisted himself free of the office. He moved aside as Joe jumped up and grabbed a beam.
Joe had no sooner pulled himself through the opening when the office walls collapsed inward, tearing down the ceiling as well.
Like skilled aerialists, Frank and Joe made their way, hand over hand, across the garage to the window Frank had broken minutes before.
"It's blocked!" Frank shouted. "We've got to go back."
"Where? The whole place is on fire!"
Joe was right. The fire was raging out of control. Every square inch of the floor and walls was covered with burning oil and solvent and tires. Even the steel beams were getting hot, slowly burning their hands.
"There!" Frank shouted, pointing.
Ten feet ahead of them, in the garage's ceiling, was a trap door that led to the roof.
"I see it!" Joe shouted, choking from the fumes.
Cautiously, they made their way toward the trap door. They ignored the pain of the hot steel beams, the toxic smoke, and the fire that snapped at them from below.
Frank reached the small square door. He boosted himself on top of the beam and pushed up. It was locked. "Hold me!" he yelled.
Joe boosted himself up, too, and held on to the back of Frank's shirt.
Frank forced out all thoughts of the garage and the fire and the pain. The words of his karate instructor floated to the front of his mind.
Think through the object. Imagine your fist already on the other side.
With a terrifying scream and lightning quickness, Frank's jackhammer fist shattered the plywood door; the pieces fell and were instantly consumed by the flames.
He pulled himself through and then helped Joe out.
They rolled away from the opening, coughing out the smoke and poison fumes and sucking in large quantities of fresh air.
The tar on the roof began to melt. They hopped up and ran to the edge. The ground was twenty feet below them and solid concrete.
The roof heaved as an explosion rocked the building.
"The welding tanks!" Frank shouted. "They're like bombs."
They ran to the alley side of the garage. The drop was still twenty feet, but across the narrow alley was a Dumpster full of trash from a fast-food joint.
"It's our only chance," Frank said.
They backed away from the edge and jumped toward the Dumpster.
The soft, decaying food broke the impact of their fall. Garbage flew into the air and covered Frank and Joe.
"Yuck! What a smell," Joe pulled rotting bread and lettuce from his hair.
The crackling of the fire was joined by the sirens of fire engines.
Frank and Joe ran to the end of the alley and into their van. In seconds, stinking of smoke and rotting food, they were headed away from the fire - slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion.
Joe pulled a green leafy substance from his shirt pocket. "All of that, and we still don't know where Chet is!"
"Think again," Frank replied, using the phone bill as a fan to cool himself.
Joe shook his head and smiled.
Frank grabbed the van's cellular phone and punched the number on the lighted digital buttons. He hit the intercom so Joe could hear.
It rang twice and the same sleepy voice said, "Hello. Paradise Salvage."
Frank hung up.
"Just a harmless old hippie," Joe spat out.
"Yeah." Frank combed his hair back with his fingers. "I had a feeling about Max yesterday, but Emmy and Cronkite had almost convinced me I was wrong." He held up the phone bill. "This doesn't prove Max's got Chet, but it does prove Max and Smith are connected."
