Tagged for Terror (7 page)

"As a matter of fact, there is," Frank replied as an idea came to him. "Can you get access to the computerized personnel files?"

Gina's gaze turned away from him and wandered around the room. "Gee, Frank, I don't think so," she said. "My computer access is limited to the reservations system. I doubt if I could get anywhere near the personnel records."

"Too bad," Frank said. Gina seemed upset by his request, so he decided not to press the issue.

"Well," Gina said, "I guess I'd better get back to work."

Joe watched her walk down the corridor. "Too bad she's taken," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Come on, Joe," Frank called. "We're going to have to find another place to stash this stuff."

Joe stared at him. "Why?"

Frank picked up the leather fishing-rod case and tossed it in the cart. "Don't you think it's a little strange that Gina was wandering around the storage area? I don't see too many passengers checking in down here. Do you?"

"Gina?" Joe reacted in a startled tone. "Come on, Frank. You're starting to think everybody's a suspect."

"Everybody is a suspect," Frank said flatly. "You forget that sometimes." He picked up another bag and piled it in the back of the cart. "Let's get moving."

Frank spotted a room full of cleaning supplies and decided that would be a good place to store the luggage. He and Joe hid the stash in a corner behind a couple of waist-high barrels of industrial detergent. Then Joe grabbed some more supplies and stacked them on top of the bags. Unless someone was looking for the bags, they wouldn't be noticed.

"There's only one thing about this plan that bothers me," Joe remarked as they headed back to work.

"What's that?" Frank responded.

Joe looked over at his brother. "What do we do now?"

"Now we go on a fishing trip," Frank answered. "We dangle the bait to see what kind of fish bites."

"I see," Joe said, even though he didn't. "And what kind of fishing line do we have tied to this bait?"

Frank smiled. "One of the oldest lines in the book. 'We've got something you want. How badly do you want it?' "

Joe returned the smile with a grin of his own. "I get it. We drop a few hints here and there. Then we sit back and wait for the bad guys to come to us."

There was one problem with the plan, Frank realized at the end of the work shift. "We hardly know the other baggage handlers," he said to Joe as they walked out to the parking lot. "We spent all our time with Danny and Ted. Now Danny's in jail, and Ted's not around.

Joe nodded. "I made a couple of passing remarks to Cantu and Renshaw, but I wouldn't exactly call them friends."

Frank was silent for a moment, lost in thought. "Just because Danny's locked up," he finally said, "doesn't mean he can't talk to anybody. He can have visitors, right?"

"That's right," Joe agreed. "And if we have a little talk with him, he could pass that information along to somebody else."

"What are we waiting for?" Frank said. "Let's head over to the jail."

A short while later Frank parked their car in front of the county jail. It was a cold, imposing hunk of gray concrete. A uniformed police officer at the front desk took their names and told them to wait, nodding toward some uninviting orange molded plastic chairs. A few minutes later he called the Hardys back up to the desk.

"You're too late," the officer told them. "Your friend's already out on bail."

"Are you sure?" Joe asked. "I didn't think Danny had enough money to make bail."

"One of his friends put up the money," the officer responded.

Frank raised his eyebrows. "Who?"

"Sorry, we don't give out that information,' the officer responded. "But I can tell you the guy probably had money to burn. He kept asking me how long it was going to take because his Corvette was double-parked outside and he didn't want to get a ticket."

Joe waited until they were back outside to say, "Something tells me that Danny knows only one person with a Corvette — Ted Nance."

"The way Nance talked, though," Frank responded, "you'd think he was just as hard up for cash as Danny."

"I'm surprised Ted would go to the trouble to bail Danny out," Joe said.

"Unless they're both in this together," Frank ventured. "Ted might be afraid that Danny would talk."

They drove back to Danny's apartment and discovered that all his personal stuff was gone. His closet was empty, and his textbooks had been cleared out of his bedroom. Frank noted that even the cheap manual typewriter that Danny used for his homework had vanished.

"Either we're dealing with a very selective and not very bright burglar," Joe said, "or our friend has moved out."

"My guess is he went back home," Frank said. "What was the name of that town?"

"Porterville," Joe answered, remembering the name of the high school Danny had graduated from on Forrester's computer.

Frank rummaged around in his travel bag and pulled out a Georgia road map. "Here it is," he said, pointing to a tiny speck. "It's about ninety miles south of Atlanta." He glanced at his watch. "We'll go down there in the morning."

"Ted's family lives right here in Atlanta," Joe responded. "I remember how surprised I was that he lives with them even though he tries hard to reject them. Why don't we visit him tonight?"

In the phone book, Frank found the Nances' home address. A half hour later the Hardys were getting out of their rental car in front of a three-story, modern brick-and-glass house with a wide, manicured lawn and a fenced-in tennis court.

"Nice place," Joe remarked as they walked up to the front door. "At least we know that Danny told the truth when he said Ted's family had money."

He pushed the doorbell, and deep, rich chimes rang inside the large house. A uniformed maid answered the door and let them in after Frank explained that they were Ted's friends. She left them standing on the marble floor of the foyer while she went to announce them.

Joe tilted his head back and stared at the high, vaulted ceiling. "I'd hate to have to pay to heat this place."

"This is Atlanta," Frank reminded him. "It never gets very cold here."

"Oh, right," Joe mumbled.

A tall woman with white hair, dressed in a tailored gray business suit, came into the entrance hall. "I'm Helena Nance," she introduced herself. "I'm Ted's mother."

Frank took her outstretched hand. "I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe. We work with Ted at Eddings Air."

"I see," she said in a reserved tone.

"Ted didn't show up for work today, and he didn't call in," Joe said. "We wanted to make sure he was all right."

"He's not sick, if that's what you mean," Mrs. Nance responded. "But I don't know if he's all right. When I got home from my office, I found him throwing some clothes into a suitcase. He seemed very upset about something. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me he was old enough to take care of himself. Then he stormed out of the house. I have no idea where he went!"

Having failed to locate Ted, Frank thought it was even more important now to find Danny and talk to him. So Frank was up and ready to go at four the next morning.'

Joe was definitely not ready to go, but Frank dragged him along, anyway. "It's too early," Joe complained as Frank drove south toward Danny's hometown in the predawn haze. "Everybody will still be in bed."

"It'll be two hours later by the time we get to Porterville," Frank countered, "and people get up early in the country."

"Two hours!" Joe groaned. "I don't suppose we could stop and get something to eat on the way?"

Frank chuckled. "It's too early. Nothing's open. But we'll probably find some kind of restaurant or coffee shop in Porterville. We'll stop there, have breakfast, and see if we can get directions to the Minifee farm. If we're lucky, we may find some folks who can tell us something about Danny."

"Good plan," Joe said, "especially the part about breakfast." Then he drifted off to sleep.

Joe didn't wake up until Frank turned off the highway onto a side road. Five minutes later they were in Porterville. Less than a minute after that they had gone from one end of town to the other. Joe counted one stoplight, four stores, two gas stations, and one restaurant.

Frank pulled into the parking lot of the Porterville Cafe When the Hardys walked through the front door, every head in the restaurant turned to look at them. There was a moment of dead quiet, then the customers went back to eating and talking.

Frank and Joe sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. When the waitress brought their food, Frank casually mentioned that they were looking for Danny Minifee.

"I don't believe I've heard that name before," she said with a thin smile. "You must have the wrong town. Maybe he lives in Potterville. That's about seventy miles from here. People get the two confused all the time."

Joe watched as the waitress moved down the counter to another customer. "I don't think we're going to get much help here," he said to Frank. "These folks aren't going to open up to a couple of outsiders."

By the time they finished eating, the restaurant was nearly empty. Frank was about to ask for the check when a short, round man approached them.

"I heard you say you were looking for Danny Minifee," he said, glancing around the restaurant. "What kind of trouble is he in now?"

"What makes you think he's in trouble?" Frank responded.

"I'm Roger Starke," the pudgy man said. "I run the grocery store down the street." His eyes darted around the room again, and he lowered his voice. "That boy is crazy, if you ask me, and dangerous, too."

Joe couldn't believe what he was hearing. This man couldn't be talking about the same Danny Minifee, not the Danny that Joe knew. Maybe Joe didn't know Danny at all. Now was the time to find out about the real Danny Minifee.

FRANK STUDIED the jumpy little man. "What makes you think Danny Minifee is dangerous?"

"He tried to kill me once," the man claimed as he sat down on the stool next to Frank. "Back when his old man got sick and I gave his mother a job. I couldn't pay her as much as my regular workers. I only hired her because I wanted to help the family out, and I'm not made out of money!" the man shouted, pounding his fists on the counter.

"Hey, take it easy, mister," Joe cautioned.

"One day the kid shows up at the store waving a shotgun around," the man continued in a lower voice. "He accused me of cheating his mother out of what she had rightfully earned. Imagine that!"

Joe had no problem imagining what he'd do if he found out some tightwad store owner had taken advantage of his family's hardship to hire cheap labor. "So what happened?" he asked.

"The judge bought Minifee's story and gave him a suspended sentence." Starke shook his head slowly. "The way I see it, the law's too soft.

"Anyway," he concluded, "I just thought you should know." His eyes flitted around nervously again. Then he got up and abruptly left the restaurant.

"I don't believe a word of that guy's story!" Joe declared.

"That's good," another voice replied, "because there wasn't much truth in it."

Joe turned to see the waitress standing a few feet away. "What do you know about it?" he asked.

The waitress sighed. "Everybody in town knows about the bad blood between Danny Minifee and Roger Starke. Danny was only about fifteen at the time. The two of them had words, and Danny was carrying his father's shotgun — but it was still in the case. I think he was taking it to the hardware store for some repair work."

The three of them talked for a few more minutes, and the waitress finally agreed to give the Hardys directions to Danny's house, which was only a short drive out of town.

Frank couldn't help thinking the farm was a little like Danny himself, neat and unassuming. The white frame house had been painted recently, and rows of bright flowers lined the side of the house and walkway leading to the front door. Frank wasn't surprised to see Danny's pickup truck parked down near the barn.

They found Danny fixing an old tractor. "I figured somebody would come looking for me," he told them. "But I didn't think it would be you. What are you doing here?"

"We want to help you," Joe replied.

"Tell us everything you know about the luggage theft operation," Frank said.

Danny's expression hardened. "I never stole a single piece of luggage."

"But you know people who did," Frank prodded.

Danny fixed his eyes on the ground. "I wasn't sure until yesterday. When Ted bailed me out, he admitted that he was responsible for that stuff that the police found in the apartment."

Joe stared at him. "He told you that he planted the jewelry and the silver tags?"

Danny nodded. "And he was the one who knocked you out, Frank."

Joe frowned. "Why would Ted go to all the trouble to frame you and then bail you out?"

Danny shrugged. "Ted's not really bad. He just got in too deep with some bad people. It was all a game to him until I got arrested. When he realized I might get convicted and sent to prison, he tried to undo the damage."

"You mean he went to the police and confessed?" Frank responded.

"Ted?" Danny laughed. "No, he's probably halfway to Mexico by now. He promised to write a letter clearing me. That's about the best I can hope for." Danny smiled. "You must think I'm a real dumb country boy."

"No," Frank said. "I think you're a pretty smart guy, and the smart thing to do is go back to Atlanta and tell the police what you know."

"What do you think this is?" Bob Briggs bellowed when Frank and Joe showed up very late for their shift. "Some kind of vacation resort?"

"Sorry," Joe said. "We ran into a little traffic." He left out the minor detail about the small detour that took them almost two hundred miles out of the way.

"It won't happen again," Frank assured the foreman.

Briggs scowled. "If we weren't already shorthanded, I'd fire you on the spot. I added some guys from the other shifts, but you two had better pull more than your weight if you want to keep your jobs. And I expect you to work overtime to make up some of the time you missed this morning," he added.