Trouble in Warp Space Read online

  “Look at all this stuff!” Joe said. “It looks like a retail store.”

  “I’ve never seen some of these items before,” Iola said, “and I checked up on Warp Space collectibles before we came to the shoot.”

  Frank poked amid the action figures, T-shirts, script pages, badges, toys, and other paraphernalia. “This stuff must have cost Stiller a bundle,” he said. “Or . . .”

  “Or Matt Stiller was responsible for the thefts around the lot,” Joe said, finishing Frank’s idea.

  “It makes sense,” Frank said. “In his position as gofer, he’d have access to most parts of the soundstage and offices. We were told that a lot of promotional items, like the toys, kept disappearing from the studio.”

  “And he’d know where they were working, and where it would be ‘safe’ to steal stuff from,” said Iola.

  Frank nodded. “The question is, why did he take all this?”

  “There are a lot of online auction printouts here,” Iola said, holding up a sheaf of computer paper. “I’d say he was researching the market.”

  “So Stiller was stealing the stuff to sell online,” Chet said. “What a creep. I’m almost happy that he’s in the hospital.”

  “Stiller being a thief doesn’t answer all our questions, though,” Frank said. “For instance, why did he cause the accidents?”

  “Maybe to cover up his other crimes,” Joe suggested. “Take a look at this.” He handed Frank a small star-shaped insignia pin. “Isn’t this the medal that was missing from the Slayer from Sirius costume?”

  “Yeah,” Chet said. “That’s the one they had to replace when I took over for Peck Wilson. You think Stiller knocked Peck out just to steal it?”

  “And set the fire to cover it up,” Frank said.

  Iola rummaged through the papers some more. “Here’s some script pages from that same day,” she said.

  Joe began searching, too. “And here’s some correspondence to other collectors,” he said. “Stiller was using a pseudonym for his inquiries, but apparently he thought that the value of his collection would go up if the show went off the air.”

  “Rarity does affect price,” Frank said. “If the show went out of production, they’d stop making collectibles. Therefore, everything associated with Warp Space would become more valuable.”

  “That is so cold,” Iola said.

  “Here’s the clincher,” Joe said, picking up a fallen trophy from the floor. “It’s for a kung fu tournament. I’d say the alien we fought on the soundstage was really Stiller wearing the mask he stole from Pekar.”

  “Where’s the mask, though?” Frank asked. “I don’t see it here.”

  “Maybe the burglar took it,” Chet suggested.

  “But why take only that one item rather than the computer, or something more valuable?” Iola asked.

  “This place is a treasure trove of valuable Warp Space collectibles, if a thief was looking to cash in,” Chet added.

  “Maybe he didn’t know what the Warp Space stuff was worth,” Joe said. “Or maybe we interrupted him, and he didn’t have time to take anything more.”

  Frank shook his head. “No. If he’d found what he wanted, he wouldn’t have waited around to be discovered. He must have been looking for something specific and didn’t find it—at least not quickly. Why rifle the apartment otherwise?”

  “So, what the burglar wanted might still be here somewhere,” Iola said.

  “The only way to find out,” Joe said, “is to keep looking.”

  “Do you think he smashed the computer to conceal evidence?” Chet asked.

  “Probably,” Frank said. “But we have no way of recovering whatever was on the hard drive. I’m afraid we’ll just have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

  So the four of them rooted through the items strewn about the apartment, looking for any clues to the burglar’s identity or objective. After three-quarters of an hour, Iola turned something up at the bottom of a pile of papers.

  “There are some e-mails here to Stiller,” she said. “Whoever wrote them seems to be encouraging Stiller to cause trouble on the set. They’re filled with rants about rich, spoiled actors who deserve whatever trouble they get.”

  Joe looked at the paper. “The return address is a Yipmail account. That makes it harder.”

  “Why?” Chet asked.

  “Because the service is free,” Joe said, “and you can access it from any computer. It’s a perfect way to send anonymous e-mail. I’ve heard of con artists setting up dozens of phony accounts in as many different names to bilk their marks.”

  “Stiller was using a Yipmail account, too,” Iola said.

  “So that’s a dead end,” Frank said.

  “I’d assume that the writer might be one of the cast or crew,” Joe said. “Certainly Stiller didn’t try to electrocute himself, and I doubt he could have been behind all the other problems.”

  “It seems like a lot of mayhem for one guy to cause,” Chet agreed.

  Joe jangled Stiller’s key ring, running his fingers through the various-size keys. “Hey,” he said, “what if Stiller had another place to stash his stolen goods?”

  “Like, where, Joe?” Iola asked.

  Joe held up a single key from the ring. It had a bright red plastic haft with the number 878 printed on it in white letters. “What’s this look like to you?” he asked.

  “The locker key from a bus or train station,” Chet said. “But that could be anywhere.”

  “I don’t think so,” Frank said, “he’d want a locker that would be convenient to use.”

  “The studio lot!” Iola said. “There are lockers there. I’ve seen them near the cafeteria.”

  Frank nodded. “That would be logical. Stiller could stash items there to take home later.”

  “Or he could store them there if they were too hot to smuggle out of the studio,” Chet added. “Like when the guards were alerted last night.”

  “I think we need to look inside that locker,” Joe said.

  By eight-thirty the Hardys and Mortons had returned to the studio. Because their prize gave them the studio trailer for the rest of the week, they had no trouble with the guards at the gate. A gentle rain had begun to fall, and the lot was quiet and dark, save for a single light in the production building. The guard told them that Sandy was working late.

  Since Warp Space had been shut down, the cafeteria was deserted. It didn’t take the teens long to find locker 878 in a row outside the building. The locker was about the size of a large breadbox, big enough for about two backpacks. Joe fitted the key into the lock, and opened the metal door.

  Inside lay the blue alien mask, a sheaf of stolen script pages, and a number of other, small Warp Space trinkets. One in particular caught the detectives’ attention.

  “A Spacefleet pager!” Iola said. “I’ve read about these. They’re very rare.”

  “It would probably fetch big bucks on the collectibles market,” Chet said.

  “It might fetch us more than that,” Frank said. “It might be the key to this mystery.”

  “How?” Chet and Iola asked simultaneously.

  “Look at these script pages,” Joe said, rifling through them. “They’re all dated today.”

  “That and the tight security last night means that everything Stiller took recently—within the last twenty-four hours—should still be in here,” Frank said.

  “Like the mask,” Iola said.

  “Stiller never got the chance to take them home because he nearly got electrocuted,” Chet added.

  “Right,” said Joe. “Unless the rifling of Stiller’s apartment is just coincidence—”

  “And I’m beginning to think that nothing in this case is coincidence,” Frank put in.

  “The burglar who rifled through Stiller’s apartment must have known Stiller wouldn’t be there,” Joe continued. “The intruder could even be the same person who tried to kill Stiller. Since the burglar didn’t find what he was looking for, it’s possib
le what he wanted is in this locker. That’s our best lead, anyway.”

  “It can’t be the pages,” Frank said, continuing his brother’s thought, “and it’s probably not the mask. Stan Pekar can make more of those.”

  “Which leaves the pager,” Chet said. “But even if it’s valuable as a collector’s item, why would that be so important? Why would someone try to electrocute Stiller for it?”

  “It might not be the pager,” Joe said, “but what’s in the pager’s memory.” He pressed the recall button and a number popped up. “Do you have our cell phone, Frank?”

  Frank nodded and pulled the phone out. He dialed the number and switched the phone to its speaker function.

  “You’ve reached the office of David August, senior producer at Monumental Broadcasting,” said a voice on the other end of the line. “If you’re a hotshot with a deal that can’t wait, leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Beep!”

  Frank switched the phone off.

  “So, it’s sabotage by a competitor,” Chet said. “Somebody here is working for Monumental Broadcasting.”

  “Warp Space is a new show,” Joe said. “It can’t be that much of a threat to another network. Despite its cult following, the show’s ratings aren’t great.”

  “I think,” Frank said, “it all boils down to who, besides Stiller, might benefit if the series went under. And how that person ties into Monumental Broadcasting.”

  “But how can we figure that out?” Iola said.

  “We can talk to Sandy O’Sullivan for starters,” Joe said.

  It didn’t take the four friends long to walk through the rain to Sandy’s office. They knocked on the door, and when there was no answer they went inside.

  The found the young writer/producer slumped over her desk. She looked exhausted, and her face was stained with tears. She wiped her red cheeks with her sleeve as the group came in. “Oh!” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.” She began to aimlessly straighten the papers on her desk. “I’ve got so much to do, just to shut this place down.” Her lower lip quivered and she bit it to keep from crying.

  “Sandy,” Frank said, “we’re sorry about the show. We’re also pretty convinced that Warp Space has been a victim of deliberate sabotage.”

  “Sabotage?” Sandy said, confused. “That’s crazy. Who would sabotage the show—and why?”

  “We’re hoping to find out,” Joe said, “and we need your help. Before we can find the saboteur, though, we need to ask a strange favor.”

  “What?”

  Joe looked directly into her eyes. “Can we see your Spacefleet pager, please?” he asked.

  Sandy looked puzzled, but she said, “Um . . . sure. I have it right here.” She pulled a pager, just like the one they’d found in the locker, from her belt.

  Joe and Frank looked at each other and smiled. “We’re glad you have that,” Frank said. “It proves you’re not the person behind all this trouble. Can you tell us who else has these pagers?”

  “Sure,” Sandy said. “Stan Pekar, Rod Webb, Claudia Rajiv, Peck Wilson, Bruce Reid, Geoff Gross, and two of the UAN execs who greenlighted the show.”

  “Good,” Joe said. “Now, we need two more things. We need e-mail addresses for all those people, and we need to take a look at their Warp Space contracts.

  “That would be highly irregular,” Sandy said. “I don’t think I could show you, legally.”

  “It might save the show,” Frank said.

  Sandy looked so torn that they feared she might break down again.

  “Tell you what,” Joe said. “We’ll tell you what we’re looking for, and you can check the contracts for us.”

  Sandy bit her lip again. “Um, I like you guys, and you’ve been very helpful,” she said. “But how do I know I can trust you?”

  “You can call Officer Con Riley at the Bayport PD,” Frank said. “He’ll vouch for our integrity. We promise not to reveal any contract details you divulge to us.” Frank wrote Con’s number on a piece of paper and handed it to Sandy.

  “All right,” she said. “If you guys check out, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Can you step out of the office for a moment while I make the call?”

  “Sure thing,” Joe said. He and the others stepped outside and closed the door.

  “What do we do after Con vouches for you?” Iola asked.

  “First,” Frank said, “we check those contracts. Then we set a trap for a saboteur.”

  15 The Message from Space

  A few minutes later Sandy reopened the door.

  “Well,” she said, “it looks like you’re on the level.” She handed Frank a piece of paper. “Here are the e-mail addresses you need. Come on in, I’ll show you the contracts.”

  “Great,” Joe said. “And could you do us one more favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could you get in touch with the people on that list in about forty-five minutes and have them check their e-mail?” Joe asked.

  “Okay, but why?”

  “Just tell them that you got a nasty flame and you’re wondering if they got the same garbage or if you should report it to the police,” Frank said. “It’d be best if you called them from home.”

  Sandy nodded. “Okay. So long as you call me immediately if your suspicions pan out.”

  “Sure thing,” Joe said. “Now, tell us about those contracts. Then we’ll need to send some e-mail.”

  “You can use my computer after I’ve gone,” Sandy said.

  • • •

  By nine-thirty the teens had checked the contracts, and Sandy had gone home to make her calls.

  “What now?” Iola asked.

  “We’re going to send an e-mail to the suspects in the case, demanding a ransom for the pager and the number it contains,” Frank said. “We’ll set up a meeting for midnight, and the person who shows up will be our criminal.”

  “We think we know who it is,” Joe said typing on Sandy’s computer, “but we need to erase any doubt. I’ll take a couple of minutes to set up a phony Yipmail account for us to use, then we’re golden.”

  “That’s why you told Sandy to call the suspects and have them check their e-mail,” Chet said.

  Joe winked at him. “Bingo. You’ll make rocket scientist yet.”

  “I’d settle for TV star,” Chet said.

  Frank and Joe took turns at working the computer for about fifteen minutes while Iola and Chet looked on.

  “There,” Joe said. “The trap is set. Now all we have to do is wait.”

  Chet folded his arms over his chest. “Waiting is the hardest part.”

  Midnight was still two hours away when the Hardys finished their setting up their blackmail scheme. They chose Warp Space’s bridge set for the ransom drop. They went to the bridge immediately after locking up Sandy’s office and set up a stakeout. They went over the set and the surrounding areas carefully, making sure that the saboteur wouldn’t be able to outmaneuver them.

  With an hour and a half to go, they selected places to hide and divided the tasks needed to make the trap work. They turned off all the regular lights so that only the displays on the consoles illuminated the room. Dim lighting was essential to their plan. Illumination from the multicolored control panels gave the set an eerie glow.

  “I’ll stand by the cell phone and hit the lights when we catch the saboteur,” Iola said. “The fire alarm is right by the light switch, so I can pull that in case we need help.”

  “Sounds good,” said Joe.

  “I’ll block the elevator exit,” Chet said. The carpenters hadn’t finished reassembling the set’s fake elevator after Joe’s brawl. Thus, it was an obvious avenue for escape. “There’s plenty of carpentry stuff and flats back there for me to hide behind.”

  “I’ll wait near the main entrance to the set, where they put the cameras,” Joe said. “That leaves the decoy job to you, Frank.”

  Frank nodded and pulled the blue alien mask over his face
. “We’ll have a bit of an advantage if the saboteur thinks I’m Stiller. The low lights will help with that deception,” he said, taking up a position near the bridge’s command chair.

  Chet checked his watch. “We’ve still got an hour and fifteen minutes left, guys,” he said.

  “If I were the criminal,” Joe said, “I’d get here early, to try to catch the blackmailer by surprise.”

  “Yeah,” Chet said. “That makes sense. I just hope I can stay awake. I’ve been working long hours lately, you know.”

  “In space, no one can hear you snore,” Frank said.

  The rest of the group chuckled. As the sound of their laughter died away, the soundstage door creaked open.

  “They’re early!” Iola whispered.

  Joe shook his head. “We’re set,” he said. “Everyone take your places.” He melted into the shadows near the front of the set. Chet quickly exited through the elevator. Iola followed him out and took her position near the fire alarm, fairly close to her brother.

  They all kept still, trying to make as little noise as possible. A few moments later they heard voices coming their way. “There are two of them!” Iola whispered. Chet nodded.

  Frank sat patiently in the command chair, waiting for the saboteur to arrive.

  The voices grew louder, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the darkness. A moment later Bruce Reid and Jerri Bell walked into the dim light of the control room.

  “Not the end of the world,” Reid finished.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” the young actress replied. “You’ve been in a bunch of shows before. I may never recover if my first role is a flop.”

  “The role’s not a flop,” Reid said. “You’re great in it. People know that there are good actors on shows that don’t get renewed.”

  Suddenly the two of them stopped and peered into the shadows where Frank was sitting. “Stan? Is that you?” Reid asked.

  Joe stepped out of the darkness, “No,” he said. “It’s Frank and Joe Hardy.”

  “What are you guys doing here?” Reid asked.

  “We might ask you the same thing,” Chet said as he stepped out of the elevator.