Blood Money Read online

  "I am perfectly willing to accept my share of Josh's estate," Carew continued, ignoring the chief. "I hope everyone else here will do the same."

  "None of us wants any trouble, Chief," Delaney added. "But I'm not giving up my share, either."

  Peterson shook his head in disgust.

  "I'm afraid the whole question is beside the point. It's quite impossible for any of you to renounce your shares." Johnson placed the papers he'd been reading from into a manila folder on the desk. "Mr. Moran has written his will so that it will be impossible for any of you to step aside as a beneficiary. The shares of the other beneficiaries only increase if - "

  "If we die," Daniel Carew said.

  "Yes, that's essentially correct." Johnson cleared his throat. "If there are no other questions . . ."

  Joe shook his head. Why had Moran made Poletti a target? For that matter, why was Delaney, Moran's right-hand man, a beneficiary as well? He doubted that Johnson had the answers to those questions.

  The lawyer cleared his throat again and looked around the room. "I thank you all for coming. We'll meet back here in three months - at which time we'll discuss the formal distribution of Mr. Moran's estate."

  The gathering broke up quickly after that. The Hardys, after seeing Chief Peterson off, found themselves outside on the street just as Hugh Nolan emerged from the brownstone.

  "Don't say it, Fenton," Nolan said as he reached the bottom of the steps. His limp was much more pronounced now, and he was clearly straining with each step.

  "You know I've got to, Hugh," Fenton Hardy said. He stepped forward to give Nolan a hand, but the older man waved him off. "Sam did everything he legally could to see that you got your money. He got outvoted - "

  "I don't want to hear it!" Nolan snarled. He bit his lip then and was silent a moment. When he spoke again, he was much calmer. "Sorry, Fenton. I shouldn't have snapped at you - or thrown the drink at Sam. Just lost my temper again." He checked his watch. "Anyway, I've got to go."

  "It was good to see you, Hugh." Fenton took Nolan's hand and shook it vigorously.

  "And you, too, Fenton. But I'm afraid I've made a bad impression on your sons," he said, turning to Frank and Joe. "Maybe I can make it up to you next time by telling you some stories of when your father was a rookie cop."

  "Next time?" Joe asked.

  "Why - three months from now."

  And with that, Nolan turned and walked off down the street.

  "Looks like he's anxious to get his share of Moran's cash, Dad," Joe said as they climbed into the backseat of their gray four-door sedan.

  "I'm afraid things haven't gone well for Hugh for the past twenty years since he was charged with taking bribes," Fenton replied. "His wife left him, there were problems over his pension, and he had to retire early without getting it."

  "So I gathered," Frank said. "And he blames Chief Peterson for those problems."

  "That's right." His father checked the rear-view mirror and pulled out into traffic. "I wouldn't doubt Hugh Nolan could put his share of that money to good use."

  "Who couldn't?" Joe asked. "Seven people, ten million dollars, that's - "

  "Almost a million and a half each," Frank said.

  "I for one don't intend to share in any of that money," Fenton Hardy said firmly. "As soon as we get home, I'm going to put in a call to my lawyer and see what we can do."

  "Johnson said you couldn't change the terms," Frank pointed out.

  "Then I'll give the money to charity," Fenton Hardy said. "And that will be the end of it."

  Joe, in the backseat, watched out the rear window as the skyline of Manhattan disappeared. He thought about the group of people they'd seen that day and the amount of money at stake.

  Somehow, he knew his father was wrong. That wouldn't be an end to it.

  ***

  A month and a half passed.

  It was a blustery morning, two days into winter break, and Frank and Joe had come to New York City to do some research at the public library. They were browsing through a subway newsstand, waiting for a subway train: Frank bought a computer magazine; Joe, one of the New York City papers. They had just sat down in the subway when Joe tossed the paper he was reading onto Frank's lap, right on top of his magazine.

  "Take a look at this," Joe said.

  "Crime Kingpin Murdered," the headline screamed. Beneath it, in bold print, the article continued.

  Daniel Carew, reputed heir to the crime family run by his father, Johnny Carew, was gunned down late yesterday evening in front of his Brooklyn home.

  Frank looked up.

  "Read on," his brother said. "There's a lot more."

  Frank picked up the paper.

  The police discovered Carew's body on the stoop of his Brooklyn brownstone. He had been shot once in the chest. The police are holding Tommy Poletti, former Heisman trophy winner, who, according to police reports, had argued violently with Daniel Carew earlier that day.

  Frank shook his head. "Tommy Poletti - a killer?"

  "I don't believe it either," Joe said.

  Frank continued reading and learned that the police had found no gun. However, Carew's own revolver, which "he always carried with him," according to sources, was missing.

  The paper suggested that the shooting might be the start of a gang war over Joshua Moran's territory, now that he was dead.

  But Frank knew there was another, better motive for Carew's murder.

  It seemed that the game of killer-take-all that his father had predicted was beginning.

  "I bet Chief Peterson has involved himself in this case," Frank said.

  "And I bet you're right." Joe nodded. "Which makes me think we ought to take a little detour."

  Frank nodded. "They're holding Poletti at the eighty-fourth precinct house in Brooklyn," he said. "And I bet that's where we find Peterson."

  They got off at the next stop to change trains and an hour later were standing in front of the precinct house on Gold Street.

  "This is the place," Joe said. "Now, how do we get in to see Chief Peterson?"

  "I'll think of something," Frank said, just as a limousine was pulling up next to them. Emily Moran emerged.

  "Miss Moran," Frank called out.

  She turned and stared at Frank and Joe, a puzzled expression on her face.

  "I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother Joe - we were at the reading of your father's will. . . ."

  "Of course," Emily said distractedly. She looked exhausted: dark circles formed half-moons below her eyes, and her skin was sallow, as if she hadn't slept all night. "You'll have to forgive me - This whole business with Tommy - that the police think he's involved in murder ..." She shook her head.

  Frank smiled understandingly. "It seems a little unlikely to us, as well."

  Someone cleared his throat behind the threesome. "And who are the two of you?"

  A thin man with a close-cropped black beard, who must have just emerged from the precinct house, was standing on the steps, eyeing the Hardys suspiciously.

  Frank approached him, leaving Emily standing next to the car with Joe.

  "I'm Frank Hardy," he said, extending his hand.

  "Detective Mike Lewis," the man said, shaking Frank's hand firmly. He looked at Frank closely, then snapped his fingers. "You're Fenton Hardy's kid, aren't you?"

  Frank nodded, somewhat surprised. "How did you - "

  "You look just like him," Lewis said. The detective nodded in Emily Moran's direction and lowered his voice. "I can guess what brings you here."

  "You'd probably guess right," Frank said. "We want to know if this shooting ties in to Josh Moran's will."

  Lewis hesitated. "You know, I really can't talk about the case with you ... " His voice trailed off.

  "I understand," Frank said. "But if Chief Peterson okays it?"

  Lewis smiled. "Anything's okay then. He's just inside. If he doesn't have a problem talking about the case with you there, then I - "

  "Good," Frank said. "Lea
d the way."

  The four of them entered the precinct house together.

  "First I've got to pick up Poletti," Lewis said. He pointed to his right. "The holding cells are this way. Miss Moran?" She nodded that she wanted to accompany the detective.

  "Actually, I'd like to talk to the chief first," Frank said. He wanted to find out just how strong the case was against Tommy Poletti - information he didn't think he'd get with both Poletti and Emily Moran present. Joe indicated he'd go with Lewis and Emily.

  "The chief's in the office at the top of the stairs - follow this corridor - you can't miss it."

  To Joe, the precinct house looked like his high school. The cinder-block halls were painted the same dull beige and decorated (more accurately, not decorated) in the same dull style.

  Off to the right was a sign that said Holding Cells, with an arrow pointing down the stairs. Lewis, who had obviously been to the station many times before, led them down a flight of stairs and then into a long, narrow basement corridor. They were about halfway down it when Joe stopped short.

  "Did you hear something?" he asked.

  Lewis and Emily Moran looked at each other and shook their heads. "I didn't," Lewis said.

  "Wait." Joe held up his hand. "There it is again." He listened closely for a second, then turned back the way they'd come and stopped in front of a door marked Utility Closet.

  Faint thumping noises could be heard coming from inside.

  Joe tried the knob. It wouldn't budge.

  "Hey!" He banged loudly on the door, then threw his weight against it.

  In response, there came a renewed series of thumps, louder and more insistent than before.

  "In here!" Joe said excitedly. "There's somebody trapped inside!"

  Chapter 4

  "I don't believe it," Chief Peterson said. He was sitting behind a large gray metal desk, a lot of papers fanned out in front of him that he had obviously been studying until Frank interrupted him. Now he was staring up at the source of the interruption with a half-shocked, half-pleased expression on his face.

  Frank Hardy stood in the doorway of the chief's borrowed office, looking slightly ill at ease.

  "This case isn't twelve hours old, and the boy genius is here to help already." Chief Peterson gathered up some of the papers he'd been studying and slipped them into a manila folder. "Where's your brother? Working with the detectives?" the chief asked, smiling to let Frank know he was kidding.

  Frank smiled back and nodded. "He is. Joe's downstairs with Lewis and Emily Moran."

  "I give up!" Peterson threw up his hands. "What took you so long?"

  "We just got into town."

  "Well, you might as well have a seat," the chief said. He indicated a chair in front of the desk.

  "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the shooting?"

  Peterson laughed out loud and shook his head. "Matter of fact, I was just going to call your dad and tell him about this."

  "So you also think this has something to do with Moran's will?" Frank leaned forward, catching a glimpse of the police report on the shooting, which lay open on the desk. Poletti's record was the top sheet of the file.

  "No, I think this has nothing to do with the will," Peterson replied.

  "But I thought you said - "

  "I was going to tell your dad not to worry when he read about this. As far as we can tell, this is a case of jealousy. Two men fighting over the same girl."

  "The papers thought that it might be the start of a gang war," Frank said.

  Peterson pursed his lips. "I don't think so. Poletti's only involvement with the Moran crime family seems to be with Emily."

  Frank nodded. "The papers also said you hadn't charged him with anything yet."

  "That's true," the chief said. "But Lewis and I are hoping he'll confess - the evidence is pretty convincing."

  "I don't know," Frank said slowly. "I just can't see Poletti killing Carew - "

  "Why? Because he's a former Heisman winner? A lot of things could have happened to him since then. We don't really know anything about him," Peterson said.

  Frank nodded a little sheepishly.

  Just then, a bell began ringing outside in the hall. Frank raised his eyebrows. "What's that?" he asked.

  "That," Peterson said, standing up, "is the coffee cart - more popularly known around here as the 'roach coach.' " He smiled at Frank. "Come on - I'll buy you a soda."

  Frank rose and followed him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to eat anything from a "roach coach."

  ***

  "How could anyone get locked inside a closet - inside a police station?" Emily asked.

  "I don't know if it is a 'someone,' " Lewis said, shaking his head. He rapped the door sharply with his knuckles, then stood for a moment with his ear pressed to the door, listening. "But something's in there, all right. I'll see if I can find some keys." He disappeared down the hall.

  "Hang on!" Joe yelled at the door. "We'll have you out of there in a second!"

  In fact, it took more than five minutes for Lewis to return. All the time Joe and Emily Moran stood, listening to the muffled thumping on the other side of the locked door.

  Finally Lewis arrived with a ring of keys about the size of a softball; the fifth key opened the door.

  A man, hands and feet bound behind his back and a gag stuffed into his mouth, lay on his stomach next to the door.

  Lewis rolled him over.

  "It's Ed!" Lewis said, bending down and undoing the man's gag. Joe helped Lewis untie the man's bonds and get him into a sitting position. The man began taking in huge gulps of air.

  "Take it easy," Lewis said, kneeling down by him. "Are you all right?"

  "What happened?" Joe asked.

  "Beats me," Ed said, his words punctuated by faint gasps. "I was coming out of the service elevator when I hear this noise behind me. Next thing I know, I'm lying in this closet all tied up - with a whopper of a headache. Somebody thumped me over the head but good!"

  Lewis looked puzzled. "What would anyone want to knock you out for?" he asked, shaking his head.

  "What do you do around here?" Joe asked, kneeling down next to Ed.

  "Him?" Lewis spoke first, before Ed could answer. "He's from the food service company. Runs the coffee cart."

  ***

  "What can I get you today?"

  The coffee cart, Frank saw, was similar to the pushcarts that were rolled up and down the aisles of airplanes. This one had sandwiches and an assortment of beverages and snacks.

  "Where's Ed?" Chief Peterson asked.

  "Oh - he called in sick today," the man pushing the cart said. He was a couple of inches shorter and a few years older than Chief Peterson, with graying hair that hung almost to his shoulders. He had on a white button-down shirt and black pants.

  "Anything serious?" Peterson asked, rummaging through the contents of the cart. He picked up a sugared doughnut and looked at it longingly.

  "Might be - I wouldn't count on seeing him for a while," the man said, shrugging. "That's fresh," he said, pointing at the doughnut the chief had picked up.

  "Looks it," Peterson said. "But I'm on a diet." He patted his stomach and put down the doughnut. "Give me a decaffeinated coffee - black. And I'll take one of these." He picked up a small bran muffin and shook his head ruefully. "Good for the old ticker, they tell me," he said.

  The man behind the cart nodded and handed Peterson his coffee. "That's what I hear, too. You got heart problems?"

  Peterson shrugged. "Nothing serious."

  "Good. Just make sure you take it easy," the man behind the cart said.

  "I plan to," Peterson said. He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. "That's good coffee. Almost tastes like the real thing."

  "I'm glad you like it," the man behind the cart said. "It's a fresh pot." His eyes were the most piercing shade of blue - almost a purple, really - that Frank had ever seen. They were also remarkably unlined for a man who otherwise looked to be in his late f
orties.

  "You want something?" the chief asked Frank.

  "A cup of coffee, maybe?" the man asked.

  Frank shook his head. "Joe and I had a big lunch."

  "Okay, then." The chief nodded to the man behind the cart. "See you later."

  "Take it easy," the man said, and disappeared down the hall.

  Frank and Peterson returned to the office the chief was using and sat down again.

  Peterson took a bite of the muffin, and then another sip of his coffee. "Anyway, no, I don't think this has anything to do with the will. We have about fifteen witnesses who saw Carew and Poletti get into a shoving match on the Brooklyn Heights promenade early yesterday evening. Poletti threatened Carew in front of all of them."

  Frank nodded. "One of the other beneficiaries could be setting Poletti up - "

  "In order for somebody to get a lot more money, he'd have to knock off Johnny Carew and Billy Delaney - the heads of two of the largest East Coast crime families. Nobody's that dumb." Peterson wiped a hand across his forehead and grimaced. "It feels hot in here all of a sudden. Did they turn up the heat?"

  Frank shook his head. "Feels the same to me."

  The chief loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Anyway, not only would they have to kill Carew and Delaney, they'd have to get at yours truly, the chief of police. And how are they going to do that?"

  "I see your point, but - "

  Frank looked at Peterson. The chief was really sweating now, and he also looked very gray. "Are you all right?"

  Peterson shook his head. "I'm not sure. I feel dizzy, I - " He stood suddenly and gasped, swaying on his feet.

  Frank was at his side in an instant to help ease him back down in his chair. The back of Peterson's shirt was drenched in sweat.

  "Frank," the chief said slowly, a look of horror spreading across his face. "I'm having a heart attack!"

  Chapter 5

  "I just hope whoever's got the cart hasn't wrecked it," Ed said, leading Lewis down a long, narrow hallway. Joe trailed a few paces behind; they had left Emily with one of the officers in charge of the holding cells. "I'm responsible for whatever happens to it, you know."