Trial and Terror Page 2

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Nellie said.

  “Do you know of anyone who might want to kill Karen Lee?” Joe asked.

  “That’s part of the problem,” Nellie said. “Karen Lee is a very nice person who doesn’t seem to have any enemies. Aside from Nick, there simply isn’t anyone else with a motive to kill her.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Frank said. “Does Mr. Myers have a private investigator working on the case?”

  “He suggested we hire one,” Nellie said, “but we couldn’t afford it. We couldn’t even afford to put up Nick’s bail money, so he’s had to stay in jail since his arrest.”

  Frank did not know if Nick Rodriguez was guilty or innocent, but, either way, he felt great sympathy for Nellie Rodriguez. She seemed like a nice person who was caught in a very painful situation. Frank gave his brother a look, and Joe gave a slight nod.

  “Nellie,” Frank said, kneeling beside the woman, “my brother and I do some detective work ourselves. Maybe we could lend a hand on this case.”

  “I’ll bet we’ve got a record as good as Patricia Daggett’s,” Joe said proudly.

  “It’s very nice of you to offer, but . . . ” Nellie began, doubt in her eyes.

  “And we’re cheap,” Joe said. “In fact, we’re free.”

  “Free?” Nellie asked, now clearly confused. “Nothing’s free. What’s the catch?”

  “We take on cases because they interest us or because we want to help someone,” Frank explained.

  “Or both,” Joe added.

  “Well, I . . . ” Nellie said.

  “I have an idea,” Frank said. “We’ll do a little preliminary investigating today, and then we’ll give Mr. Myers a report. If he doesn’t like what we’re doing, he doesn’t have to use us.”

  “I guess we’ve got nothing to lose,” Nellie said.

  “Nothing at all,” Joe said, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  Nellie gave the Hardys some more information on Karen Lee, including her home address. Then she told the brothers to come back to the courthouse at five-fifteen, when they could talk with Mr. Myers.

  The Hardys rode the elevator down to the lobby, then walked to the bottom of the building’s concrete steps. The winter air was brisk but not too cold. After being inside stuffy courtrooms all day, Joe found the air refreshing.

  “I don’t know if we’ll be able to help on this case,” Joe said, stretching his arms, “but at least you’ll get a great report for your civics class.”

  “This should be interesting,” Frank said. “We’ve never worked as PIs on a trial before.”

  “And here we are,” Joe said, “first time out, smack in the middle of an attempted murder case.”

  A steady flow of people moved up and down the steps. The criminal court building was a grimy granite structure that ascended twenty stories high. A large percentage of the criminal trials for the Manhattan borough of New York City took place there, and that added up to plenty of trial activity every day. Frank noticed a phrase engraved on a stone wall bordering the steps: Justice Denied No One.

  “One thing I learned in civics class is that because this is a trial case,” Frank told Joe, “we don’t have to prove someone else is guilty. We don’t even have to prove Rodriguez is innocent. We just have to find things that will keep the jury from being absolutely certain he’s the person who attacked Karen Lee. If even one of the jurors has some doubt about Rodriguez being the culprit, the jury has to let him go.”

  “I knew that,” Joe said. “The Constitution says that a man is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “You’re definitely going to get an A when you take civics next year as a senior,” Frank said with a sly look. “And it will all be thanks to me, of course.”

  “Of course,” Joe said, ignoring his brother’s teasing. “I guess the best way for us to give the jury some reason to doubt would be to find a few other suspects.”

  “I was thinking we could first go to Karen Lee’s apartment building,” Frank said. “Maybe we’ll find someone there who knows a little about her or who may have seen something useful on the night of August fourteenth.”

  “Sounds good,” Joe said, already on the move.

  The Hardys walked a few blocks to an outdoor parking lot. After paying an attendant, they climbed inside their trusty blue van, and Frank turned the key in the ignition.

  Though it was only three o’clock, the streets heading uptown were clogged with cars, taxis, trucks, buses, and even bicycles. A mixture of honking horns and rumbling engines filled the air.

  Looking out the back window of the van, Joe caught sight of the two sleek towers of the World Trade Center. Up ahead he picked out the familiar shape of the Empire State Building.

  “With just a turn of the head, ladies and gentlemen,” Joe said, mimicking the voice of a tour guide, “you can see the world’s third and fourth tallest skyscrapers.”

  Without warning, a bright yellow taxi swerved in front of the van, forcing Frank to slam on his brakes. Then a chorus of angry horns blared from behind. “Man, this traffic is murder,” Frank said.

  “Welcome to New York City,” Joe cracked.

  After twenty minutes, the Hardys reached a neighborhood known as Chelsea. After another twenty minutes spent searching for a parking space, Frank and Joe were finally walking down the block where Karen Lee lived.

  Chelsea was a residential area, much quieter than most of Manhattan. Small apartment houses stood on both sides of the tree-lined streets. Soon the Hardys found a five-story redbrick building that had the address they were looking for.

  Frank and Joe climbed the front steps, and Frank tried the front door. It was locked. But when a postman stepped out of the building, the brothers were able to slip inside.

  “Easy as pie,” Joe said.

  The building was clean and the hallways freshly painted. The Hardys passed an elevator and went through a door into a stairwell. After climbing two flights, they emerged through another door onto the third floor. There was a hallway that showed the doors to three apartments.

  “Karen lives in three-C,” Frank said, moving down the hallway. “Let’s hope some of her neighbors are home, and let’s hope they’re the nosy type.”

  “Look,” Joe said, pointing to a door that was slightly ajar. A small plaque on the door read 3C.

  Frank knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he and Joe stepped quietly inside.

  They were in a living room. The lights were off, and there was no sign of anyone around. Frank noticed it seemed almost colder indoors than outside. It’s the middle of December, Frank thought. Why is the building’s heat not on?

  Joe moved to a desk upon which everything was neatly arranged. A large manila envelope was open, and numerous smaller envelopes were sticking out of it. All the envelopes were addressed to Karen Lee, care of the Days of Destiny television studio. Fan letters, Joe thought.

  Meanwhile Frank was moving down a hallway that he guessed led to a bedroom and a bathroom. Then Frank stopped, his heart pounding.

  The bathroom light was on, and inside, half under the sink, Frank saw a body sprawled on the bathroom floor.

  3 Garbage

  * * *

  Frank crept down the hallway and into the bathroom. When he reached the bathroom door, he let out an audible sigh. A young man was lying on his back, his head under the sink, just as Frank had seen. But the man was quite alive, and he held a pipe wrench in one hand.

  “Who are you?” the man said, lifting his head to look at Frank. He was somewhere in his mid-twenties, dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a dramatic-looking face, Frank thought. The hair was dark, the nose sharp, and the eyes intense, like those of a falcon.

  “I’m sorry for barging in, but the door was open,” Frank said. He could see the man was in the middle of changing a pipe.

  “I’ll say it again,” the man said, eyeing Frank suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  Joe appeared at Frank’s side
. “I’m Frank Hardy,” Frank said, “and this is my brother, Joe. We’re doing some research on the Karen Lee trial as part of a high school journalism assignment. We thought we would just take a look at her building. But then we found the door to her apartment open.”

  Frank and Joe looked, dressed, and acted like two ordinary high school kids, and it often worked to their advantage if people thought they were nothing more than that.

  “So you guys are aspiring writers?” the man asked, looking from Frank to Joe.

  “You might say that,” Frank replied. “We especially like nonfiction and love to do hands-on research.”

  The man chuckled, his suspicion quickly turning into friendliness. “Well, I’m the building’s superintendent,” he said, picking up a piece of shiny pipe. “When something breaks, I fix it. But I’m also a writer myself. The name’s Alex Steel.”

  “What sort of stuff do you write?” Frank asked, pleased to see Alex was buying the phony journalism story.

  “Murder mysteries,” Alex said with a gleam in his eye. “Death in the Living Room, What the Blind Man Saw, Blood Is My Favorite Color.”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” Joe said. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Nothing’s been published yet,” Alex said. “That’s why I have the super job. I get some money, a free apartment, and the hours are short enough so I have plenty of time to work on my books.”

  “Do you know much about what happened to Karen Lee?” Frank asked.

  “A little,” Alex said, sliding back under the sink to continue his work. “I was in my apartment writing that night. I was in the middle of a scene in which a woman is moving through a dark basement. She has the feeling someone is in there, hiding in the shadows. Then I heard this bloodcurdling scream come from upstairs.”

  “You must have jumped,” Joe said.

  “Boy, did I,” Alex said, wrapping a strip of string around the pipe. “I ran upstairs and found several people already in Karen’s apartment.”

  “Did you see anyone leaving the building right around then?” Frank asked.

  “No,” Alex said, inserting the pipe under the sink. “I didn’t hear the elevator in use or see anyone on the steps. I think the attacker left through a hatchway to the roof, because later I noticed the hatch was left open.”

  “The attacker could have run to another rooftop and then come down a fire escape,” Joe said.

  “That’s probably what happened,” Alex said, turning the pipe in place with the wrench.

  “Are you friendly with Karen?” Frank asked.

  “We talk now and then,” Alex replied. “She’s interested in my stories, and I’m interested in her acting career. Fellow artists, you know.”

  “Aside from Rodriguez, do you know of anyone who would have reason to kill her?” Joe said.

  “I can’t say I do,” Alex said, grunting as he gave the pipe a final turn. “Karen Lee is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine anybody would be out to get her.”

  Finished with the pipe, Alex dropped the wrench into a plastic bucket filled with tools. When he stood up, Frank noticed he was tall and well built. “Okay, Frank and Joe,” Alex said, lifting the bucket. “I can’t let you stay in here.”

  “It’s cold in this building,” Frank said as Alex escorted the Hardys down the hallway.

  “Yeah, there’s a problem with the thermostat,” Alex explained. “Until I get a repairman in here, there’s no heat. Everyone’s been complaining.”

  When Alex and the Hardys stepped out of the apartment, Alex locked the door and pocketed the keys.

  “Here’s a phone number where you can reach us,” Joe said, handing Alex a piece of paper. “If you think of anything that might fill in any details for us, please call.”

  Frank saw an elderly woman in a heavy coat standing at the door next to Lee’s apartment. A knit cap covered most of her gray hair. She was rummaging through a purse, but she now looked up.

  “Oh, Alex,” the woman said. “I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t seem to find my apartment keys. Could you please lend me the set you have?”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Petrowski,” Alex said with a wave. “I’ll be right back with it.”

  Alex took the elevator down, but Frank and Joe stayed upstairs, hoping to get some information from Mrs. Petrowski.

  After giving her the same cover story they had told Alex, Joe said, “Mrs. Petrowski, do you remember anything about the night Karen was attacked?”

  “I certainly do,” Mrs. Petrowski said, clearly eager to be of help to the nice-looking high school students. “I saw Nick Rodriguez leaving Karen’s apartment around nine. I was just coming home from my Tuesday evening bridge game. Then I went into my apartment. I was just about to turn on the TV to watch that police show with that actor who’s so good.”

  “And then . . . ” Joe prompted.

  “Then I heard a scream that made me jump out of my skin,” Mrs. Petrowski said. “I realized the scream must have come from Karen’s place. Several of us rushed right over there, but none of us saw the man in black she told us about.”

  “Do you know of anyone who may have had reason to harm Karen Lee?” Frank asked.

  “I certainly don’t,” Mrs. Petrowski said. “She’s the sweetest young woman in the world. Why, if it weren’t for Karen, I might not have a home.”

  “Why do you say that?” Joe asked.

  Mrs. Petrowski thought a moment, then spoke in a lower voice. “Well, some of the tenants in this building are older, like myself, and we’ve lived here a long time. And because of the city rent laws, our rents are low. But the building’s landlord is trying to evict all us old folks so he can renovate our apartments. That will allow him to bring in new tenants and charge much higher rents.”

  “What does Karen Lee have to do with this?” Frank asked, his interest increasing.

  “You see,” Mrs. Petrowski said, shivering inside her heavy coat, “Karen used to work in the district attorney’s office, and she knows something about the law. So she organized us seniors and filed motions in court to stop Mr. Garfein, the landlord, from evicting us.”

  When she heard the mechanical sound of the elevator returning to the third floor, Mrs. Petrowski stopped her story. “I hear Alex coming,” she whispered to the Hardys. “Do me a favor. Don’t tell him I was talking about Mr. Garfein.”

  “Why not?” Joe whispered back.

  “Alex isn’t a bad fellow,” Mrs. Petrowski said, “but he works for Mr. Garfein. I just don’t want it getting back to Garfein that I was saying bad things about him. He might try to make things even more difficult for me.”

  “I take it Mr. Garfein isn’t the nicest guy around,” Frank said with a chuckle.

  “Fred Garfein is as mean as Karen Lee is sweet,” Mrs. Petrowski whispered.

  “We won’t say a word,” Joe assured her.

  The elevator doors opened, and Alex handed Mrs. Petrowski a set of keys. Not wanting to appear too inquisitive, the Hardys rode the elevator back down with Alex and left the building.

  Outside, Frank and Joe sat on the building’s stoop to collect their thoughts. The afternoon light was already fading, and the air was turning chillier. Joe watched two boys go in-line skating down the block.

  “We may have our first suspect,” Frank said.

  “Who?” Joe asked. “Fred Garfein?”

  “It sounds as if Karen Lee is the one stopping him from his renovation plans,” Frank said, zipping up his coat. “I doubt a businessman like Garfein would do it himself, but he could have hired someone to scare Lee.”

  “It’s possible. Remind me not to rent an apartment from Garfein when I’m out on my own,” Joe said with a chuckle.

  Joe noticed a young man in his early twenties sitting on a stoop across the street. He was a clean-cut guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a down ski vest.

  Joe nudged Frank. “Hey, look. I remember seeing that guy at the trial.”

  “Hey!” Joe called out t
o the man. “Are you one of the reporters from the trial?”

  The young man gave a nod. Joe gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  “He must be waiting to ask Lee some questions when she comes home,” Frank told Joe. “I’d like to ask her some questions myself.”

  “Like what?” Joe said.

  “Well, if those gloves and ski mask didn’t belong to Nick,” Frank said, forming a thought, “then someone must have put them there. Someone who had access to Nick’s apartment. So I’m wondering if Lee had keys to Nick’s apartment that the culprit could have stolen.”

  “Hmm, worth checking out,” Joe said, his eyes scanning the sidewalk in front of the building, where garbage cans were kept inside an iron railing. He noticed a man in ragged clothing searching through one of the cans. The man had a shopping cart filled with old clothing and castoff appliances.

  “That gives me an idea,” Joe said, watching the man examine a soiled magazine. “Maybe I’ll find some clues in Karen Lee’s garbage. Letters or something. After all, it’s one of the oldest detective tricks in the book.”

  Joe walked over to the garbage area, lifted the top off one of the rubber cans, and opened a small plastic bag to investigate its contents. He found lettuce, chicken bones, and some papers.

  “Hey, what’re you doing?” a voice cried.

  Suddenly Joe felt hands grab him roughly by the shoulders and spin him around. Joe was looking into the wild-eyed face of a homeless man—who looked as if he would stop at nothing to protect his turf.

  4 The Missing Keys

  * * *

  “Hey, buster,” the homeless man growled in a gravelly voice. “This is my garbage! Understand? My garbage!”

  “And this is a free country,” Joe said, pulling away from the man’s grasp. “Which means I have as much right to this garbage as you do!”

  Joe and the man glared at each other while Frank trotted over. Seeing that it was about to be two against one, the man backed away.

  “All right, all right—you win. But if you find any telephones or coffeepots or anything good like that, they’re mine.”