Nowhere to Run Read online

  Joe took everything out of the drawers but found no clues. He pulled the drawers out to check the bottoms and back. Still nothing. He moved the dresser away from the wall. When he found nothing again, he pushed the dresser over in frustration. It hit the floor with a crash and Frank jumped up.

  Then came a pounding on the wall.

  "Hey, knock it off in there. I'm trying to sleep," yelled a rough voice.

  "Take it easy, Joe," Frank said. "If there's something here, we'll find it."

  Joe headed for the closet. He kicked a stack of magazines out of his way. The magazines scattered, several landing next to Frank. He shook his head and looked down. Sticking out of one was an envelope. He pulled it out of the magazine and smiled. Printed on the front of the envelope was the DalTime company logo. Beneath it was Frost's name.

  Frank was about to call out to Joe when he heard the distinctive metal click of a gun's hammer. He turned. A large, burly man was climbing through the open apartment window from the fire escape, a steel blue .45 automatic in his hand.

  "We've got company, Joe," Frank said quietly.

  Joe spun around. Two more men came in the window. The second looked just as big and mean as the first and held a twin to the first man's .45. The third man was small, thin, and pale. His pig-eyes were deep-set and small.

  "Gentlemen," the thin man said in a tinny, high-pitched voice, with all the charm of a cobra, "making a special delivery?"

  "We were just leaving," Frank said quickly. He turned to leave, hoping none of the men saw him tuck the envelope into his jumpsuit.

  The first man moved to the door and leveled his .45 at Frank's chest. Frank noted the gunman's casual, businesslike expression.

  "It's rude, just running off and leaving your guests," the small man said. His thin-lipped smile stretched from cheek to cheek.

  "Hey, man," Joe said, "we got about ten more deliveries before we can knock off work. I don't want to miss the big game on the tube tonight."

  The thin man's expression hardened. He nodded, and the second thug moved to the other side of Joe, his .45 aimed at Joe's stomach. The two thugs now flanked the Hardys.

  "Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Mr. Rock," the thin man said with a nod to the thug next to Frank. "And this is Mr. Hard Place," he added with a nod to the thug next to Joe. "You two must be Mr. Stuck and Mr. Between."

  The thin man laughed, his high-pitched giggles echoing in the room. "Get it? Stuck between a rock and a hard place?"

  "Real funny," Frank shot back. "My partner wasn't kidding. We could get fired if we don't — "

  "Shut up," the thin man growled. He walked over to Frank. "You look very familiar to me," he said. "Have we met before?"

  "No," Frank replied coolly.

  "Let me introduce myself. I'm Fat Harold." The thin man was visibly disappointed that neither Frank nor Joe seemed to recognize his name.

  "Fat Harold?" Joe said in disbelief. "A weed like you couldn't get wet running around in the shower."

  Fat Harold laughed. Frank grimaced at the grating giggle.

  "This is why they call me Fat Harold." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a two-inch-thick wad of folded bills. He began flipping the bills as though he were counting them.

  Frank's and Joe's eyes widenedm — all the bills were hundreds.

  "You're a bookie," Frank stated.

  "Very good, kid," Fat Harold said with a smile as he put the money back into his pocket. "And you're no delivery men."

  "Should I kill them now, Mr. Harold?" Rock asked.

  Although the question startled Frank, it was the thug's calm tone that disturbed him most. Rock sounded as if he had asked about ordering a pizza.

  "No, I don't think that will be necessary," Fat Harold replied. "It's obvious that these two are looking for the same person we are. You see, boys, my pocket change is actually a little short this week, thanks to a thief named Biker Bob Conway."

  Frank and Joe glanced at each other.

  "Ah, so you know the little welsher. Good. What's he into you for?"

  Joe stared at him, confused.

  "About ten grand," Frank answered quickly, realizing that Fat Harold was assuming he and Joe were bookies also.

  "Petty cash." Fat Harold was unimpressed. "Conway owed me nearly a quarter of a million in bad debts."

  "Owed?" Frank asked.

  "He missed his last payment deadline when they caught him with the watches."

  "Watches?"

  "Yeah. Some harebrained scheme of his to pay me two hundred and fifty grand by stealing some watches from the company he worked for," Fat Harold explained. "I didn't get my money or my watches."

  "Why did you think he'd be here?" Frank asked.

  "I got a call from a little birdie about an hour ago saying Conway would be here," Fat Harold replied. He stared suspiciously at Frank. "What brings you two to these lovely surroundings?"

  "Uh, we knew Frost and Conway were friends and thought we'd find one of them here, get our dough," Frank said quickly.

  "What happens now?" Joe asked.

  "Now I'll take Conway in nice little pieces," Fat Harold said slowly. "It'll be worth a ten percent finder's fee for you two boys if you find him and give me a call."

  "Sounds great," Frank said.

  "Here's my card."

  Frank looked at the business card Fat Harold handed him. No address or name — just a distinctive number 555 - BETS.

  "Cool," Frank said. He stuck the card in his back pocket.

  Fat Harold stared at Frank's face again. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"

  "Positive," Frank answered.

  "I don't know," Fat Harold said thoughtfully. "Something about you ... Rock, check his ID."

  Frank stepped back to confront Rock, but froze when the big man stuck the .45 against his chest. Rock pulled Frank's wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open.

  "His name is Frank Hardy," Rock said, handing the wallet back to Frank.

  "Frank Hardy," Fat Harold said slowly. He walked across the room to the window, rubbing his chin in thought. He snapped his fingers. "Hardy! That's who you look like."

  Fat Harold stared at Frank's face. "When I first started out in this business, an NYPD detective named Fenton Hardy made my life miserable. He was the only cop who ever put me in jail." Fat Harold walked around Frank. "Yeah, you look like a younger Fenton Hardy." Fat Harold's voice began to sound amused. "Maybe like his son!"

  "Hey, man," Joe said. He stepped toward Fat Harold, only to be shoved back by the barrel of Hard Place's .45.

  Fat Harold held out his hand, and his thug handed over Joe's wallet. "Another Hardy, huh?" Fat Harold's nasal laugh echoed in the room. "The sons of Fenton Hardy. You almost had me believing you were bookies."

  His expression became cold, hard, deadly. "Kill them." The bookie's voice sounded almost bored as he turned and headed for the window.

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Harold," Rock replied.

  After he had exited through the window, Fat Harold leaned back in from the fire escape and said, "Rock, make sure you get my business card back. Nothing personal in this, boys. We're just settling an old debt. I spent two years in prison because of Fenton Hardy. Two years for two sons. Sounds fair."

  His laugh bounced off the walls in the alley as he climbed down the fire escape.

  "Let's have the card," Rock ordered. Frank took it from his pocket and flipped it at Rock.

  "Stand over there," Rock ordered with a wave of his gun. "Lace your fingers behind your heads."

  Frank and Joe moved toward the center of the room, hands behind their heads. Both were looking for an opportunity to escape, but Rock stood behind them and Hard Place in front.

  "Like Mr. Harold said," Rock began as he walked around in front of Frank and Joe, "nothing personal. We're just doing our jobs. Kneel down."

  Just a job, Frank thought. If not for the guns, Rock and Hard Place would look as if they were taking orders behind the counter at Mr. Pizza.


  The two thugs slipped six-inch silencers from their pockets and screwed them onto their pistols. They checked their safeties and locked the hammers into firing position.

  Frank and Joe glanced at each other. They'd always expected to go out with a bang.

  Instead, they'd go out with a whisper—shot in a gangland-style execution by the silenced guns of two bored killers.

  Chapter 12

  ROCK'S HEAD JERKED up as someone began banging loudly on the door.

  "Hey! Open up! We know you two deadbeats are in there!" An angry voice shrilled from the other side of the door. It was Callie, yelling as loud as she could.

  "Yeah. You're not getting away this time," Sue shouted through the door. "We want those paychecks before you gamble them all away!"

  "Who's that?" Rock asked Frank.

  "How should I know?" Frank replied sharply.

  The pounding on the door grew louder.

  "Knock off that noise!" someone yelled from another apartment.

  "You tell those good-for-nothing husbands of ours to come out now!" Callie yelled.

  "Yeah," Sue added. "They're not wasting their paychecks on card games this time!"

  "Go away," Rock yelled back. "You got the wrong place."

  The pounding continued. Somewhere down the hall a baby screamed itself awake and began crying loudly.

  "Let's do it and get out of here," Hard Place said, nervousness showing in his voice.

  Joe knew it was the right moment to make his move. Hard Place glanced over at Rock for a split second, and that was enough time for Joe to slam a steel fist into the thug's gut. Hard Place gagged and doubled over.

  Frank grabbed one of the drawers Joe had taken out of the dresser and threw it at Rock. The drawer cracked against Rock's skull and shattered into tiny pieces.

  Like twin bolts of lightning, Frank and Joe dashed for the open window. They scrambled down the metal steps and then jumped from the fire escape ladder and hit the asphalt pavement of the alley in a dead run toward the street.

  A second later they heard the phfft, phfft, phfft of .45 slugs slamming into the ground behind them.

  The Hardys' black van screeched to a halt at the end of the alley.

  "Hurry!" Callie yelled from the front seat.

  The side door of the van slid open. Sue waved frantically for Frank and Joe to run faster.

  "Step on it!" Frank yelled as he and Joe leapt into the van.

  Callie mashed the accelerator to the floor, sending Frank, Joe, and Sue tumbling around the back of the van. She turned the first corner and gunned the engine again.

  "Slow down!" Joe shouted after several more two-wheel turns.

  Callie stomped on the brake and Joe lurched toward the front of the van and fell forward against the dash. His injured arm smacked into the mobile phone, breaking it.

  Joe let out a yell of anguish, cradling his arm. "I felt safer back there with those two thugs than I do with you."

  "Oh, yeah?" Callie fumed. "Maybe you'd like me to take you back there."

  "Crazy girl driver," Joe shouted back.

  "Knock it off, you two!" Frank was in no mood for one of Joe and Callie's famous fights. "Let's get out of here before they catch up with us."

  Joe jumped into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt.

  "Ready," he said.

  Callie huffed in exasperation, put the van into drive, and started forward at a normal pace.

  "The least you could do is say thanks," Sue said from the back of the van. "Something terrible could have happened to you two if we hadn't thought so quickly."

  Joe remained silent.

  "How did you know we were in trouble?" Frank asked.

  "Callie asked me to check out the alley. I spotted Fat Harold and his two bodyguards climbing up the fire escape. I called Callie over, and when she saw Fat Harold leave without his goons, she knew you two needed help and came up with the idea of pretending to be your wives. She's a real hero."

  "How do you know Fat Harold?" Frank asked.

  "He came around the company a few times, looking for Nick Frost. Mr. Dalton, Brandon's father, had to call security to run him off. Fat Harold's a real pain in the neck."

  "Does he know Biker?" Joe asked.

  "Only Biker's shoes." Sue laughed. "Biker almost took his head off one day at work," she explained. "We were walking out to the car, and Fat Harold was hanging around waiting for Frost. He whistled and made a rude remark to me. Biker took out Fat Harold's two bodyguards first and then started for Fat Harold. That guy is so thin that when he saw Biker heading for him, he crawled under his limousine and refused to come out till Biker left."

  "Did Biker owe Fat Harold any money?" Joe wanted to know. "No."

  "According to Fat Harold, Biker owes him two hundred fifty thousand dollars in gambling debts."

  "That's impossible," Sue protested. "Frost was the only one at the company who placed bets with Fat Harold."

  "Then why did Fat Harold say he was looking for Biker?" Joe said more to himself than to the others. "I wish we'd found something to help us make some sense of all this."

  "Maybe we have." Frank pulled the DalTime envelope from his pocket.

  "What's that?" Joe said, excitement in his voice.

  "Let's find out." Frank ripped open the envelope, pulled out several sheets of paper, and scanned them.

  "Well?" Joe was impatient.

  "What do you make of these?" Frank handed the papers to Sue.

  She took the papers and glanced through them.

  "What are they?" Joe asked, unbuckling his seat belt and joining Sue and Frank in the back of the van.

  "We have something here." Sue held up the first sheet. "This is a shipping invoice and schedule for three hundred cases of Watch Ya Wearing? watches to a large retail store chain in Kansas City. And," — she held up the second sheet — "this is a schedule of employee vacations with Biker's name underlined in red."

  "And this," Frank said, holding up a third sheet, "is a road map with a major highway leading out of Queens and New York City outlined in red."

  "So what does all this prove?" Callie asked.

  Joe's attention was on Sue. "Did Frost have access to shipping invoices?"

  "Only for the deliveries he made." Then she added, "But he had no business with the vacation schedules. Those are supposed to be confidential."

  Joe noticed a look of disappointment come over Frank's face. "What's wrong?"

  "The marks on this map end somewhere in northern New Jersey—on a highway in the middle of nowhere. There's March thirtieth and an X marked, and above that is 'B—seven-thirty.' " He looked grim. "B for Biker."

  "March thirtieth at seven-thirty! That's when the hijacking took place, according to Frost's testimony," Sue said.

  "Where was Biker on that date?" Joe asked Sue.

  "He'd just returned from his crosscountry vacation. He got to my place at about eight, and we went out for dinner at eight-thirty."

  "The spot where the truck was hijacked is a good thirty miles away," Frank said. "Biker couldn't have hijacked the truck, hidden it, and then gotten to your house by eight. Didn't his lawyer point that out to the jury?"

  "Yes, but the prosecutor said that as an expert driver and a former motocross champion, Biker had the skill to just make it to my house from the highway."

  "That stinks," Joe objected. "For all we know, that B could stand for 'Plan B' or Boise, Idaho, Frost hijacked his own truck. Let's just go back to Bayport and prove it." "We can't do that just yet," Frank said. "Why not?"

  Frank ignored Joe's angry question and turned to Sue. "Could Frost access the vacation schedule from any of the company's computers?"

  Sue shook her head. "Frost was a little slow. On his good days, he could barely remember his own address, much less try to figure out how to use a computer."

  "Then somebody must have given him the information — somebody who knows the company's computer access codes and who needed half a million bucks' worth of
designer watches." Frank stared at Sue.

  She looked at him. "The only one who was in any sort of trouble was Frost."

  "And his troubles are over now," Callie reminded them from the front seat.

  "What are these numbers up here?" Frank asked as he pointed to the top of the shipping invoice.

  "Sales rep's code number and shipping date," Sue replied.

  Frank looked at the invoice sheet and then at the vacation schedule. A wide grin came across his face.

  "What is it?" Joe asked.

  "I'm not sure," Frank replied. He faced Sue. "I'll need to get into your company's computers and check something out first. Can we get in there without too many people finding out?"

  Sue looked at her watch. "By the time we get to the offices, almost everybody should be gone for the day. But the security guards won't stop me from showing my cousins around," she added with a smile. "Problem is, we'll have to double back the way we came. Suppose Fat Harold is there and recognizes the van?"

  "No problem," Frank said, heading for the van's storage space. "We've got a bag full of tricks back here."

  Callie pulled the van into a vacant parking lot. Fifteen minutes later, plastic signs on both sides of the van advertised the Bug - B - Gone exterminating company. Atop the van was a four-foot- long black-and-orange inflatable bug, held securely to the van's roof by magnetic feet.

  "That thing sure is ugly," Callie said as she looked at the bug through the van's sun roof.

  "Yeah, but those two thugs are looking for an Acme Speedy Delivery van," Frank said.

  "Don't you think the bug makes us a little too obvious?" Sue asked.

  Frank smiled. "Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight. Okay, Sue. Which way?"

  The watch company was near the Queens-Brooklyn line in an old factory building that was being renovated. Frank was glad to see that the employee parking lot was nearly empty.

  "Don't turn the light on," Frank said as they entered Sue's second-floor office. "I don't want to attract any attention."

  Sue sat at her desk and booted up her computer. She typed in several security access codes. "It's all yours, Frank."

  Frank took Sue's place at the terminal. He typed in the sales rep's code and Biker's Social Security number.