The Disappearance

by Franklin W. Dixon

“From some guy,” Von said, “named DarkKnight. Or at least, that was his screen name. Anyway, he said he’d been talking to Harper for a long time, and he’d loaned her money too. But one day she messed up and sent him a message she meant to send me.” He laughed bitterly. “He realized she’d played both of us. And probably a ton of other guys.”

  Jones looked stunned. “Do you know that for sure?” she asked. “Do you have usernames, or even real names. . . .”

  “I have a whole list of usernames I could give you,” Von said. “At last count, it was over ten guys. I don’t know what she needed the money for, but she sure got a lot of it. All of it raised by tricking people through the InkWorld messaging service.”

  Von got on his phone and forwarded an e-mail to Jones with a whole list of usernames. Jones looked at Frank and shook her head, and I could tell what she was thinking: That’s a whole list of potential suspects. People with a pretty big grudge against Harper.

  We were about done with the banana bread by then, and it was getting dark. We thanked Von for the information, and Jones apologized for misleading him about the money.

  “There’s something else you should know,” Frank said to Von. “Harper went missing from her UrMotel room yesterday morning, and we’re trying to find out what happened to her.”

  Von’s face fell. “What? That’s terrible. What are the cops saying? What do you think happened her?”

  None of us said anything. Then it dawned on him, his eyes became wide and panicked.

  “I didn’t do anything to her,” he said. “I couldn’t hurt a fly. I’m a vegetarian, for heaven’s sake! I just wanted to meet her to ask her pay me back.”

  I was still a little on edge. Just because someone seems nice doesn’t mean they’re not guilty—a lesson Frank and I had learned the hard way more than once.

  I put on my best I mean business face.

  “Look,” I said, “you seem like a nice guy, but sometimes horrible guys are able to seem like nice guys, understand?”

  Von nodded.

  “Did you do anything to Harper?” I growled. “You said you just wanted the money back, but maybe you felt the need to scare her. Maybe you got mad at her, and it just got out of hand. Maybe you didn’t intend to hurt her.”

  “No way. Really.” Von protested. “I understand that it looks like Harper was a victim of somebody but it wasn’t me. I’m a victim too. I’ll do anything I can to help you find her, though. She did some weird things, but she deserves to be safe.”

  I glanced at Frank. He nodded almost imperceptibly: He seems legit.

  “Okay, Von,” I said. “Sorry. I just needed . . .”

  Von shook his head. “No, I get it,” he said. “I had a motive. And you need the truth.”

  We said good-bye to Von as he headed back to his bike, unlocked it, and pedaled off into the darkening night.

  “I don’t think he did it,” Frank said, “but he sure opened up a whole side of Harper that I didn’t know existed.”

  “Me either.” Jones looked thoughtful as she watched Von disappear. “But there’s a way for us to learn more.”

  She ran back to the car and opened the back door.

  “What are you doing?” Frank called as we followed her to the car.

  Jones was already in the backseat, opening up her laptop. The overhead light illuminated her face as she stared into the screen and began typing.

  “I think,” she said, “it’s time to hack into Harper’s InkWorld account.”

  6

  A FEW QUESTIONS

  FRANK

  YOU THINK YOU KNOW SOMEONE . . .” Jones let her voice trail off as she shook her head and stared out the window of the Supreme Diner of Vernon, New Jersey. We’d stopped to get some pancakes, plus take advantage of their free Wi-Fi and check out Harper’s InkWorld account.

  It hadn’t been hard to guess her password. Like her phone’s password, it started with “Poison Ivy”—but here, she’d added her birthday, which Jones already knew: 0423. We’d been reading through her private messages for about half an hour. It was wild—she was like another person online. She’d been lying to at least thirteen different guys from around the country—Von just happened to be the one who lived closest. And she’d collected thousands of dollars from them.

  “What could she have needed the money for?” I asked out loud, poking at the crumby remains of my pancakes. “Her car was a few years old. Her clothes didn’t seem particularly fancy. She was living with Matt in an inexpensive part of the country.”

  Joe was building some kind of leaning tower with the remains of his silver dollars. “It seems like she was saving it for something,” he said. “Maybe the house Matt mentioned? He said they were saving up for a down payment.”

  I dropped my fork. “You think Matt knew?” I asked.

  “I guess it’s possible,” Jones said. “Like, she was doing it with his blessing?”

  “Or maybe at his urging,” I amended. “He seems . . . angry. Maybe he thought these guys had it coming?”

  “But he seemed jealous, too,” Jones pointed out. “Would a jealous guy encourage his girlfriend to flirt with strangers?”

  “Just online,” Joe said. “She never had to meet them in person . . . he never had to picture her with them. It was all on-screen.”

  I leaned back in the booth, stretching my arms above my head, which is how I do my best thinking.

  “Maybe he did know, or he encouraged it, and then she and Matt had a big fight,” Jones suggested. Joe and I leaned in closer, taken in by the theory. It definitely seemed plausible. “Maybe she took the money. Maybe she had it on her at the UrMotel. Maybe she mentioned it to someone, and . . .”

  We were startled by a sudden shrill tone. Something was vibrating in my pocket. My phone! I’d almost forgotten I had it on me.

  I grabbed it and answered. “Hello?”

  “Frank?”

  It was my mom. “Hey, Mom. Sorry we haven’t called. . . . We’re heading home in, like, ten minutes or so—”

  But she seemed impatient. “No, Frank, it’s not about . . . Well, actually I’m calling because some police officers just showed up at the house.”

  “Police officers?” I repeated. Joe and Jones both shot me questioning looks. “From Bayport? Because—”

  “No,” Mom said. “That’s the strange thing. They were from a town near Atlantic City—Margate. And they said you and Joe are wanted for questioning.”

  “Wanted for questioning?” I repeated. Joe’s brow crinkled, and Jones shook her head as if to say, What?

  “That’s right,” Mom said. “I just . . . Is this about that girl who . . . ?”

  “Yes,” I said, “it probably is. But we spoke to them yesterday. I’m not sure why they’d need us back.”

  Mom cleared her throat. “It does seem strange,” she said.

  “Well, there’s one easy way to find out,” I said, looking at Joe. “We’re not far from Margate now. And as it happens, we have some new information to share with the police.”

  Joe nodded eagerly, but on the other side of the line, Mom sounded distinctly less enthused. “Frank, your father is getting in the car now,” she said. “Why don’t you wait, and he can meet you there? He can—you know—smooth over . . .”

  Dad is a former police detective. It was true, he’d certainly “smoothed over” some misunderstandings with the police for us before. But this time, we already knew the detectives we’d be speaking with. And it seemed pretty clear we were all on the same side.

  “No, don’t worry, Mom,” I said. “Tell Dad to stay put and not miss dinner. We’ll be fine. We’ve spoken to these guys before. I’ll call if we need anything, okay? And I’ll text when we’re leaving Margate. Bye!”

  “But Fr—”

  I hung up before my mom could protest.

  I wanted to hear what the Margate police were thinking—and tell them what we’d learned—as soon as possible.

  • • •

  Even though
we’d been there just the day before, the receptionist at the Margate police station was not exactly welcoming.

  “The Hardy boys?” she repeated, squinting at Joe and me like we might be trying to pull a fast one on her. “And you’ve just walked in to see Detectives Gomez and McGill?”

  “That’s right,” Joe said, smiling what I call his Very Good Boy Smile. It’s this obsequious expression he uses to win over adults—which works, like, way too often. “We were here yesterday, remember? Can you tell them we’re here?”

  The receptionist, to her credit, did not respond to Joe’s Very Good Boy Smile at all. “And who is this?” she asked, frowning at Jones, who stood behind us.

  “I’m nobody,” said Jones. “I mean, I’m Jones, but I don’t have to talk to the detectives. I can wait out here.”

  The receptionist squinted even harder at Joe, then at me. “I can’t tell them you’re here,” she said, “because they’re not in the station currently. But have a seat. They’re on their way back.”

  We nodded and settled onto a couple of hard plastic chairs. We began leafing through the years-old magazine selection and playing with our phones. But we’d still run out of ways to entertain ourselves by the time Detectives Gomez and McGill walked through the door forty minutes later.

  “Speak of the devil,” Gomez said, taking us in. There was not a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes were not warm.

  Even McGill, who’d been the nicer one the day before, looked mildly disgusted by us. “Let’s get these boys into an interrogation room right away,” he said.

  The three of us had briefly discussed asking the detectives whether Jones could join us, but both of them looked so grim, none of us wanted to bring it up. Jones shook her head and waved us on, indicating that she’d wait in the lobby.

  We were led into the interrogation room where Matt had been held before. I wondered suddenly where Matt was. Had he been let go?

  “Take a seat,” said McGill, indicating two uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs facing a square card table. He sat down on a slightly comfier-looking chair facing us.

  “Excuse me for just a moment,” Gomez said, softening her glare a tiny bit. “I’m going to turn on the video camera. We’ll be filming this.”

  Filming this? I looked at Joe with alarm. We’d been in enough interrogation rooms in enough police stations to know that filming this is not something you want the detectives to be doing.

  “Are we . . . ?” Joe began, looking from me to the detectives with a confused expression.

  “Just sit,” McGill instructed, pointing at the chair.

  We were already sitting, but I was beginning to regret walking in here so readily.

  “Ummm . . . ,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.

  Gomez returned, holding a manila folder, a laptop, and a flash drive. She closed the door behind her, then sat down in the chair beside McGill.

  “Well,” said McGill.

  “Well,” said Gomez.

  “Ah,” said Joe, looking at me awkwardly. “Okay. Well. Um. We . . .”

  “We wanted to come in,” I said, taking over, “because we . . . well, we have some new information.”

  I looked at the detectives, expecting some change in their expression—some warming, maybe even an encouraging smile. But there was no change. They looked as cold as they had since they’d walked in the front door.

  “That’s interesting,” McGill said. “We also have some new information, which is why we drove to your home in Bayport and spoke with your mother.”

  I glanced at Joe. Ahhh. I’m not sure why I hadn’t put together that the detectives would have gone to Bayport themselves. But why? Wouldn’t it have been easier to farm it out to the Bayport PD? Or just call us? Maybe I should have asked Mom a few more questions before hanging up. . . .

  McGill was still looking at us expectantly. “Who’d like to go first?” he asked, but his chilly expression implied that he was not terribly curious about what we were going to say.

  “I would,” I said quickly. I think some part of me was hoping that once the detectives knew what we knew, they would remember that we weren’t the enemy. “Joe and I spoke to an online friend of Harper’s today . . . and we’ve found what we think are some potential suspects. . . .” As briefly as I could, I explained how we’d found Von’s card, spoken to him, and found out that Harper had been lying to a whole array of InkWorld posters . . . for a sum total of thousands of dollars. As I spoke, I became more and more enthusiastic, hoping that the detectives would respond in kind. This is big! I hoped I was saying. We have maybe solved this case for you and maybe you could smile!

  But there was no smile. Actually, I thought I caught Detective Gomez scowling, but then she scratched her nose, so maybe she was just itchy. They glanced at each other, but their expressions did not seem to be saying, Wow, these boys are very smart and useful. In fact, it didn’t seem like they were having any sort of positive reaction.

  At all.

  Which seemed super weird.

  When I’d finished the whole story, there was silence. I looked at Joe, whose freaked-out expression seemed to say, This isn’t good.

  It was not.

  “Well,” said McGill after a few seconds. “What an interesting discovery.”

  Gomez let his words hang in the air for a little while before adding, “We also had an interesting discovery today. Would you like to hear about it?”

  I’m guessing no? I thought, exchanging a concerned look with my brother. But it didn’t seem like a good idea to voice that thought.

  “Let me show you something,” Gomez went on, placing the laptop on the table and waking it up. She plugged the flash drive into a USB port, pulled the whole thing over to her, and clicked around a bit. “Here,” she said, turning the laptop around so we could see it.

  It was security camera footage of Harper’s UrMotel, but . . .

  “Where is that from?” I asked, trying to place the angle. We already knew the security footage from the building itself was worthless. . . .

  “It’s from the apartment building next door,” McGill said. “It’s zoomed in significantly, which is why it’s a little grainy.”

  It was actually super grainy. This also happened at night, making it even harder to see what was going on. But still, the footage clearly showed two figures—about Joe’s and my size, and wearing baggy clothes and ski masks—either leading or dragging a third figure, with a pillowcase over her head, out onto the walkway.

  “That’s Harper,” Joe whispered, his voice tight with concern.

  “That’s right,” McGill replied.

  “Oh God,” Joe murmured.

  The figures led Harper down the stairs. Then they crossed the patio, stepped onto the beach, and ran across the sand and out of the frame to the right.

  “Did she go willingly?” I asked, trying to figure it all out. “I mean . . . I know her face was covered, but it didn’t look like they were forcing her.”

  “Look again,” Gomez replied, pulling the laptop closer to rewind the footage. When she turned the computer back around, she pointed to one of the figures in the ski masks, who kept gesturing to something in his pocket. “He may be threatening her with a gun right there. We can’t be sure, because there’s no audio. But that, combined with the pillowcase on her head, certainly seems to imply she didn’t go willingly.”

  I stared at the laptop. The figures were so blurry, it was hard to read anything—their intention, Harper’s state of mind, where they were headed.

  But this was definitely enough to raise concerns.

  And from the way the detectives were looking at us, I could tell where they were focusing their concerns.

  “Um . . . what do you think you’re seeing here?” I asked.

  McGill did scowl then. “You tell me,” he said.

  “Uhhh . . . ,” I said, not sure what to say.

  He jabbed a finger at one ski-masked figure. “Like, look at his body type,” he sugge
sted. “This would appear to be a tall, young, lanky male—much like yourselves,” he added.

  I looked at Joe. Uh-oh.

  “You know who he definitely doesn’t look like,” Gomez said, “is Matthew Driscoll.”

  “No,” McGill agreed, “Mr. Driscoll is much shorter and stockier.”

  “And,” Gomez added, “he has an airtight alibi.”

  “He does?” Joe asked, his voice a little squeaky, which was unfortunate.

  “Yup,” McGill replied. “He works nights at a warehouse, which happens to have time cards. He was there all night, with coworkers to vouch for him.”

  I caught Joe’s eye again. Not good, not good. Were we seriously suspects here? I replayed the last few hours. The detectives coming to our house, us charging into the station like we were all old buddies. Suddenly I felt very foolish.

  Then McGill leaned across the table and looked into my eyes, then Joe’s. “Let me level with you,” he said, his voice suddenly low and deadly serious. “We know you boys were in the apartment that night. You had plenty of time to case the joint—make note of how to break in, even how to obscure the security cameras.”

  Obscure the security cameras. Of course. They were operational—they were just blocked by a plant. That’s something the culprit could have done—or made sure was done.

  Gomez cleared her throat. “That would also explain why you had Harper’s phone,” she told us.

  Gulp. All at once, I realized how suspicious that looked. We had a good reason—but what’s the likelihood that someone would willingly give you her phone?

  McGill pointed to the frozen time stamp in the corner. “So tell me, where were you boys at twelve fourteen a.m. the night Harper Anderson disappeared?”

  “Officer McGill, we were home at that time,” I said, “I swear.”

  McGill shook his head. “You know, I’m having a hard time believing that.”

  “And why would we hurt her?” Joe asked, leveling his gaze at McGill. He seemed to have his squeaky voice issue under control now and had morphed into what I call Cool Joe Under Fire, i.e., the guy who had saved our bacon in tense situations before.

  “You tell us,” McGill replied, meeting Joe’s gaze without flinching. When neither one of us spoke, he continued, “Only you boys know the truth, but we have theories. Maybe one of you had a crush on Harper, but she didn’t feel the same way. So things got out of hand. You came back to confront her, and things got violent. Something happened, and you removed Harper from the scene.”