Running on Empty

by Franklin W. Dixon

"No. While you were getting dinner, I called vital records at city hall. Royce Sauter died seven months ago. The clerk wouldn't say how, but I can guess. There was another picture next to this one, except the car looked like it had been in a terrible accident."

  "So?"

  "Emmy's hiding something. She avoids talking directly about her father or the garage or anything to do with her past."

  "Any idea who sabotaged Cronkite's car?"

  "Max. He had plenty of time, and he looked too dirty to have been looking for a clutch plate. But Emmy doesn't think so."

  "Why not?"

  "She thinks he's too flaky," Frank replied.

  "Why not Cronkite?"

  "Cronkite?"

  Joe put his drink down. "It's just a hunch, but Cronkite always seems to be right there when something's happening. Why would he lend Emmy his car?"

  The beeper chirped. Frank grabbed the black box and shut it off. "I'll call this time," he said as he picked up the phone.

  Joe gulped down his cold soft drink. He felt guilty eating and drinking while Chet was lying hurt someplace, probably hungry and thirsty.

  He suddenly wasn't hungry any longer. He threw what remained of his burger and fries into the bag, wadded it up, and tossed the whole thing into the trash.

  "That was Smith. He wants to meet us at a place downtown called Skyway Parking Garage," Frank said after hanging up the phone. He grabbed the tape and the photo and stuffed them both into his shirt pocket.

  "Did he say why?" Joe asked.

  "No. But this may be our chance to see the delivery end of the operation."

  ***

  "Looks abandoned," Frank said as he leaned forward and strained his neck to look up the ten stories of the garage. Skyway Parking was only a few blocks from Don's Daylight Donuts, near the center of Southport.

  "What better place than a large, empty parking garage to hide stolen parts," Joe said.

  "Or a kidnap victim." Frank leaned back in his seat. "Smith wants to meet us at the top level."

  Joe eased the van around a wooden barricade, ignoring the no trespassing signs, and wound the van up the parking garage.

  "What's really beginning to bother me," Frank said, "is if Emmy is involved with Smith, if she is a bad cop, why would her car have been sabotaged this morning?"

  It was a good question for which Joe had no answer.

  "Who would target Emmy, and why?" Frank was talking more to himself than Joe.

  "Perhaps Emmy wasn't the one they were after," Joe said.

  "What?"

  The thought that he was the intended target had crossed Frank's mind earlier, but hearing it from Joe, out loud for the first time, stunned him. Except for Uncle Ed, Emmy, and Cronkite, he was unknown in Southport. The only person who would want Frank out of the way would be the leader of the chop shop ring. And as far as Frank was concerned, he had a trio of suspects: Smith, Max, and Emmy.

  "Now what?" Joe asked as he brought the van to a halt on the top level of the parking garage. He hopped out and scouted the area.

  Frank remained seated and stared at the dash, letting his vision blur. Why not two bad cops? Emmy and Cronkite? he thought.

  "Hey," Joe said with a light tap on Frank's shoulder.

  Frank jumped as if startled from a deep sleep.

  "What's wrong?" Joe asked.

  Frank stepped from the van. He jogged to the edge of the parking lot and leaned over the railing.

  "Did you see anyone following us?" he asked, rejoining Joe.

  "No," Joe replied. "What's up?"

  "I don't think we can trust anyone in the Southport Police Department."

  "Why not?"

  Before Frank could answer, the quiet early evening stillness was shattered by a thunderous rumble. A half second later a black TransAm burst from the access ramp. Like some great hungry beast seeking its prey, it zeroed in on the Hardys.

  Frank and Joe dove in opposite directions, the TransAm missing them by inches.

  By the time they had regained their footing, the car had spun 180 degrees and was pointed at them once again.

  Two men jumped from the car. They were the same height and wore identical gray suits. Dark sunglasses hid their eyes. They were mirror images of each other, except for their hair - and the guns they aimed at Frank and Joe.

  The black-haired man, the driver, held a .45 while his red-haired partner stood on the passenger side with a sawed-off semiautomatic shotgun.

  "Frank and Joe Hardy!" Blackie yelled out across the parking lot. "Got any last requests?"

  "Yeah," shouted Red. "You can start your prayers now."

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. They were easy targets. The van sat thirty yards away. It might as well have been a mile. No matter how fast they ran, they wouldn't be able to outrun the wide spread of the sawed-off shotgun blast.

  "Goodbye," Blackie shouted as though to old friends.

  The calm twilight erupted with a thunderous roar of death from the .45 and the shotgun.

  Chapter 11

  Frank fell to the pavement and rolled away, shotgun pellets striking the concrete inches from him. He was on his feet and zigzagging toward the van, Joe at his shoulder.

  A bullet clipped the heel of Frank's shoe and he sprawled on the ground, smacking into the concrete. Dazed, he tried to lift himself.

  Blackie smiled, clutched the .45 with both hands, leaned on the open driver's door, and slowly took careful aim at Frank.

  "Police! Drop it!" a high-pitched voice shouted. Joe recognized Emmy's voice above the roar of the gunfire. A split second later a third gun erupted.

  Blackie fell back behind the protection of the car door.

  A slug from Emmy's gun slammed into Red's left leg, twisting the gunman around in a violent spasm.

  Joe pulled Frank up and both bolted toward the van.

  Blackie no longer concentrated his fire at the Hardys but somewhere behind them.

  Joe glanced over his shoulder. Emmy stood in the opening of the garage's stairwell, her police .38 smoking and blazing. She ducked back into the doorway as several slugs from the .45 chipped at the concrete frame around her.

  Having recovered, Red turned his shotgun on the fleeing Hardys while Blackie kept Emmy pinned back inside the stairwell.

  Frank and Joe reached the van as a shotgun blast peppered the side of the van, chipping the black paint on the van's armored siding.

  Joe jumped into the driver's seat, Frank into the passenger's.

  "Let's go!" Frank yelled as he slammed his door shut.

  Joe threw the transmission into reverse and stomped on the accelerator. The tires screamed, and the van shot backward.

  The van echoed with the ping, ping, ping from another shotgun blast.

  "What are you doing?" Frank yelled.

  "We've got to get Emmy! Open up the side door!"

  Emmy! Frank had had the feeling they were being tailed. He shook his head sadly. Emmy had set them up.

  Frank twisted in his seat and flung the panel door open. Joe slammed on the brakes and the van squealed to a halt in front of the stairwell opening.

  Emmy vaulted into the van. She slammed the panel door shut as Joe pushed the shift lever into drive and rocketed away from the stairwell.

  The van hit the access ramp with such speed that it flew into the air, then bounced with such force that its shocks and springs groaned against the sudden full impact of the van's weight.

  "What are you doing here?" Frank shouted at Emmy.

  "I - " Emmy began.

  "Never mind," Joe interrupted. "We've got company."

  Frank looked in his side mirror. The TransAm was bearing down on them. Joe was doing a good job jockeying the van around the hairpin turns as they descended out of the parking lot, but the lighter, smaller car was closing in.

  Red stuck the shotgun out his window and fired.

  Joe swerved the van to the left and the pellets scraped down Frank's side, shattering Frank's mirror.

  The T
ransAm slammed into the rear of the van. Joe twisted the steering wheel left and right to keep the van from smashing into a concrete wall.

  "Got any ammo?" Emmy yelled. "I'm out."

  "No," Frank replied. "I've got something better."

  Frank hopped to the back of the van and flipped open the tool box. He pulled out a small but heavy crowbar.

  The van jolted as the TransAm rammed into it again.

  Frank and Emmy grabbed each other to keep from falling over.

  For one brief moment, Frank saw genuine fear and panic in Emmy's eyes and face. Could this be the face that had betrayed them?

  "When I give the signal," Frank shouted, "open the back door."

  "But - "

  "Just do it!" Frank steadied himself and cocked back his arm. "Now!"

  Emmy threw open the door.

  With all the strength he could muster, Frank flung the crowbar in a deadly spinning arc toward the TransAm's windshield.

  A look of surprise and horror crossed the two gunmen's faces. The crowbar smashed into the windshield, turning the shatterproof glass into a useless white mass of hairline cracks that covered the entire windshield.

  Blackie lost control of the car and slammed into the side of a concrete wall. The car's hood crumpled and exploded open. One corner of the hood caught the air cleaner, ripping it from atop the carburetor. The fuel line leading to the carburetor broke loose, and gasoline sprayed the top of the hot engine. A second later flames erupted and grew larger, fed by the spewing gas from the fuel line.

  The car scraped against a concrete wall. The entire engine compartment was in flames, and angry black smoke surrounded the TransAm.

  Satisfied that the gunmen were out of commission, Frank closed the rear door.

  Joe crashed the van through the wooden barricades and no trespassing signs and turned the van out onto the street. The van tilted on two wheels, then fell back hard on all four.

  "Head for Royce's," Emmy yelled as she threw herself onto the small bench just behind Joe.

  Frank eased his way forward and into his seat and turned to face her.

  "Want to tell me what you were doing at the parking garage?" Frank's voice was steady, accusing.

  "Saving your lives," Emmy replied with a smile.

  "Were you?" Frank's eyes were hard, piercing.

  Emmy's smile dropped. "Yes. I was."

  Frank pulled the photo from his pocket. "Want to explain this?"

  Emmy looked confused, then outraged. She snatched the photo from Frank.

  "That's mine." Her voice was cold.

  "The man next to you is your father, isn't he?" Emmy remained silent. "What's your connection with Smith?"

  Emmy's reply was venomous. "That's my business, Frank."

  "Now I'm making it ours," Frank replied, nodding toward Joe. "We've got a friend whose life is on the line. No one knew Joe and I were going to the garage except Smith. Then you show up. You've been tailing us. Why?"

  Emmy's eyes narrowed as the full understanding of Frank's implication sank in.

  "The photo proves you've known Smith for years. When did you transfer to the Southport Police Department, Emmy? Wasn't it just a few weeks after your father's accident?" Frank was playing a hunch. He had to find out what Emmy knew about Smith.

  Emmy's creamy complexion turned a deep red. She was shaking with anger.

  "I'll say this only once, Frank Hardy." Emmy took a deep breath and let it hiss out slowly. Her icy green eyes flickered and her bottom Up quavered. "I'm a cop. A good cop. And because I'm a good cop, I tailed you two hoping to get a lead on Smith's fence. Instead I end up pulling you two out of a death trap."

  "And Smith?"

  "Smith is a creep I knew a long time ago. I was the one who told Cronkite about him and his little chop shop business."

  "You knew about the chop shop before you transferred from New York to Southport?"

  "Not exactly, but I had a hunch. Smith was convicted of operating a chop shop five years ago. He wasn't out of prison a month when this latest one opened up. No one in Southport knew I was a cop. Cronkite thought it the perfect cover. I take over my father's auto repair and body shop and try to get inside Smith's gang."

  "Why didn't it work?" Joe asked.

  Emmy wouldn't relax. Months of frustration poured from her. "I don't know. Even though we've known each other for years, Smith won't have anything to do with me, except offering to buy my garage last week."

  "You still think Max had nothing to do with sabotaging your car this morning?" Frank was beginning to change his mind about Emmy.

  "I'm not sure about anything or anybody." Emmy stared hard at Frank.

  "How did you know our last name is Hardy? Cronkite told you it was Davis."

  Emmy swallowed. "I had my suspicions about you two after the accident at the bridge. Cronkite told me your last name. Unlike you, Frank, Cronkite trusts me."

  Frank felt that Emmy was still hiding something.

  Emmy choked back a sob.

  "How did the accident happen?" Frank asked softly.

  "It wasn't an accident," Emmy replied. "My father was murdered!"

  Chapter 12

  Frank felt about two inches tall. He had been ready to accuse Emmy of working with Smith. Instead, she had risked her own life to save him and Joe.

  Now she sat trembling before him, trying to control her pain as she recalled the murder of her father, Royce Sauter.

  "My father was murdered," Emmy repeated slowly. "A school bus driver said that he saw my father's car approaching the bus stop at high speed. Kids were unloading, crossing the road to the other side. The driver said my father had obviously lost control of the car.

  "My father had only two choices - the kids or an unfinished off ramp. He swerved off the road, away from the bus and the kids, hit the off ramp, flipped, and rolled one hundred fifty feet. He was dead at the scene."

  "I'm sorry," Frank said. He cleared his throat. "What happened?"

  "The papers said it was a heart attack." Emmy gulped in air and held her breath for a few moments. Frank could tell she was fighting back tears. "I found out after I transferred to Southport that the reason my father's car lost control was because it had been sabotaged."

  "The same guy who sabotaged Cronkite's car this morning?" Frank asked.

  "Maybe," Emmy said.

  "Why did the police keep the murder a secret?" Frank asked.

  "Cronkite wanted it that way. My father had been letting him use his shop as a front. Someone must have found out and killed him. I inherited the garage and went undercover."

  Frank reached over and gripped Emmy's trembling shoulder. "I'm sorry."

  They pulled up to Royce's Garage. The old cinder-block building took on a new and special meaning for Frank. He could imagine the many happy hours Emmy and her father had spent in the garage, all brought to a halt by his murder.

  Once they had found Chet, Frank vowed, he would help Emmy find the man who had killed her father.

  As the trio approached the office door, Cronkite stepped out, his temples pulsing rapidly from anger and the gum he was smacking.

  "Well, if it isn't the Bayport wrecking crew." Cronkite's smile was plastic, mocking.

  Emmy remained silent, pushed past Cronkite, and entered the inner office, slamming the door shut.

  Frank was about to follow when Cronkite cut him off.

  "You two yahoos want to explain yourselves this time?"

  Frank and Joe ignored the question.

  Cronkite pulled on his mustache. "You know what I just heard on my car radio? Some citizens reported a gun battle at the Skyway Parking Garage. They also saw a black van leaving the scene. By the time my officers arrived, all they found was a burning TransAm. No driver. No bodies. You two wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

  "We got a call from Smith," Joe said. "He wanted to meet us there."

  "Why?" Cronkite asked.

  "We never found out," Joe said. "Two gunmen show
ed up and tried to kill us."

  Cronkite seemed unconcerned. "Maybe you can ask him tomorrow morning," he said.

  "What do you mean?" Frank asked.

  "We're busting Smith's place, at dawn, just like the cavalry."

  "You can't do that," Joe protested.

  Cronkite snorted. "Oh, yeah? And why not?"

  "He's our only link to Chet," Frank replied.

  "That's not your problem any longer. You two are out as of this minute."

  "I thought we had forty-eight hours," Frank said.

  "Forget it. The captain's real anxious to close this case."

  "What about Max? Emmy thinks Smith may be using the salvage yard hotline to move the parts." Frank had the uneasy feeling that his hunch about Cronkite was right.

  "Max? That cornflake?" Cronkite laughed.

  "You've got to give us a little more time," Joe said sternly.

  "The only thing I got to do," Cronkite replied, his bulldog face squeezed into a tight frown, his finger thumping Joe on the chest, "is make sure you two cowboys don't get in my way."

  "Let's get out of here, Joe," Frank said before Joe could say anything. "It's obvious that Detective Cronkite is right. We'll just be in the way."

  Joe knew his brother well enough to realize that Frank was putting on an act. He didn't know what Frank was scheming, but he trusted Frank and would go along with him. He followed his brother to the van.

  "Uh, Frank," Cronkite said from the doorway of the office. Frank turned. "I would think such a smart 'detective' as you would know better than to withhold evidence."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I stopped by Brooke's place before I came here. That man can't keep a secret." He held out his hand. "I'll take the tape, if you don't mind."

  "It's at the motel," Frank lied.

  Cronkite turned the answer over in his head for a moment, then sneered, "Just make sure it gets into the proper hands."

  Frank and Joe hopped into the van. The detective gave a mocking, insincere wave as they pulled away from Royce's Garage.

  "So, what's brewing?" Joe asked after they had gone several blocks.

  Frank fingered the tape. Something about the background noise bothered him, but that would have to wait.

  "Head for the motel," he replied. "We'll get a few hours' rest and then start the raiding party a little bit earlier than planned."