"This is Grant Street," Joe said. "Home stretch!" Then he punched the gas pedal to the floor and swerved into the left lane just as Frank thought they would rear-end Riley's car. Even though the police car was still accelerating, the van was going even faster, and it shot out in front as Joe brought it back into the right lane.
"I didn't know this van had that much power," Frank said in wonder.
"It doesn't," Joe replied as the van slowed to enter Grant Street. "It's air power. The car in front acts as an air-breaker—cutting down wind resistance and leaving a vacuum for the car behind it. You can accelerate faster and build up enough momentum to push ahead. They call it slipstreaming. Neat, huh?" He brought the van to a halt behind a lime green fire engine.
Frank didn't respond. His attention was riveted on a small fire blazing away next to Phil's house. The house wasn't on fire — only one half of the garage. He jumped out of the van and ran over to the nearest fire fighter. "Was anyone hurt?" he asked.
"Doesn't look like it," the man said. "The neighbors said the folks that live here are on vacation, and it's only the garage, anyway."
Frank clutched the man's arm, almost pulling him off balance and shouting, "You mean nobody went inside to check?"
Joe was right behind Frank then. "What's the story?" Joe asked.
Frank whirled around to face his brother. "Phil's folks are out of town—but Phil didn't go with them. He might still be in his workshop, and that's in the garage!"
The two brothers glanced at each other. Without saying anything they both bolted toward the side door of the garage. Con Riley, who had joined them, realized what they were doing and grabbed a hose from a surprised fire fighter. He aimed the nozzle at the boys, soaking Joe and Frank with water before they crashed into the garage.
Through the smoke they could just make out Phil's limp form on the floor. They crawled to him so they remained down low where there was less smoke. But still the heavy black air seared their throats, making them cough uncontrollably. They were half-blind, their eyes stinging and clouding over with tears. Frank grabbed Phil's left arm and Joe took his right, and together they started to drag their unconscious friend toward the side door. The front doors were already a wall of flames.
But it was too late. A burning rafter crashed down just in front of them, sealing the exit. The intense heat and smoke made it hard to breathe and impossible to talk. Frank looked around desperately, knowing that if either he or Joe passed out now, all three of them would die.
They were surrounded by flames now. But Frank spotted a window where the fire was less intense. He ripped out the wet sleeves off his shirt and wrapped it around the lower part of his face, covering his nose and mouth. He motioned to Joe to do the same, then pointed to the window.
Joe looked at the window. It was about three feet wide and four feet off the ground. He gave his brother the okay sign, got into a linebacker's crouch, held his breath, and ran straight for the window. He took a flying leap, shielded his head with his arms, and crashed through the glass. Just before he hit the ground outside he did a tuck and roll, landing on his feet on the grass.
The fire fighters were stunned by Joe's sudden appearance, but what he did next was even more stunning. He ran back to the burning garage, ripping the cloth off his face and tearing it in half. Joe wrapped the two pieces of cloth around his hands and smashed out the glass shards that jutted up and out from the shattered opening.
Frank couldn't see what was going on outside, but he knew that his brother had made it through the window. At least one of us will come out of this alive, he grimly told himself, grabbing Phil under the arms and dragging him toward the window. Coughing and gasping for breath, Frank kicked and shoved burning debris out of the way as he made a narrow path through the flames.
it seemed as if it took forever to reach the window. By the time he finally made it there, Frank was too tired to push his unconscious friend through to safety. He hoped someone on the other side would help with the job.
Joe reached in to grab Phil's body. Frank smiled weakly and let his brother take the burden off his hands. Even though he felt as if he was about to pass out, Frank couldn't leave the inferno yet.
After Joe hauled Phil through the window, he carried him over to the waiting paramedics. Then he sprinted back to help his brother. But Frank ' wasn't there. Desperately, Joe tried to scramble back inside the burning garage. Con Riley ran over, grabbed Joe's arm, and yanked him away.
"Back off!" Joe yelled. "Frank's still in there!"
"There's nothing you can do now!" Riley insisted. "The fire's out of control!"
Joe stared numbly. "He was right here at the window. Then he was gone." Fatigue and smoke inhalation were starting to take their toll, but Joe fought back. "I can't leave him in there! Help me or get out of my way!" He pushed Riley aside so hard that Con fell down.
Joe gripped the broken frame with both hands. He put his right foot on the sill and was about to pull himself up and in when he heard a raspy voice croak, "Got an air conditioner on you, brother? It's hot in here."
With a final surge of energy, Joe Hardy hauled his brother Frank out just before the roof caved in.
They both lay on the grass, exhausted, ignoring the fire fighters scurrying back and forth in a vain attempt to put out the fire. After a few minutes, Frank sat up, wiped some of the soot off his face, and said, "What happened to Phil? Is he okay?"
At that, Joe jumped up and kicked his brother in the shin. "Ow!" Frank yelled. "What was that for?" "You don't care about Phil," Joe shouted. "What do you mean?" "I mean you were more concerned about that electronic gizmo than you were about Phil." "Now, wait a min — "
"No, you wait," Joe shouted. "You went back to get that thing, didn't you? Phil could have been dying for all you knew, and I could have gotten myself killed."
Frank looked closely at his brother. They were both tired and upset, but Frank struggled to remain levelheaded. "That 'thing,' as you put it, is the only thing that could have led us to the person who just tried to kill our friend." He should have let it go at that, but Joe's accusation had pushed the wrong button, and Frank pushed back. The words seemed to take on a life of their own, and he heard himself saying, "Of course, you seem to be more concerned about helping the guy who might have done it."
Frank was sorry as soon as the words left his mouth, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. He saw Joe clench his right hand into a fist, and he tried to remember the last time he had gotten into a fistfight with his brother.
Frank didn't want that. He knew he could easily deflect the blow, but he just stood there and waited for it to happen. Maybe he deserved a good punch. Maybe they would both feel better afterward. He didn't know anymore — he just wanted to lie down and go to sleep.
It took Joe a few seconds to realize what he was about to do. He stared down in disbelief at his own balled fist. Was he actually going to hit his brother? No. He commanded the tensed muscles in his arm to relax. Just let it go, he told himself. Just walk away.
Before Frank could say he was sorry, Joe had turned his back and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 7
Joe Hardy stomped off, angry and confused. His gut instinct told him that Scott Lavin was innocent, but he couldn't just dismiss his brother's suspicions.
First the fatal crash of McCoy's race car, then the "accident" at Scott's garage, and finally the fire at Phil Cohen's house. They all had to be connected somehow.
Joe realized that the electronic device Frank recovered from the crash wreckage had to be a link. Someone who knew that Frank had found the device could have followed him, waiting for the best chance to ambush him and steal it. He or she—whoever it was—knocked Frank out at Scott's garage.
When he didn't find the device on Frank's body, he backtracked to Phil's house. Then he jumped Phil and set the fire to cover his tracks. The fire was so intense that no one could be sure if the device had been stolen or destroyed in the blaze.
"Whoever it was," Joe grumbled, "had a very busy day."
Suddenly he froze in his tracks and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. "That's it!" he muttered to himself. "It couldn't be Scott. He might have a motive for wanting McCoy out of the race—but how could he have known Phil had the gizmo in the first place? Scott couldn't have tailed Frank because he was in his garage with me all afternoon."
Joe did an abrupt about-face and started to walk back toward Phil's house, hoping Frank, would still be there. He picked up the pace as he turned the problem over in his mind, trying to look at all the angles.
Suddenly he stopped again. There was a small hole in his argument that got larger and larger the more he tried to ignore it—and he knew Frank would see it right away. Joe could just imagine the very short conversation they'd have.
Joe: Scott couldn't have known Phil had the device.
Frank: He could have had an accomplice.
Joe: My gut instinct tells me Scott didn't do it.
Frank: Then ask your gut instinct for a list of suspects.
Joe shook his head. Sometimes his brother was too logical and rational. Instinct and intuition weren't enough for Frank Hardy. Joe started walking again. He would just have to come up with a better suspect, he told himself. "Okay, gut instinct," he muttered to himself, "tell me who did it."
There was no answer. Even though Joe sometimes acted without thinking, this was different. This wasn't action, it was just a different kind of lanking — sort of thinking without thinking. , He slammed his fist into a tree and winced with pain and frustration. "Intuition," he concluded out loud, "isn't helping me out right now."
Joe had been walking for some time, not thinking about where he was going. He plunged out into an intersection without even glancing at the traffic light. The blare of a car horn and the squeal of tires snapped him out of his fog, and he leapt back to the curb.
"Watch where you're going, idiot!" someone snouted from a passing car.
Joe looked around and realized he was less than a block from Callie Shaw's house. Callie was Frank's girlfriend and mostly a pain in Joe's neck. "I can't figure that girl out," he grumbled. "Sometimes she does the weirdest — "
Joe suddenly stopped without completing his thought — because another one had just taken place. Girls, he thought, are supposed to knowi lot about stuff like intuition. Maybe Callie'll help me out. He headed for her house.
It was late, but Joe was in luck. Callie was still up, working with her video equipment.
"Get lost on the way to an all-night laundrette?" Callie quipped as she invited Joe in. "You look like you could use the heavy-duty machine.
Joe looked at himself in the hall mirror. He was a mess. His blond hair had turned brown with dirt and ashes. His face and clothes were grime with soot, and one sleeve was missing from his shirt.
"And you smell like you've been barbecuing old tires," she said, sniffing.
"Nice to see you, too, Callie," Joe replied. "Making movies of yourself again?"
"Gee, it's fun to stand here and trade insults with you, Joe, but it's kind of late and I've got work to do. Maybe we could make a date to continue this later."
Joe paused a second and then said, "Look, I'm sorry. Let's start over, okay?"
Callie took a closer look at Joe. She could see that something was troubling him. "Okay, Joe," she said. "What can I do for you?"
Joe slumped down and sat on the floor to tell Callie about the events that followed Angus McCoy's fatal crash, concluding with, "I don't have any proof — I just have a feeling. Know what?" »'Well, this is a switch." Callie smiled. "Are you asking for my advice, Joe?" Joe shrugged. "Yeah, I guess I am." "Guys always make jokes about 'female intuition - and complain that women aren't rational. You don't understand that it's possible to see from a different angle. Sometimes you ve to pay more attention to emotions than physical actions." Callie looked up. "Are you with me so far?" Joe nodded. "Yeah, I think so." Callie chuckled. "Sometimes it's better not to. Some things don't have logical explanations."
"Like my coming here tonight," Joe said. "Well, yes," Callie admitted. "Look, let me put it another way. Scott Lavin is your friend, right?"
"Right."
"Then if he's guilty, you've got lousy instincts when it comes to picking friends. But I know most of your friends, and I think you have pretty pood instincts.
'So, other than Scott Lavin," she prodded, "who has the most to gain—or lose—in this lace?"
Joe ran a mental checklist and then said, "Russell Arno, the race promoter, and Reinhart Voss, the other driver for McCoy Racing. With McCoy out of the way, Voss would be the number-one driver for the team, and he would have a better shot at winning."
"What about Arno?" Callie asked.
"I can't give you a reason," Joe admitted. "I don't know that much about him—or even what a promoter does. I just don't trust the guy."
"Okay," Callie said. "Now, which one does your instinct tell you is the more likely suspect?"
Joe didn't even have to think about it. The answer just popped out. "Arno," he said. "I think he's hiding something."
Callie stood up. "Then let's go check him out," she replied, grabbing her purse and heading for the door.
"Wait a minute!" Joe burst out. "Where do you think you're going? I don't need a girl tagging along."
"Okay." Callie smiled. "I'll go by myself-and I have a car. How were you planning to get to his office?"
Joe grinned weakly. "I don't suppose you'd consider giving me a lift?"
"There's not enough room in my car for your macho self-image," Callie chided him. "You'll have to leave it here and pick it up later."
When they got to the Bayport Fairgrounds it was late.
"What'll we do if Arno's not in his office?" Callie asked.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Joe whispered as they reached the mobile trailer that served as Arno's traveling office. He walked up the steps and tapped lightly on the door. It was unlocked and creaked open slightly as Joe knocked. He pushed the door open all the way and stuck his head inside. The lights were on, but no one was in sight. "Hello?" he called. "Anybody here?" Joe cautiously stepped inside. Somebody else had been through the place recently, and he doubted that it was Arno. Papers and file folders were scattered on the floor, along with several drawers that had been yanked out of the desk. Joe whistled softly. "This guy is one lousy housekeeper."
Callie brushed past Joe and started to pick things up and examine them. "We'll call Dial-A-Maid when we're through," she joked, picking up a heap of folders and leafing through them. "We don't even know what we're looking for," she said. "Tell you what, Joe—you look through the files while I watch TV."
Joe noticed a color television in the corner, with a videocassette recorder stacked on top of it. "That VCR looks unusual," he observed.
"Yeah," Callie replied as her hands skimmed over the control panel. "It's a professional model."
Joe sat down in Arno's chair. "Well, I guess that's part of what a promoter does," he said. "He makes a lot of flashy, full-color videos of fast cars and — "
Joe stopped in midsentence, his eyes riveted to the name typed on the front of one of the file folders on the desk. "Bingo!" he called out. "This one has McCoy's name on it."
Joe opened the folder and shuffled through the papers inside. He kept up a running commentary. "Press releases, pictures of McCoy and his car, a couple of contracts, some canceled checks. It looks like Arno was paying McCoy to appear at races."
Joe turned over one of the checks and looked at the back. Then he flipped over several more. "Mmm — this is strange. McCoy endorsed all of these checks to some outfit called Clarco Industries. But I don't see anything here worth killing him for ... "
Joe's voice trailed off as he pulled out one of the documents. The silence drew Callie's attention, and she turned to look at Joe. He wasn't sitting anymore his feet were planted firmly on the ground, and he was leaning over the desk, reading intent
ly.
"What is it?" Callie asked.
Joe didn't reply. He just kept on reading.
"Come on, Joe," Callie urged. "What is it?"
"An insurance policy," he said at last, looking up with a triumphant smile. "A life insurance policy for a million bucks."
"So Arno has some life insurance. So what?"
"Arno has some life insurance," Joe repeated. "But not on his own life. This policy pays off on McCoy's death!"
Joe jumped up and waved the piece of paper in Callie's face. "Do you know what this means?" he asked excitedly.
Callie didn't say anything. She was staring at something over Joe's shoulder — something in the doorway, Joe realized.
"It means you're in the wrong place at the wrong time," a cold, smooth voice answered.
Chapter 8
Joe Hardy knew the voice that had just threatened him, and he didn't like it any more now than he had the first time he heard it. Well, Joe thought, I came here looking for Russell Arno, and now I've found him.
Joe was in a tight spot. He had his back to Arno, and Arno was blocking his only exit. Joe thought about spinning around and trying to take Arno by surprise. That might buy enough time for Callie to get away. But the man could be armed. Joe gritted his teeth and decided to go for it anyway.
I got Callie into this, Joe told himself. It's up to me to get her out.
Callie was looking right at Arno, and she spoke before Joe could act. "Oh, Mr. Arno! Thank heaven you're here!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together as if she was about to start praying. She was doing her best imitation of a little lost girl. It was almost good enough for an Academy Award, and Joe hoped it was good enough to fool Arno.
"We were just passing by," Callie continued, "when we saw your door was open. We came in to make sure everything was all right. We were afraid something might have happened to you."
Joe was impressed. Callie might just pull this one off. He felt a slight tug on the piece of paper he was still holding in his hand. He looked down and realized that Callie was trying to pry it loose and quietly stuff it in her purse.
Collision Course Page 4