Street Spies (7 page)

"I need to talk to you and Dad as soon as possible. Where are you?"

"I just tracked Lightfoot on a delivery from World-Wide's Wall Street office up to Midtown," Frank reported. "The run was clean — no side-trips. I just talked to Dad. He's at World-Wide's testing center. He checked out the van's license plate. It's leased—to MUX."

"How about getting together at Rollo's, up by Lincoln Center?" Joe asked. "You know, the sidewalk caf6?"

"Sounds good," Frank said. "I'll call Dad. Barring traffic problems, we should be able to be there in less than a half-hour."

"Roger," Joe replied. "Out." He coasted his bike out onto the street and merged into the traffic heading west.

As he got to Eighth Avenue, his bike jolted across a manhole cover that hadn't been replaced tightly. Joe looked back to check out his tire, then frowned. A pair of red wires were dangling from behind his seat.

That's weird, he thought. When he'd bought the bike and tried out the headlight, he'd noticed that the wires that led to the generator were blue. He hadn't seen any red wires. Joe sat up straight and thrust his fingers under the seat where the wires disappeared. His frown deepened. He could feel a small metal cylinder embedded in something that felt like damp putty.

Just ahead of him, the traffic light turned red, and he realized the purpose of the wires!

Without a second thought, Joe swung his left leg over the handlebars and leapt off the bike. He somersaulted into the crosswalk as his riderless bike rolled to the middle of the intersection, where the traffic had momentarily cleared.

Then a deafening roar echoed through the intersection, and Joe saw his bike disintegrate into shards of metal fragments. He got to his knees and scrambled to the curb, his head spinning. The front wheel of his bike had been blown free and was bouncing across the street. As he watched, it hit the curb and sailed away in a graceful arc.

Dazed as he was, ears still ringing from the explosion, Joe only vaguely noticed the cream-colored van that suddenly sped up and drove through the intersection. Taxis and cars began to edge around the fragments of his bike that lay in the middle of the street. Behind him, a small knot of curious shoppers and pedestrians watched.

A police car screeched to a stop across the street, siren wailing, lights flashing. Spectators on that corner pointed in Joe's direction and the patrol car whipped across the intersection and pulled up a few feet in front of Joe.

Both doors flew open. A tough-looking woman officer with revolver drawn jumped out of the passenger side and crouched down, using the door as a shield. The driver, a burly cop with a .357 Magnum in his fist, stepped to the front of the car. Both guns were leveled directly at Joe.

"Freeze, kid," the male cop snapped. "One move and you're history."

Joe looked blankly at the cops and guns. "Freeze?" he repeated, dazed. "What for?"

"Don't get cute with us," the officer growled. He pulled Joe's headset off and took him by the arm, dragging him to his feet and pushing him toward the wall of the building on the corner. "Lean into the building, hands up, legs spread."

Joe did as he was ordered while the officer deftly searched him. "What's this all about?" he asked, hoping he could stop the cop before he came to the microphone. "Look, officer, whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. I was just making a run when all of a sudden the bike — "

"Save it," the officer ordered. His fingers closed on the mike taped to Joe's chest. He pulled Joe's shirt open and yanked the mike free. "See this?" he said, turning to the woman. "This guy's got to be one of the nuts we're after."

The woman officer snapped a pair of cuffs on Joe's wrists and turned him around.

"But I don't understand," Joe said loudly, wondering if Frank was picking up any of the conversation. "What do you think I've done?"

"Save it," the woman said sharply. "We know you were after the mayor with that bomb on your bike."

"After the mayor?" Joe repeated. He wasn't sure he'd heard right.

"Come on," the male officer snapped, "you think we're stupid? The mayor's just down the block, talking to a group of small business owners who are bent out of shape because you messengers keep running down people in front of their shops."

"And you think," Joe mumbled, "that I was going to ride a bike with a bomb on it into the mayor's meeting?" He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"You said it," the woman officer said calmly. "We got word that you guys were going to make trouble today. The mike is proof that you're in contact with somebody else." She took Joe's arm and began to walk him toward the squad car. "Unless you've got a better story, kid, you're going to the precinct to tell us who masterminded this stunt."

Joe planted his feet on the pavement. What story could he give them? That he, a seventeen-year-old high school kid, was actually working as a private detective? That he just happened to be disguised as a bicycle messenger? What lousy.

If they took him in, he could forget about the next couple of hours— maybe the rest of the day. He couldn't afford the time away from the case. He had to help Tiffany!

"Listen," he said urgently, "I've got to talk to the chief of police."

The woman's mouth dropped open. "To Chief Peterson?" she asked.

The burly cop barked a short, hard laugh. "This one's really a wacko," he said. He gave Joe a push. "Come on, stop stalling."

Joe took a deep breath. It was now or never, he knew. "My name is Joe Hardy," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. "I'm working as a detective undercover. My brother and I helped Chief Peterson solve that epidemic extortion case last year." If he could talk directly to Samuel Peterson, his father's ex-partner, the chief would get him out of this jam in a hurry.

The burly cop took the woman by the sleeve. "How'd he find out about that extortion scheme?" he asked in a low voice. "They hushed that up tight, didn't they?"

The woman shrugged. "The kid sounds looney-tunes to me, but maybe we'd better check it out, just in case."

The officer pushed Joe toward the car. "Into the backseat," he said roughly.

As Joe got into the car, the woman officer slid into the front seat and picked up the microphone. "This is car seven twenty-one," she said. "We have apprehended a suspect. He says his name is Joe Hardy. Claims to be an undercover agent. Wants to talk to Chief Peterson."

There was a long pause as she listened to the static voice of headquarters.

"No, I'm not crazy," the woman said. There was another burst of static. "Yes, I know. But this kid does have some confidential information about a big case last year. We thought we'd better check it out. I'll stand by."

Joe sat back in the seat, watching through the wire screen that separated the front of the squad car from the rear. The two officers sat in front, talking. Several minutes later the radio crackled into life again.

"Samuel Peterson," a commanding voice said.

The burly officer reached for the mike. "Right, Chief. I mean, sir." He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Sorry to bother you, but we've got a kid in custody who claims to know you. His name's Joe Hardy. His bike blew up about a block from the mayor's anti-bike messenger meeting, and he's carrying some kind of transmitter. We think he may have been trying to nail the mayor himself."

There was a pause. "What does this kid look like?" the chief asked.

"Late teens. Six feet, blond hair, football-player type."

"Let me talk to him."

"He can hear you," the officer said, turning to Joe. "We've got him in the back."

"What's your father's name?"

The officer stuck the mike against the screen in front of Joe and pressed the transmit button.

"Fenton Hardy," Joe said loudly. "He was your partner years ago. You worked with us on the epidemic plot last year."

The officers looked at each other.

"Okay, that's good enough for me," the chief said. "He's who he claims to be. And he's clean. Let him go. If he needs any assistance, let him have it."

"But, sir ... " the officer began, then hesitated.

"Yes, what is it?"

"What do we tell the press? It was a big explosion."

"Don't worry about them. I'll clear it. Oh, and, Joe, when this is over, I want a full report."

Joe leaned forward as the cop held the mike up. "Yes, sir," he said emphatically.

"Peterson out," the chief said.

The officers exchanged glances again. Then the woman shrugged, got out, opened the back door, and unlocked Joe's handcuffs.

"Sorry," she said gruffly, "but you know how it is. We've had threats on the mayor's life." She reached into the front seat and handed Joe his headset and microphone. "Can we give you a hand?"

"How about a lift up to Lincoln Center?" Joe asked, glancing at the remains of the bike, still in the middle of the intersection. An officer was there now, directing traffic.

"You've got it," the driver said and turned on the flashing light. Carefully, he backed the car around. The traffic officer stopped the cross-street traffic and waved them through. As Joe looked back, he saw an armored truck pull up, and members of the city's bomb disposal squad began to collect the pieces of what had once been his bicycle.