He glanced left, toward first base, and caught his younger brother’s eye. Joe was watching him intently, blue eyes fastened on Frank’s each and every move. He grinned and made a thumbs-up gesture as Frank gave him an imploring look. Joe, of all the things you’ve gotten me into, this takes the cake! He narrowed his brown eyes warningly at his brother, and returned his attention to pitching. The late-afternoon April sun was warm against his back, and a soft breeze ruffled the ends of his dark hair beneath the baseball cap.

Playing college baseball had never been high on 21-year-old Frank Hardy’s list of priorities. But Joe, age 20, had been an enthusiastic member of the University of New York-at-Bayport’s baseball team since his freshman year. And when a series of mishaps and injuries decimated the pitching staff of that team, Joe had gone to his coach with an astonishing idea:

"Coach, my older brother is a swell pitcher! What would you think about picking him up as a relief pitcher or a closer, for the rest of the season?"

Coach Vern Olson had frowned at the question. "Joe, if he’s such a good pitcher, why isn’t he playing for us already? And just when was he so good?"

"Three years ago he pitched Bayport High into the state championships!" Joe exclaimed. "Doesn’t the name Frank Hardy ring a bell, Coach?" He held out his hands imploringly.

Coach Olson looked thoughtful now. "Frank Hardy – yeah, I remember. You’re right; he was good. So my first question still stands. Why didn’t he come out for the team in the first place?"

"He decided not to play college sports," Joe admitted. Then he brightened. "But I’ll bet I can talk him into at least coming out and showing you what he can do! Coach, we need another pitcher!"

"All right, I’ve no objection to taking a look. But convincing him is your job, Joe!"

Joe could be very persuasive when he tried. Despite Frank’s objections and trepidations, the older boy found himself meeting with Coach Olson, then demonstrating his abilities as a pitcher. Frank knew he was out of practice, and he was aware the coaching staff knew it too, but his prowess on the mound was undeniable, despite the intervening years, and the team needed pitchers so badly that any deficiencies were overlooked. Three or four practice sessions sufficed, and now, for the first time, Frank found himself on the pitcher’s mound in the ninth inning of an important college game. Bayport was ahead, 4-3; and there was one out. One runner was on second base. Two outs, that’s all I need.

Frank glanced into the bleachers alongside the ball field, and saw two very familiar faces; one was Vanessa Bender, Joe’s girlfriend. The other was tiny copper-haired Megan Wright, the girl who occupied Frank’s thoughts, owned his heart, and possessed his soul.

Frank caught the ball, squared his shoulders and gave his coach a nod. He was ready.

The batter stepped into the box and faced Frank, his bat held aggressively high. Frank watched for the catcher’s signals, and shook his head at the first suggestion made. Suddenly aware of the runner on second taking a long lead, he swung about and fired the ball towards his second baseman, forcing the adventurous runner to return to the base. Getting the ball back, Frank turned again to face the batter’s box. This time he nodded slightly at his catcher’s signal, and went into his windup.

"Strike!" The umpire barked the word as the ball smacked into the catcher’s glove. A ripple of applause went through the spectators, and Frank felt himself relax slightly. It’s like riding a bicycle; you don’t forget how to do it…. Again, he approved the suggested pitch and went into his windup.

This time, it went low, and the count was 1-1. On the next pitch, the batter swung and connected, but it popped foul down the third base line. Two strikes, one ball.

"Come on, Frank, you can do it! Strike him out!" Vanessa’s clear voice floated through the crowd noises. Frank looked toward Joe and grinned a little; Joe returned the smile.

Another pitch, this one just slightly inside. Now the count was 2-2. Frank shook his head again at the catcher’s signal. He knew what he wanted to pitch.

It was a low fastball, but the batter was ready for it. He swung hard, and connected; a line drive headed straight for the pitcher’s mound.

Frank reacted almost without conscious volition. He leaped to the left as the ball bounced sharply on the turf, and his left hand shot out to snare the ball. Almost before he had it secure in his glove, he was snatching it out with his right hand, and hurling it toward first base, where Joe waited, foot on the base and hands outstretched. The ball hit his glove with a sharp smack, and the umpire was signaling out as Joe caught the ball. But the action wasn’t over. With the swift reflexes and muscles that made him such an integral part of the team, Joe was already throwing to second base, hoping to get the ball there before the stranded runner could get back, and complete the double play.

"Y’re out!" The second-base umpire’s cry echoed over the field, and on the heels of that cry came whoops of victory from the Bayport team and its fans. Joe headed for the pitcher’s mound at a fast lope, caught his older brother in his arms and spun him around in triumph.

"Yeah! Attaboy! I knew you could do it!" Joe was yelling at the top of his lungs as the rest of the team surrounded them, congratulatory hugs and backslaps being exchanged by all. Frank, laughing in exultation, helplessly pinioned by his brother’s strong arms, happily accepted the praise. He felt like he had at eighteen, when Bayport High had gone to the state finals!

"Nice job, Frank!" Coach Olson was there, adding his congratulations, pumping Frank’s hand up and down enthusiastically.

Frank nodded his appreciation and flexed his aching hand, which hurt from the sheer strength of the older man’s grip. "Believe me, Coach, the pleasure was mine—all mine!"

As they walked off the field, Vanessa and Megan rushed up to them, and Megan flung herself into Frank’s arms. He hugged her tightly, inhaling the scent of her perfume and her hair.

"I’m so proud of you!" she caroled, and planted kisses along his jawline. "I knew you could do it, and I’m so proud!" At barely 5’2", Megan was dwarfed by Frank’s lean 6’1" frame, but she kissed what she could reach. Her long-lashed turquoise eyes shone as she gazed up at him.

"Hey, it’s all because of my lucky hat!" Joe declared. He slung his arm across Vanessa’s shoulders and pulled her against him. Ash-blonde Vanessa nearly matched Joe’s six feet of height, which made the enveloping embraces Frank and Megan shared nearly impossible, but she wrapped her arm about Joe’s waist and hugged him tightly.

"What’s so lucky about the hat?" she demanded teasingly. "It looks like any other hat to me!" She poked at it, dislodging it from Joe’s wavy blonde hair. He grabbed at it with a squawk of dismay and carefully replaced it on his head.

"It’s lucky, I tell you!" he insisted, tugging at the bill. "We haven’t lost a game where I’ve had this hat, and we haven’t won one where I ended up with a different one! I’ve gotta have this hat!" He suddenly pulled his girlfriend close and kissed her emphatically, then rubbed his cheek against hers.

"Aaaah! Joe! You’re all bristles!" she shrieked, pulling back as Frank and Megan burst out laughing. Vanessa surveyed Joe closely. "What have you done to your face?" she demanded. "Are you growing a beard?"

"Maybe…." Joe said, somewhat defensively. "Anything wrong with that?"

"No, I guess not." Vanessa replied after a moment’s thought. "But – but right now," she giggled, "it looks sort of like designer stubble – a patch here and a patch there—" She broke off abruptly as Joe made a mock-threatening move toward her. "I’m sure it’ll improve, Joe!"

"Don’t bet on it," Frank observed, still laughing. "It’s taken him a week to grow that much and you just noticed it now."

"Well, I haven’t seen him for a couple of days," Vanessa reminded them diplomatically. "I was away at that graphics seminar."

"Come on, Frank, let’s get out of here!" Joe implored now. "I want to go grab a pizza and celebrate!" He tugged at his brother’s arm, pulling him toward the gymnasium locker rooms. "Let’s get showered and changed, huh?"

"Okay, give us fifteen minutes, girls, and then we’ll head over to our house and consolidate cars." Frank suggested. He and Joe had come together in Joe’s Aztek, but Megan and Vanessa had each driven her own car. If they were going to go out to eat, they’d want to be in the same vehicle.

Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton and Laura Hardy, and lived in Bayport, a town of approximately 50,000 residents an hour’s drive from New York City. Their father had been an officer in the New York City Police Department, but had left the force to become a private detective when the boys were young. Now he was one of the country’s foremost investigators, and his expertise was sought both in the United States and abroad. The boys had long since announced their intentions of following their father’s example and going into investigative work, and had solved many cases on their own as well as in partnership with Fenton.

Frank’s tall, dark leanness contrasted with his brother’s more solidly-built frame and blue-eyed blonde coloration, but their relationship was evident in their similarly handsome facial features. Joe’s volatile impulsiveness and intuitive leaps meshed with Frank’s cool demeanor and thoughtful deductive reasoning skills, and together they made a formidable team.

Half an hour later, the little convoy of cars turned into Elm Street, Joe’s car followed closely by Vanessa’s Jeep. Frank and Megan, in Megan’s Honda Accord, brought up the rear, with Frank at the wheel. Although the question of who drove was usually resolved by whose car they were in, today Megan had tossed him the keys when he emerged from the locker room, saying "You drive."

"Frank, what in the world…?" Megan’s surprised query was prompted by the sight of two Bayport City Police squad cars parked in the street next to the Hardys’ driveway. Neither Fenton’s nor Laura’s cars were visible, evidently parked in the garage. Frank’s Saturn was in its accustomed place in the drive, and Joe pulled in beside it. Vanessa parked across the street, and Frank slid the Accord behind Vanessa’s Jeep.

"I don’t know." Frank knitted his dark brows as he shut off the engine and removed the keys from the ignition. "Maybe there’s a case the department needs Dad’s help on. But two cars?"

"Maybe there’s been a break in that murder case!" Megan hazarded a guess. "That was so terrible!" Almost immediately, she regretted mentioning it, for Frank’s face fell, and his brown eyes held a doleful expresssion. "I’m sorry," she whispered, and quickly squeezed his hand before climbing out of the car.

They joined an equally curious Joe and Vanessa on the sidewalk. "Wonder what’s up?" Joe murmured. "This looks kinda serious." He yanked at the bill of his ‘lucky hat,’ which he had insisted on retaining and wearing despite his brother’s derisive gibes. "Let’s find out what’s going on."

"I’m wondering if the police have decided to call Dad in on the homicide case." Frank speculated. "After all, they were friends, and Dad did more than one job for him over the years."

The two couples walked to the front door, Frank feeling uneasy, for no reason he could put his finger on. It wasn’t like their father wasn’t consulted by the police often, after all, he told himself. Still, the niggling feeling of disquiet persisted.

Joe opened the front door and stepped into the hall, followed closely by Vanessa, Frank, and Megan. Hearing voices in the family room, they followed the sounds. As they paused in the doorway, the words became clear:

"You have the right to remain silent; you have the right to counsel; anything you say can and will be used in a court of law…."

An alarming sight met their startled eyes. Chief of Police Ezra Collig was standing to one side of the room, next to petite, blonde Laura Hardy. In front of his favorite recliner chair stood Fenton Hardy, flanked by two uniformed officers, one of who was just snapping handcuffs about the investigator’s wrists behind his back. Directly facing Fenton was Lieutenant Con Riley, reading the Miranda Rights from a little card held in his hand.

Con glanced at them, but quickly averted his gaze, his face grave. Although he was a friend of long standing, no welcoming smile lit his features today.

"What’s going on?" Joe burst out angrily. "Why have you got my Dad handcuffed?" He strode forward, instinctively moving to Fenton’s aid, ready to confront Officer Bearden, who was firmly gripping the investigator’s arm. Fenton’s dark eyes were flashing with suppressed anger.

Laura moved swiftly across the room to intercept her son. Tears were streaming down her face, and Joe caught her in his arms, glaring over her head at the police officers.

"Joe—Frank! I’m so glad you’re back!" Laura sobbed. "Your father’s been arrested—for the murder of Hurd Applegate!"