"Wonder why he wanted to meet here?" Joe puzzled, as he parked the Aztek across the street from the café. "Why couldn’t he just have come over to the house, or something?"

"He probably didn’t want to be seen talking to us." Frank reasoned. "If what the Chief said about the FBI investigating this is true, I suppose Con could get in trouble for discussing the case with us."

"I guess so," Joe admitted. He shivered as a sharp breeze hit them. The sunny weather of the afternoon had changed to rain showers, and the temperature had dropped considerably. "Let’s get inside and get something hot to drink!"

They entered the café and to their surprise found it nearly empty. They chose a table in the back, and a bored-looking waitress slouched over to take their order. Still shivering in his damp jacket, Joe asked for a double latte, and then glared at Frank, who was smiling at the distant memory of a coffee date with Megan. His brother, unaware of Joe’s irritation, ordered an espresso with raspberry syrup. From long experience, they asked for the coffees ‘to go;’ they could never be sure when something might interrupt them. After the drinks arrived, they sat and sipped them in moody silence for a few minutes.

Frank suddenly started choking on his espresso. "Holy smoke!" he spluttered, and began to chuckle, hastily wiping a dribble of coffee from his chin with a napkin. "Don’t look now, Joe, but I think James Bond just walked in! You’re going to get a kick out of this!"

Joe slowly turned his head, attempting to be casual. When he caught sight of what had caused Frank’s mirth, his lips quirked into a reluctant grin.

"Con’s lucky it started raining so he has an excuse to wear that stuff!" he whispered.

The police lieutenant looked considerably different from his usual casual self. He was dressed in a trench coat, and a brimmed hat was on his dark hair, pulled low over his eyes. He was ostentatiously carrying a newspaper held open, evidently scanning a story closely. He folded up the paper, and glanced surreptitiously about the room, as if deciding where to sit. Eventually, his eyes settled on the Hardys, and he moved in their direction.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked, making his voice gruffer than usual in an attempt to disguise it.

"Con!" Joe protested under his breath. "No one’s going to believe you don’t know us; besides, look at the place, it’s empty!"

"For Pete’s sake, sit down, Con." Frank shoved a chair away from the table with his foot, still chuckling softly. "What’s the idea of the spy disguise?"

"Do you have any notion what kind of trouble I could get into for this?" their friend muttered out of the corner of his mouth. He slid into the chair, making sure his back was to the restaurant. He laid the newspaper on the table, then reluctantly removed the hat, and brushed raindrops from his coat. "I don’t want anyone to take this back to my bosses!" He ran a hand through his hair, across the silver flecks sprinkling his temples.

An awkward silence gripped the trio. Frank and Joe stared at Con, while Con scanned their faces in turn, apparently hesitant to speak. Joe’s eyebrows arched high with impatience at the policeman’s reticence.

"Do you want a cup of coffee?" Frank finally asked, trying to break the stalemate, but the policeman shook his head.

"No thanks, I’m fine."

"Well in that case, what do you want to talk to us about, Con? Why are we here?" Joe’s tone was sharp. He was obviously still steaming at their friend’s betrayal of their father, despite his recent amusement.

Con slid a hand between the pages of his newspaper and produced a large manila envelope, which unlike the newsprint, was only slightly damp around the edges. "Look, I don’t want you believing I’m abandoning Fenton to the wolves – far from it! I’m also not so naïve as to think you boys will simply sit by while the police procrastinate and get tangled in red tape….

Frank and Joe glanced at each other, and shrugged their shoulders, silently admitting the truth of the accusation.

"…and I want to help all I can, too." Con admitted. "So I’ve brought along copies of everything I could lay my hands on that has to do with the case." He flicked the corner of the envelope with his thumbnail. "And this is a crazy case – simply insane!"

"Con, tell us!" Joe hissed impatiently.

"I’m getting there. First, I want your assurance that anything I tell you now isn’t going to be ‘accidentally’ filtered back to Chief Collig, because if it does—"

"It won’t, we promise." Frank interrupted, and Joe nodded in keen agreement. "We realize what a chance you’re taking; anything you tell us tonight stays in confidence. Nothing will get back to Collig."

Riley looked from one anxious Hardy face to the other, looked deeply and searchingly into their eyes. At last, he made his mind up, nodded sharply, and said, "All right, I’ll give you the gist of it in a few sentences."

Joe audibly sighed his relief, and Frank’s foot stopped its impatient tapping.

Con leaned further across the table, and the Hardys bent their heads closer to listen. Con’s voice dropped to a lower register as he spoke. "As you’re aware, the victim was Hurd Applegate, and he was strangled to death. You knew that, right?"

Joe and Frank nodded their understanding, and Con continued.

"The police – and the FBI, for that matter – really don’t believe that your father committed the murder—" Joe began to smile, and Riley held up a cautioning hand. "—but, unfortunately, there’s evidence that points to your father being the perpetrator…evidence that just can’t be ignored." He paused and picked up the manila envelope. "You’ll find all the details in here." He tapped the envelope sharply against the table top, then hastily glanced around to see if anyone had paid attention to him. No one had, so he resumed his explanation.

"This is more than just a local homicide, though. There have been several instances – in several different countries – of private detectives suddenly committing crimes that are totally out of character. Murder. Premeditated murder. The authorities are beginning to believe it’s the work of a serial killer – a very clever, very powerful, serial killer."

"A serial killer?" Frank snapped loudly, then lowered his voice again to a whisper. "How can they be sure?"

"They’re not sure; that’s the problem. They can’t fathom how a serial killer could be operating in so many places at once. The police and the FBI are split in their opinion as to whether or not the phantom murderer actually exists. The other countries simply don’t want to believe that they’ve made a mistake by jailing those PI’s!"

The Hardys were beginning to look slack-jawed at Con’s words.

"But the connection is the fact that investigators are apparently running amuck all over the world and killing their clients!" The lieutenant grinned sourly at his grim attempt at humor, but got no answering smile from either Frank or Joe.

"I know Fenton’s no murderer, and so does the Chief—" Con began, then paused as Joe pursed his lips and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "No, Joe, he really does, but his hands are tied." Riley insisted. "The fact that he accompanied the officers on the arrest convinced me that he cares – he never does the beat stuff any more; he doesn’t need to. He was there to make sure Fenton was treated right." Con paused, grinning bleakly at Frank and Joe. "And you two also, although I doubt you ever thought I’d say it to your faces."

Frank smiled wryly.

"I think you might be able to help find out what’s going on, and that’s why I’m going behind the Chief’s back and turning over this information to you. I don’t want to see your father behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit!"

"We’ll do everything in our power to find out – and we won’t let on that you gave us the info, Con." Frank assured him. "Collig won’t find out from us!"

"Okay, I’ve got to go." The lieutenant felt in his pocket for a pen, and scribbled two phone numbers on the corner of the envelope. "Here’s my home phone number, and my cell phone number. Call me if you need me – or just to keep me informed. Just please don’t call me at work – I mean, don’t call the station and ask for my extension. Use the cell phone instead. I’d like to keep in touch with you, too – give me your numbers, will you?." He pulled his hat back on, stood and resumed the trench coat.

Frank hastily wrote down their cell phone numbers on a paper napkin and handed it to Riley, who put it in his coat pocket and turned to leave.

"Con – wait a minute." Joe gulped, kicking his chair hastily back to stand up and stop his father’s friend from leaving.

Con stopped; turned back to look at the younger Hardy. "What is it?"

Hurriedly circling around the table, Joe moved to stand face to face with Riley. "I just wanted to say – I’m sorry." Joe forced the words out reluctantly, and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Sorry? About what?"

"Sorry about – about misjudging you." Joe admitted. "I felt like you were betraying Dad’s friendship – I should have known better, I guess."

"It’s okay, Joe." Con gripped the young man’s shoulder briefly. "I understand how you felt…it made me feel evil to have to do it! Now – goodnight, boys."