“What?!” Joe was shocked. “What happened?”

“He broke Kenneth Nash’s nose!”

Biff’s jaw dropped. “Frank did? Phil, are you sure?”

“I was standing right there,” Phil replied shortly. “I’m sure.”

Joe was stunned. “Frank hit someone? My brother Frank?”

Phil nodded.

“But…why?”

Phil hesitated, reluctant to tell Joe that Nash had goaded his brother about what had happened on the Bay. But the blonde boy could see it in his face. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“What? No! Well, not really…” Phil sighed. “Alright, maybe a little. But it wasn’t really Frank’s fault, Joe, Nash was being a real jerk. He was taunting Frank about what happened and then…well…he made a pretty nasty crack about how you damaged his boat when he hit you.”

Joe looked confused, not quite understanding what Phil meant, but Biff understood at once and exploded with anger. “That scumbag! Who the hell does he think he is? Forget Frank, if I get my hands on that creep, I’ll pound his ass!”

“No!” said Joe at once. “Biff, Nash isn’t worth getting into trouble over. I can’t believe Frank…” he gave a sigh of frustration as his voice trailed off. “Where is he now, Phil?”

“I think your dad came to pick him up.”

“Oh.” Joe felt his heart sink. Even though it wasn’t his fault, the boy felt partly responsible. He wondered just how much trouble Frank was in and wished he could talk to him, make sure he was alright.

Joe’s thoughts strayed to the cell phone in his schoolbag. Would this qualify as an emergency? Could he call home and talk to Frank? Or would he get him into even more trouble by doing what his father had expressly told him not to? Lost in thought, he paid no attention to the other students hurrying to their next class or the rapidly emptying school corridor.

It was Phil who pulled him out of his musings. “Joe, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“With Frank. I know he’s just out of hospital, but he was acting really weird today; kinda quiet and jumpy, not like Frank at all. And the way he lost it at Nash…” Phil bit his lip. “Is he okay?”

“Frank’s fine,” Joe mumbled uncomfortably, not wanting to tell the boys anything about what they had discovered the evening before. His brother had been painfully quiet after the talk with their father and Joe had got the distinct impression that the case bothered him far more than he was letting on. He knew that Frank wouldn’t want anyone to know the disturbing truth. At least not yet.

“Okay,” said Phil, looking unconvinced. Biff also looked like he wanted to say something, although neither of them pushed the issue.

Joe wondered just how much they had guessed about Frank’s attack. Did they suspect it had something to do with Fenton’s case? He felt a little guilty about not telling their friends the truth, but what they told them and when was all down to Frank.

“We should probably get to class,” Joe mumbled, not quite looking either of them in the eye. He knew they wanted answers - knew they deserved them - but, aside from being concerned about Frank’s reaction, he couldn’t bear the thought of telling them the horrible truth behind their father’s case and Frank’s attack. It made him physically ill to think about it.

For the first time, Joe truly understood why their father had been so anxious to protect them from the truth.

“Boys, shouldn’t you be in class?” called a voice suddenly and they turned to see Mrs. West, the stern-faced Biology teacher, walking towards them. “Well?” she frowned at them as she came to a halt beside Phil.

“We were…um…” Biff fumbled, looking at the other two for a plausible reason as to why they were out of class. “We were just…getting some books.”

“Well, I suggest you get them and return to class, Mr. Hooper, unless you want a detention!”

“Yes, Ma’am,” they chorused, and scrambled to get to their next class.

***

Mike Wilson was fuming as he drove back to Bayport. The meeting with his boss had revealed some alarming discrepancies within NYPD, the biggest of which was that Steve Johnson was responsible for the leaks to the New York media. Mike knew that the man had an intensely dislikeable nature, but he never thought that he would do something as reprehensible as this. The detective had argued strongly that Johnson be suspended for his actions, but the department had refused, claiming that suspending an officer would only make the department look culpable.

Mike was sickened by the politics behind it. As far as he was concerned, the decision stank. These leaks meant that the families of the murdered boys were reliving the horror of the past, their pain splashed across every newspaper in New York, and yet the people responsible were not going to be held accountable. With a growing sense of disillusionment, Mike wondered when human pain had become another casualty of political collateral damage?

But it wasn’t something that Mike could dismiss so easily. The names of the murdered boys rang like a roll call in his head; Riley Harris, Chris Gallagher, Colin Jansen, Kyle Hamilton, Luke Mullen, Elijah Marks, Andrew Watson…he could only imagine the pain their parents must be going through as old wounds were reopened once more.

“Goddamn stupid bureaucratic bullshit!” he yelled aloud, thumping the steering wheel in frustration. He felt so useless. When he had first become a police officer, Mike had taken a vow to ‘protect and serve.’ Now, however, he felt as though he had failed to protect while his whole department was failing to serve.

***

“Mr. Radley?”

Sam looked up from the file he had been studying to see a young officer staring anxiously at him. “Yes?”

“I’ve got a guy on the phone who says he’s a cab driver. He’s claiming that he drove some guy to the Hardy home who just stared at the house before telling him to drive away again.”

Sam’s ears picked up at once. “Can you put him through to me?”

The officer nodded and moved away. Minutes later, the phone on Con’s desk rang. Sam picked it up at once. “Sam Radley speaking.”

“Mr. Radley?” a deep voice sounded on the other end. “My name is Earl Foster. I heard about an attack on one of Fenton Hardy’s sons and that it might be connected to the body found in Barmet Bay.”

“Really?” said Sam carefully, on guard at once. Experience told him that this guy could be a journalist trying to get some information out of him “Where did you hear that?”

“Bayport is buzzing with the story. Anyway, that’s not the point.”

Sam was surprised. “It’s not? Then…what is?”

“I was working the late shift one evening and I picked up this guy at the train station- ”

“Can you remember what evening it was?” Sam interrupted, beginning to realise that this call was genuine.

“Saturday or Sunday - I’m not exactly sure which - but I think it was about three weeks ago. Anyway, I was parked in front of the station and this guy suddenly climbed into the back of my cab and asked me to follow a black ford that was just pulling out of the parking lot.”

Sam’s pulse quickened. Laura Hardy drove a black ford. “Did you ask him why he wanted to follow that car?”

Earl Foster chuckled. “I sure did! I’m a nosey man by nature, Mr. Radley, and when someone hops in my cab like in the movies and tells me ‘follow that car!’ well, I want to know why!”

“What reason did he give you?”

“Said he had seen a lady drop her purse but she hadn’t heard him call her, so he was following her to return it. I just thought he was being a good Samaritan.”

Sam started to make notes. “What happened when you got to the house?”

“Well, that’s where things got a little strange. He just watched the house for a few minutes before saying he had made a mistake, it was the wrong woman. Then he asked me to take him back to the station.”

That was definitely odd, thought Sam, twirling a pen between his fingers. Whoever he was, he was up to something. Then another thought occurred to the detective. “Mr. Foster, how did you know that was the Hardy home?”

“I work for Swift Cabs, and Miss. Hardy uses us sometimes. I’ve dropped her to the house once or twice myself.”

Sam noted the name of the cab company. “Can I ask, why are you only coming forward with this now?”

The man’s voice was sheepish. “Truth be told, I forgot about it. I mean, that first evening it was just a funny story to tell the guys at the cab office! But then I didn’t think of it again until I started hearing stories about what happened to Fenton Hardy’s kid and the whispers about that body in the Bay. I wondered if it might have something to do with it and decided to call.”

Am I glad you did! thought Sam, his excitement growing. This was the first possible lead they’d had since the discovery of Andrew Watson’s body.

“Mr. Foster?” he addressed the other man again. “Could you describe this guy?”

“Tall and skinny,” answered the man. “Brown hair…pretty ordinary looking really.”

“Do you think you could describe him to a police sketch artist?”

“I could try,” answered the man. “When do you want me to come in?”

“Tomorrow morning?” asked Sam hopefully.

“Sure, no problem. What time?”

“Is around ten alright with you?”

“Ten sounds good,” replied the other man, excitement evident in his tone. Sam knew that he was probably already picturing himself telling the whole story to his buddies at the cab office, but didn’t particularly care; what mattered to him now was that they finally had a break in this case.

“Mr. Foster, do you have a number I can contact you at?”

“Yes. It’s 555-9467.”

Sam jotted down the number. “Mr. Foster, thank you. I appreciate you getting in contact with us.”

Have I been of any help?”

“You’ve been a big help!” said Sam gratefully. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good evening to you, Mr. Radley.”

Sam hung up the phone. His brain was whirling and adrenaline was pumping through him. Finally, they had something they could work on.

Three weekends ago, Fenton had taken the boys to New York and abruptly sent them back to Bayport on the train. This man had obviously followed them from the station and had more than likely been stalking Frank since then.

We’re going to need the CTV footage for that day from the station, Sam realised. He was exhilarated. Wait until Fenton hears about this!

Glancing at his watch, his heart gave a sudden thud. It was nearly six thirty and he was supposed to pick up Joe at six thirty. The detective realised that he had been so engrossed in the files he had lost track of time. Jumping up, Sam snatched up his jacket and keys before turning off the lamp on Con’s desk. He could fill Fenton in on all that had just occurred when he dropped Joe off.

Saying a hasty goodnight to the few officers who lingered in the station between shifts, Sam hurried out the door and down the front steps.

As he crossed the parking lot, it started to rain. With a sigh, he realised that the rain would probably slow him down a little. Swinging the keys from his fingers, Sam reached his car and stopped dead.

All the tyres on his car had been slashed.

What the hell? thought Sam in frustration, as he stared in shock at the deep gouges in the rubber. Angrily, he cast his gaze around the parking lot but it was empty, the rain making loud plinking noises as it splashed off his car. Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. Something didn’t feel right. Quickly he pulled out his cell phone and dialled.

***

Fenton Hardy was working at his desk and listening to the rain pounding against the window when his phone went off. Without glancing at the display, Fenton answered. “Hello?”

“Fenton, It’s Sam.”

“Sam? I thought you were supposed to be picking Joe up?”

“Someone slashed my tyres, I’m stuck here at the station!”

“Where’s Con?”

“On a callout, he’s not back yet. Jesus, Fenton! My car isn’t the only one that’s been vandalised…the other cars have had their tyres slashed too!”

Something went cold in the pit of Fenton’s stomach and he stood up. “Sam, try and get hold of Mike or Con, send them over to the house. I’ll go pick up Joe.”

Without waiting for a response, Fenton hung up the phone and crossed the room. “Laura!” he called, as he pulled open the door.

His wife appeared in the doorway of the living room. “Fenton, what’s wrong?”

He hurried over to her. “Lock all the windows and doors and set the alarm! Keep Frank in the living room with you.”

“What’s going on?” she demanded, alarmed by her husband’s demeanour.

“I don’t have time to explain,” said Fenton, pulling open the front door. “Please, just do what I say and I’ll be back soon.”

Before she could answer, he had closed the door and was dashing into the pouring rain. I hope I’m wrong about this, Fenton prayed as he rushed to his car. He put his hand on the door handle then froze in fear.

All four tyres had been slashed.