"The hotel clerk said the credit card you gave him was reported stolen," the officer said, snapping hand cuffs on Frank.

"What?" Frank asked, shocked.

Instead of answering the officer read Frank and Joe their rights. Down at headquarters, Frank demanded to speak with Jeff Peterson, New York City's chief of police and his dad's old partner. The arresting officer told Chief Peterson about the problem. Chief Peterson called the boys' father. After straightening out the mess Frank was handed the phone. Frank spoke briefly with his father and then hung up. Chief Peterson signed their release and had all charges dropped. He promised to call the hotel clerk and explain the situation and then Frank and Joe were returned to the hotel.

"What was that all about?" Joe asked, once they were alone again.

"Dad said there must have been a mix-up at the card company because he hadn't reported the card as stolen," Frank replied.

"Yeah, right," Joe mumbled under his breath, but Frank heard him.

"It does sound fishy," Frank agreed. "But why does Dad not want us investigating this?"

"Just ask him," Joe suggested. "It doesn't make any sense to me. We may as well get some breakfast and work on Whitman's story," he added, heading for the bathroom to change.

After breakfast the boys found Bledsoe's business address and headed over there. "Bledsoe and Dollinger Printing," Joe read the sign aloud as they entered the building.

"Can I help you?" asked a petite brunette from behind several crates of paper as they entered.

"We would like to speak with Mr. Bledsoe," Joe said, smiling at the young lady.

"He's in his office on the third floor," she replied. "Take those steps," she added, pointing to a corner on her left.

"Thank you," Joe said.

"Any time Sugar," she replied with a wink.

Upstairs Frank and Joe were escorted into Bledsoe's office. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked after they had been seated.

"Do you know a Tanya Jones?" Joe asked the gray-haired, hazel-eyed man.

"The name does sound familiar," Bledsoe admitted thoughtfully. "Why?"

"She was a friend of our mother's" Frank said. "Our mother died a month ago and she wanted Tanya to have a memento."

"And who was your mother?" Bledsoe asked.

"Sarah Miller," Joe said quickly.

"Ah yes," Bledsoe said. "I remember Tanya and Sarah. Come to think of it, you do favor Jeff a bit," he added to Joe. "I remember your parents when your parents wanted to get married but they had to finish a job for me first. I'm sorry to hear she died."

"Do you have a current address for Tanya?" Frank asked. He realized they no longer needed it since Bledsoe had just confirmed Whitman's story, but he had to keep in character.

"Let me see," Bledsoe said and turning to his computer and pulling up a personnel file. He typed in Tanya's name. "The last address I have for her is five years old," he said. "Apartment 239 Southpark Lane."

"Thank you," Joe said standing up.

"Glad to help," Bledsoe, standing up and shaking hands with the boys. "I hope you can find her."

"Thank you, Sir," Frank said.

"So Sarah married Tanya's lawyer," Frank said, once they were outside. "Whitman was set-up."

"Yeah," Joe agreed glumly. "We'd better go and tell him."

"What's wrong?" Frank inquired, noticing Joe's depression.

"Whitman's innocent and I believe Davis didn't rape mom either," Joe said. "That means we're never going to find out who my father is."

Soon they were back at Whitman's apartment. "What is it now?" he asked on seeing who was at the door.

"We thought we would let you know that we checked out your story," Joe said. "Not only did Tanya know Blevins, but Sarah Miller married him."

"I see," Whitman said. "It doesn't really matter now," he added.

"Don't you want to be a lawyer again?" Frank asked.

"Heavens, no!" Whitman responded with a laugh. "I proved Ms. Jones and Mr. Blevins both worked for Bledose years ago. I just chose not to return to law."

"Why not?" Frank asked.

"I entered the field to please my father. He passed away before that whole mess. Afterwards, there was simply no reason to return," Whitman explained.

"So you just let them get away with it?" Joe asked, incredulous.

"It was over. I had been cleared and my wife was eight months pregnant. It was not a good time to pursue the issue."

"I think you're crazy, but your choice," Joe said.

"Yes," agreed Whitman. "Thank you for trying to help. Good luck helping your friend," he added, referring to the boy Joe had said was ill at their first meeting.

"That's that," Joe said on their way back to the hotel. "We may as well go home."

"Are you sure?" Frank asked.

"What else can we do?" Joe retorted a bit sadly. "We have no more suspects."

They checked out of the hotel and headed home. Frank tried to get Joe to talk but he just sat and stared forlornly out the window. Arriving home, Joe climbed out of the van and pulled his and Frank's duffels from the trunk. "I'm going over to Vanessa's for a while."

"Want me to come?" Frank asked.

"Nah," Joe replied. "I'll be back by bedtime," he added, climbing in the van and driving off.

Frank went in through the kitchen door. He slowed down when he heard yelling from the living room.

"Why would you do that?" his father was shouting.

"I thought they would have to come home," was his mother's response.