"What kept you so long?" a voice demanded from behind the guard.

The guard turned and looked around to see another young man, dressed in painter's pants, an old, paint-spattered tee shirt, and a painter's cap covering a shock of red hair which stood out in contrast to the green paint splotches on his shirt.

"What took you so long? You were only supposed to pick up a few brushes," Joe reprimanded Frank. "We've got a rush job."

"Sorry Jed," Frank answered, looking put-out. "This guy won't let me back inside," he added, jerking a thumb at the guard.

"Uh, sorry," the guard finally said. "I'm just doing my job," he defended himself.

"And a great job too," bragged Frank. "But I can't do mine," he added forlornly.

"Look, give me your name and I'll put it down so you can come back in today without a hassle in case you have to go for something else," offered the guard.

"Kenny Darrel," Frank said, sticking out his hand. "And that's my brother, Jed," he added, nodding toward Joe.

"The guard shook Frank's hand but just nodded at Joe when he noticed the green paint on his hand.

"Nice touch," Frank told Joe after he had parked the van and come over to where Joe had been waiting. "Where did you get the paint?"

"Would you believe behind the guard's booth?" Joe asked, grinning broadly. Frank laughed and the two made their way to the building housing the offices.

"Remember," Frank warned Joe as they went inside, "keep as low a profile as possible. We don't want anyone seeing through your disguise. You're still on the endangered list." He headed toward the stairwell. "I'll take the second floor and you scout around down here."

Upstairs, Frank was confronted by the receptionist. Annoyance on her face, she stood as he entered and demanded, "Where have you been?" Placing her hands on her slender hips, her brown eyes drawn together in consternation, she added, "You were called two hours ago."

"Sorry, my van broke down," Frank said, ad-libbing.

"Be that as it may, you were hired by the day, not the hour," she informed him.

"Relax lady," Frank drawled, adopting a laid back attitude. "I'll put over time in this evening to make up for it."

"Indeed," she snorted, looking down her nose at him. "Well, go on," she shooed him.

Unsure which way to go, Frank dropped to one knee and tightened his shoelace. "Are you going to Mr. Kurtz' office or not?" she demanded.

She waited a moment, tapping her foot impatiently until Frank rose. "Oh," she said suddenly, stopping the movement of her foot and bringing one palm up to cover her mouth. "You should have said you didn't know where to go. I'd forgotten you hadn't been here before." Before he could respond, she continued, "His office is the last door." She pointed down the hallway. "The paint and all necessary equipment have been delivered."

"It's customary for the painter to furnish his own brushes," Frank couldn't resist telling her.

"Only the best will do for our vice-president," she informed him haughtily. "Although you certainly seem to be less at the moment," she added.

Frank wrinkled his nose at her then headed down the hallway to the vice-president's office. "I'm glad I don't work for her," he mumbled as he entered the office and closed and locked the door behind him. Letting out a low whistle he looked at his surroundings. The office was four times the size of his bedroom and held not only the expected desk, chair and file cabinets, but also a couch with two matching chairs, a coffee table and two end tables.

Stepping over several brushes and cans of paint, he shoved the drop cloth off the desk and chair and sat down. Opening the top left drawer, he went through its contents looking for anything that might be a clue. He had worked his way through the bottom drawer when there came a light rap at the door.

"Frank," came a loud whisper from the other side of the door. He quickly went to the door and let Joe inside.

"What are you doing up here?" Frank asked.

"I got caught downstairs and was ordered to come up here," Joe explained. "Find anything?"

"Not yet," Frank answered. "I was just about to search the drawers on the right side of the desk."

"I'll check the files," Joe offered, walking over to them and tugging at the top drawer. "They're locked," he informed Frank.

"I'll do those," Frank said, coming over and pulling out his lock pick kit. "You check the right side of the desk."

Joe walked over to the desk and sat down. "Who is this guy?" he asked, picking up a picture frame. Frank walked over and looked at the picture of a man and a woman.

"It's probably the vice-president," Frank said with a shrug. "It's his office. Why?"

"Because this is the guy I talked to Saturday morning," Joe told him excitedly.

"The one who mentioned the future chemical spill?" asked Frank, surprised. At Joe's nod, he added, "Then we need to talk to him."

"We can't ask the receptionist if we can see him," Joe cautioned. "She's worse than the KGB."

"She's rough all right," Frank agreed with a sigh. "Maybe we can ask someone else where he is."

They replaced the drop cloths they had moved and locked the file cabinet before leaving the room. Frank stopped at the first door and knocked.

"Enter," came a gruff voice.

Opening the door, Frank poked his head inside. "Hi," he said. "I need to know if Mr. Kurtz wanted me to exchange this paint for him. It's off a shade from the other," he added.

"Use common sense, man," snorted the young man in the office. "If it doesn't match, surely it should be changed."

"I didn't know if he wanted this color for the ceiling though," Frank improvised.

Sighing, the man shook his head. "I don't know," he stated. "You'll probably have to speak with Dawson," he said, referring to the president of the company. "Kurtz has left town on business and won't be back until the end of the month."

"Oh," Frank said, feigning consternation. "When did he leave?"

"Friday," he was told.

"Thanks," Frank said. "I guess I will have to ask Mr. Dawson. Which office is his?"

"Downstairs," was the answer. "Last door on the left." His voice dismissive, as were his actions as he turned his back to Frank and began typing on his keyboard.

"Did you hear that?" Frank asked Joe as they headed downstairs.

"Yeah," Joe acknowledged. "But he didn't leave Friday. I saw him Saturday."

"Maybe the guy in the frame wasn't Kurtz," Frank suggested.

"You don't believe that," Joe said, coming to a halt and placing a hand on Frank's shoulder.

"Not really," Frank admitted with a sigh and a slight shake of his head. "If he was supposed to have left town, then why was he still here on Saturday? Where is he now?"

"And why mention a chemical spill to me?" Joe added to the growing list of questions.

"Let's see if we can find anything on the first floor," Frank suggested. "You stay here while I go see Dawson. If he's involved, he might recognize you."

"In this disguise?" asked Joe. "I doubt it. Besides, you were waylaid so they know you too. And my disguise is a bit better than yours," Joe added, grinning as he straightened Frank's fake mustache.

"Okay," Frank relented. "But keep your head down."

Joe smiled and walked down the hall. "I wonder what Kurtz knows?" he whispered to Frank.

"And why he didn't go to the authorities instead of talking to you," Frank whispered back.

"Hello," Joe said after knocking on Dawson's door and being told to come in. "We were working upstairs and..." His voice trailed off as he looked at the back of Charles Dawson.

"And what?" Dawson snapped, spinning around. Joe quickly lowered his head.

"And we were wondering about the odd gallon of paint," Frank said, jumping in to pick up the slack Joe had left.

"What odd gallon?" Dawson demanded, then continued without waiting for a reply. "You are being paid to paint an office. Surely that doesn't require too much brain work?" he snarled at the boys, his face red with a mixture of anger and annoyance.

"One gallon of paint doesn't match the others," Frank used the same fib as earlier. As angry as Dawson seemed he saw no point in trying to learn anything from him. "We didn't know if Mr. Kurtz wanted it for the ceiling, trim, or if it was just the wrong color."

"Use if for the trim," Dawson told them. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said, dismissing them.

"Does everyone who works there have an attitude problem?" Joe asked as they got into they left the building and got into the van.

"Seems that way," Frank stated. "What was wrong back there?" he asked.

"From behind, Dawson looks like the boss from the warehouse," Joe told him with a frown. "His voice sure sounded familiar too." He shook his head. "We still don't know where Kurtz is."

"Let's check the flight lists and see if he ever did leave town," Joe suggested after a few moments of silence.

"That wouldn't tell us much," Frank pointed out. "He could have been scheduled but not made the flight. He may even have left town by rail or car," he added.

Their mother was just hanging up the phone when they arrived home. "That was your father," she informed them. "He's arriving home on the evening flight from D.C. You'll have to pick him up at the airport." Looking at Joe, she added, "Dr. Bates called. It was carbon tetrachloride on Joe's shirt."

"We've got a big score to settle with these guys," Frank asserted, his brown eyes flashing.

After lunch, Frank shut himself in his room to work at his computer and Joe sprawled out on the couch with the morning paper. A little while later Joe put the paper down and went outside to change the oil in the van. Frank heard the downstairs door close as Joe went to the garage. Minutes later a loud explosion ripped through the air.