EXTREME DANGER
by
PiperMerlyn
Chapter 9
The Chapters
Joe
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Our prime suspect had just become the latest victim. I stared at the skate shop and frowned. Frank had just talked to the man not twenty minutes ago. I’d give anything to get into that shop.
“How did it happen?” Frank asked Maxwell.
“He was poisoned. I overheard the cops talking. They think someone slipped something into Ollie’s coffee. They’re sending a sample off to the lab to be tested.”
I had a feeling Frank wished he could test a sample. I tore my eyes from the display window where a board stood center stage, the bottom facing out for everyone to see. For a moment, I wondered why it looked so familiar until I remembered that Ollie had used that particular board to demonstrate how to sabotage a skateboard. It’s wheels matched the color of the putrid green flames that surrounded the graphic image of the Grim Reaper. For some reason that board creeped me out. And considering how much I like a good slasher movie, I had no idea why it was bothering me so.
Max raised his camera and snapped more shots of the crime scene. “Mr. X strikes again.”
I looked at Maxwell. “Mr. X? Who is he?” I asked.
“Haven’t you seen the evening edition of the Freedom Press?”
“No. It’s only two
o’clock now.”
“We went to press early today. Had to beat the other papers with our scoop.” Max explained. “Anyway, the cover story is by yours truly. Photos, exclusive interviews...all mine. Even Mr. X was my idea.”
I tried to catch Frank’s eye. Maybe I was right all along. Maybe Maxwell Monroe had a bigger stake in this after all. Frank didn’t even look my way. He did look disgusted though.
“Phantom of the Big Air Games,” he muttered.
Max looked at Frank. “Yeah, I came up with that, but...I thought you hadn’t seen the evening edition yet.”
Frank pointed to the crime scene. Lying in the doorway of Ollie’s shop was a crumpled copy of the Freedom Press. The headline read, Who is Mr. X? Phantom of the Big Air Games attacks Xtreme Athletes in Park.
“Mr. X. Xtreme sports, get it?” said Max with a grin.
I wanted to say something but all I actually managed was, “We get it.”
“Better yet, buy it,” said the reporter. “My editor-in-chief is hoping to double, even triple, our circulation with this story.”
“We’ll grab a copy on our way back to our hotel,” promised Frank.
I felt like clocking my brother upside the head. I didn’t want to read this weirdo’s story. For all we knew, he killed Ollie.
“Aw, heck,” said Max. “Officer! Excuse me.” He waved at a police officer in front of Ollie’s shop. “Toss me that newspaper! There, on the ground.”
The officer glanced down at the rumpled paper in the doorway. “Sorry, sir,” the officer replied. “It’s evidence.”
“Evidence,” Max muttered to us. “It’s the biggest story of my career and that joker calls it evidence. Can you believe it? He’s probably just too cheap to buy his own copy. Evidence, my foot.”
I started to say something but Frank spoke first. “Mr. Monroe, you said Ollie was poisoned. Did you see his body before they took him away?”
“You bet I did,” answered Max, patting his camera. “Got it all on film. He was dead when they found him. I wanted to get a shot of his face but they’d covered him up by the time I got here.”
“How did you hear about it?” asked Frank quickly, trying to head off another long explanation.
Max shook his head. “I didn’t. I was on my way here to talk to Ollie. He called and left a message at my office. Said he wanted to talk to me about Mr. X. I show up here just as they’re dragging him off to the morgue.”
“When did Ollie leave you a message?” Frank asked.
“About half an hour ago.” Max narrowed his eyes and studied Frank a moment. “Hey, kid, you should be a reporter. You ask a lot of questions.”
Frank managed to look embarrassed. “Well, I’m thinking of studying journalism when I go to college.”
I whipped my head around, startled. “You—” Before I could say more, Frank kicked my leg and kept smiling.
“You look like a good kid,” said Max. “But here’s a little advice. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Study a whole bunch of subjects. I mean, look at this Ollie guy. He used to be a big skateboard star. It was his whole life. Then he busted up his leg real bad, turned into a bitter old man, from what I hear.”
“Who do you think killed him,” asked Frank. “And why?”
The reporter rubbed his jaw and shrugged. “My professional opinion? I think Mr. X is just some nutcase looking for attention. When you look at the different victims, possible motives...it just doesn’t add up.”
You can say that again, I thought.
“Come on, Joe,” said my brother. “Let’s grab a late lunch.”
“Sounds good. I’m starving.”
Frank reached over and shook the reporter’s hand. “It was good to talk to you, Mr. Monroe. Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem, kid,” said Max, turning back to the crime scene.
Frank and I walked around the next corner and found a little Chinese restaurant. We went inside and were quickly seated at a small table under a giant menu on the wall.
After the waitress took our order, I leaned forward and whispered to Frank. “Well, didn’t I tell you Max Monroe was a nutcase?”
Frank shook his head. “I don’t think Max is crazy. An interesting character, a bit egotistic but I think he’s telling the truth about getting a message from Ollie and showing up after the guy was dead. If he had killed Ollie, you can bet he’d have taken pictures of Ollie’s face.”
“I concede that point,” I muttered.
“Ollie wanted to talk to a reporter,” said Frank, in a low voice, like he was talking to himself. “He knew something.”
I frowned. “About the games?”
Frank leaned forward, suddenly excited. “Ollie knew the identity of Mr. X. And I bet it was something in Max’s article that made him figure it out. That’s why he called the newspaper.”
“We have to get a copy of that paper.”
The waitress brought us our order. Frank and I wolfed down our chicken lo mein and moo shu shrimp as quickly as we could. We were dying to get a look at that newspaper, but the waitress took forever bringing us our check.
Finally we paid and headed back toward the hotel. We stopped at a newsstand along the way and bought the evening edition of the Philadelphia Freedom Press.
I studied the pictures on the front page. There was a shot of Alejandro Lopez being carried on a stretcher; a picture of Jenna, Frank and me leaning over Jeb Green on the half-pipe; and another one of Carter Bean giving a thumbs-up through the rear window of the ambulance.
“Dude,” I said, trying to be quiet about it. “We made the front page.”
Frank winced and I had a feeling he was imagining if Mom got hold of a copy of the paper and how we’d explain ourselves. He pushed me forward. “Come on. We can read it back at the hotel.”
A few minutes later we were crossing the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel, weaving our way through the swarming crowd of skateboarders and bikers and other athletes. We walked up to the bald-headed receptionist and asked him if we’d gotten any messages.
He sighed and turned around to check. If possible, he looked even more tired than he had yesterday. “ Yes, indeed you do,” he said, handing Frank a small pile of envelopes.
Frank thanked the man but didn’t examine the envelopes until we were alone in the elevator. “Let’s see, what do we have here? Ah. The first one is for you. Very pretty.”
He handed me an envelope. My name was handwritten in large swirling letters in hot-pink glitter ink. I opened it and read it out loud. It was written in the same hot-pink glitter ink.
“Hey, Joe, thanks for visiting Jeb in the hospital. He really appreciated it. He left me a message saying he really liked you guys and was sending you something you might want to see. I don’t know what. Anyway, I have an athletes’ dinner to go to tonight and I plan to crash early. Tomorrow’s the big day! See you at the games. Jenna.”
“What?” asked Frank. “She signed it just ‘Jenna’? Not ‘Love, Jenna’ or ‘Yours forever, Jenna’?”
I smiled to myself. “None of your business.”
We got out of the elevator, went to our hotel room, and flopped ourselves down on one of the beds. I started to read the article about Mr. X while Frank opened the second envelope.
“Check this out,” said Frank, holding up two plastic-coated badges. “The ATAC team sent us press passes to the games. According to our ID badges, we work for a teen magazine called Shredder.”
“Cool.”
Frank opened the third envelope. It was bigger than the others and stuffed with newspaper clippings. I looked up from the article. “What are those?”
“I’m not sure,” said Frank. He snatched up a piece of lined notebook paper. “Oh wait, here’s a note. It’s from Jeb.” He read it out loud. “ ‘Hi, Frank, yo, Joe, thanks for the visit. Mom dropped by right after you left. Get this: she brought all my old scrapbooks for me to look through while I’m getting better. As a kid, I started saving any article I could find about skateboarding. So here I am, flipping through the scrapbooks and I stumble on some articles about – guess who? Our friend Ollie Peterson. I figured you might want to check them out, so I’m having Mom drop this off at your hotel. Hope you find what you’re looking for, dudes. Peace, Jeb.’ “
Frank pulled out some of the news clippings and spread them across the bed.
“It was really cool of Jeb to send these,” I said. “Too bad we don’t need them anymore.”
“You never know,” said Frank, sifting through the pile. “There might be a valuable clue buried in here.”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s dead, Frank. You can scratch him off the suspect list.”
“Dad once told us that the best way to catch a killer is to investigate the victim. There’s usually some sort of link between the two. Murder is hardly ever random.” He gave me a look that reminded me of my math teacher.
I tried not to groan. “Okay then, go right ahead. Keep looking,” I said, turning back to my paper. “I’ll keep reading about Mr. X.”
Frank was suitably distracted for the moment. “See anything interesting?”
I shrugged. “Nothing we didn’t already know. But the photo captions are pretty funny. Listen to this one. Under the picture of us leaning over Jeb, it says, ‘Xtreme Shock: Freaked-out teens comfort skateboard star and pellet victim Jebediah Green’.”
Frank grunted. “ ‘Freaked-out teens’?”
“Yeah, and listen to this. Under that thumbs-up picture of Carter Bean, it says, ‘The Real Hero of the Games: EMT Carter Bean saves lives and wins hearts of today’s troubled youth’.”
“ ‘Troubled youth’? Give me a break,” muttered Frank. “Maybe you’re right about that reporter. He is a nutcase.”
I laughed and started to read some more but suddenly remembered something. “Didn’t we get a fourth envelope?”
“Oh yeah,” said Frank. “Where did it go?” He looked underneath the news clippings about Ollie. “Here it is. Hotel stationary.” He opened it up and read it.
I saw his expression go from curious to shock. I frowned. “What is it?” When he didn’t answer, I took the paper from him. There were three lines of type on the paper. I had to reread them to make sure they said what I thought they said.
Stop asking questions.
And stay away from the games
if you want to live.
Pretty uncreative for a threatening note. But effective.
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The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.