Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Because of the rain on Monday, Joe wasn't able to tackle the back bumper of the van until Tuesday afternoon. He and Frank had had to explain things to both their parents Monday night. Joe shook his head as he studied the dent. "Well, obviously, he didn't hit us hard."

Standing behind his brother, Frank sighed. "It's enough for Dad to notice," he muttered.

Joe glanced over his shoulder to look at his brother. "Um, Frank, you don't think he did it on purpose, do you?"

Frank shook his head slowly. "I don't know." He shrugged. "Why? For what possible reason would he ram us?"

"Because he'd been warned about us?"

"Getting a complex?"

"Well, hell, we have enough enemies. Who wouldn't?" Joe sighed and headed into the garage. "I mean, look at all that's happened in just the last..." He spun around and stared at his brother. "I'm getting that French feeling again."

Frank would've laughed if the conversation hadn't been serious. "Deja vu?"

"Yeah, that one. Butler."

Frank went cold. "He's dead, Joe. We both saw him die."

Joe glanced down at his palm. There was no sign of the scar from the knife blade Al-Rousasa had used, rather than allow himself to be captured. Joe shuddered for at that moment he could feel the pain of the blade scraping his hand, the anger at what had happened. He swallowed hard. "The Assassins never quit, Frank. They haven't crossed paths with us lately, but they never quit."

Frank sighed. "I don't think it's the same. The fake Butler tried to lay the blame on us from the start. All this guy did was ram us."

Joe narrowed his eyes. "On purpose," he stated with conviction. "I just know it."

Frank sighed. What if his brother was right about this too? He glanced up at the sky. It was cloudy with the sun peeking out now and then. Must be something atmospheric, he thought, for Joe to be on the ball twice in two days.

***

"Well, the good news is the frame wasn't bent, just the bumper, but now we'll have to touch up the paint and I can't find anymore black at the auto place." Joe got back into the van and sighed. "I hate seeing the scrape marks on the bumper."

"Maybe we could buy some other kind of paint and touch it up."

"Like what? Eggshell or glossy?"

Frank shot his brother a glare. "Okay, hotshot, what do you suggest?"

Joe settled in his seat and pointed in the direction of the nearest drug store. "Nail polish."

"What?"

"You've seen that commercial, haven't you? The girl bumps this gorgeous red car and in her trunk she has loads of red nail polish to cover up the scratch." Joe shrugged. "Halloween's only been over for a couple of weeks. We'll find some black, I'm sure."

Frank snorted. "Nail polish."

"At least it doesn't come in Eggshell."

Frank groaned but drove to the closest drug store. "All right. Your idea, you go in."

"I'm not going in by myself. Someone will see me. Think I've turned into a punk rocker."

"Only if you dye your hair green again."

Joe grunted. "God, that was a nightmare. After we got home, it dawned on me what I see in all those hair color commercials. About touching up the roots." Joe shuddered. "Mom would have had a cow – literally – seeing the green roots. At least your purple roots weren't so obvious."

"Obvious? I had to wear hats all the time. I hate wearing hats." Frank shook his head, remembering their second encounter with the mysterious Network nearly two years ago. It had seemed a good idea at the time, to go undercover, even going as far as dying their hair and looking punk, but once in Paris, they got their hair dyed again – not by their personal choice – permanently dyed. Frank shook his head. "The worst that will happen is you'll run into Vanessa and have to tell her you're buying her a Christmas present."

Joe glared at his brother, sighed and slowly got out of the van. "Fine. I'll get you back one of these days." He slammed the door and trudged into the drug store.

Frank laughed, once his brother was out of earshot. He shut off the engine and sat there waiting, until a tap on his window startled him. In daylight the man didn't seem that bulky. He had shaggy black hair and was wearing a heavy knit sweater and jeans. He tapped again, and then arched a brow at Frank. Since the van was turned off, Frank just opened the door and got out. "Can I help you?"

"Detective Jesse Sheridan. Your brother in there, snitching something?"

Frank bristled at the tone. "No. He's buying something for his girlfriend."

"Oh, that's sweet," said Sheridan sarcastically. "See you fixed the damage."

"Yes, we did."

"Called your insurance company yesterday. Seems you and little brother keep them pretty busy." Sheridan folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the van. "I've been reading up on you and little brother."

Frank mimicked the man's stance. "Oh?"

"You think you can waltz around and skim breaking the law, eh? After all, your dad's ex-cop now a P.I.; you can do anything you want."

"We don't do that. We help people."

Sheridan didn't look convinced. "You? You're what, eighteen, little brother a year younger. What are you, aliens? Teenagers only care what they can get, not helping people. I've looked at your file, read between the lines. Petty thievery, B&E, assault. You've gotten away with it so far because you've duped everyone into thinking you and bro are amateur detectives." Sheridan shook his head. "I'm keeping my eye on you." He lifted one hand curled into a fist, pointed the forefinger and middle finger at his piercing green eyes, then at Frank. "I'm watching you."

Frank watched him walk away and found it was all he could do not to punch something. The nerve of that man, accusing them of being petty crooks; what had he been crowing about? B&E – Frank frowned and took a deep breath. All things considered, some might see picking locks as B&E, but the other? No way.

"You okay? You look a little steamed there, bro."

Frank spun around to see his brother, his hands empty, then glanced over his shoulder where the detective was just getting into his car. "Where's the bag?"

"In my pocket." Joe studied his brother for a moment. "What? You think I just went in and took it?"

"No. But he does. Or will because you had your hands in your pockets."

Joe grunted. "It's in a bag with the receipt, for Pete's sake." Joe started forward. "I'll go—”

Frank's hand shot up and he stopped his brother. "No, you won't. He's spoiling for a confrontation."

Joe frowned, then looked over at his brother. "All right," he said slowly. "So what do we do?"

"We get in the van and go home." Frank's tone of voice was hard. "And we talk to Dad. I've had enough."

Joe arched an eyebrow but didn't say anything. He turned and got in the van and waited for Frank to get in as well. He saw his brother glance again to the old white F-150 truck, then get behind the wheel. Frank started the engine, made a point of checking and double-checking before backing out. He drove below the speed limit all the way home. Joe sighed. This week wasn't looking so good now, he thought with a groan.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency 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.