"It’s true," Sam’s voice came crisply over the wire.

"But how? What happened?" Frank demanded.

"Let me start from the beginning of Fogle’s career." Radley said. "Mike Fogle attended high school in New York City, and after he graduated, he went to the police academy. He made it through, and graduated, but he was in the lower 80th percentile of the class. Three months after graduation, he took a job with the Nashville police department, and he’s been there ever since."

"What case was Dad working on when he shot Fogle’s father?" Joe hissed, and Frank relayed the question.

"Fogle Senior - first name of Jeremy - was a New York City cop," Sam replied, much to Frank’s surprise. "But unfortunately, he was on the take. Fenton discovered it - and Jeremy Fogle found out he knew. He went after your dad, who ended up shooting him in self-defense."

"Dad’s never mentioned it," Frank commented. "But then, he seldom talks about his days in New York, now that I think of it."

"That’s the sort of thing that doesn’t create happy memories." Radley said.

"Sam, I’ve got to go - my time’s running out, on my phone card!" Frank said then. "Thanks a lot for the info."

"You two be careful!" Sam reminded him once again.

"Always, Sam!" Frank chuckled, and hung up the phone. Quietly, he told Joe what Sam had said, for Joe had been unable to catch everything.

"So his dad was on the take, and now Fogle wants to get the big bucks." Joe mused. "Makes sense."

"Yes, I guess so." Frank agreed, somewhat vaguely. "But something doesn’t feel right. Why would Sergeant Fogle let us in on this case, then?" he asked.

"That’s easy - to keep tabs on us!" Joe asserted. "As long as he’s feeding us bits and pieces of information, and keeping us busy checking the security measures, he has us right where he wants us!"

"Yeah…." Frank nodded, a bit doubtfully. Something is wrong with this scenario! Things don’t add up right…. Aloud, he continued: "We need to find out who those two guys were, the ones in Tremaine’s room - and who the ones were who attacked you in the alley."

"Maybe the same ones?" Joe hazarded a guess.

"It’s still early." Frank glanced at his wristwatch. "I suggest we go back downtown to the police station, and see if we can I.D. those muggers from last night. Fogle’s sure to be gone now; his shift would have ended long before now."

"Sounds good to me." Joe replied. "But I still wish we had the van. All these taxis are getting expensive!"

"That’s why licensed detectives have expense accounts and charge for things like that." Frank sighed ruefully.

Once at the police station, the boys reported the attempted mugging of the night before, and requested that they be allowed to go through books of mug shots. They were duly escorted to a table in a quiet corner, where a stack of large books was deposited.

"I’m sure when I was here before, Fogle somehow managed to ‘hide’ the books that had the pictures of those guys at the hotel." Frank noted. "Even though I didn’t see either one of them, he didn’t want to take any chances!"

"Probably figured you were lying to him." Joe observed dryly. "Liars don’t believe other people, you know - they think everyone’s like them!"

*****

Nearly two hours later, Joe finally put a decisive finger on a photo. "Him!" he announced triumphantly. "This was the first guy, I’m sure of it. I recognize that long hair and the scraggly beard. ‘Bradley Brookshire, alias BB’." He read the list of crimes beneath the picture thoughtfully. "He just got out of prison recently, after serving a sentence for armed robbery. Also has done time for larceny. Just one of those nasty muscle-for-hire types, looks like."

Frank had been leafing through the books too, for lack of anything better to do. "Keep looking," he encouraged his brother. "If one’s there, maybe the other one is, too."

Joe looked skeptical, but marked the place where the first criminal’s picture was, and continued looking. To his surprise, he found what he was fairly sure was the second one, only a few minutes later.

"I’m not as positive on this one," he admitted. "because he started out behind me, and I didn’t get a clear look at him right away. But I think it’s this guy...his name’s Leroy Crigger, and wow! Listen to this! Currently wanted for the murder of Sandra Davis, whom he was dating - evidently when she wanted to break up with him, he turned nasty and killed her!" He gazed on the grim features of the black-haired man, and shuddered.

"Well, let’s tell somebody," Frank noted the book and pages carefully, then glanced around, and eventually caught the eye of the officer who had escorted them to the table. He signaled him over, and Joe reported his findings.

"We’d like to try something," Frank proposed then. "We think possibly we saw one of these men disguised. Could we talk to a sketch artist - see how he looks with different colored hair, maybe, and glasses - that sort of thing?"

"Sure." The police officer nodded. "Sergeant McKay handles that, and she’s actually here right now, believe it or not. Come with me."

The boys followed him to another office cubicle, where they were introduced to Sergeant Krista McKay, a slender, brown-haired woman in her thirties. She listened to their explanation, and settled down at her desk with the album of photos and an intriguing-looking box of transparencies and overlays.

"Let’s see what we can come up with." she said.

A few minutes later, the Hardys were staring down at the picture of Leroy Crigger, the second attacker, the one who had followed Joe into the alley - only this time, the man was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and his hair was red in color, compliments of Sergeant McKay and her box of overlays.

"It’s him!" Frank gasped. "That’s the guy I bumped into, that first night at the hotel!"

Joe was nodding in agreement. "It sure looks like him." he said. "Unless you believe in a really bizarre coincidence, it looks like we’ve been tailed from the time we arrived in Nashville!"

At that moment, the sergeant’s telephone rang, and she turned away from the boys, to answer it. Frank and Joe took the opportunity for some low-toned conversation between themselves.

"I think we need to talk to the police chief." Frank murmured.

"Do you think he can be trusted?" Joe returned softly.

Frank blanched. "I’m not sure." he admitted. "But we can’t just let it drop." He pondered a moment. "How about if we try talking to Sergeant Henderson?" he suggested. "I didn’t get the feeling he was too buddy-buddy with Fogle, so maybe he’s a better bet."

Joe nodded again. "Worth a try."

When McKay finished her phone call, Frank asked if Len Henderson was available, without too much optimism. After all, it was getting late in the evening by now, and Henderson might have gone home much earlier. To his surprise, Sergeant McKay lifted the telephone receiver, punched in an extension number, and was connected with Henderson almost immediately. She asked if he could see a couple of visitors, and receiving an affirmative reply, hung up and directed the Hardys to another office cubicle.

Frank tapped hesitantly on the half-open door. "Sergeant Henderson? I’m Frank Hardy - we met the other night, at the hotel…there had been an explosion in one of the rooms…." Frank’s voice trailed off as he and Joe hovered in the doorway to Henderson’s office, unsure whether Henderson would remember them.

"Yes, I remember you. You said you were working with Mike Fogle on the Tremaine case. What can I do for you?" The slender, graying detective didn’t look exactly welcoming, but he didn’t look antagonistic, either.

"We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you have the time." Frank said cautiously.

"You want to talk to me?" Henderson sounded surprised. "Fogle wanted you to talk to me?" Surprise was deepening into suspicion.

Joe snorted derisively, and Henderson gave him a sharp glance.

"I sincerely doubt it." Frank said evenly. "He doesn’t know we’re here."

"Well - " Henderson hesitated. "I’d rather not talk here at the station. Could you meet me somewhere, after a bit?"

"Yes, we could do that." Frank nodded.

"There’s a diner on the corner of Silver and Main….How about if we meet there, in 45 minutes?" the officer proposed.

"We aren’t too familiar with the streets…" Joe demurred. "Where is it from here? I just went through a mugging last night, I don’t want to do it again tonight."

Henderson favored him with a tight grin. "I don’t blame you." He jotted down directions and handed the paper to Joe. "I don’t think you’ll have any trouble, not with two of you together. And the place is in a fairly decent neighborhood."

The boys stood up. "Thanks, sir, for taking the time to see us." Frank said politely, as they left. Just in case anyone was paying attention to them, he wished to make it sound as though their business with Sgt. Henderson was now completed.

"So what are we going to do for 45 minutes?" Joe demanded, as soon as they were out on the sidewalk. "That’s a lot of time to kill!"

"Not all that long," Frank contradicted. "We can take a nice, leisurely walk to the diner, and enjoy downtown Nashville’s night life." he teased. Joe made a face, but didn’t argue, and the two set out in the direction of the intersection of Silver and Main.

*****

They arrived there earlier than the specified time, so went inside and made themselves comfortable in one of the booths. Despite an enormous meal earlier in the evening, Joe insisted he was hungry again, and ordered a banana split to prove it. Frank shook his head in disbelief, and asked for a cup of coffee.

By the time Joe’s banana split was gone - Frank had had a change of heart, and helped him eat it - the 45 minutes was up, and Sergeant Henderson was walking in through the door. He glanced around, spotted the Hardys in their booth, and made his way over to join them. A waitress followed him to the table, and he asked for pie and coffee.

"Okay," the police officer began, once the waitress had brought his order. "You wanted to talk to me…what about?"

"About Donald Tremaine’s murder - and the money giveaway at the Parthenon - and Sergeant Fogle." Frank replied bluntly. "We’ve come up with some things that don’t add up."

He and Joe proceeded to tell Henderson the whole story, from the time they had arrived in Nashville. He listened closely, thoughtfully sipping his coffee. When they got to the part about their suspicions of Mike Fogle, the boys noticed that Sergeant Henderson didn’t seem to be very surprised. He smiled grimly when Joe ventured a question about it.

"I’m not surprised - not very. I’ve had my suspicions before now. I’ve wondered if he had some sort of game going, I’ll admit it. I’ve wondered if he’s been dipping into evidence - like drugs, that sort of thing - for his own personal gain. Or shaking down suspects for a cash ‘donation.’ There are a lot of ways a cop can make money on the side."

"Like father, like son," Frank murmured, thinking of Sam Radley’s information.

"Oh?"

Frank explained what Radley had told them about Fogle’s father’s history in the New York Police Department.

"I see what you mean." Henderson nodded. "Well, I think we need to take this story to the Chief. It will have to be tomorrow morning; he’s not on duty now, and I don’t believe this is quite important enough to bother him at home about."

"I can’t," Joe shook his head dispiritedly. "I already missed one day of my school stuff; I can’t do it again tomorrow. I have to be with my class."

"That’s okay, Joe, I’ll handle it." Frank assured him. "Maybe the van will be done tomorrow, too."

"Can you drive, with that wrist?" Joe asked dubiously, eyeing the elastic bandage Frank still wore.

"Sure, no problem."

"Can you make it to the precinct by - oh, say nine-thirty tomorrow morning?" the sergeant asked Frank. "I can set up a meeting with Chief Winslow for then, I’m pretty sure."

"I can do that," Frank said.

"You two need a lift back to your hotel?" Henderson inquired, rising to his feet.

Frank and Joe exchanged glances, and then both nodded and stood up. "We’d appreciate that, Sergeant." Frank admitted. "We’re getting a little over-taxied."

After the officer had dropped them at their hotel, Frank and Joe made their way to their room once again. They found a message had been left on their phone, for Joe from Mr. Freemont. It reminded him that the school group would be touring the Grand Ole Opry the next day, and that he should be in the hotel lobby by nine o’clock sharp, ready to depart.

"That should be fun," Joe commented as he brushed his teeth, preparing for bed. "After all, that’s why we came to Nashville, to see the sights here!"

"Mmmm-hmmm." Frank murmured. Already in bed, he was staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, and not listening closely to his brother’s words.

"Are you paying any attention to what I’m saying?" Joe demanded, laughing, and proceeded to flick droplets of water in Frank’s direction.

"Hey, cut it out!" Frank frowned reprovingly, but finally chuckled. "No, I didn’t really hear you." he admitted. "I was thinking about something."

"What?"

"Well, I read in a pamphlet I picked up at the Visitors’ Center that Mackenzie Daniels’ art collection is worth about a billion dollars. That’s a lot more than the one million dollars Daniels is going to donate to the Homeless Fund."

Joe looked mildly intrigued. "Think there’s any possibility that Fogle and his goons could be after the art, rather than the money?" he ventured.

"Probably not," Frank admitted. "It would be too bulky and heavy to move easily, and he’d have to have buyers for it. Art doesn’t do a thief any good sitting in a warehouse somewhere; he’d have to get rid of it quickly. Even with the heavy security measures, the money makes a more logical target.

"I’m positive we’ve covered all the bases in the security department." Joe stated firmly, at a loss as to how anyone could get at the cash.

"We’ve checked everything I can think of," Frank agreed, and yawned. "Well, let’s give it a rest, huh? I’m bushed."

Joe felt sudden compunction; Frank had just been released from the hospital that morning, and aside from the brief afternoon nap, had been on the go the whole day! "Yeah, fine by me."

They switched off the lights and almost immediately both were deeply asleep.