He went up to the room he and Joe shared, but to his disappointment, found that his brother hadn’t yet returned from the play. Frank lay down on his bed and turned on the television, flipping idly from channel to channel in hopes of finding something to catch his interest. Again, he was doomed to disappointment, and he finally switched the set off in disgust. He noticed the brochures on the nightstand which Joe had accumulated on his visit so far, and picked one up, intending to browse through it. But soon, his eyelids began to droop, and before long the brochure slid from his grasp and he was asleep.

Joe Hardy unlocked the hotel room door and entered quietly. The lights were still on, but when he looked across the room he saw Frank lying on his bed, still fully clothed, sound asleep. Joe smiled at the sight. He walked over to the bed, intending to awaken him, but something made him change his mind.

He’s looked so tired, since the accident - it won’t hurt anything for him to sleep on top for once! I’ll just let him sleep. Joe managed to remove Frank’s shoes without waking him, then tiptoed to the closet and found extra blankets folded on an upper shelf. Quietly, he got one out, and spread it carefully over his slumbering brother. Still moving quietly, he prepared for bed, then switched off the lights.

****

The shrill jangle of a phone ringing woke Joe the next morning. He yawned, trying to focus.

In the other bed, Frank stirred and mumbled "Joe - somebody?…Somebody answer that…"

Joe fumbled for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Huh?" Joe blinked sleepily at the digital clock on the table between the beds. "Oh my gosh! I didn’t have my alarm set - Thanks, Rich, I’ll be right down!" He slammed the receiver back into its cradle, and shoved the blankets back, scrambling frantically out of bed. He made a dash for the dresser, hastily yanking articles of clothing from the drawers.

"What’s wrong?" Frank inquired drowsily, pushing himself up on an elbow.

"Overslept!" Joe explained briefly, rapidly pulling on his clothes. "I’ve gotta get downstairs! Today’s when we’re going to cut the CD!" Not waiting for Frank to reply, he went into the bathroom.

"But I wanted to tell you-" Frank broke off, realizing that Joe couldn’t hear him above the hum of his electric razor. "Oh well, I’ll tell you in a minute…." He lay down again to wait.

When Joe came out of the bathroom, Frank tried again. "Joe, I learned some things last night at the police department - I know you’re in a rush right now, so I can’t explain the whole thing…but be careful today, huh? Really extra-careful. And I’ll talk to you about it tonight."

Joe was attempting to stamp his feet into his shoes and tie them at the same time. "I’m always careful," he muttered. Then he paused, realizing what Frank was trying to convey. "What about you?" he demanded. "Will you be safe?"

"Sure, don’t worry about me." Frank replied. "You just go ahead and enjoy the day at the recording studio." He grinned, surveying Joe’s tousled hair and eager face. "Comb your hair," he advised.

Quite a bit later, Frank made his way downstairs, having enjoyed the luxury of going back to sleep for a bit after Joe’s departure, and a leisurely shower. It was too late for even a Continental breakfast in the hotel restaurant, so the elder Hardy decided to go to the nearby Hardees, to catch a late breakfast there. Walking in the late-morning sun, he stopped and purchased a morning paper from a sidewalk vending machine, and carried it along with him, intending to read it during his meal.

While waiting for his order, Frank began idly scanning the pages of the paper. To his interest, he found another article about Mackenzie Daniels’ art collection, and the display at the Parthenon. Reading it, he didn’t see a great deal of new information, but one item did catch his attention.

According to the article, one painting in particular comprised nearly half the value of the whole collection: one entitled Martyrdom of Elisa, which was a supposedly ‘lost’ work of French painter Francois Boucher, who had died in 1770. Frank whistled softly to himself as he took in this information.

An art thief would only need this one painting, to be rich! he thought. He moved the paper to allow the smiling waitress to set down his breakfast order, and began eating, returning to the article once again. Fogle’s been lying about himself, and he’s got some interest in Joe being at the Parthenon tomorrow…but what’s the connection? Does Fogle intend to steal the painting and somehow set Joe up as being involved in the theft? That would certainly hurt Dad’s reputation, if that’s what Fogle’s after, to have his son incriminated in an art theft…but no, that doesn’t make any sense!

Frank scowled in thought, sipping his coffee. There’s something going on here, but I can’t put my finger on what! Why is Fogle associating with a known murderer and an ex-con? It would certainly look suspicious on his record, if it were known!

Finishing his breakfast, Frank decided his next move should be in the direction of the police station once again. He would talk to Sergeant Henderson about the puzzle; perhaps Henderson could shed some light. A few minutes later, Frank was on his way downtown.

To his intense frustration, he was told that Henderson was out, and not expected to return any time soon. Inwardly seething, Frank left a message, saying that he would check back later in the day, and went back out to the van.

Where to now? A few moments’ thought gave him the answer: he would go over to Mike Fogle’s house once again, and see what the man was up to. What did he do when he was off duty? And maybe… Frank’s thought ran through his head with mischievously pattering little feet: …just maybe, if he’s not home, I can get inside his house, and look around!

Frank prudently parked some distance away from Fogle’s house, and walked back, mentally preparing a cover story if Fogle happened to be home. He went up to the front door, and after searching in vain for a doorbell, knocked loudly.

No answer.

Frank tried the knob.

Locked.

He went around the side of the house, checking all the windows as he did so, and tried the back door, hoping for a stroke of luck.

Locked.

Oh well! Frank pulled something from his pocket - the set of lock picks his father had given him the previous Christmas - and set to work. Joe was better at this than he, but eventually the lock snicked opened, and Frank eeled inside.

Wishing he had gloves, Frank moved from room to room, careful to replace each article exactly where it had been, as he examined things. He reassured himself about the glove issue: Fogle wouldn’t want this place dusted for prints; there may be prints from Brookshire, or Leroy Crigger here too, or who knows what other unsavory characters! Still, he used the tail of his shirt whenever possible, when picking up things to look at.

In Fogle’s bedroom, Frank immediately spotted the red wig sitting conspicuously on the bureau. Why would Fogle keep this here? he wondered. Wouldn’t it make more sense - be less conspicuous - for the actual killer to keep it? Or better yet, to dispose of it altogether?

Could we be wrong about Sergeant Fogle? Maybe he’s being set up by someone else entirely? Frank shook his head at that crazy idea. He knew the chances of that were less than remote; they were infinitesimal. Why not keep the wig here? No one would suspect a cop of being involved, after all.

Frank went into the room evidently used as a study by Fogle, and began opening desk drawers, careful to replace the contents of each as he rifled through. In the bottom drawer on the left side, Frank discovered an 8 x 10 photograph album which was being used as a scrapbook. He settled down in the desk chair to look through it carefully.

The beginning pages contained clippings and photos of Officer Jeremy Fogle, New York City Police Department. It followed his career - although there were few newspaper articles which featured him - for quite a length of time. And then there were several, all closely grouped by date - the ones telling of Officer Fogle’s demise at the hands of a fellow officer, Fenton Hardy; and the further stories of his involvement with the criminal element.

After that, the clippings took on a different tone. Instead of references to the Fogle family, there were references to the Hardys. There were newspaper articles and photographs of Fenton, and occasionally, of Laura, even after Fenton’s departure from the NYPD. The later pages of the scrapbook contained articles from the Bayport newspaper, and involved not only Fenton, but Frank and Joe, and detailed their casework. And he pretended not to know me, when we first met! thought Frank, with a grim expresssion.

Frank sat and leafed through the book, frowning. There was something very disturbing about this obsession with them. It didn’t feel like hero-worship, at all. It felt like…something else. Maybe he’s out for revenge because of what happened with his father…but even so, he’s not just angry, he’s mental!

Joe, meanwhile, was at the recording studio along with his classmates, listening intently to the instructions they were being given about recording the CD.

"First the music - the instrumental part - will be recorded," Donovan, the sound engineer, a young man with a long brown ponytail and wire-rimmed glasses, told the excited students. "And after that, the vocals will be added in." A muted buzz of conversation swept over the group. "Okay, kids, let’s give it a try!"

*****

An hour later, the sound track was laid down successfully, and Donovan announced there would be a short break before they started working on the vocals.

"You can get snacks and sodas in the lunchroom," he told the students. "Or you can look around the studio a bit, if you like, as long as you don’t touch things and don’t get in the way!" He grinned, teasingly.

"Are you hungry, Joe?" Perry Nichols asked the younger Hardy, as the rest of the class streamed towards the exit door. "I’d like to look around a little bit, but I don’t really want to do it alone."

Truthfully, Joe was hungry, for he had missed breakfast by oversleeping. But he summoned a cheerful smile.

"Sure, Perry, I’ll hang with you." Joe glanced over at Mr. Freemont, who was deep in discussion with Donovan. "Mr. Freemont, we’re going to look around a little, okay?" Freemont nodded permission, and continued his conversation with the sound engineer.

In the lunchroom, a sharp-eyed man in a tan sports jacket walked through the crowd of students. Sergeant Mike Fogle scanned the room, seeking the blonde hair and blue eyes of Joe Hardy. Not seeing him, he was finally forced to make inquiry.

"Is Joe Hardy here?" he asked Rich Sutton, as the red-haired boy passed him.

"He’s around somewhere," Sutton responded vaguely. "Why?"

Fogle scowled. "Police business," he said curtly.

Rich Sutton gave him a sulky look. "It’s always police business," he muttered. "Just like Frank and Joe and that other officer, yesterday."

Fogle’s gaze sharpened. "What other officer?" he demanded.

"Um - yesterday, at the Grand Ole Opry," Rich faltered. "Joe got in trouble, doing something or other - I don’t know what. But whatever it was, Frank and a police officer had to come and get him out of it."

"Hmmm." Fogle stood silent a moment, apparently considering the information. "Do you know where Joe is now?" he asked again.

"He and Perry Nichols didn’t come down here," Sutton answered. "I guess they’re looking around the studio."

"Thanks." Fogle said tersely, and strode from the room. Once in the corridor, the police officer stopped and considered what he had just learned. So the Hardys are running around with some other cop, are they? They must have found out something about me, somehow…. But they can’t know what I have in mind for tomorrow. Everything will be fine; if I can just keep things running smoothly until then, there won’t be any problems. Now, to find that brat, Joe Hardy….

He set off down the hallway, searching for Joe.

Frank replaced the scrapbook in the desk drawer and looked about, making sure he had not left anything out of place in the study. Satisfied, he returned to the back door and let himself out of the house the way he had entered. He walked down the block to where he had parked the van.

As he neared the vehicle, Frank pulled his keys from his pocket, but they caught on the fabric, and fell jingling to the pavement. Muttering in irritation, Frank stooped over to pick them up - and as he did so, the bark of a revolver shattered the peaceful quiet of the morning! The next instant there was the spang! of a bullet impacting the side of the van, just above his head!

Gasping, Frank dropped flat to the ground. If I’d been standing up, I’d have taken that bullet in the back! Grabbing up his keys, he rolled beneath the protective cover of the van, and squirmed and wriggled his way to the opposite side. Cautiously, he raised himself up high enough to unlock the passenger side door, and opened it just wide enough to scramble inside the vehicle.

Scooting across the front seats, Frank made it to the driver’s seat just as another bullet struck the window directly beside him. He recoiled instinctively, but instead of the bullet penetrating the glass, it struck and deflected off. Thank God for bullet-proof glass! he thought, feeling his heart hammering wildly in his chest.

Keeping slumped down as much as possible, Frank inserted the key into the ignition and started the van’s motor, but just as he was preparing to pull away from the curb, a red Ford pickup pulled up directly in front of him. The driver wore a black jacket and a mask. Frank threw the van into reverse, intending to back up and make his escape, but another shot rang out, and Frank felt one of the rear tires go flat. Yet again a shot echoed, and the other rear tire was also gone. The van was effectively immobilized.

Uh-oh! This isn’t so good…. Frank looked around, hoping for rescue from some quarter or other, but what he saw made him feel even more apprehensive: from the protection of some nearby trees, a man was walking towards the van; the gun he carried still pointed at the side window.

The masked driver of the red pickup now emerged, and Frank saw that he was hefting a tire iron in one hand as he approached the van, preparing to swing it at the windshield. The glass might be bulletproof, but Frank doubted that it could stand up to blows from a tire iron!

I’m in trouble…oh boy, am I in trouble…. Frank thought. And I’m not sure what to do…!