Read Online Street Spies by Franklin W. Dixon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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separated the front of the squad car from the rear. The two officers sat in front, talking. Several minutes later the radio crackled into life again.
"Samuel Peterson," a commanding voice said.
The burly officer reached for the mike. "Right, Chief. I mean, sir." He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Sorry to bother you, but we've got a kid in custody who claims to know you. His name's Joe Hardy. His bike blew up about a block from the mayor's anti-bike messenger meeting, and he's carrying some kind of transmitter. We think he may have been trying to nail the mayor himself."
There was a pause. "What does this kid look like?" the chief asked.
"Late teens. Six feet, blond hair, football-player type."
"Let me talk to him."
"He can hear you," the officer said, turning to Joe. "We've got him in the back."
"What's your father's name?"
The officer stuck the mike against the screen in front of Joe and pressed the transmit button.
"Fenton Hardy," Joe said loudly. "He was your partner years ago. You worked with us on the epidemic plot last year."
The officers looked at each other.
"Okay, that's good enough for me," the chief said. "He's who he claims to be. And he's clean. Let him go. If he needs any assistance, let him have it."
"But, sir ... " the officer began, then hesitated.
"Yes, what is it?"
"What do we tell the press? It was a big explosion."
"Don't worry about them. I'll clear it. Oh, and, Joe, when this is over, I want a full report."
Joe leaned forward as the cop held the mike up. "Yes, sir," he said emphatically.
"Peterson out," the chief said.
The officers exchanged glances again. Then the woman shrugged, got out, opened the back door, and unlocked Joe's handcuffs.
"Sorry," she said gruffly, "but you know how it is. We've had threats on the mayor's life." She reached into the front seat and handed Joe his headset and microphone. "Can we give you a hand?"
"How about a lift up to Lincoln Center?" Joe asked, glancing at the remains of the bike, still in the middle of the intersection. An officer was there now, directing traffic.
"You've got it," the driver said and turned on the flashing light. Carefully, he backed the car around. The traffic officer stopped the cross-street traffic and waved them through. As Joe looked back, he saw an armored truck pull up, and members of the city's bomb disposal squad began to collect the pieces of what had once been his bicycle.
***
"Hey, that was high drama," Frank said when Joe slid into his seat at one of the outdoor tables in front of Rollo's. "You had us on the edge of our seats for a while. The whole thing sounded like one of those TV cop movies."
"You picked it up?" Joe asked.
"Until the cop pulled off your mike." His father grinned, relieved. "Sounds like you're twice lucky. First, to be alive, and second, not to be in jail. How'd you talk your way out of there?"
The waiter brought cheeseburgers and fries as Joe filled them in on what had happened that afternoon, beginning with the phone call Tiffany had received.
"This is a whole different ball game," Mr. Hardy said, when Joe was finished. "And I'm afraid you're out of it, Joe."
"No way!" Joe shot back. "Tiffany needs my help! I'm not letting her down."
"Look, Joe," Frank said, "your cover's obviously been blown — no pun intended." He reached for the mustard. "While you were talking to Tiffany, somebody was stuffing your bike with plastic explosive."
"Right," Mr. Hardy said. "All of a sudden we're in the big league, and the other team's playing for keeps."
"Well, I'm sure that Tiffany isn't on their team," Joe said flatly. "Nobody's that good an actress. Besides, she didn't know I was coming over, so the blackmail bit wasn't staged." He paused, thinking. "Remember that cream-colored van?"
Frank sighed. "Of course."
"I saw one that matched your description racing through the intersection right after the blast. I'll bet the driver spotted me going into World-Wide, rigged the
"Samuel Peterson," a commanding voice said.
The burly officer reached for the mike. "Right, Chief. I mean, sir." He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Sorry to bother you, but we've got a kid in custody who claims to know you. His name's Joe Hardy. His bike blew up about a block from the mayor's anti-bike messenger meeting, and he's carrying some kind of transmitter. We think he may have been trying to nail the mayor himself."
There was a pause. "What does this kid look like?" the chief asked.
"Late teens. Six feet, blond hair, football-player type."
"Let me talk to him."
"He can hear you," the officer said, turning to Joe. "We've got him in the back."
"What's your father's name?"
The officer stuck the mike against the screen in front of Joe and pressed the transmit button.
"Fenton Hardy," Joe said loudly. "He was your partner years ago. You worked with us on the epidemic plot last year."
The officers looked at each other.
"Okay, that's good enough for me," the chief said. "He's who he claims to be. And he's clean. Let him go. If he needs any assistance, let him have it."
"But, sir ... " the officer began, then hesitated.
"Yes, what is it?"
"What do we tell the press? It was a big explosion."
"Don't worry about them. I'll clear it. Oh, and, Joe, when this is over, I want a full report."
Joe leaned forward as the cop held the mike up. "Yes, sir," he said emphatically.
"Peterson out," the chief said.
The officers exchanged glances again. Then the woman shrugged, got out, opened the back door, and unlocked Joe's handcuffs.
"Sorry," she said gruffly, "but you know how it is. We've had threats on the mayor's life." She reached into the front seat and handed Joe his headset and microphone. "Can we give you a hand?"
"How about a lift up to Lincoln Center?" Joe asked, glancing at the remains of the bike, still in the middle of the intersection. An officer was there now, directing traffic.
"You've got it," the driver said and turned on the flashing light. Carefully, he backed the car around. The traffic officer stopped the cross-street traffic and waved them through. As Joe looked back, he saw an armored truck pull up, and members of the city's bomb disposal squad began to collect the pieces of what had once been his bicycle.
***
"Hey, that was high drama," Frank said when Joe slid into his seat at one of the outdoor tables in front of Rollo's. "You had us on the edge of our seats for a while. The whole thing sounded like one of those TV cop movies."
"You picked it up?" Joe asked.
"Until the cop pulled off your mike." His father grinned, relieved. "Sounds like you're twice lucky. First, to be alive, and second, not to be in jail. How'd you talk your way out of there?"
The waiter brought cheeseburgers and fries as Joe filled them in on what had happened that afternoon, beginning with the phone call Tiffany had received.
"This is a whole different ball game," Mr. Hardy said, when Joe was finished. "And I'm afraid you're out of it, Joe."
"No way!" Joe shot back. "Tiffany needs my help! I'm not letting her down."
"Look, Joe," Frank said, "your cover's obviously been blown — no pun intended." He reached for the mustard. "While you were talking to Tiffany, somebody was stuffing your bike with plastic explosive."
"Right," Mr. Hardy said. "All of a sudden we're in the big league, and the other team's playing for keeps."
"Well, I'm sure that Tiffany isn't on their team," Joe said flatly. "Nobody's that good an actress. Besides, she didn't know I was coming over, so the blackmail bit wasn't staged." He paused, thinking. "Remember that cream-colored van?"
Frank sighed. "Of course."
"I saw one that matched your description racing through the intersection right after the blast. I'll bet the driver spotted me going into World-Wide, rigged the
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