Collision Course (11 page)

Frank hit another button, and the scenes rushed by at a blurring rate. "What are you doing?" Callie asked.

"I'm going to cue up the scene where McCoy enters the tunnel," Frank said. "Right... here!" He pressed a third button, and the car froze on the screen, the cone-shaped nose just edging into the dark mouth of the tunnel. The digital clock at the bottom of the screen stopped, too. The time code was frozen at 00093318.

"Somebody write down the time," Frank ordered.

"I've got it," Callie said, taking a clipboard and a ballpoint pen from one of the shelves. "That's nine minutes, thirty-three seconds, and eighteen hundredths."

"Good," Frank said. He pressed the play button and the car started moving again. When the tape reached the point where the car started to emerge from the other end of the tunnel, he hit the freeze-frame again. Now the time code was 00103252.

"That's ten minutes, thirty-two seconds, and fifty-two hundredths," Callie read off the numbers as she wrote them down.

Scott Lavin frowned. "That's almost a full minute," he said.

"Doesn't seem very long to me," Joe responded. "It's a long tunnel."

"Not when you're going two hundred miles an hour," Frank pointed out, "How long do you think it would take, Scott?"

"Lap time is real important in racing," Scott explained. "So we keep track of time constantly. We know how long it should take us to get through each leg of the course. On my qualifying lap, I took that tunnel in about forty-four seconds. McCoy took fifteen seconds longer," he continued. "For a racing driver, that's forever."

"Long enough to stop and get out of the car?" Frank pressed.

"I guess," Scott said. "But why would he want to?"

Suddenly the answer dawned on Joe, and he was on his feet, pointing at the scene on the television. "So he wouldn't be in it when it went over the cliff!" he exclaimed.

"Then who was driving?" Callie wanted to know.

"McCoy," Frank answered.

"But you just said he wasn't in the car when it crashed," she countered.

"He wasn't," Joe agreed. "He was driving by remote control!" ·

"He faked his own death!" Frank laughed. "He's had us all running in circles!"

"Great theory, guys," Callie said, turning off the television and settling back down in her chair. "But what's his motive?"

"I heard he had some big debts," Scott offered. "Race cars are an expensive habit. McCoy's career was just beginning a downhill slide. He was losing sponsors. Maybe he did it for the insurance."

"I don't think so," Frank murmured. Something had just occurred to him, a conversation he'd had with someone. " "This is the kind of ending publishers dream about,' " he mumbled. " 'The Fast Life and Tragic Death of Angus McCoy'."

He looked up and saw the others were staring at him. "Run that by me again," Joe said, furrowing his brow.

"It was something that writer, T. B. Martin, said," Frank explained. "Remember, Joe?"

Joe nodded. "That's right. He said McCoy's death would make a great ending for the book they were writing together. So maybe McCoy Med his own death to — "

"Turn an unsellable biography into the best-selling story of a racing legend's tragic and untimely death?" Frank finished the thought.

"But how would he collect his profits from the book sales?" Callie asked sleepily.

The sun's early rays were slanting in through the small windows set high in the basement walls, near the ceiling. Frank stifled a yawn. "Martin told me McCoy's royalties would go to a company called Clarco Industries. Maybe he can fill us in on the details."

"Does anybody know where to find him?" Scott asked.

Joe squinted through a shaft of light that had fallen across his face as the sun steadily rose in the sky outside. "Right now, he's probably having breakfast," he said. "But I know where he'll be in a couple of hours."

"Where's that?" Frank wanted to know.

"At the starting line of the Bayport Grand Prix," Joe said. "It's race day."

"It's a beautiful day for a race," Scott said softly as they walked out into the morning sun.

Joe looked at the sad expression on his friend's face. "I'm sorry about your car, Scott. If only we could have—"

"It wasn't your fault," Scott said, cutting him off. "In fact, you may have saved my life. Who knows what would have happened if I was out on the back stretch of the course doing a hundred eighty or a hundred ninety when that engine fire started."

Frank held open the van door while Scott and Callie climbed in. "Maybe it is our fault," Frank said.

"What do you mean?" Scott asked.

"The sabotage to your car was an afterthought. McCoy wanted us to think that somebody was trying to win the race by taking out all the front-runners. But if we hadn't pushed the investigation in the first place, he wouldn't have had to go to all the trouble."

"That's right," Joe agreed, settling in behind the wheel. "The police were more than ready to believe McCoy's crash was an accident. McCoy was afraid that sooner or later we'd stop asking the wrong questions and start asking the right ones."

Joe started the engine, checked the side mirrors, and put the van in gear. "Do you want me to drop you off someplace, Scott?" he asked.

Scott smiled weakly. "No, that's all right. I think I'll just tag along. Even if I'm not in the race, I have to see it. It's in my blood."

Traffic was much heavier than usual. Bayport was crammed with vehicles, all headed in the same direction as the Hardys' van. The pace soon slowed to an agonizing stop - and - then to a crawl.

Frank gazed out the window and chuckled. "People from all over pile into their cars to go two miles an hour, so they can go watch somebody else drive two hundred miles an hour. Unbelievable."

Finally they reached a police barricade. It was just a wood two-by-four that slanted down from a simple frame and rested on the pavement. On the side of the wood beam was stenciled: Police Line — Do Not Cross. It would be easy to move it out of the way—but the police officer guarding it made sure that no one did.

On the other side was the street that passed right through the middle of downtown Bayport. Scott showed his racing pass to the officer guarding the barricade, and the man picked up the end of the beam and swung it aside to let the van' through.

In a few hours the street they were on would be full of screaming race cars, but for now they had it all to themselves. It was clear sailing until they got near the fairgrounds. There they ran into another kind of traffic jam — pedestrians.

Joe maneuvered the van slowly through the bustling congestion of mechanics, drivers, and race cars dotting the fairgrounds. They eventually worked their way to the shed that housed what was left of the McCoy Racing team and parked next to it. As they got out, Joe looked over at his brother. "Where's Callie?" he asked.

"She fell asleep in the back," Frank replied. "I didn't have the heart to wake her."

Reinhart Voss was in the shed, crawling around the huge rear wheels of his car, peering underneath the chassis, making his final inspection for the race. He saw Scott and got up, dusting off his knees and wiping off his hands. "I am glad you are here, Scott," he said. "There is something I would like to talk to you about."

"Before you get started," Frank interrupted. "We're looking for the writer, T. B. Martin. Have you seen him?"

"Yes." Voss nodded. "He was here, but he forgot his tape recorder and went back to the motel to get it."

"Then that's where we're going," Frank said.

"Catch you later!" Joe called back to Scott as he hurried off after his brother.

The Hardys threaded their way back to the Bayport Motel and headed for the front desk. Frank approached the clerk behind the counter and smiled. "I'm T. B. Martin. Could I have my room key, please?"

The clerk turned to a honeycomb of cubby holes on the wall, each with a number below it. He reached for one and then turned back to Frank, empty-handed. "Your key isn't in your slot," he said with a frown. "Could I see some kind of identification?"

"Sure thing," Frank agreed cheerfully, reaching into his right back pocket. His smile faded as he tried his other back pocket. "Uh - oh. I must've left my wallet in the car. I'll be right back."

Frank and Joe turned around and headed back in the direction of the front door. When they were sure the desk clerk wasn't watching, they swerved over to the elevators.

"Eighth floor," Frank said, stepping into the elevator after his brother.

"Right," Joe replied, running his finger down the bank of numbers and pressing one of the recessed buttons. A tiny light winked on to indicate the one he had touched. "The clerk reached for the slot marked eight-thirteen. That must be Martin's room."

The light inside the button marked 8 winked off as the elevator door slid open and the Hardys got off. "Wouldn't it have been easier to just call him from the lobby?" Joe asked as they walked down the hall.

"That would spoil the surprise," Frank said.

They passed Room 811 on the left and Room 812 on the right. At the next door on the left, Frank stopped and raised his hand to knock. But the door swung open before he could complete the motion.

T. B. Martin strode out, clutching a small portable tape recorder in one hand. "Well, if it isn't the Hardy brothers," he said. "I hope you guys weren't coming to see me. I'm in kind of a hurry."

He closed the door to his room and brushed past the Hardys, walking toward the elevator. Then he paused, turned around, and looked at Frank. "You know," he said, "I was just thinking about you. Well, not so much you personally, but something you asked me about the other day."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"You were asking me about McCoy's share of the profits on his book," Martin replied. "I told you about the contract and Clarco Industries."

"Right," Frank nodded. "I remember." "Well, I just got a registered letter this morning from the Clarco offices. It appears the company · has gone belly-up — bankrupt—and the book contract was bought by some guy named Jason Drake."

"Do you have any idea who this Drake character is?" Joe asked.

Martin shook his head. "None whatsoever. So now I've got a silent, invisible partner." He paused as a large grin spread across his face. "With any luck, he'll stay that way, and I can write this biography my way.

"Are you guys going to the race?" he asked as he turned to walk down the hall.

"Not right now," Frank responded, nudging Joe and following the writer. "But we'll ride down in the elevator with you."

"Okay," Martin said as they descended to the lobby. "But don't forget you still owe me an interview."

The Hardys watched Martin leave the hotel and head off in the direction of the fairgrounds. Then they strolled back into the lobby and found a couple of empty chairs.

"What now?" Joe asked, slouching down in a seat facing his brother. "We know the name McCoy is using—but we don't know where to find him."

Frank closed his eyes, lost in thought.

"McCoy must have gone to a lot of trouble to set up a new identity," Frank finally said after a long pause. "And we know he was still in town a couple of hours ago."

"Right," Joe agreed. "He took a couple of whacks at us with a high-powered rifle and hit Arno by mistake."

"He probably has some kind of disguise, Frank continued, "but he still wouldn't want to be seen in public too much. So he'd need a place to stay."

"Well, we're sitting in the lobby of the nearest place to do that," Joe observed.

"Exactly," Frank said with a grin.

Joe sat up straight in his seat. "You mean you think he's here?"

"There's an easy way to find out," Frank replied.

He got up and walked over to the front desk. Joe was right behind him. "Excuse me," Frank addressed the desk clerk. "Could you tell me if you have a Jason Drake registered at the hotel?

The man behind the counter squinted suspiciously at Frank. "Haven't I seen you before?

"Not likely," Joe cut in. "We just flew in from catello, Idaho. Ever been to Focatello?"

"Ahhh — no," the clerk replied in a flustered tone. "I'm sorry, I must have been mistaken. He looked down at his computer console and started typing on the keyboard. "Let's see—Mr. Drake checked out. In fact, I just sent a bellhop up to his room to help him carry down his bags."

"And what room might that be?" Frank asked, leaning across the counter and craning his neck to get a look at the computer screen.

"Now I remember you!" the clerk exclaimed. You were here a little while ago. You told me you were — "

"Got to go!" Joe interrupted, grabbing Frank's arm and hauling him away from the counter. "Don't want to miss our flight back to Idaho!"

They turned and walked quickly out the front door, leaving the desk clerk spluttering to himself.

"How do we find Drake now?" Joe asked. "Follow everybody who leaves the hotel?"

"We don't have to find him," Frank replied. "He's going to find us."

Joe glanced at his brother. "And where is he going to find us?"

"Over there," Frank said, pointing to the motel parking garage.

It wasn't hard to find the silver gray Lotus. Joe and Frank spotted it right away. They crouched behind the car next to it and waited.

"How do we know he won't have the parking attendant drive it around to the front entrance?" Joe asked.

"When you own a car like that," Frank said, "you don't let anybody else even touch it."

"The guy goes to a lot of trouble to conceal his identity," Joe whispered, "and then he drives around in a flashy sports car." Frank shrugged. "Old habits die hard." They heard footsteps echoing through the garage, moving in their direction. Frank put his index finger to his lips, and Joe nodded. The footsteps grew louder and then stopped nearby. There was a jingle of keys and the sound of a car door being unlocked. Frank got down on his hands and knees and peered under the car. All he could see was a pair of expensive leather boots against the open door of the silver gray sports car.