Collision Course (2 page)

Frank leapt up and stepped in front of the sliding cargo door before Joe could reach it. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "Stop for a second and think, Joe. The water is at least fifty feet deep here, and you know what the currents are like."

Joe struggled against his brother's arms. "We can't just leave him down there!"

Frank pushed Joe away from the door. "The impact from the two-hundred-foot fall probably killed him before the car sank. If you jump in without scuba gear, you'll just become another casualty."

"He's right," T. B. Martin agreed grimly. "People like McCoy court death for a living. He knew the risks. Living on the edge was what he was all about. For McCoy, it was fun. But he wouldn't want someone else to risk his own life needlessly."

Frank put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Come on, Joe. Sit down. You're not going anywhere."

Joe's shoulders slumped. He knew they were right—but he couldn't help thinking they had to do something.

Frank was one step ahead of him. "Tell the pilot to radio the police and put the chopper down on the road where the car went through the guardrail," Frank said to Arno.

Russell Arno was just staring out at the ocean. He seemed distracted—or maybe it was just the shock of the accident. After a moment Arno nodded and shouted into the pilot's ear.

Frank and Joe were the first ones to jump out of the copter when it touched down. They headed straight for the twisted remains of the guardrail. It looked like a licorice stick that had been casually ripped in half—except this licorice stick was made of steel, Joe reminded himself.

The guardrail wasn't the only thing damaged by the crash. Debris lay all over the place. The thin "wings" attached to the needle-nose front of the race car had been ripped off and were now lying crumpled on either side of the gash in the barrier.

Frank stooped down to examine some of the parts that didn't make the final voyage and were now scattered on the road. There were some shards of glass, a side-view mirror — and something else that caught Frank's eye. He picked it up to inspect it more closely. It appeared to be some kind of electronic device.

"This doesn't look like a normal car part," he mused, thinking out loud.

A voice from behind Frank broke his train of thought. "Nothing on these Formula One machines is 'normal.' " Frank turned to see Arno peering over his shoulder. "This is the cutting edge of automotive high tech," Arno continued. "Half the stuff under the hood is top secret—so the driver can keep his edge. McCoy did a lot of his own mechanical work. There's a good chance that the only person who can tell you what you're holding is down there." Arno motioned down to the deceptively calm waters.

Joe looked over at Arno, noting how composed the promoter seemed, given the circumstances. "You don't seem too concerned about McCoy's death," he said, trying to control his temper.

Arno shrugged. "It's like Martin told you— McCoy lived on the edge. All good racing drivers do. The danger is part of the thrill. Some of these guys, like McCoy, think they're so good they can cheat death. And when you start thinking like that, death sneaks up behind you.

"But you're wrong to think I'm not concerned," Arno added, sadness creeping into his voice for the first time. "McCoy and I worked together a long time. He was a hard man to like, but I'll miss him."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a squad car carrying two of Bayport's finest. The driver got out and lumbered over to the small group, while the other officer walked toward T. B. Martin to take his statement. The uniformed man who approached Frank and Joe was large, more than a little out of shape, and sported a sizable paunch. Joe wondered how he managed to keep his pants up, before he noticed his name-plate "Reed."

"Okay," Officer Reed huffed. "What happened here?"

Before either Frank or Joe could say anything, Arno started in. "A tragic accident," he began smoothly. "Mr. McCoy miscalculated the turn, and at one hundred fifty miles per hour it was a deadly mistake."

"Stupid race car drivers," Reed grumbled. "There's a reason for the posted speed limit, you know."

"At the posted speed limit," — Arno jerked his thumb back toward the sign that said 15 MPH — "the engine would have stalled out, and he would have had to push the car around the turn. That1 would not have produced a spectacular lap time."

The police officer looked back toward the tunnel, and then his eyes moved from the tunnel back to the gaping hole in the guardrail. "Well, what kind of lap time do you suppose he'll get now?" He frowned. "The only thing 'spectacular' here was his crash. Maybe they'll cancel that stupid race now."

"I doubt it," Arno said curtly as he walked away.

"What do you think of this?" Frank said, holding out the electronic device he had found.

"What am I supposed to think?" the police officer retorted gruffly. "Some stupid gizmo to make a car go too fast and ruin a perfectly good guardrail. This is going to cost the county plenty, you know."

Frank and Joe gave the officer their statements, and then Reed lumbered off to join his partner, who was radioing in a report to headquarters. Frank surveyed the scene again, then turned to his brother. "I don't like this."

"Who does?" Joe responded grimly.

"Come on," Frank said, tugging at his brother's arm, "I want to ask Martin a few questions. Something just doesn't add up."

The Hardys approached the writer, who was standing by the edge of the cliff. He was staring Into the blue waters below. "Excuse me, Mr. Martin," Frank said quietly, "but i was wondering if I could ask you something."

"You know," the writer began in a distracted tone, "you think you're prepared for this sort of thing. After ten years of covering the racing circuit, you think you've seen it all. Guys get killed every year. No big surprise. But somehow, you're never really ready when it happens."

He was silent for a moment, then he said, "I'm sorry. What was it you wanted to know?"

"Were the two of you close?" Frank asked.

"Close?" Martin repeated. "Nobody was close to Angus McCoy. Everything was a competition tor him. He never let up, never wanted to lose the edge.

"You know, he hated having a ghost writer, wanted to do the book himself. But his publisher saw the first couple of chapters and had the ugly task of telling Angus he couldn't write worth beans. If it weren't for the contract, he would have fired the publisher."

"What happens to the book now? Frank pressed. "Will the publisher cancel it?'

"Are you kidding?" Martin laughed. 'This is the kind of ending publishers dream about! I can just see the title now The Fast Life and Tragic Death of Angus McCoy! And we've got the whole thing on videotape! The publisher will love it. Pictures of the famous racing driver's last moments! It'll sell millions!"

The writer laughed again, but both Frank and Joe could see the laughter was forced and bitter. Martin turned back toward the ocean and was silent for a while. Finally he said, "Does that answer your question?"

"Actually, that wasn't the question I wanted to ask," Frank said apologetically. "Something just doesn't make any sense to me. McCoy knew the layout of the course, right?"

"Sure. He'd driven it several times to get familiar with it," Martin said.

"And he didn't really have any serious competition in this race, right?"

"Right."

"So why would he push so hard? And why did he drive as though he didn't know the turn was there?"

"The answer to the first question is easy." Martin smiled. "Race drivers always push hard. They're not just racing against other drivers and the clock—they're competing against themselves.

"Angus was getting a little old for the game," Martin went on. "There were guys who said he was all washed up, so he had something to prove. As for your second question," the writer continued after a brief pause, "I don't have an answer. Angus was a much better driver than on that last turn. And it's not like this is the only course with a hairpin turn."

He shrugged. "Angus was a world champion. I don't understand it, either. This is the kind Of mistake a newcomer would make."

"What about sabotage?" Frank ventured.

The question surprised both Martin and Joe. "Who would have a motive?" Joe cut in.

"Somebody who wants to win," Frank replied simply.

At that moment Russell Arno joined them at the cliff's edge. He kicked at a small rock, and Joe watched it roll and bounce down the steep incline. He barely made out the tiny splash it made when it hit the water below.

Arno turned to him and casually said, "Well, now that McCoy is out of it, it looks like your friend Scott Lavin is the new favorite."

The next day was one of those late-summer days when the sun felt somehow cooler, even though the temperature was as hot as mid-July.

Joe Hardy was sitting on his front porch, thinking that even the shadows cast by the sun were different at this time of year. Softer. Maybe the morning seemed special because he knew summer was almost over. But Joe was sure he could recognize this kind of day even if he were set down in the middle of it, without anyone telling him what season it was.

Joe had been up for a while. The day before had been long, but he had slept well. Joe rarely had trouble sleeping. There wasn't any problem that wasn't easier to tackle after a good night's sleep, he thought.

Frank Hardy emerged from the house about one o'clock, stretching and yawning. "You look like you could use a couple more hours of sack time," Joe remarked.

"I was up most of the night doing some work on the computer," Frank explained. The Hardys had a sophisticated computer setup, complete with a telephone modem to access other computers, and they often used it to help solve cases. If information was available over a phone link-up, Frank knew how to get at it.

"It took quite a while," Frank went on, "but I found out some interesting things. About Scott Lavin," he added.

"Oh?" Joe said, raising his eyebrows. "Let's hear it."

"Building and racing Formula One cars is very expensive," Frank began. "It takes a lot of money—and that means sponsors and investors. Scott got started with seed money from a few investors, but that money is almost gone now. He's been looking for sponsors — advertisers who will pay him to promote their products. But Scott doesn't have enough of a reputation on the Grand Prix circuit yet. He needs a big win to get that rep.

"Go on." Joe fought to keep his voice cool. Scott Lavin was his friend, and he didn't like where this conversation was leading.

"Look, Joe, I know how you feel about Scott," Frank said softly. "But right now he's the only suspect we've got. I think we should investigate."

"Suspect? Investigate?" Joe forgot about being cool. "What are you talking about? How do you know McCoy's death wasn't an accident? And even if it wasn't, Scott wouldn't murder anyone just to win a race. Besides, he's a top-notch driver and had a shot at winning—even with McCoy in the race."

Frank looked at his younger brother. He knew Joe was smart, but sometimes Joe's short fuse didn't allow him the logic to think things through. "You don't believe that crash was an accident any more than I do," Frank told him. "He hit that guardrail like it had a bull's-eye painted on it. Either he was struck by a sudden suicidal urge or there was something wrong with his car."

"Like what?" Joe demanded.

"I don't know. The brakes or the steering, probably. Take a look at this thing." Frank was holding the electronic device he had found at the crash site. "What does it look like to you? It looks like part of a radio-control setup to me. Flip a switch and zap! No more brakes."

Frank could see doubt flicker in his brother's eyes. "There's something you're forgetting," he continued. "Scott is probably bitter about this whole race. This is his course and his hometown, and Arno and McCoy just walked in and took away the spotlight. That's got to hurt.

"Maybe the money and the sponsorship wouldn't be enough, but throw in a little need for revenge. Maybe that pushed Scott over the edge."

« There was an awkward silence after Frank finished talking. "You're all wrong about Scott," Joe snapped. "You could be right about the crash. It didn't look like an accident exactly, but I think we should check out some other people!"

"Okay," Frank said. "Who?" "Well, what about this Arno character?" "The promoter? What's his motive?" "He said he had a 'financial interest' in McCoy."

"Yeah. An interest in keeping him alive to bring in the big attendance on race day. What does he gain by McCoy's death?" "I don't know," Joe admitted with a sigh. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to start by talking to Scott."

After eating a late lunch, the Hardys drove over to Scott Lavin's garage and parked their van outside. They walked in the open door and found - Scott and his head mechanic hunched over the engine of the yellow-and-red race car. Joe took one look at the machine, and some of the excitement of the previous day returned. Ever since he could remember, he had been in love with cars, and he couldn't help but share his enthusiasm with his brother. "The wings at the front end and behind the rear tires act just like the wings on an airplane, only in reverse," Joe said. "They create negative lift, thousands of pounds of downforce to keep the car on the road in high-speed turns.

"And see those side panels sticking out from the chassis, running the length of the car? They look like jet engines or something, but they're really upside-down airfoils. They scoop up air through intakes in the front and create an area of low pressure underneath, sucking the car to the road surface like a vacuum cleaner. It's called ground effects."

"If you're going fast enough," Scott Lavin said, not even looking up from his work, "you can generate enough downforce to ride a track upside-down. At least, that's what the designers tell me. I've never actually tried it."

Scott stood up, wiped his hands on a rag, and smiled at the Hardys. "Formula One racing entered the space age back in the late sixties when airplane designers started tinkering with Grand Prix cars. The old stainless steel carrot is still under there, somewhere, buried in state-of-the-art aerodynamics. Except it's not even stainless steel anymore. It's aluminum and high-tech fibers with names you can't pronounce.