Crime in the Cards (13 page)

“That doesn't make any sense,” Joe said. “ Kestenberg isn't interested in the game at all. He teases the players relentlessly.”

“He told me that he sells the cards for his cousin, who needs to raise cash sometimes,” Gerry said.

“Have you ever seen this cousin?” Joe asked.

Gerry shook his head. “Sam says he lives in Rhode Island and comes down to visit a couple of times a month.”

“This is all starting to fall into place,” Frank said. “Gerry, was Kestenberg the man who wore the demon mask to your game on Friday night?”

“I never saw that guy's face,” Gerry said. “I told you that before.”

Joe snapped his fingers. “Frank, it could have been
him. The guy in the mask was about the right size, and—now that I think of it—he hit me with a football shoulder block just before he took off.” The younger Hardy rubbed his ribs at the memory. “Plus, Kestenberg rides a motorcycle. If I hadn't been so focused on the gamers as suspects, I would have remembered that long ago.”

“Me, too,” said Frank. He turned back to Gerry. “It looks like Kestenberg, the Black Knight, and the thief may be one and the same. But that doesn't let Gerry here off the hook.”

“W-what do you mean?” Gerry asked nervously.

“Trafficking in stolen goods is still a crime,” Frank said, “and Joe and I aren't convinced that you're not part of this scheme. You could be a vital part of the counterfeiting pipeline. At least, that's what the cops will probably think.”

“I'm not,” Gerry said, pleading. “Honest.”

“Prove it,” Joe said.

“How?” Gerry asked.

“Set up a buy with Kestenberg,” Frank said. “Tell him that you have a client who needs some cards pronto. Say they're looking for the Coyote and the Bargeist. We'll set up our video camera at the meeting place. When Kestenberg passes you the counterfeit cards, we'll catch him in the act.”

“Okay,” Gerry said nervously. “When do you want to do this?”

“No time like the present,” Joe said, smiling grimly. It took Gerry a half-hour to set up a meeting for
nine o'clock that night. Not surprisingly, Kestenberg chose Old Bluff Road for the rendezvous. The brothers took Gerry with them and got their video camera from home. Then they went to Chet and Iola's house.

Iola met them at the door. “You'll never guess who runs the Black Knight site,” she said.

“Sam Kestenberg,” Joe replied nonchalantly.

Iola sounded crestfallen. “How did you know?”

“We're detectives, ma'am,” Joe said in a fake western accent. “It's our job to know.” He tipped an imaginary hat at her.

“Gerry told us that Kestenberg sells cards to him,” Frank said. He took a few minutes to explain the situation and outline their plan.

“So, let's get him!” Iola said.

Frank shook his head. “The last time we tried to trap him, the Black Knight must have gotten there ahead of us and spotted us. Then, he called Pete to take the fall for him. This time, we have to get there even earlier and make sure we're not seen.”

“We'll need all of you as backup,” Joe said. “Chet, you, Iola, and Callie can come in your car. But you need to stay far enough away so that you're not seen.”

“Let Iola drive my car,” Chet said. “I
need
to be there when you bust Kestenberg.”

“All right, Chet,” Frank said. “You can come with us. Iola, you can park on the old utility road to the south of the meeting place. Kestenberg lives north of the bluff, so he'll probably arrive from the opposite
direction. We'll leave the van on the utility road, too, and hide the keys under the passenger seat. Callie can bring it when we call on the cell phone.”

“Check,” Iola said.

“Double check,” echoed Callie.

“Good,” Joe said. “Now Frank, Chet, and I better get going. Don't drop Gerry off too soon, Iola. And let him walk up the road to the meeting point so Kestenberg won't spot your car.”

“Can I ride my bike up?” Gerry asked.

“It's a bit cold, but sure,” Frank said. He turned to the girls. “Take Gerry home to get his bike.”

Joe laid a hand on Gerry's shoulder and smiled. “ Remember, Gerry, if you don't show up on your bike, we'll have the cops on your doorstep before midnight.”

“I-I'll do my best, man,” Gerry said. “I don't want to go to prison.”

“Boy,” Chet said as they drove out to Old Bluff Road, “I knew Kestenberg was a jerk, but I never would have believed he was behind this.”

“We think he has a partner helping him,” Frank said.

“Why would he need a partner?” Chet asked.

“Think about the equipment you'd need to make counterfeit Creature Cards,” Joe said. “Especially ones that are good enough to fool most gamers.”

“These counterfeits aren't something you could knock off on your PC at home,” Frank said.

“Oh. I see,” said Chet, though the expression on his face made it plain that he didn't have a clue what the
brothers meant. “So, do you guys know who this partner is?”

“We've got some guesses, but no proof,” Frank said.

“With luck,” Joe added, “Kestenberg will confirm that hunch for us.”

They reached Old Bluff Road, parked the car in their prearranged spot, and stowed the keys under the passenger seat. Then the three of them hiked through the woods up the hill to the meeting place.

The night was cold and dark, and they stumbled into tree branches more than a few times on their way. Despite that, they had their equipment set up within a half-hour. They cautiously scouted the area but saw no sign of Kestenberg. Then they called the girls to confirm that everything was going according to plan.

“What if Kestenberg doesn't show?” Chet asked, his teeth chattering from the cold.

“Then we'll have to find another way to turn his greed against him,” Frank said.

Joe watched his breath billow into the night air like a tiny white cloud. “I think I liked the fog better,” he whispered.

“Just wait,” Frank said, “in a few weeks you'll be snowmobiling and loving every minute of it.”

They sat quietly after that, waiting for Gerry and Kestenberg to arrive. Kestenberg got there first, dressed in his motorcycle helmet and leather jacket. He parked his motorcycle in the bushes on the side of the road, and then took a vantage point perilously close to where the Hardys and Chet were hiding.

Pretty soon Gerry came puffing up the road on his beat-up bicycle. When he neared the crest of the hill, he hopped off and walked up the slope with the bike.

Kestenberg stepped out from his hiding place.

“Hey, m-man,” Gerry said, shaking slightly. “How's it going?”

“You tell me,” Kestenberg said. “What's the matter, Gerry? Nervous?”

“N-no,” Gerry said. “Just c-cold. You got the cards I wanted?”

“Yeah. I got them,” Kestenberg said. He scanned the area but didn't spot the Hardys and Chet. Gerry's demeanor was clearly making him suspicious, though. “Did you bring the money?”

“G-got it right here,” Gerry said. He reached into his pocket, but fumbled with the money as he took it out. The cash fell.

Gerry stooped to pick it up, but Kestenberg grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet. “What's going on here, Gerry?” he asked. “First you ask to meet with me—which you've never done before—and then you act all nervous.” He pulled Gerry up until they stood nearly eye to eye. “Is this some kind of set-up?”

Sweat began to pour down Gerry's head. “You shouldn't have made me your patsy in this counterfeiting scheme!” Gerry blurted.

Kestenberg's eyes narrowed. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said coldly.

“You sold me phony cards just before the tournament,”
Gerry said, seeming almost brave for a moment. “Admit it!”

Kestenberg decked him.

Gerry sprawled on the pavement, out cold.

Kestenberg stood over him and sneered. “Even if you tell anybody, wimp,” he said, “there won't be any evidence.”

Joe pulled out the cell phone and called Callie. “Gerry's out of the picture,” he said. “Bring the van, quick!”

“Right!” Callie replied.

As the Hardys rushed down to help Gerry, they heard Kestenberg start his cycle and roar off. Seconds later Callie came zooming up the hill. Chet dragged Gerry off the road as she skidded the van to a stop. She flung open the door and hopped into the backseat. “Iola's right behind me,” she said.

“I'll take care of Gerry until Iola gets here,” Chet said.

Frank tossed Chet their cell phone and hopped in on the passenger side. “Call an ambulance for
Gerry,” he called to Chet as Joe gunned the accelerator.

“What happened?” Callie asked breathlessly.

“Gerry folded under the pressure,” Frank said.

“Can you catch Kestenberg?”

Joe shook his head. “He's probably got too big a lead. Fortunately, we have some idea of where he's going.”

“Where?”

“Well, if he's smart,” Frank said, “he'll head home and call his partner on the phone.”

“Being Kestenberg, though, he'll probably go running to warn his buddy in person,” Joe said.

“With luck, we can catch them both in the act,” Frank said grimly.

“So,” Callie said, looking from one brother to the other, “where are we going?”

They headed for Bayport's northwest side. When the Hardys were children, this part of town had been hills covered with scrub forests. In the last few years, however, industrial parks had sprung up where trees once grew.

“The key to this operation is
making
the cards,” Frank said. “Kestenberg's good with his hands, but you need special equipment to make good counterfeits.”

“The kind of equipment Bayport High doesn't have, but a print shop does,” Joe said.

“It's a good thing Joe and I know the address of this particular print shop,” Frank said.

Callie folded her arms over her chest and pouted slightly. “Well, clue me in whenever you're ready,” she said.

The brothers merely smiled at each other.

The Hardys topped a denuded hill just in time to see Kestenberg entering a service driveway at the bottom of the small valley beyond. The counterfeiter pulled around to the loading dock of a large metal-sided industrial building. He got off his bike and went in the back door.

“Jackpot!” Frank said.

The sign in front of the building said, Coolcolor Quality Printing. Joe pulled the van around to the back of the building and parked behind Kestenberg's motorcycle. “Stay here and call the cops,” Frank told Callie as he and Joe got out.

“What about you two?” Callie asked, trying to hide the concern in her voice.

“We've got to keep Kestenberg and his accomplice from destroying the evidence,” Joe said.

“Good luck!” Callie called after them.

The brothers picked the lock on the back door and carefully sneaked inside the Coolcolor building. The door led onto a loading dock, piled high with pallets of promotional flyers, small magazines, and other printing jobs.

Beyond the stacked paper lay the main part of the building, a large room filled with printing presses. Some of them were tiny, suitable only for small, short run jobs. Dominating the room, though, was a huge
web press—similar to the ones found in newspaper plants.

“Bet they use one of those small presses for the counterfeiting,” Joe whispered.

Frank nodded. “They'd need something they could operate by themselves on nights or weekends.”

None of the presses was running at the moment. The silence in the huge room was broken only by the sound of heated voices, drifting over from the big press.

“We should get rid of the plates and the film,” Kestenberg said. “That way, they can't trace any of this back to us.”

“You're crazy,” said his accomplice. “We've spent a lot of time collecting those cards.”

Frank and Joe recognized the other voice.

“Carl McCool,” Frank whispered.

Joe nodded. “The part-time printing teacher.”

“You sold the originals,” McCool continued, “so we can't make new cards without the film. The plates are expendable, though. I've got acid here so we can re-etch them. No one will be able to tell what was on those plates. We'll hide the film in the storage unit where we've stashed the counterfeit cards. I rented that unit under an assumed name, so no one will connect it with either of us.”

“That's a plan,” Kestenberg said. “Where are the plates and film?”

“In the private safe in my office,” McCool answered. “You can take the film to the storage unit while I erase the plates.”

“Let's do it,” Kestenberg said.

“We've got to keep them busy until the police show up,” Joe whispered to Frank.

“You make sure that Kestenberg doesn't leave with the film,” Frank replied. “I'll take care of McCool.”

They split up and circled around either side of the big press. Joe took the shorter route. He came in sight of the office in time to see McCool hand a large, stiff envelope to Kestenberg. The crooks didn't see Joe, and he ducked back around the side of the press.

“What rotten luck,” McCool growled. “First my scanning camera lens shatters on the Friday before that stupid tournament, then—after I ‘borrow' a replacement from school, and smooth down the cops' feathers—this happens.”

Kestenberg shrugged. “Those are the breaks. I'm going home after I drop these off,” he said, brandishing the negatives. “In case Gerry calls the cops or something. I'll say I was just out riding if anyone asks.”

“Right,” McCool said. “Maybe you should skip school tomorrow, too—or at least skip my class. We don't want anyone connecting us.”

“Yeah, okay,” Kestenberg said. He ducked around the corner of the press and headed for the door. McCool walked toward a long, shallow etching pan under a hooded exhaust fan. A large chemical drum stood next to the old-fashioned etching station.

Frank rounded the corner of the big press just as
McCool placed his plates in the pan and reached for a gallon jug of acid. “You're not destroying those plates,” the elder Hardy said.

McCool wheeled around, threw the jug at Frank, and charged. The elder Hardy ducked out of the way as the jug flew past, splattering acid. Fortunately, the corrosive liquid missed him.

McCool came at Frank like a rampaging bull. “You just made a fatal mistake, Hardy,” McCool snarled, his face contorted in rage. He threw a punch at Frank's head.

Frank ducked out of the way and rammed his fist into McCool's stomach. It felt like hitting a wall. The printer spun and his elbow clipped Frank in the back of the head. Frank staggered and fell against the giant printing press. Smiling, McCool reached to a nearby steel pillar and pressed a large button marked Start.

“Going somewhere, Kestenberg?” Joe asked coolly. He stepped out in front of the exit door and folded his arms across his chest.

“Hardy!” Kestenberg snarled.

“Perceptive, as always,” Joe said. “I think you and I have some unfinished business. Unless you'd rather just turn that film over to the police and give yourself up.”

“Not in your lifetime, punk,” Kestenberg said. He tossed the film to the floor and came at Joe with both fists.

Joe blocked Kestenberg's first punch and followed up with a smash to the jaw. Kestenberg reeled back but didn't go down.

Suddenly the room filled with thunderous noise as the big printing press sprang to life. The clamor distracted Joe momentarily and Kestenberg tagged him with a right cross to the chin.

Joe fell backward, stunned. Instead of fleeing out the unobstructed door, though, Kestenberg aimed a kick at the younger Hardy's head.

Frank lurched out of the way just as the huge press started up, barely avoiding being crushed between two big rollers. McCool came at him again, trying to push Frank back into the vast machine.

Frank jumped to his left, and McCool skidded on a puddle of spilled acid. He nearly fell but grabbed a steel support pillar and righted himself. Frank seized a nearby fire extinguisher and tossed it at the counterfeiter.

McCool caught the canister and heaved it back at Frank. The extinguisher missed Frank, but crashed into the drum of chemicals near the etching station.

The side of the drum staved in, and it fell over, spilling caustic liquid toward Frank and McCool. Frank hopped aside, but McCool leaped after him. The printer seized Frank by the throat and squeezed.

Joe grabbed Kestenberg's foot just before the thief's boot hit him in the head. He twisted and
shoved upward. Kestenberg toppled backward into a tall stack of magazines atop a shipping pallet.

Kestenberg grabbed the side of the stack and heaved them at Joe. The magazines tumbled like a paper avalanche. Joe raised his arms over his head to protect himself from the cascade. Kestenberg charged forward, lowering his shoulder just as he'd done in Benson Mini-Mall.

This time, though, Joe was ready for him. He'd played more football than Kestenberg had and knew all the moves. At the last second Joe spun aside. He grabbed Kestenberg by the leather jacket and redirected the force of the thief's charge. Kestenberg crashed into a steel pillar and collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Joe used Kestenberg's own belt to tie up the thief. Then he ran to help Frank.

Frank forcefully brought his arms up inside McCool's elbows, breaking the chokehold. McCool tried to head butt the elder Hardy, but Frank turned aside and the blow caught only his shoulder. He slammed his fist into McCool's neck and backed away quickly, putting the large corrosive puddle between them once more.

McCool winced in pain. He spotted the fire extinguisher near his feet and picked it up to heave it at Frank again. But the acid had weakened the canister. It burst as McCool lifted it over his head. A white cloud of CO
₂
billowed out over the counterfeiter, blinding him.

Frank leaped over the puddle and punched McCool squarely in the jaw. McCool staggered back toward the huge press. Before he could fall between the rollers, though, Frank grabbed the front of the counterfeiter's shirt.

He punched McCool in the face once more, and the counterfeiter slumped, unconscious, to the floor.

“Wow,” Joe said as he rounded the corner of the big press. “I thought you might need some help. McCool's built like a pro wrestler.”

“Good thing this match was two out of three falls,” Frank said.

Joe clapped his brother on the shoulder and said, “Frank Hardy, winner and still champeen!”

The sound of police sirens outside the printing plant brought weary smiles to the faces of both brothers.

After school the next day, the Hardys, Callie, Tim, and Daphne gathered at the Morton house. Iola Morton brought a tray of hot chocolate, chips, and sandwiches into the living room and set it on the coffee table.