Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
“Murder mysteries,” Alex said with a gleam in his eye.
“Death in the Living Room, What the Blind Man Saw, Blood Is My Favorite Color.”
“I've never heard of them,” Joe said. “Sorry.”
“That's okay. Nothing's been published yet,” Alex said. “That's why I have the super job. I get some money, a free apartment, and the hours are short enough so I have plenty of time to work on my books.”
“Do you know much about what happened to Karen Lee?” Frank asked.
“A little,” Alex said, sliding back under the sink to continue his work. “I was in my apartment writing that night. I was in the middle of a scene in which a woman is moving through a dark basement. She has the feeling someone is in there, hiding in the shadows. Then I heard this bloodcurdling scream come from upstairs.”
“You must have jumped,” Joe said.
“Boy, did I,” Alex said, wrapping a strip of string around the pipe. “I ran upstairs and found several people already in Karen's apartment.”
“Did you see anyone leaving the building right around then?” Frank asked.
“No,” Alex said, inserting the pipe under the sink. “I didn't hear the elevator in use or see anyone on the steps. I think the attacker left through a hatchway to the roof, because later I noticed the hatch was left open.”
“The attacker could have run to another rooftop and then come down a fire escape,” Joe said.
“That's probably what happened,” Alex said, turning the pipe in place with the wrench.
“Are you friendly with Karen?” Frank asked.
“We talk now and then,” Alex replied. “She's
interested in my stories, and I'm interested in her acting career. Fellow artists, you know.”
“Aside from Rodriguez, do you know of anyone who would have reason to kill her?” Joe said.
“I can't say I do,” Alex said, grunting as he gave the pipe a final turn. “Karen Lee is one of the kindest people I've ever met. I can't imagine anybody would be out to get her.”
Finished with the pipe, Alex dropped the wrench into a plastic bucket filled with tools. When he stood up, Frank noticed he was tall and well built. “Okay, Frank and Joe,” Alex said, lifting the bucket. “I can't let you stay in here.”
“It's cold in this building,” Frank said as Alex escorted the Hardys down the hallway.
“Yeah, there's a problem with the thermostat,” Alex explained. “Until I get a repairman in here, there's no heat. Everyone's been complaining.”
When Alex and the Hardys stepped out of the apartment, Alex locked the door and pocketed the keys.
“Here's a phone number where you can reach us,” Joe said, handing Alex a piece of paper. “If you think of anything that might fill in any details for us, please call.”
Frank saw an elderly woman in a heavy coat standing at the door next to Lee's apartment. A knit cap covered most of her gray hair. She was rummaging through a purse, but she now looked up.
“Oh, Alex,” the woman said. “I'm so glad you're here. I can't seem to find my apartment keys. Could you please lend me the set you have?”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Petrowski,” Alex said with a wave. “I'll be right back with it.”
Alex took the elevator down, but Frank and Joe stayed upstairs, hoping to get some information from Mrs. Petrowski.
After giving her the same cover story they had told Alex, Joe said, “Mrs. Petrowski, do you remember anything about the night Karen was attacked?”
“I certainly do,” Mrs. Petrowski said, clearly eager to be of help to the nice-looking high school students. “I saw Nick Rodriguez leaving Karen's apartment around nine. I was just coming home from my Tuesday evening bridge game. Then I went into my apartment. I was just about to turn on the TV to watch that police show with that actor who's so good.”
“And then . . . ” Joe prompted.
“Then I heard a scream that made me jump out of my skin,” Mrs. Petrowski said. “I realized the scream must have come from Karen's place. Several of us rushed right over there, but none of us saw the man in black she told us about.”
“Do you know of anyone who may have had reason to harm Karen Lee?” Frank asked.
“I certainly don't,” Mrs. Petrowski said. “She's
the sweetest young woman in the world. Why, if it weren't for Karen, I might not have a home.”
“Why do you say that?” Joe asked.
Mrs. Petrowski thought a moment, then spoke in a lower voice. “Well, some of the tenants in this building are older, like myself, and we've lived here a long time. And because of the city rent laws, our rents are low. But the building's landlord is trying to evict all us old folks so he can renovate our apartments. That will allow him to bring in new tenants and charge much higher rents.”
“What does Karen Lee have to do with this?” Frank asked, his interest increasing.
“You see,” Mrs. Petrowski said, shivering inside her heavy coat, “Karen used to work in the district attorney's office, and she knows something about the law. So she organized us seniors and filed motions in court to stop Mr. Garfein, the landlord, from evicting us.”
When she heard the mechanical sound of the elevator returning to the third floor, Mrs. Petrowski stopped her story. “I hear Alex coming,” she whispered to the Hardys. “Do me a favor. Don't tell him I was talking about Mr. Garfein.”
“Why not?” Joe whispered back.
“Alex isn't a bad fellow,” Mrs. Petrowski said, “but he works for Mr. Garfein. I just don't want it getting back to Garfein that I was saying bad things about him. He might try to make things even more difficult for me.”
“I take it Mr. Garfein isn't the nicest guy around,” Frank said with a chuckle.
“Fred Garfein is as mean as Karen Lee is sweet,” Mrs. Petrowski whispered.
“We won't say a word,” Joe assured her.
The elevator doors opened, and Alex handed Mrs. Petrowski a set of keys. Not wanting to appear too inquisitive, the Hardys rode the elevator back down with Alex and left the building.
Outside, Frank and Joe sat on the building's stoop to collect their thoughts. The afternoon light was already fading, and the air was turning chillier. Joe watched two boys go in-line skating down the block.
“We may have our first suspect,” Frank said.
“Who?” Joe asked. “Fred Garfein?”
“It sounds as if Karen Lee is the one stopping him from his renovation plans,” Frank said, zipping up his coat. “I doubt a businessman like Garfein would do it himself, but he could have hired someone to scare Lee.”
“It's possible. Remind me not to rent an apartment from Garfein when I'm out on my own,” Joe said with a chuckle.
Joe noticed a young man in his early twenties sitting on a stoop across the street. He was a clean-cut guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a down ski vest.
Joe nudged Frank. “Hey, look. I remember seeing that guy at the trial.”
“Hey!” Joe called out to the man. “Are you one of the reporters from the trial?”
The young man gave a nod. Joe gave him the thumbs-up sign.
“He must be waiting to ask Lee some questions when she comes home,” Frank told Joe. “I'd like to ask her some questions myself.”
“Like what?” Joe said.
“Well, if those gloves and ski mask didn't belong to Nick,” Frank said, forming a thought, “then someone must have put them there. Someone who had access to Nick's apartment. So I'm wondering if Lee had keys to Nick's apartment that the culprit could have stolen.”
“Hmm, worth checking out,” Joe said, his eyes scanning the sidewalk in front of the building, where garbage cans were kept inside an iron railing. He noticed a man in ragged clothing searching through one of the cans. The man had a shopping cart filled with old clothing and castoff appliances.
“That gives me an idea,” Joe said, watching the man examine a soiled magazine. “Maybe I'll find some clues in Karen Lee's garbage. Letters or something. After all, it's one of the oldest detective tricks in the book.”
Joe walked over to the garbage area, lifted the top off one of the rubber cans, and opened a small plastic bag to investigate its contents. He found lettuce, chicken bones, and some papers.
“Hey, what're you doing?” a voice cried.
Suddenly Joe felt hands grab him roughly by the shoulders and spin him around. Joe was looking into the wild-eyed face of a homeless manâwho looked as if he would stop at nothing to protect his turf.
“Hey, buster,” the homeless man growled in a gravelly voice. “This is my garbage! Understand? My garbage!”
“And this is a free country,” Joe said, pulling away from the man's grasp. “Which means I have as much right to this garbage as you do!”
Joe and the man glared at each other while Frank trotted over. Seeing that it was about to be two against one, the man backed away.
“All right, all rightâyou win. But if you find any telephones or coffeepots or anything good like that, they're mine.”
“Deal,” Joe said, clapping the man's shoulder.
Minutes later Joe returned to the stoop carrying a small plastic bag filled with trash.
“Sniff out any good clues?” Frank joked.
“Make fun of me if you want to,” Joe said, pulling out some soiled envelopes, “but these are letters addressed to Karen Lee. Can you think of a better way to learn about someone than by reading her mail?”
“Either that or by talking to her,” Frank said, glancing up the block. “Look who's headed our way.”
At that moment Karen Lee herself was walking toward the building.
“She must have left soon after her testimony,” Joe said. “I guess she doesn't have to be there for the entire trial.”
The Hardys stood as Lee approached the stoop. “Miss Lee,” Frank said, “my brother and I are working on a high school journalism assignment, and I wonder if I could ask you a question or two.”
When Karen Lee smiled, Frank could see why she had won a role on television. Not only was she pretty, but she seemed to radiate a glow of warmth.
“I'm not supposed to talk with anyone about the trial,” Lee said politely. “But if it's just for a high school project, I guess it won't hurt.”
Joe noticed the reporter across the street had stood when Lee approached. But oddly, Joe noticed, he made no move to approach.
“When you were engaged to Nick Rodriguez,”
Frank asked Lee, “did you have keys to his apartment? And, if so, were they labeled?”
Lee seemed surprised by the question. “Uh, well, yes, I did have keys to Nick's apartment,” she said after a moment. “And, yes, there was a label with his first name on it.”
“And I'm sorry to pry,” Frank said, “but did you keep the keys after the two of you broke up?”
“I meant to give them back,” Lee said, nervously pushing back her hair, “but I never did.”
“Do you still have those keys?” Frank asked.
“I'm sorry, but I have to go,” Lee said, starting up the stoop. “As I told you, I'm really not supposed to talk about any of this.”
“Miss Lee,” Frank said, his tone serious, “Nick Rodriguez is someone you once cared about. No matter what Patricia Daggett may have told you, isn't the truth more important than putting Nick behind bars?”
Lee met Frank's eyes. She wriggled her hands inside her coat pockets as if wrestling with a decision, then she seemed to give in.
“Shortly after the attack,” she began, “I noticed the keys were missing. I probably just misplaced them. I told Miss Daggett about this, and if it were important, I'm sure she would have made this information available to the defense. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really do have to go.”
“Thank you, Miss Lee,” Frank said as Lee let herself into the apartment building.
“Good work,” Joe told Frank. “She
did
have keys to Rodriguez's apartment.”
“Right,” Frank said. “At the very least, those missing keys show how someone could have planted the gloves and ski mask in Nick's place. It's not proof, but it's a possibility.”
“Except,” Joe said, warming his hands in his coat pocket, “according to Lee's testimony, the attacker wouldn't have had a chance to get the keys during the time of the attack. Which means they must have gotten the keys another time. Lee wouldn't give Nick's keys away. So how would this person have gotten them?”
“Alex, for one, has keys to Lee's apartment,” Frank said. “We just saw him use them.”
“He did seem to like those gory book titles,” Joe said. “Remember
Death in the Living Room?
But could he have been the one who attacked Lee?”
“Sure. At this point, we can't rule anyone out,” Frank said. “We have to consider every possible scenario.”
“Let's see,” Joe said, glancing back at the apartment house. “Lee's apartment is in the back of the building. As I recall, a fire escape runs right by her living room window. Since the crime happened in the summer, there's a chance that window might have been open. Which means that someone could have used the fire escape to get into Lee's apartment and find Nick's keys.”
“And,” Frank said, glancing at his watch,
“Nick's apartment could also have a fire escape leading to it. We should make a check on that. Come on, we need to get back down to the courthouse.”
As dusk fell over the city, streetlamps and neon signs began glowing. Evening seemed to make the taxis bolder, with many of them cutting in and out of lanes as if they were in a Hollywood action movie. Frank held his own, though, eager to get downtown for the five-fifteen meeting with Myers.
While Frank drove, Joe occupied himself with looking through the bag of trash he had found.
“Enjoying that garbage?” Frank asked.
“Just you watch,” Joe said. “This garbage is going to produce a valuable clue. I can just feel it.”