Frank Hardy caught up with his brother just in time to hear Glen Revelle’s wild threat. The tall Rocky River captain abruptly whipped around and shoved his way through the mass of fans.
But he hadn’t turned quickly enough to hide something from Frank. Glen was blinking away tears as he headed down the corridor that led to the visiting team’s locker rooms.
He must be hurting big-time, Frank thought. Of course, Revelle was a senior. He wouldn’t get another chance to lead his team to a championship.
“Nice game, guys.” Frank heard a familiar voice behind him. He turned to see Jamal Hawkins with his hand held out, palm up. Joe slapped Jamal’s hand, and so did Frank. Although Jamal played for not to mention my back,” Joe said, wincing in pain as he straightened up. “What would Coach say if he knew you were endangering his players?” Chet was Coach Moran’s assistant.
“Hey, I’m just toughening up the team,” Chet said. “And as Coach’s assistant, it’s my job to see that you all refuel after a big game. Let’s all meet at Burger Bonanza for a little post-game cele bration—maybe with bacon and cheese?” Chet asked.
“Maybe later,” Frank said. “I want to catch the Marvin Coates press conference first.”
Marvin Coates had been captain of the first Bombers basketball team to win the conference championship twenty-five years ago. Later he be came a basketball All-American at an Ivy League school. He was still a legend at Bayport High, as well as one of the town’s wealthiest businessmen.
“Where is Coates speaking?” Chet asked.
“Right here in the gym,” Frank said.
“Maybe I’ll hang out,” Chet replied, his eyes scanning the basketball court. News teams, photog raphers, and camera crews were just beginning to show up. “Sometimes press conferences have cater ers come in with snacks.”
Frank grinned. “If that happens, they’ll be for the press only.”
“I used to be a paper boy,” Chet said. “Doesn’t not to mention my back,” Joe said, wincing in pain as he straightened up. “What would Coach say if he knew you were endangering his players?” Chet was Coach Moran’s assistant.
“Hey, I’m just toughening up the team,” Chet said. “And as Coach’s assistant, it’s my job to see that you all refuel after a big game. Let’s all meet at Burger Bonanza for a little post-game cele bration—maybe with bacon and cheese?” Chet asked.
“Maybe later,” Frank said. “I want to catch the Marvin Coates press conference first.”
Marvin Coates had been captain of the first Bombers basketball team to win the conference championship twenty-five years ago. Later he be came a basketball All-American at an Ivy League school. He was still a legend at Bayport High, as well as one of the town’s wealthiest businessmen.
“Where is Coates speaking?” Chet asked.
“Right here in the gym,” Frank said.
“Maybe I’ll hang out,” Chet replied, his eyes scanning the basketball court. News teams, photog- raphers, and camera crews were just beginning to show up. “Sometimes press conferences have cater ers come in with snacks.”
Frank grinned. “If that happens, they’ll be for the press only.”
“I used to be a paper boy,” Chet said. “Doesn’t
The Hardys rolled their eyes. “Guess again, Chet,” Frank said.
After they had showered and changed, Frank and Joe returned to the gymnasium. A podium had been placed in the middle of the basketball court. To the side of the court, the press snapped photos of Coates as he chatted with some local politicians. Finally, the tycoon made his way to the podium, followed by Bayport High’s principal.
Principal Chambers stepped up to the micro phones, cleared his throat, and after a few more pops from the photographers’ flashbulbs, he began his introduction. “His winning ways started on this very court, not so many years ago. He’s a credit to our school, to our town, as a sportsman, a business man, and—”
“A major-league slimeball,” came a voice to Frank’s right. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right, but then the person added, “And a hypocrite, too.”
Frank glanced over and saw a kid about his own age standing a few feet away, glaring at Coates with a look of sheer hate. The boy wore dirty blue jeans over heavy boots and a black T-shirt beneath a red and-black long-sleeved lumberjack shirt. A hooded sweatshirt was tied around his waist by the sleeves. His thick-lensed, wire-rimmed glasses gave him a slightly intellectual look.
When the principal had finished his introduction, Marvin Coates took the podium to roaring applause. “As many of you know, especially you fine folks who live here in Bayport, next Wednesday will mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Bay- port Bombers’ first conference championship—”
The crowd thundered its approv
“And I plan to donate a state-of-the-art electron ic scoreboard to the school gymnasium if the Bombers win.”
The cheers echoing through the packed gym cut off Coates’s next words. He held up his hands for silence. “If the Bombers win.” He gave the crowd a warm smile. “Nothing in life comes for free “Liar. Phony. Fraud.”
Frank glanced over at the kid again. His hair was dark and curly, cut short. He looked clean enough, in spite of his sloppy clothes. Obviously, this guy had a beef against Marvin Coates. But for all of his insults, the boy wasn’t shouting. He was just mut tering under his breath.
I guess he was here to see the game, Frank thought. But I’ve never seen him around the school before.
Nudging Joe, Frank asked in a soft voice, “You know that guy? He looks familiar.”
Joe studied the kid for a moment. “That’s Todd Coates, Marvin Coates’s nephew. We met him once with Phil Cohen. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Coates continued his speech, occasionally interrupted by cheers from the crowd. But Frank’s eyes mailed fixed on Todd.
“Why do you suppose Todd’s giving his uncle the evil eye?” Frank asked his brother.
Joe shrugged. “Maybe Uncle Mary forgot the birthday check or something.”
“He doesn’t go to Bayport, does he?” Frank continued.
“Who? Todd? No. He goes to Ocean City High.”
“So he had no reason to come to this game, except to rag on his uncle. Don’t you find that kind of strange?” Frank pressed.
“Not really. Why?”
“Well, Todd’s uncle was a big legend here in this school, but Todd didn’t go here.” Frank paused. “And he’s definitely not here to congratulate his uncle. Do you know anything about his back ground?”
“No. But Phil might.” Joe gave his brother a quizzical look. ‘What’s the big deal about Todd Coates, anyway?”
“Just—”
“Yeah, I know,” Joe said, cutting his brother off. “Just curious.” Frank’s inquisitive nature had got ten the brothers involved in solving many myster ies. The two had inherited this characteristic from their father, Fenton Hardy, a retired police officer who continued to investigate crime.
Joe spotted his father shaking hands with Marvin
Coates, who’d stepped away from the podium. The Hardys slipped through the crowd till they reached them.
“Boys!” Fenton exclaimed as Frank and Joe approached him. “Did you ever meet my old team mate Marvin Coates?”
“Glad to meet you, sir,” the brothers said in unison. They shook the tycoon’s hand.
“You two played some top-notch basketball out there,” Mr. Coates said. “Good luck in the championship game. Oh, by the way.. . you boys old enough to vote?”
“Marvin’s thinking of going into politics,” Fenton explained with a grin.
Coates nodded. “I thought I’d start small. Mayor of Bayport seems about right.” Marvin excused himself and walked away from the Hardys, shaking hands as he made his way through the crowd.
“If the election were held right now he’d win by a landslide,” Fenton observed. Then he looked around. “Did you see your mother before she left?”
“No. She took off with Mrs. Jorgensen right after the game. She thought you were going to be out of town a lot longer,” Joe said.
Frank nodded. “Callie said Mom will be gone all week.”
“And Aunt Gertrude went bowling to calm down,” Joe said with a chuckle.
“Calm down?” Fenton asked in a slightly worried tone of voice. “From what?”
“We take it you missed the game,” Frank said.
“Sorry, boys. I just got here in time for the tail end of Marvin’s speech. I meant to get here sooner, but the police needed me to ID some of the suspects in this case I’ve been working on.”
“Tell us about it, Dad,” Joe said eagerly.
“Over Chinese food,” Fenton promised. “I’ll fill you in right after you tell me about this wild game you must have had.”
“Great,” Joe said. “I’m starving.”
“Let’s see if Chet wants to join us,” Frank added.
Joe blockcd Frank’s chopsticks with his fork, speared the last jumbo shrimp, and popped it into his mouth.
“Nice interception,” Chet said. “Though I wouldn’t exactly call it team playing.”
“So you must be pretty close to bringing the big cheese down, Dad,” Joe said when he finished chewing.
“1 wish,” Fenton said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “While you boys hit the boards, the police were putting a full-court press on a major criminal gang based south of here. We nailed a good dozen people today, not to mention confiscating all sorts of equipment. That should shut down their operation. But we still don’t have a clue to the master’s identity.”
“But you expect to catch him, don’t you, Dad?” Frank asked.
“I hope so,” Fenton replied. “He’s bound to slip ip eventually. Especially if he’s as brazen as the thugs he had working for him. These crooks were placing phony automated teller machines all around the country, in parking lots and shopping malls. They even installed some right outside banks.”
“I don’t get it,” Joe began. “You said the ATMs were spitting back the cards with a message saying the machine was out of order. If the person got his card back, what good did that do the crook?”
“I can guess that much,” Frank said. “The ma chine recorded the account and personal identification number—the PIN. Then the crooks could make phony ATM cards and, using the PIN numbers, start making withdrawals like there was no tomorrow.”
“Got it on the first shot, Frank,” Fenton said. “They were raking in hundreds of thousands of dollars, perhaps millions, from this scam and at least a dozen others. The FBI is still trying to sort it all out.”
“How long has this been going on, Dad?” Frank wanted to know.
“The ATM scam is fairly recent. But we’ve connected this same team of hoodlums to other crimes. It looks as though they’ve been in operation for at least the last ten years.”
“How did you finally catch onto them?” Joe asked.
“We staked out one of their bogus machines, until a guy with the unlikely name of Nick Vetch came to collect the data. When we caught him, old Nick turned out to have quite a criminal record. Another conviction would have him away for a very long time, so he turned state’s evidence. That’s how we caught his partner, Henry Desmond, and their boss, Clete Skratos, plus several other people— and their money machines. But we’re still chasing after the numero uno of the gang.”
Frank dipped an egg roll into a dish of duck sauc “So, how are you going to nab the kingpin?”
Fenton continued. “If we can figure out what the boss did with the money, how he laundered it, maybe that paper trail will lead us back to him. The case won’t be closed until we bust this guy. Other wise, he could just pick up the pieces and start a OW operation.”
“I don’t understand this laundering business,” lot said. I know the crooks don’t put their money in washing machines
The Hardys burst out laughing.
“Not exactly, Chet,” Fenton said. “Crooks can’t simply walk into a bank with a suitcase full of money and deposit it. Banks have to report cash transactions often thousand dollars or more. So the nodern crook must find a way to use money so it can’t be traced back to him. That’s called money laundering. One way of doing this—the way these
crooks did it—is to set up phony companies. They use fake invoices that allow the dirty cash to be disguised as proceeds from legitimate sales. Byzan tine Importers was the front company for these crooks. Their story was that they dealt in gems and gold, which, of course, never existed.”
The waiter brought the check and Fenton pulled his wallet out of his suit-coat pocket. “Speaking of gold.. . I hope I brought my credit card
After dinner Fenton dropped his sons and Chet off at the Bayport High parking lot, near Chet’s car. Frank and Joe had left their van closer to the school building and said they’d walk across the lot. “If it’s okay with you, Dad, we’d like to stop by the rec center for a while,” Frank said.
“Going to work on some new plays for the Bombers-Slickers game?” Fenton asked.
Frank gave his father a grin. “Got it on the first shot.”
The boys climbed out of the car and, after saying goodbye to Chet, walked through the empty lot. “There’s Big Blue,” Joe said, pointing to their van, which was parked near the school’s main entrance. “At least the guys didn’t wrap it in toilet paper as part of their victory celebration.”
Frank was reaching into his pocket for the keys when a huge old clunker passed by the van. The car’s headlights swung along the wall of the school,
spotlighting a human form sitting on the front steps. In the dark, Frank hadn’t seen him there. But now he recognized the orange hair sticking out from under the hooded sweatshirt. It was the captain of the losing team.
“What’s Glen Revelle still doing here?” he said curiously.
The old car screeched to a halt right in front of the stairs, nearly pinning Glen there. A balding man with rusty gray hair burst from the car.
“Here you are!” the man barked, raising a ham like fist.
Glen cringed and scrambled up a step to get away from the man.
“How can you call yourself the team captain?” the man bellowed. With his fist still raised in the air, he took a step closer to Glen.
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