Danger for Hire (5 page)

Next, she rechecked the backgrounds of the guards currently assigned to the warehouses in question. She already knew about Adam Reeves, but he was only one of three guards regularly assigned to the CD Revolution warehouse. Jumping Jeans also had three regular guards. Except for the six months “missing” out of Adam's life, they each had spotless records and excellent references.

She was copying names and numbers from the phone book when Cindy Larson arrived after school.

“This
is your room?” Cindy asked as Hannah showed her in. “Gosh, it's so—”

“Ordinary?” Nancy supplied.

“Yeah. I sort of expected—I don't know, a crime lab or something.”

“I'd love to have one, but then where would I keep my stereo?” Nancy joked.

“Okay, how do I start?” Cindy asked.

“First, we'll try to find the stolen goods and trace them backward,” Nancy said.

“You mean we're going
shopping?”
Cindy asked in amazement. “All right! And you said that detective work was dull.”

Nancy grinned. “Don't get out your wallet yet. We'll be doing our ‘shopping' by phone. I've made a list of local odd-lot retailers,” Nancy said. “That means they carry merchandise that didn't sell at full-price stores. A few of them may also sell ‘hot' goods. You're going to call them up looking for specific jeans and CDs.”

“So if they've got what I'm looking for, we go check to see if the stuff came from the stolen lots, right?” Cindy concluded.

“You got it.” Nancy was pleased.

Cindy smiled. “You mentioned two things. What's the other one?”

“We're going to research and write a profile of Adam Reeves,” Nancy announced.

“Uh-oh,” Cindy said. “This sounds like homework.”

Nancy smiled and opened a drawer to pull out a sheet of stationery for a business called Highway Auto Supply. It had no address.

Cindy's eyes went wide. “What are we going to do with
that?”

“Get Adam's credit history,” Nancy explained. “Find out about his debts, credit cards, bank accounts—stuff like that. We want to know how much money he spends and where he spends it.”

“Nancy, that's so personal! Who's going to tell us all that?” Cindy wondered.

Nancy leaned back in her chair. She was proud of this idea. “A credit bureau. We claim that Adam wants to open a charge account at our ‘store,' and we want to know if he is a good credit risk. The bureau will tell us—in great detail—for a fee.”

“Wow, I had no idea.”

Nancy's tone grew determined. “Cindy, that's just the beginning. By the time we're done, we'll know things about Adam that
he's
forgotten.”

• • •

They worked until dinnertime and then Cindy left.

Nancy drove back to the warehouse district because that was where she would have the best chance of getting a lead on the gang.

Before going she informed the chief, as she had promised. Two cruisers would be in the area all night.

Nancy had a large-scale map of the area from the city assessor's office with her. It showed each building, and Nancy had used a green marker to highlight those that were guarded by Hayward Security Systems. About a third of the buildings on the map were highlighted.

A light drizzle was falling when Nancy turned into the warehouse district. She flicked on her wipers and slowly drove through the streets. Within ten minutes she passed both patrol cars. As she did she turned her headlights off and on to identify herself.

The patrol cars answered with their lights. She felt good knowing that help was near.

Two hours later she decided she'd see more on foot. She parked near a cluster of fifty-gallon oil drums. Pulling up the collar of her leather jacket, she set out. Her sneakers squished on the wet pavement.

Finally, around 1:30
A.M
., Nancy gave up and walked back to her car.

Slipping her key into the door, she unlocked it and climbed in. Her neck felt stiff. She rolled her head to stretch the muscles.

Nancy started the engine and snapped on the headlights. Something was different.

She tensed.

What was it?

A box was strapped to the fifty-gallon drum directly in front of her. Taped to the box with thick silver duct tape were two cylinders made of waxy red paper. Plastic wires looped from the cylinders to the box.

A bomb! Without a moment's thought Nancy slammed her car into reverse and jammed the accelerator pedal to the floor. Someone wanted her off this case in a major way!

Her tires shrieked. The Mustang fishtailed backward. Before she had gone ten feet, however, the world in front of her windshield erupted into a sea of white-hot flame.

F
OR A FEW BLINDING SECONDS
the air outside the car boiled like the surface of the sun. Nancy felt her heart hammering in her chest. She was terrified.

But the Mustang was still racing backward. Fifty yards later she hit the brakes, yanked the ignition key out of its slot, and leaped out.

There were two patches of flame on the hood of her car. Nancy whipped off her jacket and beat the flames until they went out.

She heard the loud crackling of the burning
drum and watched as the one next to it ignited. Then a third caught. Nancy crouched. Off in the distance sirens began to wail. A patrol car screeched around a corner several blocks away and came flying toward her, its roof lights strobing. She started to tremble as the enormity of what had almost happened to her began to sink in.

The patrol doors of the patrol car flew open as it skidded to a stop on the wet pavement. “Are you okay?” an officer yelled as she ran toward the detective.

“Yes—no! Well, I'm not sure. I guess I am,” Nancy said in a shaky voice.

“You look okay,” the woman said, shining a flashlight in her face. The flashlight's beam swung to the Mustang. “Your car will need a new paint job, though.”

Nancy smiled weakly. “It deserves it. That car saved my life.”

“What happened?”

“A bomb was strapped to one of those oil drums,” Nancy explained. “Whoever planted it must have been waiting nearby with a remote-control detonator, because a few seconds after I started my car, it went off.”

“Then the guy might still be in the area!”
The officer quickly lifted her radio from her belt.

“Forget it,” Nancy said, suddenly feeling angry at herself. “He's gone by now.”

A few seconds later a fire engine arrived. The fire fighters quickly contained the blaze by spraying the area with chemicals. Nancy repeated her story for the fire chief, several detectives, and finally, Chief McGinnis. “That gang of thieves is definitely on to me,” she concluded.

“Perhaps they saw you patrolling the area,” the chief suggested.

Nancy shook her head. “I don't think so. If they did, why didn't I see
them?
No, I'm pretty sure they were told where to find me.”

The chief's eyebrows drew together. “Who told them, do you think?”

Nancy gazed upward. The rain was letting up. Between the clouds she could see patches of clear, starry sky.

“I'm not sure,” Nancy admitted, “but I'm going to find out.”

• • •

The offices of Loomis & Petersen seemed to have survived unchanged for decades. The front door led into a retail store with large wall
displays of locks, alarms, and intercom systems. A salesman took Nancy's name and disappeared up a flight of stairs at the back of the store.

A minute later he returned. “Stan says go right on up.”

“Thanks.”

Nancy climbed to the second floor, which was as out of date as the store below. The floor was bare wood, the paint on the walls was faded, and the hall was illuminated by long strips of fluorescent lighting.

Stanley Loomis occupied a corner office. Its large windows let in plenty of the morning light and offered a beautiful view of the river. He rose, presented a beefy hand to Nancy, and settled back into an old-fashioned wooden desk chair that squeaked every time he moved.

“I've read about you,” Loomis said. He reached for a package of cigars on his desk, but then changed his mind. “You seem like a smart kid. Why are you working for Hayward?”

“What makes you think I'm working for Hayward?” Nancy asked.

“C'mon! Why else would you be here? Anyway, I saw you with Chief McGinnis and that Hayward punk on Saturday.”

“I see.” Loomis was shrewd, Nancy decided.

“You're wasting your time here. You know that, don't you?” Loomis barked.

“What makes you say that?” Nancy asked.

“Those robberies had to be an inside job,” Loomis said. “That means you should be investigating Hayward's clients, or maybe Hayward's own employees. But not me.”

“I have to cover all the angles,” Nancy said evenly.

Loomis laughed nastily. “And what do you think you're going to get from me? A confession? The only thing I can tell you is that those computerized systems that Hayward has been selling are about as secure as a bureau drawer. If you're covering angles, start there.”

Nancy was surprised. “You're saying Tom sells crummy alarm systems?”

“Not crummy, exactly,” Loomis admitted. “But they're no better than mine.”

Nancy was tired of playing games. She went on the offensive. “Mr. Loomis, on Saturday you baited Tom over a warehouse loudspeaker system. How did you happen to be at that particular location that day?”

“Coincidence,” Loomis said, studying his nails.

Nancy didn't believe in coincidence. “Oh, really?”

“Prove that it wasn't,” he challenged.

Nancy was silent. She couldn't prove it, and he knew it.

“Oh, don't look so gloomy,” Loomis said, smiling. “Look, I'll tell you why I was there—I was checking out a customer's facility for a possible upgrade of his system. I'm planning some moves that will take the wind out of Tom Hayward's sails.”

Nancy speculated upon hearing this. Did his “plans” include robbing Tom's customers in order to ruin Tom's business?

“You seem to resent Tom's success,” Nancy stated plainly.

“Of course I do,” Loomis said. He leaned forward all of a sudden and pointed a finger at her. “Hayward tried to buy me—us—out. Us! After thirty years in business!”

Nancy kept her face impassive. Now she was getting somewhere! “But you wouldn't sell?”

“
I
won't. But my part—” Suddenly Loomis cut off. “Well, that's none of your business. Drop it.”

Nancy knew that she was getting warm. Loomis was clumsily trying to hide something. Before she could dig deeper, however, there was a knock at Loomis's door. The door swung open, and a thin, gray-haired man wearing a
baggy suit stormed in. He had a piece of stationery clutched tightly in his fist.

“Stanley, I won't let you send this letter to young Hayward! It's insulting. If he reads this, he'll forget all about—” Suddenly the man noticed Nancy. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had company.”

“This is my partner, Roy Petersen,” Loomis explained. “Roy, this is Nancy Drew.”

Petersen's face lit up. “You're the young detective, aren't you? I'm very glad to meet you, young lady.” He offered Nancy his hand. “You know, it's nice—”

“Clam up, Roy,” Loomis said rudely, cutting his partner off.

“Stanley!”

“Nancy is helping Hayward investigate those robberies,” Loomis said.

“Oh—yes, a terrible business,” Petersen said. “I hope you can get to the bottom of it, Nancy.”

Nancy listened to the exchange in fascination. The partners were as different as night and day. She also suspected that they were in the middle of a major disagreement—a disagreement that had everything to do with Tom Hayward. But what was it?

“Anyway, Stanley,” Petersen went on,
“about this letter. We shouldn't be so quick to brush off young Hayward. His offer—”

Again, Loomis cut off his partner in midsentence. “Roy, I told you that subject is closed!” He quickly turned to Nancy. “Miss Drew, would you please excuse us? We have some business here—that is, unless you have more questions?”

“None for now.”

After leaving Loomis & Petersen, Nancy turned her Mustang out of town and into the farmland that lay beyond the city limits. She needed time to drive and think.

Questions were swimming around in her mind. Had the thieves known in advance that she would be patrolling the warehouse district? Who had told them? Why did they steal only moderate amounts of loot? And what about the codes? How had they gotten hold of them?

More than anything else, however, she was nagged by the feeling that she had missed something during her talk with Stanley Loomis. Something he had said was more important than it seemed—but what? She couldn't figure it out.