Within moments Joe had zoomed in on the fifteen-acre property where he’d been with the SUV driver the night before. Then, using the code number for the property, he matched it to the list of landowners at Falcon Lake.

  “ManxInc.,” he read aloud, jotting the name of the owner of the specific estate he was at down on a notepad.

  Joe closed out that site and then typed the name he’d just written in the Search box on the screen. Nothing came up. He tried a few other variations of the name to start a search, but he didn’t find anything. He finally gave up and shut down his computer. Tucking the note in his pocket, he drove out of the media center’s parking lot.

  • • •

  Close to the Velodrome, Frank shared breakfast with the other cyclists in the race. A local restaurant had provided the carbo-rich meal. Frank filled up on pasta and vegetables.

  After breakfast a shuttle took Frank and the other racers the few miles to the Major Taylor Velodrome. Frank grabbed his bike and his gym bag and checked in to get his starting number. Then he peeled off his sweats and took a few minutes to do some warm-up exercises in his racing shorts and shirt.

  The bikers were allowed a half hour for practice runs around the track. Frank pulled on his numbered racing jersey and walked his bike onto the track to join the others. After a few loops of the track, his left pedal felt a little loose, so he pulled off to make an adjustment. Then he wheeled back out onto the track. The bike felt great as he finished his practice.

  As he waited for the countdown, Frank glanced around the small open stadium and up into the stands. He saw Joe and J. J. sitting together, and smiled as Joe let loose with a shrill whistle. In the far corner, he saw Noah and Becky talking to a couple of television sports reporters.

  At last the race began. Frank hit the track with a great start. All the ache from his bruising bellyflop the day before seemed to disappear as he cranked the bike up to top speed. The pedal was tight and became one unit with his foot. He felt a familiar rush of adrenaline flood through him as he rode, and his mind cleared to concentrate only on the task at hand.

  He picked up speed, masterfully maneuvering his bike around the other bikers. He smoothly changed lanes from the long outside one to the shorter inside path. As he flew around the track, he felt totally pumped.

  His knees wobbled first. As he drew them up, the front wheel seemed to give. And then, without warning, his bike seemed to fly apart. The last thing he saw was the guardrail rushing toward him.

  9 Where There’s Smoke . . .

  * * *

  Frank barreled into the rail like a cannonball. He then slid along the top for a few feet before landing in a crumpled heap back on the track. Every part of his body seemed numb except the front of his left leg. From the knee down it felt as if someone were roasting it in a bonfire.

  He sat up slowly and looked down at his leg. His entire shin was scraped. His lower leg seemed to swell as he watched.

  A race official and the doctor on call hurried over to Frank. “We’d better get a gurney,” the doctor said, motioning for a stretcher.

  “No,” Frank said. “I’m okay. I can walk.” He stood up and put his foot down. The pain from his leg radiated up into his brain, and he could feel his face contort into a grimace.

  The race slowed when Frank crashed. Cyclists held their positions and slowly circled the track.

  The two men who’d hurried over propped Frank up and helped him hop off the track. Spectators clapped as he made his way to the exit. He nodded and smiled at the crowd as he left the track on his human crutches.

  Joe was waiting for them at the door to the medical examining room. “Man, that is one nasty-looking leg,” he said. “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve been better,” Frank said with a laugh. “A lot better.”

  “Hey, Frank,” J. J. called out. He was joined by Noah and Becky. Noah held one of Frank’s bike wheels in his hand. They stayed in the hall as the doctor and Joe helped Frank into the examining room and up onto the table. The doctor took nearly a half an hour to clean, medicate, and dress the foot-long scrape. Then he gave Frank a tube of antibiotic medicine, which had a topical anesthetic in it to help dull the pain. He also gave him gauze and tape so that Frank could change the dressings himself.

  By the time the doctor finished, Frank’s pain had subsided. He and Joe went out into the hall. J. J., Becky, and Noah were still there. They all seemed relieved to see Frank limp on his own.

  “The equipment squad brought your bike down,” J. J. said, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “What’s left of it, that is.”

  Frank looked at the pile of bike pieces and felt like he’d been punched. His prized bike—the one that had taken him to a couple of finish lines in first place—was totaled!

  He and Joe carefully packed the pieces of the bike up in boxes provided by the equipment squad. “The race should be over soon,” Frank said, lifting one of the bike’s wheels into the box. “Afterward I want to do a thorough search of the track—and make sure there are no more parts out there.”

  As Joe and J. J. brought the boxes outside, Frank, Noah, and Becky headed back to the track. “Do you guys have any idea what happened?” Noah asked. “I saw you making some adjustments during the practice, Frank.”

  “It was really weird,” Becky noted. “The bike just seemed to fly apart.”

  “That’s the way I felt too,” Frank said, trying to remember the moments leading up to his crash. “I don’t really know what happened—but you can bet I’m going to find out.”

  The cyclists were racing in full force by the time Frank and the others got back to the track. Joe and J. J. soon joined them, and they all sat on the benches and cheered the other cyclists on.

  After the race, J. J., Noah, and Becky took off. The Hardys stayed at the Velodrome, though, and combed the area for fragments of Frank’s bike. Joe found a seat spring and a steering pin; Frank found a couple of bolts. They added these last parts to the boxes in the van, and Joe drove them back to the hotel.

  “I’ll be okay once I get cleaned up,” Frank said as they entered their room. “You know, we were supposed to get together with Becky after the race. But there was so much going on, I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. We need to get on that.”

  Joe noticed the red light flashing on the phone next to his bed. “We got a message.” He called the hotel switchboard and listened to the voicemail. “Becky called,” he said, hanging up. “She asked us to meet her at four-thirty at the paddock entrance.”

  Frank checked his watch. “We can do that,” he said. “She says she has evidence for us.”

  “Plus we need to find out more about this Doobie Poliano guy and whether he’s really been seen around here or not,” Joe added.

  “And now we also have to ask Becky about Hugh’s arrest,” Frank added. “That’s got to be a blow.”

  “First, though, you and I have to talk,” Joe said. “I ran into some trouble myself last night.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “Let me peel off my racing clothes and get cleaned up, and then we’ll talk.”

  Frank washed up and changed into jeans and a sweater. When he finished, he found a tray full of burgers, fries, and shakes waiting. “I ordered room service,” Joe said, grinning.

  “Great idea,” Frank said, grabbing a burger. “We totally missed lunch.”

  In between bites, Joe told Frank about his attack the night before, outside The Rabbit’s garage.

  “What did this person look like?” Frank asked.

  “Black jeans, dark green jacket, and a pointed knit cap pulled down so I couldn’t see his face,” Joe said.

  “That sounds like it could be the guy who broke into our room earlier,” Frank said.

  “Wait—the story gets better,” Joe said. He told his brother about being followed by the SUV, and then about trading places and following the SUV himself. Then he described the estate at Falcon Lake.

  “But here’s the best part,” Joe said, homing in on the end of his story. He told Frank about getting into the SUV. “It was a rental, so I didn’t find any identification. But there was something interesting under the driver’s seat.” He described the tool kit with the gray tie.

  Frank went to his sports bag and took out the gray cord he’d found on the desk earlier. “It looked like this?” he asked.

  “Exactly like that,” Joe said. “In fact the end of the cord was even a little frayed like that one. I figure the toolkit had two pieces of cord that tied together to hold the bundle closed. This one must have fallen off.”

  Frank nodded. “I’d like to get my hands on that tool kit and compare the two cords.”

  Joe told Frank about talking with Noah about who owned the estates on Falcon Lake. “I checked the Internet and the owner for the property I was on is ManxInc. I searched for information about that exact name and variations of it, but came up with nothing—so far.”

  “Do we figure that the guy who followed you in the SUV is the same one who tried to strangle you outside Hugh Conney’s garage?”

  “Probably. Don’t you think?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah, probably,” Frank repeated. He started pacing. “This case is all about ‘probably,’ though. We’ve got a lot of stuff happening, several suspects, and no concrete evidence to prove any of it. We don’t even have real proof that the crimes actually happened. Sometimes I wonder if we even have a real case here.”

  “I think we do,” Joe said. “I may have found something that falls into the real evidence category. And you’re not going to like it.”

  Joe laid out a handful of bolts on the desk. Then he took a small leather envelope the size of a credit card from his wallet. From the inside of the envelope, he pulled a paper-thin rectangle of magnifying glass and handed it to Frank. “I checked over what’s left of your bike while you were cleaning up,” he said. “Take a look.”

  Frank picked up each piece and turned it over and around, examining it carefully through the magnifier. He felt a rippling chill, as if a sliver of ice was sliding down his back. He quickly looked at Joe.

  “These were brand new bolts before I started today,” Frank said.

  “And the threads are now nearly stripped,” Joe added. “They’ve been filed down—not enough to keep you from starting the race—”

  “But more than enough to keep me from finishing it.” Images flashed through Frank’s mind like movie previews: the loose pedal, the wobbly front wheel, his body slamming into the guard rail. Then he focused on one image: the intruder backing out of their hotel room. “Are we thinking the same thing here?” he asked his brother.

  “The guy breaks in here with a tool kit, files your bolts, reassembles the bike . . . ”

  “And it could be the same person who followed you and drove the SUV to Falcon Lake,” Frank said.

  “We have to find him—or her,” Frank said. “It looks like we have a real case after all, and these bolts could be a major clue. There’s no reason to attack us unless this person is trying to scare us away from the truth.”

  “We must be closer to it than we thought,” Joe pointed out, “and this guy knows it.”

  “If we find him, we find the tool kit,” Frank said. “Then we’ll check the pocket that the file is in. Chances are there will be filing grit that will match what’s left of these bolts.”

  “Okay, where do we start?” Joe asked.

  “Falcon Lake,” the Hardys said in unison.

  They checked their sports bags, making sure they had the gear they figured they might need: flashlights, lockpicks, penknives, small empty containers, and a mini camera.

  “First, though, we need to meet with Becky,” Frank said, checking his watch.

  The Hardys arrived at the track at about four-fifteen and headed straight for the paddock. “If we see J. J.,” Joe said as they walked, “one of us needs to talk to him. He has some information about the drinking bottle from Manion’s car.”

  “Okay, let’s watch for him,” Frank agreed. “If he shows up, I’ll get together with him, and you can talk to Becky. And neither one is to know about the other meeting, okay?”

  “Right. And let’s be sure to ask each of them about Doobie Poliano,” Joe added. “Is he in town, and if so, why? Hey, speaking of J. J., there he is.” Joe nodded toward the track medical center. J. J. was going inside the building.

  “I’m on it,” Frank said. “Let me have the swipe card he gave us? You go meet Becky. I’ll get the information from J. J. and then use the swipe card to get into the paddock. I’ll meet you at The Rabbit’s garage after I’ve finished talking to J. J.”

  As Frank veered off to the medical center, Joe continued to the paddock. Becky was waiting for him. She was clearly very upset and distracted as they walked to Hugh Conney’s garage.

  “I didn’t really get a chance to talk to you at the bike race this morning,” Joe said. “Hugh’s arrest must have been a real blow.”

  “It’s absurd,” Becky said. “Hugh was trying to help Manion—and look where it got him. You’ve got to help me show the world the truth. No one’s in here right now, so this will be a good place to talk.”

  She took out her keys to open the door, and Joe felt a shock of recognition zap through his chest. “Hey, where did you get that?” he asked Becky as they stepped inside.

  She locked the door behind them, the same way J. J. had when he’d taken the Hardys into Manion’s garage. The light was dim inside. Joe looked at the blackened window and flashed on his attack outside.

  “What?” Becky asked, looking in her hand. “You mean this?” She held up the silver metal triangle that had been strung on her key ring. It matched the one Frank had found in the hotel stairwell, except the number was 23 instead of 17.

  “Yes,” Joe said. “What is it exactly?”

  “I don’t know,” Becky said. “It came with the keys. I think it has something to do with the Grand Prix in Monza—a garage number or a qualifying number. Something like that. Why?”

  “Can you find out?” Joe asked. “Find out exactly where it came from and what it means.”

  “Sure,” Becky said, dropping the keys back in her pocket. She hoisted her bag onto a worktable and began fishing through it. As she turned on a bright light in the room, Joe heard strange sounds: first a sort of whirring noise, and then scraping and creaking.

  He turned quickly to locate the sounds. They came from the window. As he watched, the window inched open. A white rag dropped through and hit the floor. Then the window slowly closed, and Joe heard the whirring again.

  Joe’s throat felt suddenly parched, as if all the liquid had drained from it. His eyes burned as he watched the rag disappear into a clump of powder. Then, with a loud whoooosh, a jacket hanging on the back of a nearby chair started to disappear. It was as if it were being eaten by invisible bugs.

  All this happened in just a few seconds—and that’s all it took for Joe to realize what was going on. The rag had brought a deadly intruder.

  “Becky!” he shouted. “Fire! Get out—now!”

  Joe didn’t wait for her to understand. He grabbed her hand and streaked to the door. As he fumbled with the lock, he could feel the heat spreading toward them.

  10 Playing with All the Marbles

  * * *

  Joe opened the door slightly and pushed Becky through. He then grabbed the extinguisher hanging by the door, turned it toward the room, and sprayed the fire as he backed out the door himself. He heard Becky yelling for the fire crew.

  Firemen quickly arrived at the scene. Joe ran around to the window at the back of the building. He crouched to look at the ground as he searched his memory for the moment when he first heard noises outside the window.

  “Hey, you okay?” Frank asked, running up to join Joe.

  “Yeah,” Joe answered.

  “Becky said someone dropped a rag burning with race car fuel in the window,” Frank said. “The fire chief’s launched an arson investigation.”

  “Well, they need to see this,” Joe said, pointing to the ground. “I heard a whirring noise just before the window opened and after it closed. It was a power scooter. Some of the drivers use them to get around the track.”

  Frank crouched next to his brother. “I see what you mean. There’s a fresh track right there.”

  “And a footprint next to it,” Joe pointed out.

  A few minutes later Joe and Becky gave their statements to the firemen as well as the police, who had arrived.

  “Well, that’s about all we can do for now, I guess,” Becky said after the officers left. She sounded worn out. “With Hugh’s arrest, though, and now this . . . our Grand Prix season is over. And Manion wins.”

  “Let’s get something to drink,” Joe suggested, temporarily changing the subject. “My throat feels like sandpaper after being exposed to that fire.”

  “Okay,” Becky said, “but let’s go somewhere far away from the garages and the smell of that burning fuel.” Joe and Becky walked several yards until they found a table under a scarlet maple tree. Frank went to a kiosk and got some slushy fruit drinks. When he returned, Becky was in tears.

  Frank handed her a drink. “Look, I know how you must feel,” he said gently. “Joe and I are determined to get to the bottom of this. You told us that you had a parts shipment stolen, a falsified scrutineering report, and a gauge that someone altered to a dangerous setting.”

  “Right,” Becky said.

  “Have there been any more developments in the investigations of those incidents?”

  “No,” Becky admitted. “The parts were never tracked down. The scrutineering report was straightened out, and our mechanics found the altered gauge and fixed that. Hugh received a couple of threatening phone calls, too, but they couldn’t be traced. By the way, how’s your leg?”

  “It’s feeling better, thanks,” Frank answered. “What’s the story on Hugh’s arrest?”

  “It’s completely bogus,” Becky said.