Ms. Hanson sat at her desk, her face taut with anxiety as Nancy examined the outer office. It took longer because there were filing cabinets to check, but in the end the result was the same—no bug.
“I’ve had it,” Nancy said finally. “I can’t find a bug.” She retrieved her jacket and tucked her purse under her arm. “Thanks for putting up with me,” she told the secretary.
“I’m almost sorry there was nothing here,” Ms. Hanson said. “It’s just so awful. If you think of any way that I can help, please call me.”
Nancy promised she would and said goodbye. As she walked through the halls, she was surprised at the amount of traffic in and out of the office—mail clerks, maintenance workers, couriers, clients. Any one of them could have slipped into her father’s office and—
And what? she asked herself. Would she be able to find out in time? For that matter, how much time did she have? Her father was sure he’d have a pretrial date by the end of the day. Then she’d know.
Her second chore for the day took Nancy to several different locations. Her goal was to learn whatever she could about the Gold Star Cab Company. Each place she went, she told them the same story.
“Hi. I’m a student at Emerson College. I’m writing a term paper on the growth of transportation in River Heights. I’ve researched the bus service. Can you help me with the cab companies?”
She always followed the question with a winning smile. It never failed to make things easier. Everyone she talked to was very cooperative, some telling her far more than she’d ever need to know.
After visits to the Office of Public Safety, the central headquarters of the River Heights Police Department, and the Hacks Bureau, Nancy was beginning to wonder if she was on the right track. There seemed to be nothing unusual about the Gold Star Cab Company.
Checking her watch, Nancy left the building that housed the Hacks Bureau. Unless she hurried, she’d be late for her lunch meeting with Ned, Bess, and Ann.
Nancy tucked her notes in her bag and started across the street to the lot where she had left her car.
She heard trouble coming before she could see it. It was the sound of a powerful engine being pushed to its maximum. Seconds later she saw it—a dark late-model car racing around the corner and heading directly for her at top speed!
Chapter Nine
STILL SHAKEN BY her near encounter with the dark car, Nancy met Ned at the door of the Pizza Palace just as he was leaving to go look for her. “There you are. We’ve already ordered.”
Ann and Bess were waiting in a booth, Bess’s deep pink jumpsuit clashing with the bright orange and purple vinyl seats. The place was jammed with students from a nearby junior college.
“Stop staring at me,” Nancy ordered her friends. “I got dirty dodging a car that tried to hit me. He missed me by a hair.”
“A drunk driver?” Ann asked.
“Not on your life—I mean, my life. He tried his best to hit me.”
Ned’s expression was grim. “Did you get his license number?”
“No. I jumped back behind a filthy minivan at the curb. By the time I could look, the car was gone and I was dirty. Did you guys have any trouble today?”
“Not a bit,” Bess answered. “It’s been fun.”
Ann chuckled. “It’s a good thing she was with me. One Bess Marvin smile, and every male in the computer room is searching data banks to get the information you asked for.”
“That’s great. Keep smiling, Bess.” Nancy turned to Ned. “How’d you do?”
He removed a notepad from his pocket. “So far I’ve got the names of seven businesses that use white vans. I’ll keep at it this afternoon. Then tomorrow I’ll hit all these places and see if I can find your van with the bent fender. How’d things go at the office?”
Before Nancy could respond, a waitress slid two huge pizzas onto the table. They smelled incredibly good, and Nancy’s stomach growled in anticipation.
“I didn’t find a thing in my dad’s office,” she said, removing her first slice. “Whoever planted the bug must have come back and taken it out. As for the cab company, that was a washout, too.”
“What’s a cab company got to do with anything?” Ann asked.
Nancy explained about the voice she’d heard over the two-way radio in her abductor’s car and in the Gold Star cab. “Gold Star checked out okay,” she said. “In business over twenty years, owned by two local men. They have ten cabs and a dynamite safety record. Not a single accident in the past three years.”
Ann peeled off a circle of pepperoni from her slice. “I could have told you that. It was one of the businesses insured by—” She paused, frowning. “By Mid-City Insurance Company,” she said slowly.
“Coincidence?” Ned asked, gazing at Nancy.
“I don’t know. On paper they’re certainly good guys,” she responded. “Several public service awards, one of them from the Gray Panthers for offering senior citizens lower fares.”
Ann chewed the sliver of pepperoni thoughtfully. “You know, losing their insurance company must have been devastating, especially to a small business like Gold Star. It would be interesting to know what it took for them to recover.”
“So that’s how an idea for an article is born,” Bess said. “Somehow I thought it would be more—exciting.”
Nancy didn’t really pay much attention to the conversation as they finished their pizzas. That dispatcher’s voice—she was so sure it had been the same man on the radio of both cars!
And there was something else nagging at the back of her mind, a tiny bell warning her that she had missed something. But what could it be?
Ann and Bess finished their pizza and began digging for their money.
“We’ve got to get back to the Record,” Ann explained. “The computer guys are waiting for us. Where are you going now, Nancy?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe back to my dad’s office.”
“Don’t give up,” Bess said, slipping into her jacket. “We’re close to an answer. I’m sure of it.”
“I wish I could be as sure,” Nancy said, after Ann and Bess had left. “Something’s bugging me, something I’ve overlooked, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Finish your pizza,” Ned suggested. “And stop thinking about it. It’ll come. In the meantime, I’ll order another slice. I’m still hungry.”
“Take mine.” Nancy slid hers over to him. Her appetite had vanished.
They sat and talked for quite a while after Ned had finished. Having lunch together was an occasion that happened so rarely that they wanted to draw it out.
Finally Ned collected the money from the table and went to pay the cashier. While he was gone, Nancy took one last look at the notes she had made, trying to pinpoint the reason for her uneasiness. At last she saw it!
She left the booth and met Ned just as he was pocketing his receipt. “What do you think of this? Ann said that someone had left a tip for her to see a woman out at Crimson Oaks. Then she got the court order and never followed up on it.”
“So?”
“One of the public service awards Gold Star received was from the Crimson Oaks Village Association. I know it isn’t much, but shouldn’t I check it out?”
“Let’s make that ‘we.’ You call Ann and get the woman’s name while I go get George’s car. I’ll meet you out front.”
The name was Vera Harvey, and she lived in building four of Crimson Oaks’ five highrises. And as Ned and Nancy approached the building, they saw a Gold Star cab pulling away with a passenger in the back. Nancy wasn’t, sure whether it was an omen or not.
The building’s doorman looked them over with friendly curiosity. “Mrs. Harvey? I don’t think she’s in.”
The lobby was very comfortable, filled with easy chairs and palms. Several elderly residents sat there, chatting and reading. The doorman called to one of them. “Have you seen Mrs. Harvey come back yet?”
One woman shook her head. “It’s too early. Her physical therapy lasts
until four.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot.” The doorman thanked her and turned back to them. “It might be better if you came back tomorrow. She usually doesn’t feel too good until the day after her therapy.”
“Has she been sick?” Nancy asked.
“She’s had a time of it. Got hurt in an accident last year. Her own fault—too proud to ask someone for a ride. Insisted on taking a cab instead. She knew it wasn’t safe.”
“Taking a cab?” Ned asked.
“Taking a Gold Star cab sure isn’t. That phone on my desk is a direct line to the place, but nobody uses it unless they’re desperate.”
“Just a minute,” Nancy spoke calmly, hiding her excitement. “Mrs. Harvey was hurt in a Gold Star cab last year?”
“Hurt isn’t the word. We almost lost her. Only good thing about that cab company is that they took good care of her.”
“You mean their insurance company?” Nancy asked, wanting to be certain she understood clearly.
“Not the way we hear it. You should talk to Tom Tyler, but I saw him drive past awhile ago. Gold Star’s owners hired a fancy ambulance to move her from County General up to Pinebrook.”
Ned’s brows shot up. “The private hospital an hour away from here?”
“That’s the one. The place where rich folks go when they’re sick. Gold Star paid all the bills—and, mind you, she was there two months. They’re even footing the bill for the physical therapy.”
“That was very generous of them,” Nancy said.
“Smart is what it was. It was their fault. The cab’s brakes failed. If she’d made a stink, somebody would have gone to jail over the condition of that cab.”
“Poor?” Ned asked.
“Rattletraps, pure and simple. Falling apart. Three other people in this building have been in one when it’s had an accident. They weren’t hurt, just shaken up. But, as I said, we don’t ride with Gold Star unless we’re desperate.”
“Let’s go, Ned,” Nancy said, pulling him toward the door. “Thank you,” she told the doorman. “We’ll try to come back tomorrow.”
“You look as if you’re about to explode,” Ned said outside on the sidewalk.
“I am! It’s a big break, if I can just figure out how this all fits in to what’s happened to my dad.”
“Why’s it such a big break?”
“Because what we heard in there does not jibe with what I was told this morning. The doorman mentioned four accidents, one of them serious. Those accidents aren’t on record down at central headquarters.”
“How couldn’t they be? Especially Mrs. Harvey’s.”
“I don’t know. But even more important than that is that Gold Star had to know Mid-City was a scam!”
They’d reached George’s car and were talking across the hood. “You’re right,” Ned said. “They would have expected their insurance company to take care of their bills.”
“Exactly. And the doorman was very clear. Gold Star paid Mrs. Harvey’s bills, not Gold Star’s insurer. They had to have filed a claim with Mid-City, but nothing would have happened because Mid-City didn’t exist,” Nancy said. “So why didn’t they report that to the police? Why didn’t they scream bloody murder?”
“Because they knew about Mid-City from the beginning, that’s why,” Ann said half an hour later, slamming a computer printout onto her kitchen table.
“How?” Ned asked.
The reporter’s eyes blazed with fury. “There are fourteen men on the board of directors of the corporation that was listed as Mid-City’s parent company. You with me so far?”
Nancy nodded.
“Three of those men listed themselves as owners of Mid-City, and two will probably go to jail,” Ann said. “That leaves eleven others on that board of directors. Two of those eleven own the Gold Star Cab Company.”
“So they were all in it together,” Bess chimed in. “That’s what they were trying to hide!”
“Is it?” Nancy asked. She was troubled. It was too simple. “I wonder. It could be a case of one hand not knowing what the other was doing.”
“That’s possible,” Ann admitted. “A board of directors isn’t usually a close-knit group. They don’t have meetings that often.”
“In some corporations, only once a year,” Ned said. “So the Gold Star guys could say that they had no idea their fellow directors from the parent company were running Mid-City Insurance. If they were smart enough, no one would be able to prove otherwise.”
“They’re probably smart enough, all right,” Nancy grumbled. “They’ve got to be hiding something else. But what?”
“It’s an interesting question,” her father said when Nancy and Ned filled him in that evening. “Think you can find the answer in five days?”
Nancy’s mouth dropped open. “They’ve set your pretrial for five days from now?”
“That’s really rushing things, isn’t it?” Ned asked.
“Indeed it is,” Carson Drew said. “But in comparison to the next item I have to tell you, the pretrial date is the good news.”
Nancy steeled herself. “What’s happened, Dad?”
“The police found an envelope with ten thousand dollars in cash in Jonathan’s office safe.”
“And?” Nancy said, feeling a sudden chill.
“My prints were all over it. And the envelope had been addressed to Jonathan on one of our office typewriters. I might as well slap a label on my forehead and mail myself off to prison.”
Chapter Ten
NANCY ROLLED OUT of bed the next morning. Her eyelids felt gritty, and her head ached. Time was against her, and she couldn’t decide what to do. She only had part of the day free. The memorial service for Jonathan Renk was that afternoon, and she wanted to attend.
She wondered if she should go back to her father’s office that morning to try to figure out how this last stunt had been accomplished. The stationery was kept in Ms. Hanson’s office. Her father had told her and Ned that he would have no reason to handle an envelope at all.
“Ms. Hanson types the letters and brings them to me to sign,” he told her. “I never even see the envelopes. I don’t remember handling a blank one they could type a name on.”
It was a puzzle, to say the least, but Nancy finally decided that visiting the office again that day would be a waste of time. Instead, she’d go to Gold Star. The truth had to be there.
Ned had protested that it was much too dangerous. And Nancy did agree with him, but she also felt she had no other choice. With the pretrial date right around the corner, she had to go with what she had. And what she had was the Gold Star Cab Company.
The girl who walked into the garage of Gold Star Cab an hour and a half later had a mop of short, mahogany-brown curls and enormous round glasses. She was chewing gum as if she hadn’t eaten in a week, and the outfit she wore—an oversize top and baggy jeans—disguised her slender figure.
Even Bess and George wouldn’t recognize me, Nancy told herself, making her gum sound off in a series of firecracker pop-pop-pops. It was a part of her new character. She was about to do the acting job of her life.
Gold Star used half of the street-level space of a five-story parking garage, and a business called Fleet’s had the other half. The garage had been built with two entrances, one on McConnell Street and the other on the street behind, Bennett Avenue. The cab company and Fleet’s used the entrance on McConnell, so after Nancy left her Mustang on the third level of the public garage, she had to walk around the block to get to Gold Star.
Just inside the door was the dispatcher’s office. Nancy ambled into it, eyeing the stocky redheaded man who was bellowing at a cabbie over a two-way radio. The voice was the same one she had heard when she was on the floor of that car.
I’m definitely in the right place, she thought. While she waited for the dispatcher to finish, she examined the cabs parked along the walls on the side.
Four were old, dented, and rusty. The rest—she counted thirteen before the man finished—were l
ate models, clean, bright, and shiny, and their gold paint glistened under the fluorescent lights. There were more cabs, but only the front half of the space was lit, so she couldn’t see the ones along the rear wall.
Here was another interesting mystery. According to the Hacks Bureau, Gold Star was a small business with only ten cars in its fleet.
“Need a cab?” the man asked, and Nancy turned around.
“Huh-uh,” she said with a saucy smile. “A job. I’ve worked as a dispatcher since I was sixteen. Want references?”
“No. Don’t want another dispatcher, either.”
Nancy arranged her face in an expression of deep disappointment. “Hey, you aren’t going to cry, are you?” He jammed a long, fat cigar into his mouth. “It won’t get you a job as a dispatcher, but smile and you may get a job as a cabbie. How old are you, anyway?”
“Eighteen.” Nancy looked hopeful—she hoped.
“Got a driver’s license?”
“Sure, but it takes time and money to get a hack license and I need the job now.”
The man winked. “We’ll take care of that for you.” Then he began testing her familiarity with River Heights and its surrounding areas. Nancy knew her hometown like the back of her hand. When he had finished questioning her, she knew he was impressed.
He ran a wooden match along the surface of his battered desk and lit the cigar. A cloud of foul yellow smoke drifted around his head. “What’s your name?”
“Nancy Nickerson. Here’s my ID.” She began rooting in her bag, made from a pair of old jeans. She removed a large yellow comb and put it on his desk. Then came a tube of lipstick, a paperback book, half a sandwich, a two-way mirror, and a candy bar. “It’s in here somewhere.”
“Never mind. Nancy Nickerson,” he mumbled, writing it down. “My name’s Brownley. I’m the boss.”
They were suddenly interrupted by a deep, male voice calling for him. “Mr. Brownley?”