Chapter 4

Nancy held the front door of the office open and Joe hobbled through. In one hand he held a stack of papers from the hospital and in the other a plastic bag containing his bloody clothes and a bottle of antibiotics. Nancy had had the foresight to bring him a fresh set of clothes. Every time he took a step the stiff fabric of his jeans rubbed against his bandaged knees irritating the tender skin where doctors had removed tiny bits of embedded glass.

Joe made it to the overstuffed sofa along the left wall and collapsed. He tossed the papers on a low table next to the sofa and dropped the plastic bag on the floor.

"Thanks for picking me up," he told Nancy as he leaned back and shut his eyes.

Nancy placed her handbag on her desk and turned to Joe slumped on the sofa. "It's time for your first dose of antibiotics. Want some water?"

"Yeah. Sure. Thanks." Joe hardly moved. He was tired and the sofa felt pretty darn good. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night - not with the nurses checking on him every hour, taking his blood pressure, checking his pulse.

Nancy went to the kitchen counter behind her desk, opened one of the overhead cabinets, got a glass, and filled it at the small sink.

"Here you go," she said handing the glass to Joe. She didn't think he looked too bad considering what he'd been through. A cut on his right cheek, a scrap on his chin, and several nicks scattered over his face, all received when the explosion threw him facedown on the pavement. His left palm was bandaged and under his shirt another bandage, an inch above his navel, covered the stitches in his stomach.

Joe forced himself into a sitting position and took the glass from Nancy.

She eased onto the sofa beside him and opened the bag on the floor. "I'll get your medicine for you. How do you feel? Any pain? We have Advil if you need." She found the medicine bottle and shook a pill into her hand.

"I'm fine – for now." Joe took the pill Nancy offered him and swallowed it along with half the water.

Frank entered the office through the back door, rounded the staircase, and saw Nancy and Joe on the sofa. As he approached he held up a manila folder. "I just got finished with the insurance company."

"How's my truck?" Joe asked slumping against the back of the sofa.

As Frank crossed the office he took one of the chairs in front of Nancy's desk, turned it to face the sofa then plopped into it. "D.O.A. I'm afraid."

"Great. I figured as much though." Joe was not surprised his truck was totaled.

Frank leaned forward. "Your truck's quite a sight – looking at it in the cold, hard light of day – it's, it's a miracle you made it out of there alive."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Joe let out a resigned sigh. It was as much for himself as his truck. He closed his eyes like he was ready for a nap.

Frank tapped the folder on his knee. "Hey, good news. Since we've been such loyal and efficient investigators for Framers' they're expediting your claim. You should have a check by Monday then we can go shopping for a new truck."

Joe opened one eye. "We?"

"Yeah." Frank grinned. "I'm sure you could use my help."

Joe opened both eyes and sat up a little. "I bought the first truck without your help I think I can buy the second one without it."

"Aw, come on, I've researched all the latest specs on all the newest models .."

Joe cut in, "When have you had time to do that?"

"I'm very good at multi-tasking."

Nancy cleared her throat. "Ahem. Guys, you think we could focus on the case?" She looked pointedly from Frank to Joe. "We have an envelope to consider."

"Oh, yeah," the brothers chorused.

"So, do we open it?" she asked.

Frank looked past her to the front door. "Not yet. We have company."

A shadowy figure lurked at the glass door reading the business hours. The figure pushed open the door and entered. Nancy immediately noticed the man's tie. You couldn't miss it – it was bright red and looked like a strip of blood running down the center of the his slender body.

Frank and Nancy rose as the man approached the group. He tipped his straw colored hat. "Detective Cutter, River Heights, P.D. We met briefly last night."

Frank and Nancy nodded remembering their encounter with him after Joe had been loaded into the ambulance.

Cutter continued, "We didn't really get a chance to talk last night given the circumstances. I have some questions I'd like to ask you folks. Now a good time?"

Frank pushed his chair over to Cutter. "Sure. Have a seat detective." Frank pulled the other chair in front of Nancy's desk up to the group and sat in it.

Cutter withdrew a notepad and pen from a pocket of his suit jacket. The tan suit hung on his slender frame and Nancy wondered if he had recently lost weight. She took a closer look at his face, clean shaven, dark eyes, and an olive complexion. He seemed healthy enough so she ruled out illness.

Cutter eased into the chair, leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. "So," he said eyeing Joe, "you're the one who got shot at."

"Yeah, that's me, Joe Hardy."

Cutter clicked his tongue. "I revisited the crime scene this morning. There wasn't much left of your truck. I'd say you're lucky to be alive."

"That's what I hear. I lived through it and believe me, I know how lucky I am." Joe gave an inward shudder.

Cutter said, "So, why exactly were you there?"

Joe glanced at Nancy and Frank before answering. "I was following our client. She had a meeting set-up for midnight at the Woodland Mall."

Cutter pushed his hat up with his pen. "Your client, Tasha Romanoff, how long had she been your client?"

Nancy answered, "Just a few hours. She came in around four o'clock yesterday afternoon."

Cutter shifted his focus to Nancy. "She hire you to go with her to that meeting?"

Nancy hesitated. "No, not specifically."

"Then what'd she hire you for?"

Another hesitation. "Protection."

Frank rubbed his chin. Nancy was dancing around the truth and he wondered if Cutter had picked up on that.

Cutter kept at Nancy. "So, who was she meeting and why did she need protection?"

Nancy matched Cutter's dark gaze with one of her own. "We don't know who she was meeting. She never told us and we're not at liberty to discuss why she needed protection. We're still working that part of the case."

Smooth, Frank thought, very smooth.

A grin broke the corners of Cutter's lips, but it lacked warmth or mirth. "Well, let me put things in perspective for you. We're all working the same case here and it helps if we work together, not against each other, if you get my drift."

Frank decided to speak up. "For the record, we're not trying to hinder the police investigation Detective Cutter and if you check our backgrounds you'll find that we're all former police officers ourselves."

"Yes, I'm aware of that." Cutter's tone was biting.

Frank said, "We want to help the police with this investigation and we're willing to share whatever information we can. Unfortunately, we don't have a lot of information at the moment. Last night we gave you everything we had on Miss Romanoff – her phone number and address. I know it's not much, but it's honestly all we have."

Cutter used his pen and pushed his hat up another inch. "Well, then let me be the first to share some new information. We went to Miss Romanoff's house this morning. Guess what we found?"

Frank, Nancy, and Joe waited patiently.

Cutter watched each face as he spoke. "It had been broken into and ransacked. Got any idea why someone would want to break into your client's house?"

Joe ran a hand over his stubbly chin. "Maybe they were looking for something?"

Cutter's expression turned sour and his tone was sarcastic. "Thank you Mr. Hardy that was the first thing we thought of. I was wondering if you might be able to enlighten me as to what Miss Romanoff had that someone would want."

Nancy said, "Tasha Romanoff appeared to be wealthy. She was wearing a ruby studded cross yesterday and although I'm no expert, I'd say it was the real thing. Maybe someone was after her jewelry."

"Maybe." Cutter let the skepticism show in his voice. He glanced at his notepad then at the detectives. "Listen, I'm going to cut right to the chase here folks. I've been a detective for a helluva long time – almost thirty years – and you know the one thing I learned real fast? I learned when someone was lying to me. You could say I developed a sixth sense for it. Hell, after this much time and this many interviews I have a highly developed sense for liars. You see, it's like fear. You know how the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end when you're afraid? Well, my sense of truth is like that. Whenever someone's lying to me those hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. And you know what those hairs are doing right now?" He paused, but no one braved an answer. "They're standing on end."

Frank cleared his throat and made deliberate eye contact with Cutter. "Detective, we have been honest with you and I give you my word we will provide you with any new information we uncover. By the same token we'd like to be kept in the loop regarding your investigation. Specifically, we'd like to know if Miss Romanoff's remains are found in her car."

Cutter stood and slipped his notepad and pen into his jacket pocket. "I'm not making any promises. My instincts are telling me you folks are hiding something. I don't know what it is yet, but I'll find out. You can count on that."

Nancy, Frank, and Joe stood and watched as the door closed behind the detective.

Joe ran a hand through his mussed hair. "Well, that went well."

Frank's jaw clenched. "I don't think this bodes well for our investigation. We don't need to be making enemies with the police right off the bat."

Nancy, arms crossed, said, "I thought it best if we didn't say anything about the envelope. At least not until we've had a chance to see what's inside it."

Frank took a deep breath. "About that envelope .. I have some information that I didn't want to share with Detective Cutter either."

Nancy and Joe stared at Frank.

"Let's sit." Frank motioned Nancy and Joe onto the sofa and he plopped into the wingchair. He ran a hand along his chin and looked at his brother. "Remember, I said I'm good at multi-tasking?"

"So?" Joe shrugged.

"So, in between checking out the latest trucks and prices I called dad this morning."

"Aww," Joe said, "you didn't go running to dad with this case, did ya?"

Frank shook his head, slightly miffed. "Of course not. I called to ask Walter to do a background check on Tasha. I got dad instead, but it doesn't matter. Dad let me in on some important facts."

Nancy pushed her hair over her shoulders and leaned forward – all ears now. "Like what?"

"Two years ago Dimitri Romanoff hired the Hardy Detective Agency to track down his sister, Tasha."

"What?" Joe frowned. "Is she a fugitive or something?"

Frank shook his head again. "No, no, nothing like that. According to dad Tasha's been on the run for three years. He didn't give me the whole story he just said that Tasha is trying to protect her family."

Joe's frown deepened. "By running? I don't get it."

"Neither do I," Frank admitted, "and dad wouldn't tell me any more over the phone. He's sending someone to meet us, someone who can explain all this."

"And who's that?" Nancy asked.

"Our new client," Frank said, "Dimitri Romanoff."

Nancy quirked an eyebrow and Joe frowned some more.

"He'll be here tomorrow afternoon," Frank said. "He's hired us to find his sister and protect his interests. Given that, we may want to wait for him before we open the envelope."

Nancy thought about that for a moment then said, "Tasha was our client first. I think we should follow her instructions. She was very explicit, she said to open the envelope if anything happened to her."

Joe added his voice, "I agree. We follow the client's instructions. Besides, I want to know what the heck is in that envelope. Whatever it is it may have gotten her killed."


Tasha slowly lifted her head. The room spun around her. A bare bulb, dangling from the ceiling, lit the dank dirty space. Tangled strands of dark hair hung over her tear-streaked face. Water. Her parched throat cried out for water.

How long had she been in this box of a room with no windows? Long enough that she'd had to relieve herself on the dirt floor like an animal. The memory repulsed her. She wished they had killed her outright. Death would have been preferable to this.

However, her captors had kept her alive and tortured her hoping to pry the whereabouts of the envelope from her. Well, she had been smart in giving it to Miss Drew and Mr. Hardy. What they had done with it, she didn't know, nor did she want to. That was the beauty of her plan she truly did not know the envelope's whereabouts.

A key at the door drew her attention. Her captors were back. Tasha steeled herself as two men entered the small space.

Mr. X, the leader, was dressed in a big burly coat with a fur collar. He walked over to Tasha and peered down at her sitting on the edge of a filthy mattress.

"Get up," he ordered in Russian and motioned to the man beside him.

Boris knew exactly what his boss wanted and took great delight in complying. He yanked Tasha up by the hair. Ignoring her screams he shoved her into a chair in the middle of the room and pointed a AK-47 at her head. He smelled of fast food, vodka, and sweat and filth. His smell permeated the room making Tasha want to vomit. His hands were stained with gun oil. He constantly cleaned his weapons, tending to them like ladies of the night, caressing their cold, hard metal.

Mr. X paced in front of Tasha rubbing his hands together as he collected his thoughts. Tasha, hunched in the chair, watched his expensive shoes pass in one direction and then the other. She knew what he wanted. They had played this deadly game twice already. Why he thought she would ever change her story was beyond her.

She kept her eyes on his shoes. They stopped in front of her. She looked up and wished she hadn't. He slapped her hard sending her head reeling. She tasted blood.

Boris, to her left, chuckled. The way he looked at her told her he would like nothing better than to defile her body then put a bullet in her brain.

Determination flooded Tasha's body and she steeled herself for more abuse. Since arriving in this hell hole she had told herself she had to be strong. She would be strong. It was her mantra.

Mr. X leaned forward putting his face close to hers. "Who was in the truck?"

How many times would he ask her about the truck parked at the mall? She kept her voice steady and put a little steel into it. "I don't know."

How was she supposed to know who had been in it? If indeed, anyone had been.

He yanked her head up by the hair forcing her to look into his pale eyes. "I have been patient with you Tasha. I have given you chance after chance to tell me the truth. Why do you insist on lying?"

Confused, she just stared at him. What was he talking about? She honestly did not know.

In frustration he jerked her by the hair pitching her out of the chair. She slammed into the floor and groaned.

"Get up!" He shook a fist at her and snarled his displeasure.

She pulled herself onto the chair. Her face hurt, her head hurt, she was thirsty and hungry and tired, but she had to be strong. She would be strong. Those words echoed in her mind.

Mr. X adjusted his coat. "You must think me a fool. Or perhaps you think Boris a fool?" He sneered at Tasha. "You are wrong. You have seriously underestimated me – and Boris. He is not much to look at," no he wasn't – not with his pockmarked face and rotten teeth, "but he's very good at what he does. He knows how to kill people and he knows how to get information."

A depraved smile broke the features of Mr. X's face. He began pacing again. "Boris is very thorough and fast," Mr. X told Tasha. "He has found out who owns the truck."

Tasha wondered if she should care. She watched his shoes go back and forth, one direction then the other. Then her head was viciously yanked up and Mr. X's eyes were boring into hers like two hot coals. "Joseph Hardy, Private Detective."

The heavy Russian accent made the name sound like Yo-sef Har-day. The name caught Tasha by surprise and a flicker of recognition flashed in her eyes before she could stifle it.

Mr. X released her hair and smacked her hard across the face sending her flying off the chair.

"You know this man. I saw it in your eyes!" Anger and the fear he'd been deceived fueled his rage. "Get up!"

No, she thought lying on the ground, no, I won't. This is over. Kill me now.

Boris kicked her in the side eliciting a sharp yelp.

Mr. X knelt beside her. "This is not over Tasha. You have betrayed me. You, and those you love, and those you have involved in this, will pay for your mistake."

Mr. X rose, adjusted his coat, and motioned to Boris. Tasha heard them leave, heard the door being locked. Then, and only then, when she knew they were gone did she give in to pain and despair. She hugged herself and curled into a ball as silent sobs racked her battered body.


A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews everyone, especially to those who've read the story before and are leaving reviews again - can't tell you how nice that is! And yes, there are slight changes.