A/N: I know, I know, I know…You're all chomping at the bit to know the details of Nancy's 'plan'. Rest assured, you'll get it – but not in this chapter. It's still too early to give that away. However, I do think this chapter gives one some food for thought. Enjoy, and once again my thanks to those wonderful individuals, anonymous and otherwise, who sent reviews. Warms the cockles of me heart.

Chapter 9.

Frank and Joe were on high alert as they made their way to their appointment with Sergeant Joseph MacMillan. Things were becoming more complicated by the minute, and the brothers feared they might never get a clear-cut answer as to who was involved with the threats against Nancy Drew. Added to what they already knew was the insinuation that there were crooked cops on the force actively working with crime boss, Gus Marouelli.

And who knows how deep that corruption goes, or what those cops do for Marouelli, Frank thought to himself.

They knew that when they met with MacMillan they'd have to be extremely careful not to betray the knowledge that Nancy was alive and that her last known location was in Greenwich Village in New York. If, as Detective Tom Morrison had so discreetly informed them, MacMillan was on Marouelli's payroll, he would surely send out word of Nancy's whereabouts, and she'd be as good as dead.

Entering MacMillan's office, Frank and Joe greeted the tall, middle-aged black man. His head and face were clean-shaven, and he shook their hands in turn. His large hands made Joe think he could have at one time been an excellent basketball player.

"Have a seat, please," MacMillan said in a genial tone. "And may I say, Joe, you've got a great name."

"Uh, thanks, Sergeant," Joe said with a small grin, "same to you."

"Now, then," MacMillan said, his voice becoming more businesslike, "Sergeant Mahoney tells me you two are looking into the connection between the drive-by shooting involving Detective Drew – God rest her soul – and gang activity."

"Yes, that's right," Frank spoke up.

"I've got the files here," MacMillan said, tapping the thick folder on his desk. "See, when it went down, we knew it wasn't just some random drive-by."

"Why is that?" Frank asked, wondering if MacMillan would actually reveal that the nature of the drive-by was really a contracted attempt on Nancy's life.

"See, the place Detective Drew and her friends were dining at – uh, 'Fatelli's' – seems the owner had been approached by someone in Gus Marouelli's organization about protection. You can read here in the files from the statement Detective Drew gave at the scene…"

Frank eagerly took the file. In his mind's eye, he could see Nancy on that fateful night, her wounded arm treated by paramedics right there, since she would probably have refused to leave the scene until she talked to her colleagues about what happened.

"I was sitting there, facing the street, when the bullets started flying. I counted seven or eight shots." Nancy stated, when Sergeant MacMillan asked what she remembered. "The car was dark – a blue or maybe black, I'm not sure. Windows were tinted. A sedan."

"Well, right now you're the only one from the scene who remembers what the car looked like, Detective Drew." MacMillan responded. "We've spoken with the owner of the restaurant, and he's pretty spooked. He's told us he's been 'offered' protection by Augustus Marouelli's gang."

"Let me guess," Nancy sighed. "He refused."

"Right. We think what you witnessed tonight was a warning. No better way to ruin business than to shoot up a place and hurt a few customers along the way."

Frank looked up from the report and passed it along for Joe to read. So MacMillan's going to continue to stick to the 'official' story, he mused. He's going to continue to make us think the drive-by has nothing to do with a deliberate attempt on Nancy's life. The real question of course, is MacMillan deliberately leading us astray because he works for Marouelli, or does he honestly think Nancy is dead?

"Were you ever able to get any concrete evidence to tie Marouelli to the drive-by?" Frank asked, deciding to play along.

MacMillan gave his head a shake. "Nothing. He's very slick. Virtually untouchable. Believe me, we've been trying for years to bring him down. But it seems he's always one step ahead of us. When Detective Drew went missing, I think we were all afraid his goons had gotten to her so she wouldn't be able to identify the shooter in the drive-by. That's what Marouelli does: he gets rid of anyone who poses a threat to him. That's why no one ever survives long enough to testify against him. When we found Drew's car in the Lake, it all but confirmed our fears. If you ask me, she was followed after checking out of Mt. Sinai. We know she was on her way to Northwestern to be with her friend's family – the Faynes. I suppose you know all about that by now."

"Yes, we heard," Frank responded.

"And you know, then, that she never made it there. Detective Drew would have never voluntarily vanished. It's true that some people run away from their lives when things get too stressful, but that's not the kind of person Drew was. I also know some doctors figured she might have had some kind of delayed reaction to getting shot, which was why she drove off the pier. But let me tell you – 'til the day I die, I will always swear Gus Marouelli had his men follow her, kill her, and dump her and the car in Lake Michigan."

By now, Frank did not know what to think of Sergeant Joseph MacMillan. Was he trying to snow them? He openly spoke about the terror Gus Marouelli was inflicting on the city of Chicago, and he seemed quite upset about it as well. He also seemed very upset about what had happened to Nancy. It could all be an act, of course, since he'd never willingly reveal he was working for the crime boss. If that was the case, he was doing a very good job. But Thomas Morrison had warned them not to believe a word MacMillan said, hadn't he? Frank decided to keep his guard up.

"Now what about this restaurant owner – Fatelli – what did he have to say at the time?" Joe asked, after skimming the file.

"Carlo Fatelli was completely freaked out about the whole thing," MacMillan replied. "While he admitted he refused to pay Marouelli's thugs for protection, after the drive-by, he sold the place and left Chicago."

"So he didn't press charges," Joe said with a frown.

"He was too terrified," MacMillan said flatly. "Not that I can blame him, really. He didn't want to become Marouelli's latest casualty."

The information provided by Sergeant MacMillan was leading them nowhere, a disappointed Frank thought as they left the station and returned to their hotel for the evening. They needed a break on this case, and they needed it soon. If, as Tom Morrison had suggested, there were corrupt cops, chances were their inquiries into Nancy's 'death' had not gone unnoticed. Those involved would most certainly know that Nancy's death had been faked, and they'd be looking for every opportunity to learn where she was hiding. Those that didn't know would obviously continue to unwittingly perpetuate the story that she was dead.

Either way, it meant they needed to be careful.

Carson Drew sat on the love seat for a long time after the Hardys departed, lost in his own thoughts. At around three o'clock, it occurred to him he should eat something, as he'd only had a light breakfast at around 7:30 that morning. Food of any kind at this time, however, did not appeal to him. Besides, he was still unused to preparing meals for himself.

Hannah had been away for nearly three months now, and while Carson knew the poor woman really needed the time to herself, he was probably adversely affecting his health by failing to feed himself properly. There was only so much take-out and restaurant dining one could handle before everything started tasting the same.

Hannah Gruen. What a God-send she had been when Nancy's mother died. Carson felt blessed since the day she came to be their live-in housekeeper. She and Nancy had taken to each other so easily, Carson thought. Indeed, Hannah was the mother Nancy never had - the perfect surrogate – perhaps too much so. For when Nancy's 'disappearance' was all over the news, Hannah had despaired her former charge was in terrible trouble. She hadn't wanted to believe that Nancy was dead when the blue convertible was raised from the chilly Lake Michigan waters.

It had been hell lying to her. It made things so much more difficult, especially when the weekly scheduled secure calls with Nancy came. Sometimes, he'd come home and find her weeping in the kitchen. She would invariably say something like: "She was like a daughter to me…I was always afraid something like this would happen…but I never dared to think it really would…"

Practically inconsolable, Carson had decided the woman should take an extended vacation to find some peace. At first Hannah had not wanted to leave him, maintaining it felt like she was abandoning him. But in the end, she knew she needed time away from the house and away from the still lingering effects of the tragedy painfully evident in George Fayne's protracted recovery. Hannah had at last packed some bags and left. Every once in a while, she called or sent a postcard from whatever far-flung place in the country she'd found herself at. Lately, her voice seemed to be finding its life again, nothing like the flat, dead tone it had come to sound like in the months when Nancy's supposed fate was constantly in the news.

Carson finally pulled himself up from the love seat with a soft groan. The house was so empty. When Nancy had left to join the CPD and only he and Hannah were there, at least they had each other to make conversation. Now there was no one.

Bess Marvin visited occasionally, although the visits were extremely stressful for Carson. They always seemed more like fishing expeditions than courtesy calls. Bess would at first express her sorrow at losing her best friend, but ask questions in an off-hand manner that were actually thinly-veiled attempts to try to see if Carson was hiding something from her.

Walking into the kitchen, Carson opened the refrigerator in a half-hearted attempt to find something edible. The empty shelves stared back at him, and he remembered he had not been grocery shopping in weeks.

Why did Bess have to be so inquisitive? Must be all those years she spent with Nancy on those cases, Carson thought ruefully. He had to hand it to Bess, though. She was asking all the questions that a good investigator would. Still, he missed the 'old' Bess; the Bess that was perennially dieting, or shopping, or weaselling out of a diet and accessorizing. She was the perfect foil for her no-nonsense athletic and tomboyish cousin, George, and for Nancy as well.

Which reminds me - the Hardys want to get in touch with them, Carson thought to himself as he pulled a can of soup from a rather bare-looking pantry shelf. As he heated the meagre meal on the stove, he sat down at the kitchen dinette table with a cup of tea he'd brewed.

It brought back a memory he realised he had forgotten to share with the Hardys, but one that would ultimately do little to help them; only shed further light on the crimes committed by, or at least ordered by Gus Marouelli.

Nearly twenty years ago Carson had been sitting in this same spot, across from a frightened seventeen-year old young man. Wallace Cooper was in trouble, and Carson had been willing to take on his case pro bono.

Wallace had been the wheel-man in a stolen car in a robbery attempt on a bodega, and then in a chase with police. He was arrested along with two others, both of whom fingered Wallace as the instigator in the caper. Released on bail due to what was deemed a low flight risk and minimal danger to the community, Carson had Wallace meet him right here, in the Drew kitchen.

The criminal attorney felt pity for the youth, who claimed he had no idea his two acquaintances were planning the robbery.

"I like cars, Mr. Drew," Wallace said sorrowfully that early afternoon. "My buddies called me up and asked if I wanted to take a spin in some really sweet wheels. Of course I said yes!"

"You didn't ask where the car came from?"

"Sure I did. Mikey said his old man had just bought it."

"And you believed him?"

"Sure, why not? All I cared about was that he was letting me drive it."

"What did you think when they asked you to pull up in front of the bodega?" Carson asked.

Wallace shrugged. "I thought they were going to pick up some booze. I know I'm not legal, but you know how it goes…"

Carson nodded and made some notes. "What happened after your two acquaintances came running out of the bodega?"

"They screamed at me to gun the engine. The owner of the store ran out after them, yelling some stuff in Spanish. A Puerto Rican guy, or something. So I hit the accelerator and got out of there. Soon after that, we had the cops on our tail. I've never been more scared in my life, Mr. Drew."

"I know, Wallace," Carson said in a calming tone.

"You can call me Wally, you know," he said, almost shyly. "Everyone does."

"Okay, Wally," Carson replied. "I will."

They hadn't noticed that Nancy, nearly eight years old, had been hanging around the corner. She came sauntering into the kitchen, just home from school.

"Don't worry, Wally. My Daddy will help you. He's the best lawyer in the whole world." And with that, she skipped off.

Wallace, in spite of himself, smiled at the young child's unspoiled confidence in her father's abilities. It was an innocence he was sorry he had seemingly lost so early in his own life.

"Cute kid," Wallace said with a smile.

"Thank you," Carson said, trying not to show the pride he felt for his only child. "And a little too smart for her own good. She's at that point where she thinks the whole world revolves around her, and that her Daddy can fix everything."

"Well, I sure hope she's right," Wallace said with a sigh. "Otherwise, I'm sunk."

Carson ambled over to the stove to stir the pot. The bubbling liquid made his stomach roil. He really didn't want to eat this, but knew he needed something, even as insubstantial as this broth.

With a ladle, he dumped some of it into a bowl and returned to the table. The late afternoon sun was at a particular angle now, sending blinding rays through a slit in the drapery hanging in the kitchen windows. Carson, however, could not be bothered to rise again to properly shut the drapes. He sat and silently slurped the soup he barely tasted.

With a sinking heart, he recalled that four weeks after news that Lisa Scotti-Turner had been in the fatal car accident in Phoenix, the body of a man in his late thirties or possibly early forties had been fished out of the freezing Chicago River. Authorities believed it had been there for a few weeks at least, and foul play was suspected, as a single bullet wound to the head was listed as the cause of death.

Carson would never forget that the individual was identified via his dental records, revealing that he was 'Wiley' Wallace Cooper, a known felon with several past convictions.

Had that been the point in time he knew Nancy's situation was more dire than he ever dared to believe? While he had managed to secure a favourable verdict for Wallace when he was seventeen, life after that had obviously not treated him well. Wallace had been unable to avoid falling in with the wrong crowd.

Carson knew with 100 percent certainty that it was Wallace Cooper that had contacted him the night of the drive-by. That meant his fears he would be killed if he failed to kill Nancy had come true.

As Carson went over the events point by point, everything fell together in a frightening manner: Firstly, a contract for Nancy's life had been put out, an assignment that landed in Wallace Cooper's lap. In an astonishing move, Wallace did not follow through and instead sent a cryptic warning.

Next, Lisa Scotti-Turner arrived in town with word that she'd possibly seen Nancy. Soon after, Lisa died, in an apparent accident that no one witnessed. Shortly after that, Wally Cooper's body showed up, with a bullet to the brain.

All those strands hung together, Carson knew, showing that Gus Marouelli's people were still very much determined to make sure Nancy was eliminated, and all those who either posed a threat or disobeyed orders were silenced.

Carson only wished he knew why.