Free Trial and Terror by Franklin W. Dixon

could even get a book deal. And you’ve seen yourself how angry and aggressive she is.”
    â€œOkay, I can see how that might be possible,” Frank said after a bite of his sandwich. “But then why would she frame Nick Rodriguez?”
    â€œTo keep suspicion away from herself,” Joe said, picking up a big pickle. “Or perhaps to make for an even juicier story.”
    â€œBut could she be so determined that she’d let an innocent man go to prison?” Frank asked.
    â€œI don’t think we can answer that until we get to know her better,” Joe said, chomping on the pickle. “And remember, it probably was her we saw in Nick’s apartment last night. And if she has access to Nick’s apartment, she could have been the one who planted the evidence under the mattress.”
    â€œAll right,” Frank said. “We’ll put her on the suspect list. We’ll have a chance to feel her out when we meet her later this afternoon.”
    â€œSo we’ve now got three suspects to pursue,” Joe said. “Fred Garfein, John Q., and Lisa Velloni.”
    â€œBut we still need evidence linking at least one of them to the crime,” Frank said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “And what we really need is proof that one of them did it.”
    â€œAnd we need it by tomorrow,” Joe said, sliding his empty plate away. “Good luck to us.”
    After lunch, the Hardys split up. They agreed to call the telephone answering machine at their home in one hour, in case they had any messages to tell each other. Joe set off to locate the apartment of John Q., and Frank walked a few blocks to police headquarters for a look at whatever physical evidence had been collected from the crime scene.
    On the eleventh floor, Frank was taken into aroom containing aisle after aisle of floor-to-ceiling shelves. The shelves housed cardboard boxes, each labeled with a number. This was where the police stored evidence collected from every crime scene in Manhattan. They kept the evidence on hand until the crime was completely solved.
    Frank followed Sergeant Tyrell, a burly policeman with a bushy mustache, down a long aisle. “Frank Hardy, huh?” Tyrell said. “You aren’t related to Fenton Hardy, are you?”
    â€œHe’s my father,” Frank said with pride.
    â€œNo kidding,” Tyrell said, glancing back at Frank. “I got to know him a bit when I first joined the force. Terrific fellow. He helped me out of a few jams.”
    Frank and Joe’s father, Fenton, had worked a number of years for the New York City Police Department before he became a renowned private investigator.
    Sergeant Tyrell stopped and pulled down a cardboard box, which he set on the floor. “It says here,” Tyrell said, studying a file of papers he had brought, “the gloves and ski mask are being kept at the courthouse because the prosecutor is using them in the trial. The coat and knife have not been found.”
    â€œSo what’s in the box?” Frank asked.
    â€œNot much,” Tyrell said, still looking at the file. “It says these are items the police collected from the floor right near where the crime tookplace. Karen Lee claims she swept her floor shortly before the attack, and the police collected these items shortly after the attack.”
    â€œIn other words,” Frank said, “there’s a chance these items came from the attacker.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” Tyrell said as he opened the box and reached inside. “Let’s have a look.”
    Tyrell handed Frank a sealed plastic packet. The only thing inside was a tiny pink item. It was oval and no bigger than a fingernail fragment. “This is a small piece of metal with painted enamel on it,” Tyrell said, checking the file. “No one has any idea what it is, and it may not have anything at all to do with the crime.”
    Frank stared at the piece of pink enamel