088 False Pretenses Read online

  Second point: If he had finished work early the night before, why hadn't he called Bess? Were things not going well between the two of them, or did he have some other problem?

  Most interesting, though, was why he had gone to such lengths to make sure that Nancy knew where he had been the night before. When somebody took the trouble to produce an alibi before he'd even been accused of anything, Nancy had to ask if he might have a guilty conscience.

  Could Kyle be Broughton's killer? Except for the suspiciously well-timed alibi, there was nothing to say that he wasn't. What would drive him to such a desperate move? The answer, if there was one, might be somewhere in this room. Nancy threw back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and began to search the desk.

  It didn't take long—the desk had only one drawer. Aside from a handful of pens and pencils and a tangle of paper clips, it seemed to hold only a bunch of paper napkins and sugar packets from the coffee shop downstairs. Nancy was about to close the drawer when she noticed a small scratch pad. It was blank, but when she looked at it from an angle, she could see indentations from what had been written on the top page, which was now torn off. It was a list of some sort. The first item was "R21304." Each of the other items also consisted of a letter and five numbers. She carefully copied them into her notebook, made sure she left the office the way she had found it, and went out to Ms. Hanson's desk.

  "Is there any way of knowing who has been using which files?" she asked.

  "Why, of course there is," Ms. Hanson answered. "Margaret Hildebrand, the librarian, keeps a complete log showing which files are out and who has them. It's very important, you know."

  "I imagine so," Nancy said. "And if I want a certain file, I should go to her?"

  Ms. Hanson nodded. "That's right. Ordinarily, she's right in the library, but the police moved her to an empty office down the hall. Number four. Oh, I went ahead and made that photocopy for you. Here it is."

  She held out an envelope.

  Nancy smiled. "Thanks," she said, tucking it in her purse.

  Margaret Hildebrand was in her mid-twenties, with short black hair and startlingly blue eyes.

  She listened to Nancy's request, then produced a large canvas-bound ledger.

  "Lots of luck," she said. "Jack checked out dozens of files every day. They're all accounted for, of course, but there are a lot of transactions for you to check."

  The first thing Nancy noticed was that each file was identified by a letter, followed by five numbers. "Do any of these look familiar?" she asked, handing Margaret the list she had copied from the scratch pad.

  Margaret scanned the list. "I really couldn't say," she replied. "Once I locate a file and log it out, I forget it. If I didn't, my mind would be cluttered before the end of the week. Are these the files you need to consult?"

  "If it's not too much trouble," Nancy said.

  "That's what I'm here for," Margaret said. "But I am a little backlogged at the moment. How's this afternoon?"

  "Fine, and thanks," Nancy said. As she walked away, she considered her next move. Broughton's office had yielded one possible clue. Why not try his home? She opened the envelope Ms. Hanson had given her and checked the address on Broughton's resume before going down in the elevator.

  She was crossing the lobby when someone called, "Nancy! Nancy Drew!"

  Nancy stopped and rolled her eyes before turning around. She knew that voice. It belonged to Brenda Carlton. Brenda liked to think of herself as an ace reporter. Everyone else thought of her as a grade-A pest. She wrote for a newspaper that happened to belong to her father.

  "Nancy," Brenda said, grabbing her arm. "I've been trying to reach you all morning. I need a statement from you on how it felt to find a dead body in your father's plush downtown office."

  Nancy disengaged her arm and said in a level voice, "Sorry, no comment."

  "Is it true that millions of dollars in securities are missing from the firm's vault?" Brenda continued.

  Nancy held her tongue and started to walk away.

  Brenda kept up with her. "What about the theory that the burglary and murder were part of a scheme to cover up the fact that the securities are missing? Any reaction to that?"

  Nancy turned and took a deep breath. She was on the point of telling Brenda exactly what she thought of her stupid theories and slimy innuen-dos when the smirk on Brenda's face reminded Nancy that this was exactly the reaction Brenda was trying to provoke with her outrageous exaggerations.

  "Sorry, no comment," Nancy said once more, and headed for the door and her car. Brenda followed her the whole way, only backing off when it looked as if Nancy were about to close the car door on her hand.

  Broughton's apartment was about ten minutes away in a garden complex that was run-down and seedy. His front door had a police seal pasted across the lock, but there were no squad cars outside, leading Nancy to hope that the police had already come and gone. She backed away and carefully studied the building, then she went around to the rear and started counting back doors. When she came to the one that should lead to Broughton's apartment, she tapped on the glass, waited, and tapped again. No response. She glanced both ways, then took a lock pick from her purse and inserted it in the keyhole.

  After a tense moment, she heard a welcome click, and the door swung open. She slipped inside and closed it quietly behind her. The silence had a heavy quality, as if the apartment had been empty for months. Only the dish and cup on the drainboard and the newspaper on the kitchen table testified that someone had lived here—and not too long ago.

  Moving steadily, Nancy started to explore. In the living room she noticed an expensive stereo, but no CDs or cassettes. The TV was enormous, with an elaborate VCR perched on a shelf next to it, but no tapes. The only book in sight was a best-selling photo essay about the fantasies and nightmares of a celebrated rock star.

  Shaking her head, she decided to try the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the cops who'd searched the dresser and the old-fashioned roll-top desk in the comer had not done a very good job of putting things back. A stack of typing paper was sitting on the desk chair, and a few sheets had spilled onto the light blue carpet.

  Nancy picked up the pages and glanced at them. They were all blank. She set them on the desk, then opened the door to the closet and let out a low whistle. At least ten suits and as many sport jackets hung there, along with dozens of shirts and sweaters. Lined up on the floor were several pairs of highly polished shoes.

  She moved closer and reached for one of the jackets with an expensive designer label. As she did, she felt a violent shove in the small of her back. She stumbled forward, straight into the clothes. Behind her, the closet door was slammed shut. She twisted around quickly to push at it with all her force, but it refused to move.

  The interior of the closet was totally dark, and the shoe polish air was stuffy. The corner of a hanger poked Nancy in the back of the neck. She felt as if the unseen walls were closing in on her.

  Nancy Drew, get a grip on yourself, she thought. She took a deep breath, then began to consider her situation, step by step. Someone had pushed her into the closet and locked her in.

  What was keeping the door locked? Closet doors didn't usually have locks. She ran her hand up and down the edge of the door and found a small knob. It turned easily. At half a turn, she could feel the tongue of the latch clearing the lock plate, but the door remained stubbornly closed. She was beginning to think that someone had wedged a chair under the doorknob outside, in which case Nancy had no idea how she'd get out. The minutes seemed to drag.

  Suddenly, out of sheer frustration, Nancy reached behind her and pushed the suits and shirts all the way down to one side and out of her way. Grasping the small knob in her left hand, she disengaged the latch, then leaned against the door and shoved. Was she imagining that it moved just a fraction of an inch? She released the pressure, then shoved again. It didn't budge at all.

  She sank back against the wall, wondering if she'd eventually pass out in
her almost airless prison and how many minutes had gone by— five, ten? She couldn't judge. It felt like ages.

  It seemed hopeless, but she decided to pound on the door with her fist.

  When she stopped she heard a sound. Was it a door opening somewhere in the apartment? And were those footsteps coming toward the closet?

  Chapter Five

  "With no warning, the door swung open. Caught off-guard, Nancy half fell out of the closet. She squinted to protect her eyes from the sudden glare of daylight.

  "Nancy Drew!" a voice exclaimed. "What on earth—"

  Nancy recognized David Megali, the young journalist she had met the night before. He was holding a chair—the one that had imprisoned her, Nancy realized. Relief flowed through her like a tide.

  "David," she cried. "What are you doing here?"

  "Rescuing you from a closet, for a start," he replied with a lopsided smile. "No, seriously, I bet I'm here for almost the same reason you are. I still think that Broughton was the anonymous caller who offered me an important lead for my nursing-home story. And I bet you're trying to track down his killer, right?' 5

  Nancy nodded. "But how did you get the address?" she asked.

  David arched his eyebrows. "I called the police department and read them the lead of my story about Broughton's death, complete with an address I made up. So, of course, they corrected me."

  Nancy couldn't help but laugh.

  "And when I got here," he went on, "I found the back door unlocked and you trapped in this closet."

  "Someone must have been in the apartment when I came in," Nancy hypothesized. "And whoever it was was so worried about being found here that he or she shoved me into the closet. I'm going to take a look around for any trace of my mystery assailant." She found the bathroom door slightly ajar. Hadn't it been shut earlier? she wondered. She moved over to it. The bathroom was empty, but she spotted a scuff mark, like a footprint, on the white enamel floor of the shower. Her attacker must have hidden there when he heard her entering the apartment, then rushed out when her back was turned. She knelt down to study the mark, but it was too smudged to be of any use.

  As she got back to her feet, she caught a whiff of a lemony scent that was somehow familiar. Where had she smelled it before? In Broughton's office, perhaps? She checked the cabinet over the sink and found three different brands of aftershave, but none of them was lemon scented. She returned to the shower stall and noticed the scent again.

  A scene flashed into her mind of Bess telling her that she planned to buy Kyle a special brand of cologne for his birthday. Then she had added, with a laugh, that she hoped he didn't use too much, though—that sometimes she could walk into a room and know he'd been there by the lingering scent.

  Did Nancy remember Kyle's scent from her interview with him that morning? It was possible, but the harder she tried to decide, the less sure she was. She gave up and went back to the bedroom.

  "What is it?" David asked. He was standing at the desk, shuffling through the papers there. "Did you find anything?"

  "Nothing worth talking about," Nancy reported. "How about you?"

  "Nothing," he replied.

  Nancy returned to the closet and began searching the jackets hanging there. She patted all of them, without any results, but as she returned them to their places, she heard a sound like the rustling of paper. She pulled a soft tweed jacket out and examined it. It was mostly gray with flecks of light blue. She plunged her hand into each of the patch pockets, then into the breast pocket. All she found was a dime. She left it there and opened the jacket. It had inside pockets on both sides, but they, too, were empty. She was about to hang it back in the closet when she noticed, lower down on the left side of the inner lining, another, smaller pocket, about the right size for a cigarette lighter.

  Holding her breath, Nancy dipped her fingers into it. A grin spread over her face as she pulled out a slip of paper. She put the jacket away and unfolded the paper. In bold, spiky letters, someone—presumably Broughton—had printed

  DAM ALF SG

  KY D 100/WK?

  "What did you find?" David asked.

  "I don't know," Nancy replied, puzzling over the note. Then something jumped out at her: "KY D"— Kyle Donovan! But what did "100/ WK?" mean? A hundred a week? Had Broughton been planning to pay Kyle a hundred dollars a week for some reason, or hoping to get Kyle to pay him that amount? Either way, it added up to a lot of money.

  Nancy looked at the closet full of new designer clothes and recalled all the expensive electronic equipment in the living room. How had Broughton afforded all that stuff? She imagined he made a decent salary, but not that much. And above all, why would someone murder him?

  One theory answered all her questions. If Jack Broughton had been a blackmailer, and if Kyle had been one of his victims ...!

  "I have to go," Nancy said to David. "Are you coming?"

  "Hey, slow down," he said, putting his hands on her upper arms. "I thought we were going to be a team."

  Nancy glanced up at his brown eyes with the little flecks of gold. He seemed to be almost disappointed in her.

  "We are," she began.

  "So what did you just figure out? I could tell it was something."

  Nancy definitely didn't want to mention her suspicions about Kyle at this point, but she also didn't want to discourage David from helping. Given his experience, he might prove useful. In fact, he already had. He'd let her out of the closet.

  She shifted her weight, smiled at him, and said, "Look, I just have to run something down. As soon as I do, I'll let you know what I find out."

  He nodded and took a step back. Then he grinned. "How about over dinner tonight?"

  "Well—" An image of Ned flashed in her mind, but then she decided Ned would understand. "Sure. When and where?"

  "The Riverside Restaurant? I hear it's good," he said. "Around eight?"

  "You're on," Nancy said. "Now let's see about getting out of here without attracting any attention."

  Back at her father's office, Nancy said hi to Carta and asked, "Is Kyle Donovan in?"

  "Why, yes, he just got back half an hour ago," Carta replied.

  "Oh? He was out of the office for a while?" Nancy asked, in as casual a voice as she could manage.

  Carta nodded. "Sure. He was looking up some documents over at the Hall of Records," she said. "He's really tops at doing searches."

  I bet, Nancy muttered to herself. But at the Hall of Records? Or at Jack Broughton's apartment? When she realized that Bess might be involved with a murder suspect, she felt sick to her stomach.

  Aloud, she said, "Do you think he's busy now? I'd like to talk to him for a few minutes."

  "Do you want me to buzz him?" Carta asked.

  "No, that's okay. I'll just poke my head in."

  She found Kyle in the library, at the long oak table stacked high with law books. He was busy making notes on a legal pad. At least a dozen pages already covered with notes were in an untidy pile on his right.

  "Kyle?" Nancy said. "Sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you."

  He straightened up, put down his pen, and ran his fingers through his curly blond hair. "I'm pretty busy, Nancy," he said. "This is something I have to get done today. Can it wait?"

  "No, but it doesn't have to take long, if you're frank with me." She closed the door behind her and took a deep breath, fully aware that she was betting a lot on a hunch. "Why were you making regular payments to Jack Broughton?" she asked.

  Kyle's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. An instant later he recovered and said, "That's crazy. Why would I do that?"

  "That was my question," Nancy pointed out. Taking a chance and stretching the truth a bit, she added, "I have evidence that you were paying Broughton one hundred dollars a week. That's a lot of money for you. What were you buying with it? His silence?"

  Kyle stared at her as if hypnotized.

  "What did he have on you?" Nancy probed. "Something in your past that would ruin your cha
nces of getting into law school if it came out? That's it, isn't it? I can see that's it. It's written all over your face."

  "All I have to say is this," Kyle said, narrowing

  his eyes. "Whoever rid the world of Jack Broughton deserves a medal!"

  With that he went back to his law books.

  "What did he have on you, Kyle?" Nancy repeated softly. "I won't tell anyone, I promise. You have my word."

  He remained turned away from her, but she could see the tension in his back.

  "I'm asking you first, Kyle," she continued, "because I care about you. Bess is a very special friend of mine, and I don't want to see her hurt. But if I have to, I'll start asking other people. I'd rather not, because just asking questions can start rumors. So I'd like to hear it straight from you. What was Broughton holding over you?"

  Kyle searched her face, as if asking himself if he dared trust her. At last he gave a sharp nod. "A lot," he said almost in a whisper. "A whole lot."

  "Something serious, you mean?"

  He gave an odd laugh. "Is homicide serious enough for you? I was tried as a juvenile, and the records were supposedly sealed, but Broughton managed to ferret it all out."

  "You killed somebody?" Nancy asked in horror.

  "No, as a matter of fact, I didn't. But I couldn't prove it," he replied. "If only . . ."

  He covered his face with his hands for a moment, then took them down and said, "What happened was this. I was leaving a basketball game one night with my friend Terry. We were both fourteen. And this guy we knew—Jim, an eleventh-grader—offered us a ride in this fancy car. We figured it was his father's, right? How were we supposed to know he'd stolen it?"

  He stopped to rub the back of his neck, then continued. "So we're cruising along, listening to a tape, when a cop gets on our tail and turns on the blinkers. Jim steps on it and tries to lose the cop, but he skids on some wet leaves and wraps the car around a big tree. Terry's thrown out and killed instantly, and I've got a broken arm and glass cuts all over my face. Wouldn't you know it? Jim wasn't touched. And while I'm lying there in pain, he crawls past me and shoves me over behind the wheel, to make it look like I was the driver!"