The Crisscross Crime Read Online Free

“It’s only two or three miles back to town.”
    â€œBiff wouldn’t let us down. I wonder where he is.”
    Far ahead, Frank spotted what looked like the faint glow of headlights. “I’ll bet that’s him now.”
    Frank and Joe stayed clear of the road, expecting the lights to grow brighter as the car approached. The lights stayed exactly the same.
    When they got closer, it seemed that one light was higher up than the other.
    â€œSomething’s wrong,” Frank said. “That car’s not even on the road.”
    The Hardys broke into a jog. The second they recognized Biff’s hatchback, they started running.
    â€œHoop!” Joe called. “Biff!”
    The little car had skidded off the road and both passenger-side wheels had dropped into a ditch. The engine was still running.
    Frank got there first and yanked open the driver’s door. Biff was inside, slumped over the steering wheel.
    Frank grabbed Biff and pulled him back in the seat. “Biff!” he yelled.
    â€œHow bad do you think it is?” Joe asked, his voice tight with tension.
    â€œI don’t see any blood.”
    Biff groaned and brought his hand up to his forehead. His eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” he said weakly. “Hey, where’s the bozo who ran me off the road?”
    Frank smiled with relief. “Sounds like he’s going to be okay,” he said to Joe.
    Biff shut off the engine, and Frank helped him out.
    â€œDid you get a look at the car?” Joe asked.
    â€œNo,” Biff said. “It was too dark. All I know is that the guy was flying—he came right at me.”
    â€œHad to be Meredith,” Joe said.
    Biff rubbed at a swelling knot over his left eye. “You’re saying you know the clown who almost killed me?”
    â€œHe’s no friend,” Frank said. “We had a run-in with him back at the scrapyard.” The Hardys proceeded to fill Biff in on everything that had happened to them since the game.
    Biff swore to help them track down the two thugs in the black sedan. “And,” he added, “when you find Meredith, I get first crack at him.”
    â€œGet in line,” Joe said. He walked around to the back of Biff’s car. “Frank, you steer while Biff and I push.”
    The three friends soon had the car back on the road, and Biff got behind the wheel.
    â€œWatch it, Frank,” he said, as his pal started to settle into the front passenger seat.
    Frank glanced at the floor of the car. There, he saw a crumpled cardboard box and a circle of golden brown crust.
    â€œOh, don’t tell me . . .” Joe moaned from the backseat.
    â€œYup,” Biff said. “I brought you guys a hot pizza, but it looks like it took a header in the crash.”
    Frank gingerly lifted the pie and flipped it back into the box. The floor was covered with a wet, gooey mix of cheese and sauce.
    â€œSorry,” Biff said.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Joe said, motioning for Frank to hand him the box. “I’m not letting this thing go to waste.”
    Biff and Frank grimaced in disgust as Joe scooped up some loose cheese and pepperoni and glopped them on a soggy chunk of crust. He slurped in a stray strand of mozzarella.
    â€œMmm. Still hot,” he said.
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    By the time Biff dropped the Hardys off at their van and they made it home, it was past ten o’clock. They found their mother, Laura Hardy, sitting on the living room couch, reading a magazine.
    She looked up and smiled. “I’m glad to see you’re home. Your game must have gone into extra innings.”
    Joe glanced at his older brother. He didn’t want to be the one to break the news about their mother’s car.
    â€œJoe pitched a great game, Mom,” Frank said, stalling for time. He clapped his brother on the sore spot on his back. “Ten strikeouts—right,