“We’re almost out of street, Joe,” Chet Morton sighed as the pair left the last business on the south end of Main Street.  “There’s nothing but a couple town houses on the rest of this block, then that old bridge.”

“We didn’t check all the places across the road.  We never went into that card shop there,” Joe pointed to a small, quaint storefront with flower-filled window boxes.  “We can go down to the end of this block and cut across the street.”

Joe Hardy led the way past the alley entrance that would take them to the far end of the block. 

“Whoa!” Chet cried as a strong arm shot out and grabbed him. 

“Chet!” Joe shouted and followed his friend into the alley.  Joe froze as he took in the sight of Chet firmly held between two very large men.  The far end of the alley was blocked by a blue van.

Taking a deep breath, Joe stepped forward.  “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Just shut up, kid,” Sonny Black snarled, pulling out a small-caliber hand gun from his waistband.

Joe clenched his fists and held his ground.

“Joe!” Chet cried.  Joe tried to turn, but was grabbed from behind by a goon that was as big as the two holding Chet.  Joe struggled, but the grip on his arms felt like steel bands.

“What do you want from us?” Joe asked again.

A late model Chevy Impala pulled into the mouth of the alley and stopped.  A man about twenty-five years old with dark, curly hair and a thin mustache emerged from the vehicle.

“Well, well, if it ain’t Fatso,” Morris Grafton sneered, walking up between the two captive teenagers.  “Who’s your pretty friend?” Morris smiled sweetly at Joe.  He traced Joe’s cheek with his gloved finger. Joe tried to turn away as the man grabbed his chin.

“What do you creeps want?” the blond Hardy boy asked, carefully concealing his own fears.  Grafton let go of Joe’s chin and gave him an evil grin.

Chet Morton’s face was deadly white.  He’d immediately recognized the man as one of the trio on the bridge the night Lydia was killed.  He was the man with the knife; he was the man that had thrown Lydia off the County Line Bridge.

Joe glanced at Chet and realized his friend recognized the man that was talking. The curly hair and mustache – Chet had described this man to the police and to Sean Prescott.

“Put Fatso and Pretty Boy in the van, tie them up nice and tight,” Morris ordered, letting go of Joe. “You follow,” he ordered Sonny, “I’ll take Gene with me and lead the way.  Just follow me.”

He looked from Chet to Joe, and then said, “You boys are gonna help me discourage any more investigatin’ into that little incident on the old County Line Bridge.”

* * *

“The same party buys those lighters on a regular basis,” Max Boyle explained with a grin.

“Could you tell us about the sale?  Who buys them?” Frank asked anxiously.

“Look,” Max put a hand on Frank’s shoulder and glanced at Mr. Morton, “why don’t you two gentlemen come with me back to my shop?  We can walk there in minutes; it’s just off Main Street near the Cross Roads Bridge.”

“You’ll let us check your invoices?” Frank queried.

“I can do one better,” Max replied.  “I already know that the lighters are purchased by the police department.  But that one,” he pointed to the photos in Frank’s hand, “was engraved.  I might be able to tell you exactly who it was made for, my friend.”

Frank couldn’t help but smile.  This could be the big lead they needed.  “That would be great, Mr. Boyle.”

“Chet and Joe might be jealous when they find out we found the lighter’s owner,” Chester Morton suggested as they made their way toward Main Street from the city park.

“We’d better not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Morton,” Frank advised Chet’s father.  “It could all be a dead end.”

As promised, they were in front of Max Boyle’s gift shop in minutes.  Just as they were about to go inside, an old Chevy Impala roared out of the nearby alley, followed by a blue panel van.

* * *

“Sam,” Fenton greeted his partner when Sam returned the call Fenton had placed earlier.  “How are things going in Bayport?”

“Betty Morton got a call from her sister-in-law, Joyce,” Sam replied.  “I think Betty convinced her that Chet wouldn’t hurt her daughter.  She finally listened to reason and now thinks Betty and Iola should be down there for Chet.”

 “Why don’t you get hold of Jack Wayne?” Fenton suggested.  “I’m sure he’ll be willing to fly you down here.”

“You want me to escort the Morton women to Alabama?”

“Yes, Sam,” Fenton replied.  “Call me when everything is arranged.  Either one of the boys or I will pick you all up.”

“Sounds like a plan, Fent.”

* * *

Police Detectives Everett Calhoun and Chris Masters stood facing Chief of Police Cecil Struthers, and Struthers was not happy.

“Do you know who just called me, gentlemen?  Let me tell you,” Struthers began, pacing back and forth behind his desk.  “District Attorney St. James, that’s who!”

The two detectives exchanged an uneasy glance.

“She explained to me that there was insufficient evidence in the Morton case.  She said we can’t charge Chester Morton, Jr. with anything.  She said we have no evidence to even hold him on, but since we did hold him, we will face a criminal reprimand from the state of Alabama.

“She went on to say that the three of us will be lucky if the Morton family doesn’t press civil injustice charges against us for wrongful imprisonment,” Struthers snarled, his face turning dark red.

“You two are suspended without pay until further notice,” Chief Struthers ordered.  “Turn in your badges and weapons, now.”