A Game Called Chaos by Franklin W. Dixon

back.”
    Frank nodded. “Yeah. Though that doesn’t rule out Zeb, or anyone else, helping Royal on this crazy stunt. None of the suspects we’ve got seem to have the skills to pull this prank off by themselves. Not even Royal.”
    â€œBut the only one who has a motive to help Royal in messing with Viking is Rosenberg,” Joe said. “The other two guys seem to hate Royal’s guts. Hey, do you think maybe this is some kind of a scheme by Royal and Rosenberg to break Royal’s contract with Viking?”
    â€œIf it is,” Frank said, “Rosenberg would need really great lawyers to pull it off. The courts would frown upon antics like this.”
    â€œWell, it doesn’t seem much like a prank to me, or my company,” Chelsea said. “This stunt could cost us everything.”
    â€œAnd maybe that’s Royal and Rosenberg’s plan.If Viking went out of business, Royal’s contract would be void, wouldn’t it?” Joe asked.
    â€œI’d have to ask our lawyers,” Chelsea said. “I suspect that Dave is having them go over that contract with a fine-tooth comb right about now.”
    Just then the doorbell rang. “Pizza man,” said a voice on the intercom.
    Chelsea got up to press the button to buzz him in, then stopped. “I hope it’s not Zeb again. I wouldn’t put it past him to hang around and bribe the delivery guy.”
    Frank and Joe got up. “We’ll go downstairs to get it,” said Frank. He and Joe exited the apartment and went down to the front door.
    When they got there they found a delivery boy waiting with their pizzas. Frank paid the bill and watched the kid walk back to his truck.
    â€œDoesn’t look old enough to drive, does he?” Joe said. “Hey! Who’s that messing with the van?”
    Sure enough, someone was prowling around the Hardys’ van. The brothers set the pizzas down and dashed out the door for their car.
    â€œIf this is Winters again, I’m going to deck him for sure,” Joe said.
    â€œNot if I do it first,” Frank said.
    The figure poking around the van didn’t notice the Hardys coming. Joe grabbed the person by the shoulder and said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
    The person spun around. She was a medium-tall, thin woman in a tan trench coat and slouch hat. She had short-cropped black hair and a roundish face. She wasn’t much older than the Hardys, but her outfit—a fedora and trench coat—reminded Frank of something from a thirties detective movie.
    â€œMe?” said the woman. She seemed shocked at being caught. Frank and Joe nodded solemnly at her. “I was just looking around. I’m buying a new car soon, and I was thinking about buying this kind of van.”
    â€œIt looked like you were trying to break into this particular van,” Joe said.
    â€œNo, no. You’ve misunderstood,” the woman said.
    â€œMaybe the police should decide if we’ve misunderstood,” Frank said.
    The woman sighed and her shoulders slouched forward a bit. “Okay, you got me. No need to call the police. My name is Samantha Rockford, my friends call me Sam. I’m a private detective working for Ron Rosenberg. Do you know him?”
    â€œWe’ve met,” Joe said. Something about this woman didn’t seem right to him. Perhaps it was her clothes, or maybe it was the way she kept glancing around as she spoke. She seemed to be looking for something, though Joe couldn’t spot what.
    â€œWell,” Sam continued, “he hired me to check up on Steven Royal. Rosenberg says he’s gone missing.”
    â€œReally?” Joe said, raising an eyebrow at his brother.
    â€œAnd why are you here?” Frank asked.
    â€œI was checking Royal’s known associates. When I saw you guys fraternizing with Sirkin before, I figured you might know something about the case.”
    â€œSo you decided to