Bonfire Masquerade by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

spine. If they were headed to the restaurant, it could mean only one thing:They’d found some evidence linking Andrew to the crimes. He would be in custody before the night was over.
    If I could put up with him for that long. I tuned back into the conversation in time to hear Andrew describe the haircut he was going to get for the party tomorrow, which was like his haircut now, but shorter. But not too much shorter. Just a little bit shorter.
    I leaned across the table to Bess.
    â€œI think Frank, Joe, and George might be dropping by for dessert,” I whispered.
    Bess smiled. She knew what that meant. “Awesome!”
    Ten minutes later, the door to the Joint swung open, and in they walked. Andrew shut up immediately.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he said, standing up from the table.
    â€œAndrew Richelieu? We have reason to believe that you’ve been involved with the robbery and arson of thirteen different properties in the city. We’ve notified the police, and they will be at your house with a search warrant by the time you get home,” said Joe, with obvious relish.
    â€œWhat? This is ridiculous. I’m calling my lawyer.”
    â€œI wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Frank. “If you cooperate, and give us the names of the other people involved, we are willing to offer you a deal.”
    â€œAaron, help me out here,” said Andrew, looking desperate. “This is preposterous.”
    They must have found proof! This was great. We’d have this case wrapped up by tomorrow.
    â€œAaron,” said Bess. “Talk to him. Tell him to come clean. Frank and Joe are friends of ours—they’ll help him.”
    Aaron stood up. His wolf-yellow eyes turned cold.
    â€œAndrew, they’ve got you. You should do the right thing. Turn yourself in. You need help. Trust me.”
    Andrew flushed with rage. “What? How dare you!”
    With no warning, he flung himself across the table at Aaron. The two of them went down in a heap. The table was smashed. The dishes went flying. A waiter came running out of the kitchen, took one look at the scene, and ran back inside.
    Andrew had his hands around Aaron’s throat. Bess and I rushed over to pull Andrew off him, but before we could, Aaron rolled over and slammed Andrew to the ground.
    By the time we separated them, Andrew was unconscious.
    I checked his pulse. It was weak. I slapped his cheek, but he didn’t respond.
    â€œGet an ambulance!” I yelled. “He’s unconscious.”
    Dark black and blue marks were already rising on Aaron’s neck, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. They both needed medical attention, now.
    It took long minutes before the ambulance finally arrived. Aaron waved them away, saying he was fine, and insisted that they take Andrew to the hospital first.
    Frank and Joe tried to get into the ambulance with Andrew, but the emergency medical technicians forbade it.
    â€œPolice and family only, I’m afraid,” said one. The Hardys’ ATAC badges might get them a lot of places, but it wasn’t going to work here.
    â€œTake my car,” said Aaron, holding up the keys.
    â€œI’ll get a cab. Go!”
    â€œThank you,” said Frank.
    â€œI’ll make sure he gets home safely,” said Bess. “Nancy, you go with them.”
    I was torn. I didn’t want Bess to be alone. But I wanted to hear more about what had happened. And if Andrew woke up, I wanted to be there for it.
    â€œI’ll go with them, Nance,” added George. “You go with Frank and Joe.”
    That decided it. We hopped in the car and raced to the hospital.
    The emergency room was filled with party-related injuries. Bloodstained costumes and broken masks were everywhere. It looked like a massacre at a circus. If I hadn’t been so focused on Andrew, I would have been terrified.
    â€œWe’re here to see Andrew Richelieu,” Joe said at the