I SPENT THE REST of the day briefing Denny and Malcolm MacNiff. Denny was packing his bags but said, “I wouldn’t miss it for a Pulitzer, chum.”
Nifty was not as sanguine. “Can’t we leave well enough alone, Archy?”
If two murders and a fortune to the perpetrators was well enough, what was Nifty’s definition of a miscarriage of justice? Guccibaggers lunching at a gentleman’s club, I suspect. I trust Mrs. MacNiff was telling her husband to get with it.
I picked up Denny at his hotel and we drove directly to the station house, where I had arranged to meet Al and the lieutenant at nine. Al was in uniform, Eberhart was not. The four of us were driven to Todd’s house in an unmarked police vehicle, after which the driver left the scene. A second police vehicle unloaded three backup officers in civilian dress who were to remain outside and out of sight unless needed.
Todd had chosen to wear the PB uniform of the youth brigade: sneakers, jeans and white sweatshirt with sleeves pushed up above the elbows. “We who are about to die salute you,” he welcomed us into his home. He was either calmer than any of us or a better actor than I suspected.
“You don’t have to do this,” Lieutenant Eberhart said. “It’s not too late to back out, son. Say the word and we’ll abort the mission.”
“The show will go on, Lieutenant,” Todd told him.
Denny was scribbling in shorthand on a minipad with a ballpoint. “It’s B-R-A-N-D-T. Right, Todd?”
“Yes, Mr. Darling. But for the press it’s Rick Brandt, Jackson Barnett’s costar.”
After that show of bravado we settled down to pacing and looking at our watches. The meeting was scheduled for ten. I asked where Monica was this evening.
“Working,” Todd said. “She’s staying with a friend tonight.”
A few minutes before the appointed hour we went out to the patio and took our places. I turned for a final look at Todd and mouthed, “Break a leg, kid.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and forced a smile. If Denny hadn’t nudged me forward I would have turned back and fled, taking Todd with me.
Denny and I took the right wall, Al and Eberhart the left. As planned we left the sliding glass door open a crack.
The early-morning rain had given way to a light drizzle in the afternoon and partial clearing later on. Now it changed its mind and began to pour as we stood, rigid, our backs to the wall. In minutes we were drenched, but I doubt any of us noticed. The rain muffled any sounds coming from within but in a matter of minutes we heard voices raised in anger. There were two of them. Claus and his son, surely. Then the sound of doors opening and banging shut as one of them searched the apartment.
Water ran down the back of my neck and over my face. I held my breath as the patio light came on. A second later it went out. I heard the sliding door close and the unmistakable click of the lock falling into place. I was paralyzed with fear. We were locked out and Todd was in there with two killers. There was a flash of lightning and the distant sound of thunder bringing with it my father’s warning, A man who would chloroform a boy and shove him into a pool to drown is deranged...
I made a dash for the sliding door when I heard the first shot. What had I done? Oh, God, what had I done? I stumbled, and Denny collided into my back. A second shot. A third. When I gained my footing and wiped the water out of my eyes I saw Al Rogoff firing at the lock. In seconds he had the door open and was in the room, followed by Eberhart. The men stationed outside entered from the opposite direction.
Al was pulling Claus Brecht off Todd, who was reeling from the pad Brecht had pressed against Todd’s mouth. Eberhart went for Hans who was kneeling, his arms in a brace around Todd’s struggling legs.
“Get an ambulance for the kid,” one of the men shouted.
Denny and I were beside Todd, holding him steady.
He looked at me, panting, and gasped, “My performance made you cry, Mr. McNally.”
“It’s the rain, you conceited ham. It’s the rain.”
There was a crack of light coming from under the door of my father’s den. I tapped lightly and looked in. Father was seated behind his desk and I was even more surprised to see Mother in her nightgown and robe, her hair in a long braid, nodding in a chair.
“Archy?” Father called when he saw me.
“It’s me, sir.”
“Was it a good show, Archy?”
“It was a splendid show, sir.”
Mother opened her eyes. “Oh, Archy” she said. “Your father was so late coming to bed, I came down to see what he was up to and I must have fallen asleep in my chair. How silly of me.”
“Yes,” Father said, “we were both a bit silly, it seems, staying up till all hours.”
A simple thank-you seemed so inadequate; anything more, unnecessary.
“Now let’s all go to bed,” Mother said. “And if we get up late enough, we can have breakfast with Archy.”