Confessions of a Murder Suspect Read online

  “You could have used some kind of time-release formula,” I said. “You encapsulated a poison and put it into a bottle of something, and my parents innocently—”

  “Get out of here,” our uncle said. “All of you.”

  He looked as if I’d struck him across the face with a whip. And I saw something else, too. There were tears in his eyes. Uncle Peter was actually crying.

  “Did you hear what I said?” His voice was shaking.

  My brothers stared mutely, but then Hugo, who had been sitting beside me, got up and walked over to Uncle Peter—and tipped his chair back. The wheels shot out from under the chair and Peter went down with a satisfying crash.

  “I hate you for turning us into freaks,” Hugo said, standing over our uncle. “I hate you with all my heart. Just like I hated them.”

  Uncle Peter scrambled to his feet and lunged at Hugo, but Matthew swiftly intervened and shoved Peter against the wall and held him there, about a foot off the ground.

  “I’m your guardian!” our uncle shouted. “I can turn some of you over to the state, understand me? Without me, you three underage ingrates are wards of the state.” Uncle Peter had turned bright red, and it occurred to me that he might have a heart attack right there in front of us.

  I said, “Matty, let him go. Let him go! He didn’t kill Malcolm and Maud.”

  62

  How did I know that? To be honest, I didn’t. But he was right. He could turn us over to the state, and despite his obvious hatred for us, the fact of the matter was that he couldn’t have been at our apartment when Malcolm and Maud were killed.

  “Nice going, Tandy,” said Matthew. “You really bit off more than you could chew there.”

  “You’re going to blame me for this?” I fixed him with a steely glare. “You were backing me up the whole time, until he brought out the part about witnesses.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Harry. “We all heard how Uncle Peter talked about his brother. He loved Malcolm. He couldn’t have killed him any more than we could kill one another. Right?”

  “Whatever,” Hugo said, punching the air. “Tipping him over was the best part.”

  As we left Hell’s Kitchen in the town car, Virgil looked at us anxiously through the rearview mirror.

  “Are you kids okay? We’re going to the police station on Eighty-second Street, right?”

  “There’s been a change of plans, Virgil,” I said in a small, raspy voice. “Please take us home.”

  Since discovering that Uncle Peter and our father had used us as guinea pigs, I had been feeling enough fury to ignite the family business and burn the building down. I leaned back against the dark leather seat as my three brothers talked about what they wanted to do to Uncle Pig.

  Matthew was saying, “I can’t believe what we just did in there. I think Uncle Pig could get me on assault. Tandy, you could get charged with libel or something like that. And, Hugo. What happened to you, little man?”

  “I had to stick up for us. I felt… angry. Violent.”

  “I’ve been there,” said Matty. “Like, every day of my life.”

  I was feeling an ache that I didn’t recognize. It was as if there were a radioactive seed inside my chest, growing hotter and more toxic by the minute.

  Was I suffering from a guilty conscience? Had the pill called Num protected me from this feeling until now? And what did I feel so guilty about? Uncle Peter had been instrumental in drugging his own family. That was heinous. That was criminal.

  But had he committed murder?

  I really wasn’t so sure. I kept thinking about how he’d flinched when I’d accused him. And I had seen him cry.

  Still, I’d accused him publicly. Everyone in his entire office probably heard what I’d said. And if he didn’t kill Maud and Malcolm, I’d done him wrong.

  I said to my brothers, “Uncle Peter might be Dr. Frankenstein. He might even be a murderer. But I have to account for what I did to him. I have to apologize for that.”

  “Are you kidding?” Matthew said.

  I shook my head. “I have to take back what I said.”

  Hugo said, “Are you really sorry? Or are you just saying you’re sorry because you feel you have to say it? You’re supposed to apologize with a true heart. Samantha told me that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘true heart’?” I asked.

  Hugo shrugged. Harry laughed. Matthew snorted.

  I glared at my brothers. “What?”

  “If you have to ask, it kind of defeats the purpose,” said Matthew.

  “Aw, Tandy, I feel sorry for you.” Harry smiled wistfully. “I think getting off the drugs is gonna be great for you.”

  I sniffed, feeling patronized. But… it was true. In some ways, I was like a child.

  And that was going to change, really soon.

  I pulled out my phone and googled apology and found that a true apology has three components.

  One: I’m sorry.

  Two: I promise never to do it again.

  Three: What can I do to make it up to you?

  And four, according to Hugo by way of Samantha, an apology has to be made with a true heart. I guessed that meant I’d need to be sincere.

  I didn’t really know how to do that. I still hated Uncle Peter for his role in all of this. He’d stepped into our personal business many more times than you even know about.

  But I would have to try, because I had been wrong.

  And even though my parents were gone, I still felt horrified by the thought that they would be ashamed of me.

  63

  I called Peter. Here’s what I said.

  “Uncle Peter, it’s Tandy.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sincerely sorry for accusing you of killing my parents. I know you loved Malcolm—”

  He hung up on me.

  I called him back two more times, and when he didn’t answer, I left my full apology on his voice mail. Then I called Sergeant Caputo. In a strange way, I felt like apologizing to him, too. He was driven to the point of being abusive—just like I’d been—but I thought he was trying his best to solve the murders.

  “It’s Tandoori Angel. I have reason to believe that Peter Angel is shipping illegal drugs to China. Yes, I’m sending you some photos via e-mail right now. You may want to notify the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  After sending the incriminating photos to Caputo, I clicked off my phone and looked out the window as we sped up the West Side Highway.

  It was starting to rain. I calmed myself by counting the swipes of the windshield wipers and relaxing into the whooshing sound of our wheels speeding over the wet pavement.

  And I had the recurring thought that had been driving me since I found out that Malcolm and Maud were dead.

  In fact, I felt it more strongly than ever.

  Whoever had killed my parents had been an “inside” person who was certain that he was smart enough to outwit all of us.

  I didn’t know if he’d robbed us of our parents or liberated us. Either way or both ways, I couldn’t let the killer continue to live among us unpunished.

  I couldn’t let the killer win.

  CONFESSION

  I just need to clarify something. When I apologized to Uncle Peter, it wasn’t the first time I’d ever apologized to someone.

  After all, Malcolm and Maud taught us manners. They taught us how to say “I’m sorry” when we accidentally spilled something on their expensive Italian furniture, or when we were rude to our siblings, or when we had offended our elders.

  They just never really talked about how to realize when you’ve hurt someone, and then once you realize it, to own up to it, and to tell them you’re sorry. With a true heart.

  And now that I know about this “true heart” thing, I’m realizing that this isn’t the first time I’ve ever apologized to someone about a really bad thing I did.

  I apologized to Harry once, didn’t I? It feels like so long ago. Little bits of a mosaic are floating into
my memory, with pieces missing in between them. It’s like I can only remember flashes before everything gets whisked away.

  I hear Harry crying, “How could you? How could you not tell me about him? About any of it? How could you try to escape without me? You left me alone—to be eaten by the tigers!”

  And the worst part: I hear my sweet twin brother screaming at me, “I hate you!”

  I had abandoned him, hadn’t I? My dearest brother, my flesh and blood. What was I thinking? I’d been so selfish.

  Is this what falling in love does to a person? Does it make you lose all sense? Is that why my parents wanted to shelter me from it?

  I hear myself apologizing to Harry, begging for forgiveness: I’m so sorry, Harry. I don’t understand why I left. I deserve to be hated, shunned, punished—with no mercy.

  And I remember the promise I made: I promise I’ll never abandon you, or anyone in this family, again.

  Including Malcolm and Maud.

  Which was why I was so bound and determined to find their killer. I owed it to them.

  64

  “Oh, God, I can’t take this anymore,” said Harry. “I really can’t take it.”

  Satellite vans from local and national news outlets lined Central Park West, spilling around the corner and down Seventy-second Street, circling the Dakota like a twenty-first-century wagon train.

  “Try to think of it this way,” I said to Harry. “We want the same thing as the press. They want to know who did it, and why.”

  Virgil parked in a no-parking zone, a prohibited space next to a fire hydrant right in front of the building. The rain was coming down even harder than before. High winds were thrashing treetops in the park and gusting up the avenue.

  A hundred black umbrellas lifted and riffled in the wind.

  “Just look at the buzzards,” Hugo said. “I’d like to punch every single one of them in the face.”

  “That’s my baby brother, Hugo,” Matty said, and laughed out loud. “Let him out!”

  It was astonishing.

  All of these reporters were waiting for us.

  I’d seen pictures of the media frenzy after John Lennon had been shot, murdered by a lunatic at the Dakota. This was what the media circus looked like then. And now there was another juicy story that would not die. A prominent couple had been murdered, and one or all of their kids had likely done it. A quote from any of us, or even from a nosy neighbor, would make headlines and secure the top-of-the-hour news slot.

  “Ready to do this, Matthew?” Virgil said.

  We all took a deep breath and got out of the car. With Matthew and Virgil parting the crowd, we bumped along in formation, ducking rain and umbrellas as we headed toward the Dakota’s front doors.

  We were almost there when a woman slammed into me and said, “Whoops, I’m sorry.” It was Kaylee Kerz, a reporter I’d seen on ESPN so many times that I felt as though I knew her. But apart from the “whoops,” she didn’t notice me. Her eyes were on Matty.

  “Matthew! Matthew, could you comment on your suspension from the NFL?”

  If it hadn’t been so unnerving to be in the thick of such mayhem, I would have laughed out loud at the idea of the NFL suspending my brother. They would never do that. He was the icon of all sports icons. He was a superstar.

  But when Matthew turned to her, I saw his expression, and he wasn’t shocked at what the TV reporter had asked him. He didn’t look as though the ground had opened up under him, either. He didn’t even look angry.

  Matthew almost always looked angry.

  “Hi, Kaylee. Nice to see you,” he said. “Want to make some news together?”

  65

  Five minutes later I was sitting next to Harry in our home theater, watching Matty talking to Kaylee Kerz on the TV.

  “I’m well aware of the suspension,” Matthew said to her, “but it’s bogus. My reputation has been harmed by this illegal action, and my lawyers are drawing up a lawsuit against the NFL as we speak.”

  “Can you please elaborate, Matthew? I’m sure your fans would like to know what’s behind this news, and they’d like to hear it from you, in your own words.”

  Matthew nodded and said to the reporter, “This isn’t really about my words. Every NFL contract contains a clause that states there are certain player infractions that are considered detrimental to the league. So if you attempt to fix a game, get caught with drugs, shoot yourself in the foot with a gun, hold up a bank—anything like that—you can be suspended, maybe indefinitely.

  “The commissioner is saying that because I was arrested, I’m ‘impairing public confidence’ in the league.”

  “But the charges against you were dropped,” said Ms. Kerz.

  “Exactly,” Matthew said. He seemed to be stroking the reporter with his eyes. “The charge against me was for ‘interfering’ with the police. But it’s false. It never happened. The only place I run interference is on the field, and since I’m a receiver, I don’t even do that very often.”

  The reporter tilted her face up to Matthew and laughed—somewhat flirtatiously, in my opinion. So what else is new?

  “But I have a feeling that this suspension has nothing to do with my one night in jail,” Matthew continued. “I think it has to do with my personal life. And you know, Kaylee, there’s nothing in my contract that says a complicated love life is punishable by suspension.”

  “Of course not,” said Kaylee Kerz.

  Other reporters were shouting questions, closing in, angling microphones and cameras toward my brother as the wet wind blew around him. He didn’t flinch.

  “Thanks for the opportunity to go on the record,” Matty said.

  “Matthew, what about the deaths of your parents? What can you tell us?”

  “I have no firsthand knowledge and no comment about this tragedy that’s happened to my family,” he said. He gave the camera a little wave and a thumbs-up before he walked away from the reporter and toward the Dakota’s entrance.

  Kerz turned back to face the lens.

  “That was Matthew Angel, answering our questions about his suspension by the National Football League. He said unequivocally that—”

  I clicked off the television and Hugo, Harry, and I stared at one another in disbelief until we heard our front door open.

  Matty poked his head around the corner. “How’d I do?”

  “Great. Really well done, Matty.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “So why didn’t you tell us about the suspension?”

  Matty shrugged. “You didn’t give me a chance. As soon as I saw you, you were practically threatening to tell the NFL that I was guilty of taking performance-enhancing drugs. You wanted me out anyway, didn’t you?”

  “Of course not! I—”

  “And don’t you talk to me about keeping stuff to myself, Tandy,” Matthew growled. “You’re guilty of that more than anyone else in this family.”

  I was silent. Guilty. Harry jumped weakly to my defense. “Tandy selectively discusses,” he offered. “She doesn’t hide.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, it proves my point.” Matthew chortled. “It’s all about spin.”

  Hugo leapt from his chair and shouted “Hup!” as he went barreling into his hero’s arms.

  As the two headed for Hugo’s room, I thought about Matty’s interview.

  Everything in Matty’s life was going directly down the drain: dead parents, pregnant girlfriend who was saying the baby wasn’t his, and tarnish on his sterling reputation that might get him booted out of the big league. Yet, none of that loss and chaos had been evident when he’d spoken with a reporter who could salvage his reputation.

  It’s all in the spin.

  Why did that suddenly sound scary to me?

  Matthew had not only won Kaylee Kerz over, he’d represented himself perfectly and then effortlessly deflected her questions about our parents’ murders.

  The ability to perform flawlessly under pressure was what made Malcolm think that Matty could be president one day.<
br />
  It was also why he thought Matthew was a sociopath.

  66

  News of the Angel family scandal was aired on every channel that night.

  It’s crazy to see yourself on television—crazy in a really bad way. You have no control over what people say about you. They can lie viciously, and they do. I’m beginning to have some compassion for Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears and everybody else caught in the media glare.

  Believe me, it’s beyond awful.

  Three one-hour specials about our family were going to air in the same time slot. Under Suspicion was the most outrageous of the shows. The host was Anthony Imbimbo, who was known for his investigative reporting of true-crime stories. That night’s special episode was titled “Under Suspicion: The New York Angel Family, Part One.”

  The piece started with footage of our parents’ bodies being roughly unloaded from the ambulance behind the medical examiner’s office at dawn. Then Imbimbo narrated the fast-forward version of our parents’ lives in tiny bio snippets. Malcolm and Maud were portrayed as coldhearted capitalists without any humanity.

  “The Angel family is no stranger to scandal, dating back to the Angel dynasty’s patriarch, William Harrison Angel, who, as a result of his spectacular gambling habit, lost more than half of the giant fortune he acquired by investing in Manhattan real estate. Still, the family managed to hold on to their magnificent wealth, and to increase it by many millions over the next several generations. In fact, for nearly a century, an often-mocked urban legend has circulated in elite Manhattan society about an actual Angel family guardian angel, supernaturally bound by God—or perhaps the devil—to ensure that the family is protected from any trouble it makes. And trouble, it seems, has a habit of seeking out the Angels.”

  I rolled my eyes, amazed that such a silly story had found a way to live on into the twenty-first century. Despite how many still believe in the American dream, people never seem to grasp that our wealth has come from hard work. They have to make up stories that explain it away.