James Patterson - Confessions of a Murder Suspect

It was about the Angels, to be sure, but I couldn’t tell if Crosby was going to savage us or if the title was a setup designed to seduce viewers before overturning their preconceptions.

At any rate, the film project never happened, at least not to my knowledge. Nate Crosby continued being friendly, and my parents liked him as much as they liked anyone at the Dakota.

But for the purposes of my investigation, it didn’t matter if my parents liked him or not. I was a detective. And since some of Crosby’s rooms abutted ours, he was an obvious person to interview. Had he heard anything the night “my folks”—as Detective Hayes called them—were killed? Did he have any theories about the murders?

I put my ear to his front door and heard faint sounds coming from inside. I pressed the doorbell, counted to thirty-five, and then pressed it again.

Finally I heard the metal clanking of the latch being turned, and then the door opened.

“My goodness, Tandy Angel! The spitting image of your mother, God rest her soul. We have so much to talk about. Please, come right in.”

30

Nate Crosby’s sandy hair was combed from back to front, and he wore a yellow cardigan and dark gray slacks.

“Tandy, I was just about to call you, but I didn’t want to intrude. Please come in. I’ve been feeling awful about what happened, and wondering if I could help in any small way. Where are your brothers? Will you be taking some time off from school?”

I murmured that I hadn’t really thought about it yet, but would discuss it with my siblings later. I thanked him for his kindness and followed him into the heart of the living room, a clean and monkish space that hardly looked lived in. A large flat-screen television was mounted over the fireplace; I looked up to see a network newscaster talking about my parents, a picture of Malcolm and Maud floating next to his head.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Mr. Crosby said. He picked up the remote and switched off the set. I sat down across from him in a slatted wooden chair.

“What can I do to help you, Tandy? You and your brothers can count on me for anything.”

I told him that my uncle Peter had moved in temporarily and that Matthew was taking care of Hugo, but that I had some questions.

“Did you notice anything unusual, Mr. Crosby? I thought that with your cinematic eye, you may have noticed something that no one else would have seen.”

Crosby started to smile, then held it back in a way that made him look seriously constipated. “I’ve been thinking along the same lines, Tandy. After the police left, I scrutinized my memories for anything out of the ordinary, anything your parents may have said to me, or anything that struck me as remarkable.”

“And did something come to you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” He gave me a kind but patronizing look. “What was remarkable was how much they loved all of you. They considered all of you so precious—and even more so after your sister died.”

Listening to Nate Crosby’s drivel was almost as bad as enduring potshots from Morris Sampson. And frankly, both of them had a motive for killing my parents.

With the Angels dead, Morris Sampson could write another book about them—and probably not get sued. Unless I sued that nasty little man…

Which begged the question: Were the Angel children next on the killer’s hit list?

Nate Crosby could make his documentary, and with us out of the way, he could tell our family’s story any way he wanted.

My eyes must have glazed over as I considered these possibilities. I came back to myself at the sound of Nate Crosby saying my name.

“Tandy, when may I call on your family?”

“We’ll see you at the funeral,” I said, and without adding a thank-you or a good-bye, I got up and left Crosby’s apartment.

There was a meeting scheduled in our apartment, and I was already late.

31

Our family’s psychologist, the noted—and controversial—Dr. Florence Keyes, was in the living room when I got there. She was talking with Samantha, who had called for the session.

Dr. Keyes looked up when I entered the room and said, “Hi, Tandy, sweetie. Come sit down.”

We’d known Dr. Keyes our entire lives, it seemed. She’d been training all of us to “deal with” our emotions since we were old enough to throw tantrums. We each saw her once a month, on different days—I was every second Tuesday—but never in a group setting like this. I wondered if it would make things more difficult to do this together.

Hugo had been doing pretty well with mastering his emotions, somehow channeling them all into his physical strength. Matthew stopped going to sessions the second he graduated from high school, which probably explained why he’s now so prone to outbursts—say, for example, the Heisman incident. He didn’t used to be that way.

And poor Harry… After eight years of intensive therapy, Dr. Keyes asked to start seeing him once a week. She just couldn’t break through to him. Harry told me she never tired of coming up with new theories and methods for working with him. I’d observed the way she stared at him—almost like he was a great, raw diamond, just waiting for her to cut and polish to her liking. He was her greatest professional challenge.

I had a feeling Samantha was particularly concerned about how Harry was going to handle our parents’ deaths. He was already like a ticking emo bomb. When was he going to explode?

As for me, well, I was Dr. Keyes’s star patient. I was virtually a living, breathing manifestation of her doctoral thesis, “Binding the Soul: One Doctor’s Quest to Eradicate Emotionality in the Interest of Moving Humanity into its Next Evolutionary Phase.”

Once we were all assembled, Dr. Keyes settled carefully into the Pork Chair. She smiled at the freaked-out lot of us who faced her across the shark-tank coffee table.

“Before we start talking,” she said, “let’s remember that you’re all going to be okay. You’ll get through this. Your parents have provided for you. You are all smart, capable children who have been prepared for anything and everything—even this, the ultimate tragedy. You are strong. Stronger than most adults. There’s nothing to fear. Believe in yourselves!”

There was a lot of shuffling and staring.

“Do you all believe in yourselves?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Hugo chirped. It was all a game to him.

“Perfect. Who else believes in himself? Matthew? I haven’t seen you in so long, dear. How have you been?”

“Our parents were just murdered , for God’s sake,” Matthew said, leaning forward, clenching his fists. “I hated Malcolm and Maud. But no one had the right to do that to them. No one!”

Dr. Keyes said, “Matthew, I understand. You have every right to be angry. But let’s remember the exercises we did together years ago, dear, to dissolve the anger, rid yourself of this poison. It’s all mind over matter—”

“Murdering two people in their bed is unconscionable . I’m mad enough to kill someone myself . And I wouldn’t be circumspect about it. If I found the killer, I’d kill him in plain sight.”

“Matty!” Dr. Keyes drew in a sharp breath. “Clearly you and I need to have a private session before your irrational rage gets out of control—”

“ Irrational ? Are you kidding me? I’m done . That’s it . And don’t call me Matty— Florence !”