James Patterson - Confessions of a Murder Suspect

Harry looked at my doubtfully. Even in death our parents were still controlling him through their rules. “Okay,” he finally said, smiling through his tears. “I’ll stop being a druggie if you do.”

“Good,” I said, patting his hand and leaving him to his painting. We were one step closer to figuring everything out.

37

The doorbell rang at 7:26 the next morning, and this time I was ready for them. I wore jeans and a soft black cashmere turtleneck. I had brushed my hair, and I’d had coffee.

I opened the door and said to Caputo and Hayes, “What a surprise.”

Caputo stepped around me and into the foyer. I flipped the light switch and the UFO blazed overhead and played the musical signature from Spielberg’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind .

Hayes looked up at the light fixture and smiled. I was actually starting to like him a little. Not too much, though.

“Your parents must have been hilarious,” he said.

I said, “Is this a social call? Or should I phone our lawyer?”

I didn’t like the way-too-smug look on Caputo’s face. Actually, I never liked his looks. At all.

“You should round up your brothers and your nanny,” said Caputo. He didn’t say please.

“Samantha is not our nanny.”

“Whatever she is, just get her, Tinker Bell. We’ll wait.”

I called Philippe Montaigne. My call went to voice mail, so I left a message. Then I went down the hall to the bedroom wing. Since my uncle had issued a stern “do not disturb” order, I complied. My pleasure.

When my three brothers, Samantha, and I had assembled around the shark table, Caputo said directly to me, “We found fingerprints on the poison bottle, Tippytoes. Your prints.”

My stomach dropped at the accusation, and my face felt hot. I wasn’t sure my mouth would work properly. I had that disconcerting feeling of being out of control again.

None of my brothers said a word. Harry looked like he was about to cry again, and Hugo and Matthew just stared. Thanks for the support, bros. Really appreciate it.

Samantha looked shocked, too, but quickly opened her mouth to (I hoped) proclaim my innocence. I held up a hand and forced myself to speak instead.

“Are you seriously claiming that my prints are on the poison bottle? That’s completely ridiculous.”

“They’re your prints, missy. Let’s hear how they got on that bottle.”

“If I actually had poisoned my parents, I would never make a dumb mistake like leaving my prints on the murder weapon. Trust me on that, dicks. No offense. That’s slang for detective, isn’t it?” This was something I never would have said forty-eight hours earlier. I wasn’t sure I recognized myself anymore.

They just stared at me as I looked from one to the other of them. Then I got it.

“You don’t have any fingerprints, do you?” I said. “That was a lie. You were trying to trap me because you have nothing. Having no evidence in the murders of a prominent couple like our parents is probably pretty embarrassing. Could hurt your careers.”

Caputo said, “You’re cute when you’re mad, Tilly—”

“Tandoori!” I yelled at the same time that Matthew stood up, all 215 pounds of him. His arms were crossed over his chest and he stepped in front of me. As he did so, Samantha came to sit next to me on the couch.

“Anything else you want to falsely accuse my sister of, dicks?” Matthew said menacingly as he loomed over them.

“Not so fast, Mr. Heisman. We’re not finished here,” Caputo said, standing up as well. “Tan-doori Angel,” he said, drawing out my name. “You are under arrest for obstructing governmental administration in the second degree. You’re coming with us.”

38

“You can’t take Tandy!” Hugo shouted, jumping up in front of me, alongside Matthew. Harry got up slowly, too, and stood on Matthew’s other side. Meanwhile, I was busy imagining myself standing in a snowbank, kind of like a snow girl—another Keyesian technique. I relaxed my scowl.

When I felt cool and sweet, I asked, “And how, exactly, have I obstructed governmental administration?”

Caputo said, “I thought you knew everything, Tiddlywinks.”

Hayes stepped in and paraphrased from the NYPD playbook. “Obstruction is when a person intentionally obstructs, impairs, or perverts the administration of law, or prevents or attempts to prevent a public servant from performing an official function by means of intimidation, physical force, or interference.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Yes, I know what it is. If you had listened to my question, you’d know I asked you how I obstructed you in the least.”

Caputo said, “In your case, Tiger Lily, you neglected to mention that your parents had a dinner guest on the night of the murders. And we’re going to combine that deliberate omission with your refusal to cooperate with our investigation. Ditto for you, Harrington—”

“Harrison!”

“You also omitted the dinner from your statement. And as for you, Mr. NFL Rock Star, you have been intimidating and interfering since you arrived the night of the murders.”

Matty scoffed. “You call what I did ‘intimidation’? Please give me a chance to show you what I call intimidation.” I swear I saw his muscles bulge under his shirt.

Caputo and Matty stared at each other, black marbles against blue ice, until Hugo interrupted the face-off.

“You’ve got nothing on me, Potato,” Hugo said, “so hands off. I’m warning you.”

“You’re a material witness,” said Caputo. “Don’t worry, Shrimp Toast. Child Protective Services will confine you with little terrors your own age.” He continued, “Miss Peck, you’re a material witness and a person of interest. That’s officialese for suspect . Maybe when you have a chance to talk to us privately, you’ll have some fresh thoughts that will actually help us with our investigation.

“Anyone too dumb to be afraid, I’m making you a promise: We’re going to nail whoever killed Malcolm and Maud Angel, however many of you were involved—and you can count on that.”

While Hugo jeered, I called Phil a second time. Again, I got his voice mail. I immediately redialed the phone, my eyes wide open with shock, as unblinking as the eyes of our pygmy sharks.

Phil still didn’t answer.

Hugo had been running in circles around the cops, but suddenly he stopped, climbed up on the coffee table, pulled down his drawers, and mooned them. Then he farted.

Hayes laughed.

Caputo said, “Get down from there, you little poop. Your chariot awaits downstairs. In our slang, we call it a paddy wagon.”

They were really doing it.

They were arresting our whole family.

39

New York is one of only two states where the law treats sixteen-year-olds as adults, not juveniles.

This was very bad news for Harry and me.

Caputo and Hayes personally drove us to the Manhattan Department of Correction, aka Central Booking.

“You’re not going to separate us, are you?” Harry croaked. He was so spent from all his crying that he looked like a zombie, ghastly white.