James Patterson - Confessions of a Murder Suspect

I was taken to an interview room after breakfast—scrambled powdered eggs—had been served. Philippe arrived and greeted me with a shaky smile on his usually confident and handsome face.

He said, “The police have nothing on you, except that you were home when your parents were killed. The prints on the bottle are smudged, and the toxin is an unknown chemical that doesn’t show up in the poison database.”

“Are you getting me out of here, Philippe?”

“I talked to the DA. He doesn’t like the obstruction charge. He thinks you could be found not guilty, and he’d rather try you for murder if the cops can put together a convincing case. So the DA told the cops to let you go.”

I could hardly breathe. I said, “And my brothers?”

“They’re being released, too, but I have to warn you, Tandy: The police won’t give up. In fact, they’re going to focus almost exclusively on those of you who were inside the apartment when your parents were killed.”

44

I changed into the clothes Philippe had brought me, and then I was officially released. I was desperate to go home, but it wouldn’t be easy to cut and run.

Philippe took me out through the correctional center’s back door, and a roar went up from the mob of reporters who had gathered on the street. They were jamming the sidewalk right up to the face of the jail.

“Tandoori Angel!”

“Tandy, over here !”

“Look at me, Tandy!”

“Did you kill your parents? Did you kill them?”

The shouting hurt . It was a strange, uncomfortable sensation. A few days earlier, I’m sure I could have walked through this crowd hardly noticing the jeers, let alone feeling them. My parents had been dead for just three days, and now it felt like I was being assaulted with rocks.

Philippe put his hand at my back as a gigantic bouquet of microphones was shoved up to my face. I tried to make the statement Phil had coached me to say.

“I had nothing to do with my parents’ deaths—”

My voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger as it echoed and bounced off the surrounding buildings. And before I could finish my prepared statement, I was pelted again with more fierce questions from rude people.

I got mad then. Hugo kind of mad. Matthew kind of mad. Kick-the-bejeesus-out-of-Robert kind of mad. I strangled the microphone in my grip.

“HEY!” I shouted with a sharpness I didn’t recognize. The boom of my voice and the squeal of feedback washed over the reporters. A few of them put their hands over their ears, but they all gave me their full and quiet attention.

“I’m one of the victims!” I continued. “Do you get that? My parents are dead. If I were your child, would you act like this? I suppose you would, actually. You’re all spineless. Rude. Barbarians. And of course you can quote me on that. Quote away.”

The brief silence that followed my outburst was shattered as all of the reporters began shouting at once. Philippe took the microphone from me and spoke to the mob.

“My client is innocent. The charges against the Angel children and Ms. Peck have been dropped. The entire family is cooperating fully with the police. We have no further comment at this time.”

A pair of uniformed cops appeared beside me. One of them said, “This way, Miss Angel. Come this way.” He actually seemed sort of nice as he reached out to take my arm and lead me inside, but I felt a little out of control and had to force myself not to push him away.

I did not want anyone to touch me. I just wanted to be with my family. What was left of it, anyway.

A dozen or so policemen linked arms and made a path for Philippe and me that would take us back into the relative safety of Central Booking. As I passed through the gauntlet, someone pinched my arm, hard . I yelped and turned in time to see a white-haired cop give me a cold smile.

He didn’t have to say it. He thought I was a killer.

I glared at him so hard and felt so angry that I wondered if I might transform into a tiger or a werewolf, just like in those stupid movies. My mouth was as dry as cotton and my vision was starting to blur.

So this is what fury is like.

Philippe and I were swept through a series of doors to where Phil’s car and driver waited between a Vietnamese take-out restaurant and a bail bondsman’s storefront. I got into the backseat and rested my head against the window, trembling, overcome with weakness.

You’re experiencing withdrawal, Tandy , that voice in my head said. Face it: Your parents had you addicted to drugs.

45

I think I lost consciousness then and didn’t fully regain it until the car stopped in front of the Dakota.

Where we were met by more reporters.

Phil and his driver escorted me quickly through the crowd at the gates, inside the building, and into the elevator. Phil kept saying, over and over, “Don’t let them rattle you, Tandy. You’re going to be okay.”

“Promise?”

Uncle Peter opened the front door to us, his face a mask of disapproval. I went into the living room but didn’t see any sign of my brothers.

I was home. But home had never felt like this.

“Matthew is downtown with his slutty actress girlfriend,” my uncle said. “Samantha is out looking for a rental apartment—and good luck to her. Harry is in bed. Hugo kicked a social worker in the shin. That was a mistake. He’s currently buried under a few layers of bureaucracy.”

My little brother was lost in the system? I wasn’t worried that he might be scared, because Hugo isn’t afraid of anything. But Hugo wouldn’t recognize a dangerous situation if it sprouted claws and fangs and spewed fire through its nose.

Hugo would laugh out loud. And that scared me .

I went to his room and stood in the doorway, looking in at the broken bed, the unused toys, the stuffed pony and other relics of the childhood my little brother never really had.

I had to know if Hugo had anything to do with our parents’ deaths. I just couldn’t rule him out, and I needed to rule somebody out soon.

His computer was open on his desk, and I knew his password. I hadn’t been sneaky; Hugo had told me what it was.

I touched the mouse and the computer jumped to life. I punched in Ginats , which is how Hugo spells Giants . Hugo has an IQ in the 160s, but he either can’t or won’t follow the rules of spelling.

I clicked open the file marked “H” and began to read my little brother’s private journal. His early entries were bland and blameless, but as I scrolled down to the more recent entries, I found many mentions of our parents.

Hugo always called them “Malkim ’n’ Mud.”

Tues. 4th. Malkim was ugly 2day. He had a big welt under his eye and a sour look. It was the real Malkim. No fool. He’z an ugly person + he’z not as smrty as he thinx.

In similar entries about “Mud,” Hugo described her as “batty” and “meen.” It was clear that Hugo was sitting on a volcano of anger. I scrolled through his journal until I came to his entries for the previous summer.

Hugo had been only nine, but our parents’ expectations were, of course, that he would bring home academic honors and that he wouldn’t misbehave.

Despite warnings and Big Chops, Hugo consistently started fights with his classmates; he actually knocked out a total of three teeth, and was unabashedly proud of his right uppercut. He regularly muffed his homework and otherwise torpedoed his grades in courses he could have easily aced.