James Patterson - Confessions of a Murder Suspect

I took my mother’s chair, and my three brothers and Samantha took seats around the room.

“First things first,” I said to Philippe. “No offense, but seriously—are you our lawyer? Or do you work for Uncle Peter?”

“I work for the Malcolm Angel family—that is, all of you. And I’m your lawyer, too, Samantha.”

“Even though I’m moving out of here tomorrow?”

“You’re still my client. I also work for Peter, but I cannot and will not represent anyone besides the four Angel kids if there is a conflict of interest.”

“Thank you, Phil,” I said. “And if I understand correctly, everything that is said in this room will remain confidential?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. Now that we’re officially lawyered up, let’s get started,” I said.

I ran the first part of the meeting as if I were a particularly hard-edged prosecutor. I accused everyone of murdering our parents, asking them tough questions and not giving them time to think or lie. They might hate me for what I was doing, but there was no other way. In the end, everyone stuck to their original story. Stuck hard. And I found no holes. Not one.

So I said, “Let’s do a secret ballot and see where we stand.”

I ripped out a sheet of note paper and passed around the pieces, saying, “Write down who you think killed Malcolm and Maud.”

It was very quiet in the room as names were scribbled down and papers were returned to me. I shuffled the ballots, hoping for a breakthrough of some kind.

Then I read the ballots out loud, one at a time.

“Uncle Peter?”

“Peter.”

“Uncle Piggy.”

“Uncle P. But maybe not.”

“I don’t know.”

That last one was mine. Everyone at least suspected that Peter had or could have killed our parents. But why weren’t the police investigating Peter if it seemed so obvious to us?

“And he’s living right here,” said Matthew. “Who says he won’t kill again? I’m bunking with Hugo indefinitely. Okay, little bro?”

“Are you kidding?” Hugo said. “I’d pay you to do that.”

Just then, Philippe answered a phone call—and life as we knew it took another nosebleed nosedive.

“Turn on the TV,” he snapped.

74

The TV reporter Anthony Imbimbo’s face appeared on our fifty-two-inch screen, and he had breaking news for all the world to hear.

“ Under Suspicion has just learned that actress Tamara Gee is dead. Arthur Boffardi, doorman and superintendent of the building where Ms. Gee has lived for the past three years, found the body just one hour ago. Mr. Boffard—”

“Artie.”

“Artie. Can you please tell us what happened?”

I whipped around to look at Matthew, but he was stalking out of the room. At the same time, I heard the intercom buzzer blaring. I ran to catch up with Matty, but he opened the door before I reached him.

He never got out the door.

Sergeant Caputo advanced on Matthew, backing him up as he said, “Matthew Angel, you’re under arrest. Put your hands behind your back.”

“No way ,” Matthew shouted, “I did nothing . I did nothing wrong!”

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Three police officers had gathered in our foyer behind Caputo, and it looked like all hell was about to break loose. Matthew’s eyes were blazing, and his fists were clenched in front of him. He wasn’t going without a fight, and I knew that would only make things worse.

Matthew’s scientifically enhanced muscles bulged and rippled under his shirt. The Giants’ number one son was going Hulk, right then and there. And nothing could stop him. He bellowed, “ Go ahead. Make me put my hands behind my back. ”

Hayes and Caputo drew their guns. These were real guns, with real bullets, and it occurred to me that cops only draw when they’re prepared to shoot somebody.

Caputo shouted in a no-bull way: “Turn and face the wall. Do it now .”

Matty tightened his fists and swung his head from side to side, as if he were looking for an opening in the defense line. Gun muzzles leveled at his chest. I could hear the gunshots in my head. “Matthew,” I whispered, “be smart.”

He stopped, turned slowly, and put his hands behind his back. He looked as though he might cry.

Detective Hayes cuffed Matty’s wrists and said, “Matthew Angel, you’re under arrest for the murder of Tamara Gee. You have the right to remain silent—”

“My lawyer is on the way,” Matty said in an unusually subdued voice.

“He can meet you at the Twentieth Precinct.”

“My client means I’m right here ,” I heard Philippe say.

I stood frozen with my hands over my mouth as Philippe came around the corner into the foyer. I’ve never seen Phil lose his temper, but at that moment he looked like a twister about to touch down.

“What are you doing?” he asked Caputo. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Angel here is under arrest,” said Caputo. “His pregnant girlfriend was killed yesterday. Need I say more?”

“I didn’t see her yesterday,” Matty blurted out. “I didn’t even talk to her. I called her, but she didn’t answer.”

“Don’t say anything, Matthew,” Philippe warned him.

“Phil. Ask the kids. I was with them all day yesterday. We went to Pharma together.”

“Matthew, I’ll meet with you privately, and you can tell me everything.”

Matthew said, “But this is a setup. I’m being framed.”

Caputo actually laughed as he turned to Hayes, saying, “Golly. I’ve never heard that one before.”

Matty continued to detail where he’d been over the last twenty-four hours: at Angel Pharma, then interviewed by ESPN, and then at home for dinner with us. I was nodding emphatically to corroborate everything he was saying, until my jaw dropped when he added something new.

“After the kids went to bed, I went out to play poker with three of my teammates. They’ll tell you. I’ll give you their names.”

Really? Had Matty gone out while we were all asleep?

“Listen to your lawyer,” Hayes said, patting Matty on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Phil said, “I’m coming with my client.”

Phil got his own coat out of the hall closet, as well as one for Matty, which he draped over my older brother’s shoulders.

I stood under the UFO chandelier as the front door slammed. When Harry and Hugo put their arms around me, I was still standing there like a block of stone, looking at the door.

Just when I was starting to think that our dysfunctional little family was making some progress, my big brother once again became the number one suspect.

75

I was sleeping next to Hugo when a loud crack sounded in the dark of night. We both shot up out of bed, and Hugo clutched my arm.

“Tandy. Was that a gun? ”

“Give me your phone,” I said.

“It’s in the study, I think.”

“Mine’s there, too. Stay here,” I said. “Stay. Right. Here.”

“Okay.”

Hugo scrambled out from under the covers and grabbed onto a fold of my pajama top.

I hissed, “Stay here .”

“Okay,” he said again. He was still hanging on to me as I moved toward the doorway.

“It’s probably Samantha,” I said. “She probably just came home.”