Confessions of a Murder Suspect (28 page)

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?”