Confessions of a Murder Suspect (21 page)

The camp was situated in the dead center of Maui, between ranches and rain forests, at the blackened base of a volcano. It was an army-style boot camp for out-of-control kids with a punishing regimen of predawn six-mile runs, grueling calisthenics, tasteless food, and big, bullying boys. And there were no phones, TVs, books, or iPads—none of the comforts that most of us take for granted these days.

When he wasn’t doing paramilitary drills, Hugo was attached to a farm detail, where he worked among prickly pineapple plants, weeding and harvesting in the broiling heat of the Hawaiian sun. He cut his hands, got a scalding sunburn, and acquired colonies of blisters.

Have I mentioned that he was only nine?

Our parents knew what Hugo would go through there, and they approved. They wanted him to learn about the rule of law and to appreciate the soft life he had in New York City. I wonder if they ever considered that forced obedience just might make Hugo murderous.…

I scrolled to Hugo’s first journal entry—made when he got home from Maui. He had written:

I had to read the sentence a few times to make sure that I’d read it right, and when I did a search for the words
dye
,
dyed
, and
dead
, I found that Hugo had wished for our parents’ deaths several times:

I took a deep breath. After reading Hugo’s journal, it wasn’t so hard for me to imagine him mixing up a poison and giving it to our parents to drink before bed. They might have humored him, thinking they were making peace with their little boy.

I wanted to see him. To look into his eyes. To ask him to tell me that he hadn’t killed Malkim ’n’ Mud.

If he told me he was innocent, would I believe him?

CONFESSION

You probably wonder how I could
even consider a ten-year-old boy as a possible suspect, don’t you?

Maybe you’ve never seen a six-year-old gleefully hack at a teddy bear with a butcher knife.

Boys will be boys
, you say? You think Hugo was just playing a game of knights and ninjas?

Unlikely. If Hugo were playing knights, he’d be wearing the complete set of armor (made out of tin) that Malcolm had custom-made by the costume shop at the Metropolitan Opera. If he were playing ninja, he’d be wearing his junior-sized balaclava and using his replica samurai sword.

Instead, he was a hundred percent Hugo, Spider-Man pj’s and all. He slashed and sawed at the teddy bear he and Maud had
just built together at the Build-A-Bear Workshop for his birthday. He called the bear Malcolm.

And he laughed and laughed and laughed.

He was already a sociopath, and he was just out of kinder-garten.

I didn’t think much of it at the time. It was the family way.

47

Could you ever spy on your own family
the way I spied on mine? Could you, if you thought somebody in your house was a murderer? Don’t be too sure about how you’d react to things you haven’t actually experienced. You might be a little surprised by what you’re capable of.

I was closing down Hugo’s computer when the intercom screeched and Harry’s voice filled all nine thousand square feet of our apartment.

“
Calling Tandy. Calling Tandy.
Are you home? Meet me in the kitchen, stat.”

Harry sounded borderline hysterical. I am not kidding.

The kitchen was like a mile from Hugo’s room, but I
ran, slid into the kitchen on socked feet, and found Harry staring at the small under-cabinet television set.

“Look at
this
,” he said, hitting the rewind button on our DVR.

“Well, hello to you, too, Harry. Glad you made it out of jail. I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Of course you’re fine, Tandy. You’re always fine,” he replied. He paused, then said, “I’m glad you’re home. Now
look
!”

It was a breaking news report by someone called Laurie Kim, a young, ambitious TV reporter sitting eagerly behind the anchor desk. Behind her perky face was a full-screen video of Matthew making a touchdown on the Giants’ home field.

“What’s this about?” I asked.

“Watch,” Harry whispered.

The reporter was saying, “Tamara Gee, the actress best known for her starring role in
The Good Girls
and for her love relationship with football star Matthew Angel…”

Laurie Kim continued her celebrity-reporter-style blather as the screen behind her cut to footage of the stands, where Tamara Gee cheered as players carried Matthew off the field on their shoulders.

“… But you can’t always judge a relationship by its
appearance. Earlier today, I had an exclusive interview with Ms. Gee in the apartment she shares with her ‘Matty.’ ”

The producers cut to another video clip, this one of Tamara Gee speaking with Ms. Kim in a perfectly decorated living room with plump pillows in tropical colors.

Tamara’s beautiful face was positively aglow when she said, “I don’t want to deny it any longer. I am pregnant with my first child, and he is an Angel. The baby’s father is Malcolm Angel, the man I loved—the man who was just
murdered
.” Her face contorted in what I immediately identified as well-rehearsed grief.

A photo of my father appeared in the corner of the screen as Ms. Kim asked, “Just to be sure we all understand, you’re saying that Matthew Angel is not the baby’s father?”

“That’s right.
Malcolm
Angel was my lover, and he is my baby’s father. Sadly, my child will never know his daddy.”

My hands flew to my head as I screamed, “
Hold it!
This is complete
crap
. I don’t even under
stand
it. She’s saying Malcolm fathered her
child
. That he
cheated
on Maud? With
her
? That’s a lie. It can’t be true.”

“I don’t believe it,” Harry said, his voice faint. His face looked positively ashen.

“She’s a liar, and we need to call Philippe right now,” I said.

“Why would she lie?” Harry asked me.

If she was lying, it was a crime against my father. Defamation. If she was telling the truth, and my father had cheated on my mother with Tamara Gee, it was a crime against our family, and a double crime against poor Matty.

“I can think of about a hundred million reasons, but only one that matters,” I said. “Money. That’s usually the reason for almost everything adults do, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but… I can’t… quite… absorb… all this.…” Harry was starting to go white again. “I’ve got to call Matty.…”

He started to pull out his phone, but I stopped him, suddenly remembering my visit with Mrs. Hauser two days earlier.

“Harry, listen to this. Mrs. Hauser heard Malcolm and Maud fighting the day they died. Malcolm was saying he wanted to make some ‘new financial arrangements.’ And Maud was really mad.”

“New financial arrangements? Like… for a certain incoming member of the family? You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Harry.

If Tamara and Malcolm really were involved—and the
very thought of it nearly made me gag—Matthew had an undeniable motive to commit murder. It would be called a crime of passion.

To be perfectly honest, I find that phrase a little incomprehensible. I mean, I get it—but I don’t really get it.

CONFESSION

There’s a famous phrase from Shakespeare
you might have heard at some point:
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

That was me, saying this horror couldn’t be true. Because you know what? I really wasn’t sure that Tamara was lying. At all.

After all, there had to be a concrete reason I’d never trusted Tamara; I generally don’t react to people emotionally. I analyze them.

At the same time I was accusing Tamara of lying, an image flashed into my mind. Setting: our kitchen. Suspects: my father and Tamara Gee. Malcolm is leaning in toward Tamara, gently nudging her against the fridge… or maybe she is pulling him against her; I can’t be sure. What I
am
sure of is that there were no unwilling participants in this affair.