Confessions of a Murder Suspect (32 page)

“Bhutan, actually,” I said, stunned to be meeting a guy who knew even the first thing about Southeast Asian art. My interest was immediately piqued.

“It looks like a
zhi
stone,” he went on. “My mother started collecting them when we first went to Tibet. Did you know it’s supposed to have protective powers?”

“Of course.” I laughed. “It was a gift from my parents.”

His eyes flashed a little mischievously. “Who needs a
zhi
stone when you have the legendary Angel guardian angel?”

And so from the very beginning, James Rampling seemed to uncannily know just about everything about me, and to love everything I loved. Within a few minutes we found ourselves talking about the Arab Spring, and then Southeast Asian politics. This continued for at least an hour. By then we’d moved away from the crowd and were sitting halfway up a flight of stairs.

He leaned in closer and gently pushed the hair out of my eyes. “Tandy Angel,” he said, in an almost reverential, hushed way. “Where have the tigers been keeping you?”

“In a cage,” I said. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” He stroked my hair again, pushing it behind my ears so he could look straight into my eyes. I instinctively tried to look away, but he took my chin and turned my face back toward his. He wouldn’t let me look away.

“I think,” he said, “that you need to be let out. The world needs you. I think that you’re exquisitely beautiful… and exquisitely smart.… And you shouldn’t be hidden away in a cage.”

As I worked through the memory, I replayed that incredible moment in my mind several times. It was the first time I’d been touched by a boy. And not only were his hands touching my face, but his eyes were touching me, too.

A part of me that had never been touched before.

His eyes lit up suddenly. “The caged bird’s ‘wings are clipped and his feet are tied,’ ” he began reciting, not letting his eyes stray from mine. “ ‘So…’ ”

“ ‘So he opens his throat to sing,’ ” I finished, staggered by James Rampling once again. He was quoting from my favorite poem at the time, “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” by Maya Angelou. It was a poem that seemed to reflect how I felt about my life up to that point. I was surprised that James even knew it.

All the more reason why what happened next seemed like pure magic. As I jumped on the next line, he joined in.

And then we recited the whole poem. Together.

Would you laugh at me, friend, if I said it almost felt like we were reciting wedding vows right there, in the middle of the party? Can you blame me for believing I’d just met the one person in the world I was meant to be with? Who was meant to save me?

The rest of the world had fallen away by that point. James leaned in closer, ran his fingers down the cord that held the pendant around my neck, and let his fingers slowly caress the
zhi
stone—my “protection”—lying against my chest.

I reached up and rested my hand on his.

The sensation of that connection was almost too intense for my system to handle. I sucked in my breath as I saw him come even closer to my face.

And that’s when laws of physics stopped working. Time slowed down as his lips touched mine, so very, very sweetly.

That’s where the memory ended. I hit replay.

It was real. The kiss I’d written about had been real. This time, though, I could
feel
it, in every bone in my body.

Replay.

Replay.

Replay.

Each time, I hoped the memory would go a little bit further. I know it went further. Much further. Beyond one kiss. Beyond one night at a party. Beyond a mere fantasy of being touched, embraced, adored by a boy who actually understood me.

Something told me Dr. Florence Keyes had stolen almost every other memory I’d had of James Rampling. And someday, I was going to make her give them all back to me.

But right now, I had this one. I was going to enjoy it, savor it, this rare electric moment when my life had felt real and simple and joyous and free.

Reading the rest of that article could wait. Indefinitely.

73

I put the folder away.
I had made real progress on one front. Now I was going to have to take the bull by the horns to make some headway in my primary investigation: my parents’ murders.

I called Matty, Harry, Hugo, Samantha, and Philippe together for another family meeting. We gathered in the study, where my parents had worked every day when they were alive. It was eerie to see Philippe Montaigne behind my father’s desk.

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.”