The Private School Murders

by James Patterson

  “Jacob, there’s a snake in the apartment. A venomous snake.”

  “Where are you?” Jacob was all business. The cobra eyed Hugo like he was a piece of meat.

  “In my office.”

  I heard fumbling. The sound of a door opening. “Your room?”

  “No. My office. It’s past my room on the other side of the hall. I’ll open the door.”

  “TandyTandyTandyTandyTandy.” My fearless little brother was keening in terror.

  “Hugo, I’m right here. Just stay still.”

  I dropped to all fours, keeping my eyes on the snake. It was only four feet from Hugo’s right foot. He was wearing shoes, but his naked ankle was within striking distance. I knew the snake wouldn’t attack unless it felt threatened, but that inch of bare skin still looked like a bull’s-eye.

  “Don’t move, Hugo. Don’t even blink. I’m going to drag you out of here,” I said in a wobbly voice.

  I moved toward Hugo, directly into the snake’s sight line. My plan was to pull Hugo around the fallen computer stand and put that between us and the snake. As if the cobra could read my mind, it flattened and started to slither against the wall in my direction.

  I heard Jacob coming along the hallway.

  “Tandy!” he shouted, pounding the wall with his fist. “Tandy! Where are you?”

  I glanced at the snake, terrified. All that noise couldn’t be good. “Jacob!” Hugo screeched. “We’re in here.”

  The door frame in the hallway was so well concealed, you could miss it even when you knew where to look. I crawled to Hugo and got right behind him, then rose to a crouch.

  “Very slowly raise your hands up,” I told him.

  He reached back and I clasped his hands.

  “It’s looking right at me,” Hugo whimpered. “Look at its tongue.”

  “Just don’t look at it,” I told him. “Pretend it’s not there. We’re just playing a game.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I had begun backing up slowly, sliding Hugo with me toward the doorway, when suddenly it jerked open. Jacob hovered over us, and he was holding a very heavy-duty handgun.

  “Where is it?” Jacob asked.

  I pried one hand loose from Hugo’s and pointed to the snake.

  “You two get out of here,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”

  “You’re going to shoot it?” Hugo shouted, scrambling to his feet. “Cool! There’s no way I’m leaving now.”

  14

  Jacob scowled. Yep. There was the commando I’d read about. Hugo’s mouth snapped shut instantly.

  “Go.” Jacob directed his fierce gaze at us and said, “And, Tandy, call Pest Control. Now.”

  “Don’t have to ask me twice,” I replied.

  Then I yanked Hugo into the hall.

  “When I’m an adult, you can expect payback,” Hugo said to Jacob. “And believe me, karma is a peach.”

  Jacob cracked a smile at Hugo, checked his gun, and slammed the door on us. I found the number for the New York City Department of Health and Pest Control, and after numerous rings, a woman with a languid voice answered.

  “This is Officer Blum. How may I help you?”

  “There’s a venomous snake loose in our apartment.”

  I jumped at the sound of gunfire followed by breaking glass.

  “Oh, man!” Hugo pouted, disappointed. I ran a hand over his hair in what I hoped was a conciliatory gesture. Crazy kid.

  “Where should we send the unit?” the woman asked.

  I gave our address. “How fast can you get here?”

  “Say again?” said Officer Blum, alarmed. “You’re in the Dakota?”

  “Yes, we’re in the Dakota.” I gripped the phone and said, “I’ve ID’d the snake. It’s a cobra. Maybe a forest cobra. Definitely deadly.”

  “I hope you’ve got nerves of steel, then, young lady. Don’t make any sudden movements. You don’t want to make that snake angry.”

  My office door opened, and Jacob came out holding four and a half feet of inky-black cobra. Its head was gone, but its body still twisted in Jacob’s hand. My throat pretty much closed up.

  Jacob brought the snake over to Hugo.

  “Here’s your snake, young man. Take a good look. I hope you never see one of these again. Now, bring me a bag, a broom, some rags, and the vacuum cleaner, please.”

  “Hello?” Officer Blum said. “Are you still there? Was this your snake? Was it your pet?”

  “No way. Why would you think that?” I asked.

  “I hate to tell you,” she said, “but this is not the first snake loose in the Dakota today. In fact, it’s the third. Pest Control is in your building right now.”

  I gripped the phone more tightly. “Are you kidding me?”

  Jacob eyed me curiously.

  “Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked Officer Blum.

  “No idea, but I’ll tell the guys to come to your apartment next.”

  I grimaced as Hugo held out an open garbage bag and Jacob deposited the gory body in it.

  “Actually, that’s not necessary. This one is officially dead,” I said to Officer Blum. “Maybe I should just bring it to them.”

  “Well, okay, then.”

  She told me the Pest Control officers were on the second floor and I hung up.

  “Where are we going?” Hugo asked me as we headed toward the front of the apartment with the heavy bag full of dead snake.

  “To find the Pest Control guys,” I answered, slinging the bag over my shoulder. “Hugo, what were you actually looking for in Malcolm’s file drawer?”

  “Cigarettes,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “I was looking for his stash.”

  Before I could demand why he would do such a thing, he added, “In movies about writers, they all smoke. I’m getting into character.”

  “Geez, Hugo.” We paused in the foyer. “You want to stay four-foot-eight forever?”

  “That’s a myth about cigarettes stunting your growth,” he said as I opened the front door. Then he shouted out to Jacob, “We’ll be right back.”

  “Be back in five minutes,” Jacob shouted back. “Five.”

  Hugo dashed across the hall and thumbed the call button until the elevator arrived. As we piled in, I turned over our latest drama in my mind. We didn’t live near a zoo. And there were no indigenous snakes in New York City.

  So why were there snakes loose in the Dakota?

  CONFESSION

  Remember when I said my greatest fear is that I might not experience true love again? Well, this might be an opportune moment to confess another pretty big fear.

  I know a lot about snakes, vipers, and adders from all over the world. Why have I committed a snake encyclopedia to memory? Know thy enemy, that’s why.

  Snakes are the opposite of warm and fuzzy. They slither, they’re sneaky by design, and, in case we weren’t clear on this fact, they can kill you. Some snakes eliminate you so stealthily you don’t even know you’re dead until your blood coagulates and your heart stops cold.

  Some snakes shoot you full of neurotoxins, wrap themselves around you, and squeeze out your life before consuming you whole, clothes, shoes, laptop, and smartphone, in one big package.

  Most snakes eat only mice and voles and are the gardener’s friend, but how do you know the difference in the space of a heartbeat? And that, I believe, is at the root of one’s fear of snakes. It’s a survival mechanism.

  Some people are not just afraid of snakes, they’re phobic. The technical term for a snake phobia is ophidiophobia, and people who have it dream of snakes, see snakes under every rock or rumple in the carpet, and freak out when they see snakes on TV.

  When I see a snake, I automatically think of my uncle Peter, which makes me hate them even more. Because I imagine he could kill and feel about the same amount of remorse as a snake would.

  Zero.

&nb
sp; 15

  I tried not to think about the fact that the heavy plastic garbage bag in my left hand was packed with the fluid coils of a four-foot-long decapitated cobra.

  Nothing to be afraid of, Tandy. Thanks to Jacob, it no longer has fangs.

  When the elevator door slid open on the second floor, chaos greeted us. At least eight men and women in green jumpsuits were coming and going from open apartments while co-op owners clustered in small groups between the doorways.

  I saw the elderly sitcom stars, Mr. and Mrs. Llewellyn Berrigan, in their matching striped pj’s. The spectacular trombone player Boris Friedman, wearing tuxedo pants and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. And the long-divorced multimillionaire Ms. Ernest Foxwell, draped in a sheer yellow nightgown covered with a short mink coat and wearing ostrich-feather mules. Definitely gape-worthy.

  Ms. Foxwell did not look amused. Neither did the opera singer Glorianne Pulaski, who was in aqua chenille and hair curlers, standing in her doorway, crying into her bedazzled iPhone.

  Frightened and discommoded rich people can be pretty hilarious, I have to admit. In fact, Hugo cracked up at the sight of Mrs. Pulaski, but no one seemed to notice us. Not that I could blame them. There were venomous snakes loose in the building.

  Jacob had said to be back in five minutes. As inclined as I was to follow his rules before, I was even more inclined now that I’d seen his gun—not to mention what he could do with it. So I just wanted to hand off the snake corpse to the proper official, ask several pointed questions about where they were in their investigations, and then get the hell home.

  Finally, a man caught a glimpse of me and Hugo and did a double take. Baseball cap. Green jumpsuit. Badge. Snake-catching hook in hand.

  “Please step out of the elevator car,” he said. “We’re shutting down the system.”

  “Oh my God. Snakes on an elevator,” Hugo said in awe.

  “Officer Blum from Pest Control said to find someone to give this to,” I said, holding out the garbage bag. I swear it rustled. It moved.

  “You’re Tandy?” the man in a jumpsuit said. “I’m Officer Frank. Let’s see what you’ve got there.” He peeked inside the bag. “Whoa. Who shot this?”

  “Our guardian,” I replied. “He’s got a license to carry weapons, of course. So what’s going on?”

  The guy eyed me shrewdly. “Why don’t you tell me where you found this snake?”

  Oh, so he was going to answer questions with questions, was he? I cleared my throat and put my game face on.

  “My brother found it in a file cabinet in an interior room,” I said, adopting a businesslike tone. “I believe he disturbed it.”

  Officer Frank’s eyes flicked to Hugo. “You’re lucky to be alive, kid.”

  Hugo was too busy staring at Mrs. Pulaski’s hammertoes in her sequined slippers to reply.

  “As to what’s going on, we’ve found three poisonous snakes, counting yours, and no reason to believe we’ve got them all.”

  “May I see the other two?” I asked.

  “Why?” Officer Frank asked curiously.

  “Know thy enemy,” I replied simply.

  He frowned as if impressed with my logic. “I’ve got pictures of one of them,” he said, pulling an iPhone out of his pocket. “Here you go.”

  The first snake was yellow, with scales standing up around its face. A beautiful eyelash palm pit viper.

  “So many dark, warm places in this castle you live in,” Officer Frank mused. “We’re going down to the basement next and will set up some funnel traps. Uh, thanks for the snake, Tandy. And you, young man,” he said to Hugo, “don’t put your hands into dark places. That goes for your feet, too. Check your shoes before you put them on. Okay?”

  “I’m never taking these off,” Hugo said, gesturing at his feet.

  It was clear that Pest Control had zero control over this snake infestation. There were ninety-three units in the Dakota, an idiosyncratic building with secret rooms, back staircases, tunnels, and mouse holes that were unchanged since the 1880s.

  If snakes could hide inside our shoes, there were about ten million lovely little places for them to take up residence inside the walls.

  Had someone decided to sic a pack of murderous snakes on the eccentric denizens at the Dakota? Or had our cobra been placed in 9G on purpose, with the other snakes merely a diversion?

  Maybe I’m paranoid, my friend, but still, as you well know, my family has enemies. I couldn’t dismiss the possibility that a deadly poisonous snake might have been planted in my office on purpose. That someone was out to kill me.

  16

  I woke up with my heart pounding like I was being chased by a herd of blank-eyed, gaping-mouthed walking dead. I’d had a bad dream, but of what? Dead girls? Snakes? The white rooms at Fern Haven?

  As I clutched my blanket to my sides, I remembered. It was about Matthew.

  Matthew’s trial was starting today.

  I rousted my siblings, and we chowed breakfast down while standing around the kitchen island. Then we pooled our resources and cabbed it downtown to the Manhattan Criminal Court at 100 Centre Street.

  The streets were knotted with morning traffic. We spent long minutes sweating in the backseat of the cab, catching every single red light as commercial vehicles and herds of pedestrians blocked the roadways.

  I was frustrated and mad at myself for oversleeping. What was with the new slumber-loving me? Was it another side effect of not taking my parents’ drugs? And why today of all days? Philippe had warned me that if we were late, we would be barred from the courtroom until the lunch recess, and that just wasn’t acceptable. I wanted Matthew to see that we were there to support him.

  Our cab did the stop-and-go thing for several more minutes, and I thought Hugo might burst with impatience. When we were finally within walking distance of Centre Street, Harry paid the fare, and we leapt from the cab.

  Together we ran toward the biggest building around. The courthouse was an imposing seventeen stories high, faced with granite and limestone, topped with an Art Deco ziggurat crown. It took up a full New York City block.

  We zipped between the large, free-standing columns guarding the entrance and entered the swarming marble lobby, where we were funneled into a security line. A man with a wand checked us for weapons, and then we charged toward the elevator banks. As we crammed ourselves inside with a dozen others, Hugo pushed the button for the ninth floor.

  I tried to gather strength from the proximity of my brothers, but still, my newly awakened emotions were roiling. My feet tapped impatiently beneath me while I watched the numbers light up over the door in what felt like slow motion.

  Today New York City’s star prosecutor, Nadine Raphael, would give her opening statement, and then our family friend and attorney, Philippe Montaigne, would give his. Phil was a good lawyer and our family has trusted him for years, but criminal defense was not his area of expertise. Given our current financial constraints, we decided he was our best bet. But Nadine Raphael, on the other hand, was a Harvard-trained viper.

  The elevator doors opened into a hallway that was jam-packed with lawyers and court workers by the hundreds. There was also a shifting phalanx of reporters jostling for a lead like a pack of hounds on the scent of a rabbit.

  You have to understand: Our family was like raw-meat kibble for these oh-so-friendly, super-awesome, totally polite, not-at-all-invasive paparazzi. You can just imagine how many plays on words the brainiacs at places like TMZ had come up with for our name so far. Fallen Angels. No Angels Among Us. And my personal favorite, the one that almost inspired me to set the kiosk at the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Seventh on fire—the huge headline the Post slapped over Matthew’s mug shot: ANGEL OF DEATH.

  So when the pack of reporters spotted us, they attacked. What could possibly be more exciting for inquiring minds?

  A reporter I had seen hanging around the Dakota was the first to speak. “Hugo. Hugo! Why did Matthew kill Tamara? What did he tell you?”

&n
bsp; Hugo snapped his head around. “Matthew is innocent! Get it right.”

  Not that I didn’t enjoy a good stampede, but I’d had enough. Harry, Hugo, and I managed to get through the heavy wooden door to the courtroom a split second before the bailiff slammed it closed. The slam echoed ominously.

  We three younger Angel children stood at the back of the courtroom in one tight line as every single person in the gallery turned to stare. If things went as predicted, Matthew’s trial would be nasty, tawdry, and totally fascinating for the public at large.

  My poor brother. The media beast was hungry, and Matthew Angel was the appetizer, the main dish, and the dessert.

  Harry reached for my right hand. Hugo reached for my left. I squeezed both.

  The very least we could do was stick together.

  17

  The courtroom was paneled top to bottom in mahogany, had twenty-foot ceilings topped with carved gargoyles and angels, and was totally imposing. The twenty-two rows of high-backed benches, a lot like church pews, were almost completely filled.

  My brothers and I made our way toward the front of the room, where railings and a gate separated the audience from the well, the enclosed area where the lawyers, the jury, and the judge would be putting on the trial.

  The judge’s bench was high above the courtroom floor, backed by flags and the New York State insignia. I looked at the table where Philippe and Matthew would be sitting; it was empty. Across the aisle, Nadine Raphael’s team was setting up at the prosecution table.

  People in the fourth row slid over and made room for us. I gave the seat on the aisle to Hugo so that he could see the action. My usually boisterous, optimistic brother sat down, the picture of solemnity. I think he knew this was the center of the no-kidding-around universe.

  Hugo straightened up and grabbed my knee when Matthew came in with Philippe. Whispers flew up from the gallery like pigeons.

  There he is.

  There’s Matthew Angel.

  Oh my God. He looks awful.