The Private School Murders

by James Patterson

  “Jacob, what the hell are you saying?”

  Jacob laughed. In fact, he suddenly couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Stop it!” I barked. “Stop laughing and talk!”

  He almost got the laugh under control, but not quite. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just so glad you’re okay. You really are a remarkable girl, Tandy.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now start talking.”

  “What I was awkwardly trying to say is that I’m your uncle.”

  “No,” I replied. “No, you’re not.”

  His eyes glittered with amusement. “Actually, yes. Yes, I am.”

  I stared at Jacob, the CT forgotten, my mouth agape.

  “How, exactly?” I asked shrilly.

  “Your gram Hilda was my mother. I have a different father than Malcolm and Peter, so they’re my half brothers,” he explained. “That’s the short version.”

  I must have blinked two hundred times just trying to process this information. My father had another brother and had never told us? How was that possible? How many other long-lost relatives slash Israeli commandos did we have walking around? “I don’t want the short version. I want the long one. The supersized one. The IMAX, 3-D, cross-your-eyes version.”

  “We really should get started,” the nurse said, stepping back into the room.

  “Five minutes,” he told her. “We just need five minutes.”

  She slipped away quietly, and Jacob told his story.

  “When your grandmother was seventeen, just a little older than you are now, she went to a farm commune in what is now Israel, known as a kibbutz. It was quite the vacation for Hilda. She fell in love, got pregnant, and gave birth to a baby boy. A very cute one, if you ask me. Named him Jacob.”

  “Cute? Yeah, right. I bet all the other babies were terrified of you.”

  Jacob laughed, then continued. “Well, when Hilda had to go back to New York, there was a lot of talking about what to do with the awkward situation known as me, but in the end, it was decided that I would stay on the kibbutz with my father, Ezra Perlman, and the rest of my family.

  “Hilda left, and a few years later, she married Max Angel, and they had your father and uncle, but she stayed in constant touch with the Israeli branch of the family. And when she died, my story was passed along to my brothers. When your parents died, Peter contacted me, and I made plans to come to New York.”

  “You dropped everything and came here for us?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Because you’re my family. And that means something to me,” he said. “I had to make sure you were all going to be okay.”

  I felt a pang in my heart and tears filled my eyes. Someone who actually cared about family, no matter what? How could this guy share any DNA with my father? “Why didn’t you tell us from the beginning?”

  “I should have, Tandy,” he said with a sigh. “But I really didn’t know your father or Peter. And what I did know of them made me think that you kids would probably be… a lot like them. I didn’t think we would get along, and I didn’t know if I’d be staying beyond helping you all get settled in your new lives. I thought it might be easier on all of us if we kept our distance.”

  Distance. Spoken like a true Angel.

  “But, Tandy,” Jacob added, “please believe me when I say that now that I know you guys, I love you all more than I could ever have imagined. You’ve enriched my life.”

  My tears spilled over then, and I sucked in a deep, broken breath. “We love you, too.” I laughed and sobbed at the same time. “Oh my God, the boys are gonna freak.”

  Jacob smiled and squeezed my hand again, and when the nurse came back in, I realized I felt safe. I stayed perfectly still during the entire scan because I knew that my uncle Jacob was behind a wall, watching me through a window and that he was waiting to take me home.

  79

  The courtroom was packed tight, wall to wall, standing room only. Everyone with a connection to the court, anyone with a press pass, anybody with an interest in Matthew Angel or murder trials had lined up early, eager to hear the closing arguments in the case against my brother.

  Matty’s family fan club was there, too, and we took up the entire row behind the defense table—me, Hugo, Harry, Jacob, and C.P., plus Virgil. Mrs. Hauser from the eighth floor was stationed behind us next to Paulie, who had finagled a day off so that he could attend.

  Across the aisle, behind the prosecution table, sat the Tamara Gee contingent: her family and fans, who believed she’d been coldly and brutally slashed and stabbed to death by her boyfriend.

  Closing arguments were to begin in just a few minutes. Nadine Raphael would tell the jurors why my brother was guilty of killing Tamara Gee and their unborn child, guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Then Philippe Montaigne would say that Matthew was innocent and that the prosecution hadn’t proved its case.

  This was to be the climax of the last two weeks of Matthew’s stomach-churning murder trial, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be the climax that the prosecution was expecting.

  At least, I hoped it wasn’t.

  The buzz in the courtroom hushed as the judge came in through the back door and ascended to the bench. Normally, at this point in the proceedings, Judge Mudge would review his notes, speak with the bailiff about court business, and make sure all the key parties were present. When administrative court duties were squared away, the bailiff would bring in the jury and court would be convened.

  Today was entirely different.

  The judge came in. Phil got to his feet, handsome as ever but with a different look in his eye than I’d seen since the trial began. Today he was confident.

  “Your Honor,” Phil said. “Permission to approach the bench.”

  “Okay, but keep it simple, Counselor. We’ve got a full day ahead of us. Ms. Raphael, please join us.”

  Nadine Raphael didn’t look pleased, but I’d only ever seen her happy when she had her foot on Matthew’s throat. She was salivating to put him away—and annoyed that her euphoria was being postponed.

  I grasped Harry’s hand as Ms. Raphael and Phil walked over to the bench and Phil began to whisper to the judge. When the judge’s face registered surprise, my heart leapt. Nadine Raphael’s body went rigid. Suddenly, their voices rose as the defense and the prosecution talked over each other. A few snippets were heard clearly by everyone in the crowd.

  “This is an act of sheer desperation, Your Honor,” said Ms. Raphael.

  Then Phil said something that included the phrase offer of proof.

  I glanced at Hugo. His chin was tipped up as he tried to see the judge’s face, and he looked about to burst out of his suit. There was more back-and-forth between the lawyers and the judge, who finally had enough. His voice carried when he said, “I’ll see counsel and the parties in chambers.”

  Then he looked directly at me.

  “You, too, young lady. Now.”

  80

  Judge Mudge’s office was arranged around a modern desk made of twisting wood and glass. Two ergonomic chairs faced it, and photographic studies of natural objects like leaves and vegetables blown up almost beyond recognition, adorned the walls.

  Sergeant Caputo held the door open for me, and we were followed in by Phil and Ms. Raphael. The judge took his chair behind the desk. Everyone else stood.

  I was glancing around, wondering what was going on, when the bailiff brought Matthew into the office. My heart did a happy dance at the sight of him, even though he looked as tired and haggard as usual. He shot me a curious glance, and I signaled him to just wait.

  This was going to be amazing.

  “Defense counsel has asked to present new witnesses, and at this point in the proceedings, I can’t let him introduce new testimony to the jury without my hearing it first,” the judge began. “Now, Sergeant Caputo, put your hand on my Bible. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  Caputo did. Then the judge asked Ca
puto, “Sergeant, did you go to Matthew Angel’s apartment this past Saturday?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And why did you do that?”

  “Ms. Angel, the defendant’s sister, went there to check for any personal items the defendant might want,” Caputo explained, glancing over at me. “The apartment is no longer a crime scene and Ms. Angel has keys.”

  “Go on.”

  “She called me from the apartment, saying she had found evidence that pointed to Tamara Gee’s killer. Evidence that would exonerate her brother.”

  Matthew’s head rose. Just an inch, but it rose.

  “So you went to the apartment,” the judge prompted.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I have experience with this kid and she’s not a liar. My partner and I went and found interior access to the apartment that no one had noticed before. A dumbwaiter inside a utility closet comes up from the restaurant downstairs and was never put out of service from the old days.”

  “A dumbwaiter? For food transport? And it was large enough for a person?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir. It’s big enough for a person of small stature.”

  Using his hands and, at one point, a pad and pencil, Caputo described the dumbwaiter with its double-hung guillotine doors. He explained that the elevator call buttons and door handles were outside the dumbwaiter and that if a “passenger” was squatting on the platform inside, he’d have to reach outside the dumbwaiter to operate the lift. He’d not only have to press the call button to send the elevator to a different floor, he’d also have to grasp the upper door with his hand and pull it closed.

  “Here, on the outside of the dumbwaiter door,” Caputo said, stabbing his drawing on the pad. “That’s where we found the bloody handprints.”

  “But you didn’t find any other prints in the apartment?” the judge asked.

  “No, Your Honor. The killer wore thick rubber kitchen gloves. The yellow kind. They kept his prints out of the scene, but they weren’t tight. They were awkward. Once he was inside the dumbwaiter and in a rush to escape, he took them off to get a better grip on the door. While he was maneuvering around in that small space, he cut the palm of his hand with his own knife. Big mistake. He bled profusely.”

  “And the print was clear?” the judge asked Caputo.

  “Yes, Your Honor. It’s pretty much a unique handprint with only two full-sized fingers and the thumb. And there were two prints from half fingers—stump prints, I’d call them—from when the perpetrator accidentally sliced off some finger joints a few years ago.”

  Now Matthew stood up straight. His eyes were huge and elated and angry all at once.

  “Hunh,” the judge grunted. “And you’re telling me this man is willing to admit to the killing?”

  “We said we’d help him if he helped us. Also, Your Honor, he has his reasons.”

  Then the judge drilled me, confirming my involvement and the observations that Caputo had just recounted. The judge grunted again and turned to the prosecutor. “Ms. Raphael, are you satisfied with Sergeant Caputo’s sworn testimony?”

  Nadine Raphael’s sculptural face was tight with scorn.

  “How very convenient, Your Honor. We’ve wrapped our case, about to tie it up with a big bow, and just before the jury goes out, we have this. Forgive me if I don’t accept the sergeant’s testimony as proof that Matthew Angel is not guilty. The jurors should make their own determination.”

  The judge scrubbed at his scalp with both hands, swiveled in his chair, and even looked out the window.

  Then he turned to Phil and said, “Tee up your confessed killer, Mr. Montaigne. Let’s see if the jury buys what he’s selling.”

  81

  There was an unbearably long recess as Troy Wagner was brought from The Tombs, cleaned up, and prepped for his appearance in Judge Bradley Mudge’s court.

  By the time we were corralled into the courtroom and took our seats, my residual headache from the attack had bloomed into something that was almost tangible. Dr. Magnifico had said that I didn’t have a concussion, but my skull still hurt like hell.

  Matthew, sitting at the defense table with Phil, turned and smiled at me. He mouthed, Love you.

  Despite my fear and tension and pain, I felt a thick but invisible cord connecting me to my brother.

  “Love you back,” I whispered.

  How would the next few hours play out?

  Would Troy, the night-shift manager from the restaurant in Matthew’s building, convince the jury that he’d killed Tamara? Would the prosecution’s case disintegrate?

  Harry put his hand on my leg to stop me from jiggling it. “I know how you feel, T. But please chill.”

  Right. No problem.

  Eventually, court convened. The jurors filed in, and Judge Mudge explained to them what had caused the delay.

  “The defense has a new witness. Actually, Mr. Wagner was on the stand last week when he testified for the prosecution that he was the last person to see Tamara Gee alive.

  “He will expand his testimony in this regard.”

  The jurors had questions, and the judge said he would address them again before they were asked to deliberate.

  Troy Wagner was called. He came up the aisle, was sworn in, and took his seat in the witness stand.

  He sported the same look he’d worn when he’d last sat in that chair and told the court that Tamara Gee had told him she was moving out of their apartment before Matthew killed her.

  You can’t imagine how much I hated this man. For what he’d put my brother through, for what he’d put my family through, but most of all, for what he’d done to Tamara and the baby who would have been my first nephew. My fingers balled into fists in my lap, and Harry put his hand over mine.

  As before, the short, wiry man with the coarse red hair made a steeple with his hands, highlighting for me and everyone close enough to see him that the pinkie and ring finger of his left hand were shorter than the others.

  I hoped and prayed that the print from this self-inflicted deformity would free my brother and indict Troy Wagner.

  It would, if Troy told the truth.

  82

  Philippe approached the witness and, after coolly reestablishing Wagner’s previous testimony, asked, “What was your opinion of Tamara Gee?”

  “I thought she was evil and had too much power.”

  Dead silence in the courtroom. This was a new side of Troy Wagner.

  “What kind of power did she have, Mr. Wagner?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? She was a succubus,” he said, shifting in his seat. “She had the power to ruin men’s lives.”

  My palms grew sweaty as my heart pounded. This guy was crazy. Like, certifiably crazy. This was going to work. Please, please, let it work.

  “Mr. Wagner, do you remember your thoughts when Ms. Gee came to pick up her dinner order on the last night of her life?”

  “Yeah. Per usual, she dissed Matthew. She clearly didn’t understand the kind of person Matthew Angel is, what he means to people, what kind of athlete he is. He’s one of the greatest football players of all time. He’s going into the history books, or was. But Tamara’s loose ways, her disrespect, her downtown diva bitching, that was ruining his game. I thought it was time to take her out.”

  There was a loud rumble in the gallery. The jurors gasped and covered their mouths and turned to one another. As I glanced around, I saw nothing but shocked faces, abject confusion, and reporters furiously scribbling in notebooks.

  It was pretty clear that no one had even guessed at the reason for this witness to reappear, but it was hitting them now. Wagner saw himself as Matthew’s avenging angel.

  I turned my palm up and clasped hands with Harry.

  “To be clear,” Phil said, “do you mean it was time to kill Tamara?”

  “That’s right. I couldn’t stand what she was doing to Matthew,” Wagner replied. “I’d thought for a long time how to do it, and now she was giving me a time frame. She was going to move out,
and she was home alone. It was that night or never.”

  More gasps and chatter from the gallery. So much that the judge had to bang his gavel a few times to shut everyone up.

  “What happened after that?” Phil asked.

  “Well. Like I said, I had thought about this for a while. I had the perfect setup. My shift is from eight until midnight. I sent the dishwasher home and locked up the restaurant. I watched to see if Matthew came home, and when he didn’t, I got it done.”

  Phil froze in anticipation. I could hardly breathe. Harry’s tight grip on my hand was about the only thing keeping me from passing out.

  “Could you be more specific, Mr. Wagner?” Phil asked.

  “How specific? Oh, what I did? I am one of the few people who knew our old dumbwaiter still worked. I had a knife. Well, I had my choice. I chose a paring knife. I put on rubber gloves and an apron. I climbed into the dumbwaiter, pressed the button, and took it to the third floor. Is this what you are asking me?”

  I glanced at Nadine Raphael. She had a death grip on a pencil and was staring straight ahead.

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Wagner,” Philippe said. “Please go on.”

  “Okay. So the elevator opens inside a closet inside Tamara’s kitchen. I went into the bedroom and Tamara was asleep, so I killed her.”

  He said it so casually, it was like he was reading today’s specials off the board. The courtroom was practically sucked into oblivion by one group gasp. Then Tamara’s mother cried out, someone shouted, and chatter filled the room.

  “Order!” the judge yelled, banging his gavel. “I will have order in my courtroom!”

  Eventually everyone calmed down. Mrs. Gee was quietly crying against her husband’s chest. I couldn’t see Matthew’s face. He was looking down at his hands, still as stone.

  “Please continue, Mr. Wagner,” Philippe said. “What did you do next?”

  “I left the way I came in. I took off my gloves so I could get a grip on the door, and when I got down to the restaurant, I washed the knife, bagged the gloves and apron, and changed my clothes. Then I took all of it to Greenpoint, where I live, and threw it in a Dumpster. That’s it.”