Confessions: The Private School Murders

by James Patterson

“No.”

  “So you have no actual evidence that Matthew lifted a hand to Tamara Gee, do you?”

  “No,” Webb said firmly.

  “I have no further questions for this witness,” Philippe said.

  Like my brother, J.C. Webb was a football hero, and his testimony had seemed believable. But Matthew saying he had to “take care” of Tamara didn’t mean he had. Had Philippe succeeded in pointing that out to the jury?

  To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure he’d succeeded in convincing me.

  41

  Court adjourned for the lunch recess, during which time the Angel contingent grouped around vending machines and morosely ate cheese crackers and chocolate-chip cookies with very little conversation. Too soon, the doors of Judge Mudge’s courtroom opened and the herd of interested parties stampeded back in.

  Harry, Hugo, Jacob, C.P., and I slid into one of the pewlike benches near the front of the room, and within a few minutes, court reconvened.

  Nadine Raphael called her next witness.

  Troy Wagner was slim, red-haired, wiry, not much taller than me, and looked to be about twenty-five. He wore a very handsome sports jacket, well-creased pants, and good-quality rubber-soled shoes.

  He took the stand, bounced a little as he got comfortable, and then made a tepee with his hands. I noticed that the pinkie and ring finger of his left hand were shorter than normal. In fact, they appeared to have been cut off on a straight line, as if he’d run his hand through a band saw or a food-slicing machine.

  Wagner tapped his finger stumps and gave my brother a direct look that I thought might be support, or maybe admiration.

  I hoped I was right. Nadine Raphael was overconfident, and she was winning. What we really needed right now was for this guy to throw her the proverbial curveball.

  Ms. Raphael advanced on the witness stand and after some preliminary questions asked, “Mr. Wagner, where are you employed?”

  “I manage the night shift at the Trattoria in the Village,” he replied proudly.

  “Is that the restaurant on the ground floor of the apartment building where Tamara Gee and Matthew Angel lived?”

  “Right. The building used to be a hotel. The restaurant has been there since 1946.” Wagner grinned. It seemed like he was enjoying the spotlight.

  “Were you working on the night Ms. Gee was murdered?” Ms. Raphael asked.

  “Yes,” Wagner said with a nod. “I’m on the eight-PM-until-four-AM shift.”

  “Did Ms. Gee come to the restaurant that night?”

  “She did. At just after eight,” the witness replied. “She came to pick up baked ziti and a dinner salad.”

  Ms. Raphael cocked her head. “How would you characterize your relationship with Ms. Gee?”

  “She was a customer, but she knew I was a Matthew Angel fan. So sometimes we talked about the game or what kind of season Matthew was having.”

  I saw a flicker of disapproval cross Ms. Raphael’s face. She didn’t like the fact that this guy was pro-Matty. Ha.

  Ms. Raphael continued, “Mr. Wagner. On that last night of Tamara Gee’s life, do you remember what the two of you talked about?”

  “Well. She was mad at Mr. Angel, but that wasn’t unusual,” he said, shifting in his seat. “She said Matthew wasn’t the man she thought he was. I said something like, ‘Most men would be p.o.’d, you know, if their girl fooled around on them.’ She said he was abusive and that’s why she fell in love with another man.”

  “I see. And what else did you two discuss, Mr. Wagner?”

  “I defended Mr. Angel. I don’t remember exactly what I said. I didn’t realize this was going to be important, but words to the effect that he was special, a tremendous athlete, and that this type of guy needs a woman to be very giving and very supportive.”

  “Please go on.”

  “I knew she didn’t like what I said,” Wagner continued. “She got very tight-lipped, because she was kind of a star herself and, hey, I was just the guy who worked in the restaurant downstairs.

  “Anyway, she said she was moving out of the apartment as soon as possible—before Matthew killed her. Then she flipped me off. Last thing she said was ‘Nice knowing you.’ ”

  My heart sank.

  “You’re sure she said she was moving out before Matthew killed her,” Ms. Raphael said, slowly enunciating the last four words.

  “Yes. ‘I’m moving out before Matthew kills me.’ That part’s a quote.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wagner. No more questions.”

  Ms. Raphael turned around, but before she reached her desk, Troy stood up and shouted, “I should have believed her! I should have done something!” He jabbed his asymmetrical fingers toward Matthew and screamed, “He killed her, and she knew it was coming!”

  42

  Jacob, my brothers, and I walked in formation through the front gates of the Dakota, past the liveried doormen, and into the courtyard at the center of the building.

  An easel had been set up with a sign reading:

  EMERGENCY SHAREHOLDERS’ MEETING TONIGHT AT 7 PM

  NORTH COMMON ROOM

  REGARDING POISONOUS ANIMALS IN THE BUILDING

  —THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS

  Well. There was no way we were missing that. But first, we had something to do.

  At six, we had an early mac-and-cheese dinner in the living room so that we could watch an unauthorized truTV special on Matthew Angel.

  Hugo sat to my left on the sofa, Harry to my right with his hoodie pulled down to his eyes, and Jacob settled into the Pork Chair, which snuffled and squealed under his weight and then went silent as the title came up on the screen.

  The Matthew Angel Story, in Progress.

  The narrator was Jackie Kam, a young newscaster who had only been on TV for about a year but had covered pretty much every big crime story you could think of. She’d burst onto the scene as the first person to report the whole Whitney Houston thing, and a few months later she covered the Kinsey Killington kidnapping trial.

  So of course she’d been right on top of the story when our parents were found dead and all the Angel kids were named as murder suspects. Unlike everyone else who had covered the Angel family saga, however, Kam had been kind. Shown restraint, even. While other people were pawing through our garbage, asking our classmates if they’d ever noticed erratic behavior, even interviewing the regular cabbies on our block to see if they’d ever taken us anywhere scandalous, Kam had stuck to the facts. I just hoped she’d do the same now, for Matthew.

  The camera angle was in close on Kam’s pretty face as she told her audience that in part one of her story, she would interview the football hero who was charged with murdering his glamorous girlfriend and their unborn child.

  “The last time Matthew Angel was accused of murder, the charges against him were dismissed,” she said. “But this time, he is going to trial. And it’s looking more and more like Matthew will be found guilty. Coming up, my exclusive interview with the New York Giants’ Matthew Angel, a man accused of a double homicide.”

  Cut to: Baxter Street outside the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse, where Matthew’s case was being heard. The narrow side street was lined with small Chinese shops and restaurants and brimming with reporters and interested bystanders.

  Cut to: exterior shots of the courthouse; then the camera tracked Jackie Kam as she walked down a very familiar concrete hallway that dead-ended at a Plexiglas cell. Kam perched on the edge of the same folding chair I’d used, and Matthew was escorted into the transparent cage.

  Cut to: Kam introducing herself to Matthew. And then the interview began. I held my breath. Everyone in the room held their breath.

  “Matthew. What can you tell us about the last night of Tamara’s life?”

  Angle on Matthew: He looked as though he’d been sleeping in a shopping cart on the street in the wind. His hair was a bird’s nest and his eyes were red, with purple bags underneath.

  “I don’t know what happened that night,�
�� he said. “I was blind drunk when I got into bed. I don’t see how I could have hurt her. I wouldn’t have done it. I loved Tamara. I still do.”

  A second camera on Kam: “Let’s say that you did attack Tamara in a drunken rage. What would you have done with the murder weapon, Matthew? How could you have made it disappear?”

  On Matthew: “Good try, but I don’t know anything about a murder weapon. Now please, leave me the hell alone.”

  On Kam: back in the studio telling us, the audience, “Matthew Angel’s sunny disposition has clouded over. But it’s understandable. He is in The Tombs, a very dark, dank, and hopeless place.”

  As Kam talked about what was coming up this week for Matthew, someone knocked on our door. The UFO chandelier sang its famous song as the bell was pushed. None of the Angel kids moved. I wasn’t sure if I could have if I’d tried.

  Jacob pushed himself up from the Pork Chair and went to the door. I heard a voice speaking from the hallway.

  “Your presence is requested downstairs, sir. This meeting is mandatory. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  43

  The North Common Room was packed to the walls, and I’m not exaggerating. I knew from experience that the room was furnished with velvet chairs, usually grouped into conversational circles, and that there were tapestries and photos of old New York everywhere, but all you could see today were the tenants of the building standing shoulder to shoulder as Officer Frank from Pest Control stood at the front of the room. His expression was grave.

  “This is the latest intruder,” he said. “We’re very fortunate that there have been no casualties.”

  He held up a creature by its tail, clearly dead. It was a huge orange-and-black-patterned lizard, around two feet long.

  “Folks, this is a Gila monster,” Officer Frank announced. “It is indigenous to the southwestern United States and northern Mexico. Its bite isn’t lethal, but it’s painful and would probably paralyze a person for a good long time.”

  He tossed the lizard into a cardboard box and went over to a blueprint of the Dakota that was set up on an easel.

  “As you all know, this building has already been overrun by a swarm of venomous snakes and spiders, and now this lizard was found in the bathtub of apartment 2D. These creatures must be contained, and we need your help.

  “Does anyone have any information that would help us figure out where these creatures are coming from? Have any strangers been inside the building? Are there rumors or stories anyone would like to share, either here or, perhaps, in private?”

  Coughs cut through the dull hum as people talked to their neighbors. Officer Frank passed around a pad and pen, asking for the names and phone numbers of all those in attendance.

  “If we can’t find the source of this epidemic in the next few days,” the man in green said loudly, “we’ll have to take measures.”

  “What do you mean by measures?” our neighbor Mrs. Hauser shouted in her squeaky voice.

  “We will have to evacuate the building, tent it, and fumigate it,” he said. “Everyone and their pets and houseplants will have to leave for at least a week. Any other questions?”

  There were.

  “Are there poisonous swarms in any other buildings?”

  “Not that we know about.”

  My hand shot up, and Frank pointed to me.

  “Gila monsters live in burrows, underground. In the desert. I’m sure you’ve checked the basement, but I’m wondering if they could be coming up from the sewers.”

  “We’ve considered a sewer connection. We’re still looking into that.”

  Hugo suddenly scrambled onto a folding chair. He stood up and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Hugo? What are you doing?” Jacob said through his teeth. “Get down.”

  Hugo ignored him. He ignores lots of people. And warnings. And loud noises. And sometimes logic. “I have something to say.”

  There was a rumble of conversation that hushed as those assembled turned to look at my brother.

  “This is my sister,” he said, pointing to me. “She’s a detective. Tandy Angel, apartment 9G. She’ll help you, won’t you, Tandy?”

  Officer Frank looked unconvinced but said, “Ms. Angel, perhaps you’ll consent to being our inside contact person?”

  I shot Hugo a perturbed look. Like I needed more on my plate right now. Wasn’t he the one telling me to focus on Matthew? But now he had me cornered and I couldn’t exactly say no.

  “Uh, sure.”

  There was a smattering of applause. Hugo jumped down, and as the meeting dispersed, the four of us walked out in a clump, surrounded by the rest of the tenants.

  “Why’d you do that?” I growled at Hugo. “You should have volunteered yourself.”

  “You’re the Mysteries Solved, Case Closed girl,” he said. “I’m an author and the family agent.”

  I pinched him, hard, and he laughed as he squirmed away from me.

  But I was already wondering: What if someone was trying to murder rich people by releasing venomous animals into our midst? As murder weapons went, they were pretty untraceable but not exactly efficient. You couldn’t tell them which rich people to kill or when. You just had to hope they got the job done.

  As we walked back into our apartment, my phone beeped. It was a text from C.P.

  Meet me tmrw am at Brilling. Am working on something I think you’ll like.

  44

  Even C.P. was getting mysterious these days. I sent a quick text back saying I’d be there, then went to my office. I stood in the open doorway and, freshly alarmed by the meeting downstairs, viewed the long, skinny room with suspicion. Slowly, carefully, I moved around the space, opening file cabinets with a twisted coat hanger and using a broom handle to open and shut cupboard doors.

  Nothing crawled or slithered out of anywhere.

  I gave the counters a good cleaning, straightened books and beakers, and when everything felt clean and clearly uninhabited by exotic guests, I finally relaxed. I took a bottle of water out of the fridge, slugged some down, and started up my computer.

  Of all the madness bubbling inside my poor percolating mind—and there was a lot—the thoughts that kept rising to the top were about James Rampling.

  Now that it seemed that James was alive and he had tried to contact me, I could hardly stop thinking about him. Could barely focus on anything else. I needed to find him. I needed to get back what had been stolen from us.

  Nothing less was acceptable.

  The postcards James had sent me had originated in several large and small European cities. I thought of the newspaper article I’d found in Maud’s office in which Royal Rampling, Angel Family Enemy #1, had stated for the record that James was in school in Europe.

  That could be true.

  My e-mail to James’s old address had come rocketing back to me, but that wasn’t the end, not by far. I put “Ho Hey” on my iPod, and to the anthemic strains of The Lumineers, I typed James Rampling into my search engine. The top headlines:

  JAMES RAMPLING MISSING

  JAMES RAMPLING MISSING WITH WEALTHY ANGEL

  JAMES IN EUROPE, SAYS RAMPLING SR

  TANDOORI ANGEL AT CELEBRITY “RETREAT”

  Ugh.

  There was nothing specific about James’s whereabouts in any of the articles. So I tried another approach.

  I began a search of private schools in Europe, and within an hour, I’d assembled a list of excellent institutions of learning for filthy-rich teenagers. I starred the hundred schools that were within twenty-five miles of the cities pictured on the postcards. Then I composed an e-mail and addressed it to the headmasters of these schools. I quickly translated the note into French, Swedish, and German.

  It read:

  To the Headmaster:

  I am a student at All Saints Academy in New York City, and I am urgently seeking a former classmate, Mr. James Rampling. I have an important communication for him regarding a dear mutual friend in New York, and I woul
d appreciate your forwarding this e-mail to him.

  With thanks,

  Sincerely yours,

  Ms. Tandoori Angel

  New York, New York, USA

  I thought of the Greek god Eros as I pressed the send button, and envisioned a thick flight of golden arrows arcing over the Atlantic Ocean. Cheesy, I know, but still.

  I felt certain one of those arrows would find its way to James.

  45

  I met C.P. a few days later outside Brilling Day on Eighty-Third Street, where Marla Henderson attended classes before she was shot dead only days earlier on the Bow Bridge. Brilling is in an old brownstone residence, forty feet wide, just as deep, and four stories high. There are only one hundred and twenty students in all four grades, and it seemed like half of them were lined up at the coffee cart outside the building. Not that I was surprised. The espresso smelled like heaven.

  “I’ve already interviewed a few of them,” C.P. said, watching me eye the crowd.

  “Without me?” I asked.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a sidekick,” she said wryly.

  She showed me her iPad, five pages of notes from her inquisition, all neatly organized with the students’ names, ages, class affiliations, and e-mail addresses.

  My eyebrows shot up. “You’re hired.”

  C.P. smiled and did that little head-bobble thing she always did when she got happy news, like an A in chem or the announcement of some Hollywood hipster’s unexpected pregnancy.

  “Do you want a business card? Or a silver badge?” I teased.

  Her whole face lit up. “Yes.”

  We both laughed and shook on it. C.P. brought up a new file on her tablet.

  “I downloaded a complete dossier on Marla, everything I could find. Girl was smart. She had a three-point-nine average until the beginning of the second term, and then all of a sudden…” C.P. whistled like a bomb plummeting to earth, complete with accompanying hand-slice.

  I winced. “Crash and burn? Any idea why?”

  “Check out her Facebook page,” C.P. said, opening the app. “Her father died of a heart attack at the beginning of the term.”