The Murder of an Angel

by James Patterson

  “I’ve had a breakthrough, Dr. Robosson. I just realized you’re a psychopath. Like my uncle Peter. Thanks for the session.”

  I stalked out of the interrogation room and ran right into Hayes. He grabbed my shoulders, then shook my hand.

  “You did it,” he said. “Nailed her like a pro.”

  “What about Peter?”

  “He’s asked for his lawyer.”

  Crap. No doubt Peter would hire the best lawyer in New York, who could get him off.

  Months had passed since the conspiracy to kill me at Waterside Center had been thwarted. Now it was a warm summer evening in Manhattan, a long holiday weekend in July.

  Leo was at the wheel, Uncle Jake was riding shotgun, and the rest of us were in the backseats of the long black car: me and Harry, Hugo, Matthew, and Kath, along with her baby son, George.

  Yes, Katherine. My brave, sweet, wonderful big sister, who no longer had to hide her very existence from our uncle Peter.

  It’s been said that the wheels of justice grind slowly, but Matthew’s lawsuit against the owner of our crashed aircraft had been quickly settled in our favor, and we were paying our own bills now.

  Dr. Robosson agreed to testify against Peter in exchange for a lighter sentence and was now residing at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility, working off her next ten years, one slow day at a time.

  Peter’s trial date was still in the indeterminate future, but until then, he was being held without bail at Rikers Island. Most importantly, he no longer owned Angel Pharmaceuticals.

  Philippe Montaigne, our family lawyer, good friend, and protector, produced the founding documents that my parents and Peter had prepared and signed twenty-five years ago. Despite the change of management due to the company’s short-lived bankruptcy, once Peter resumed ownership, the original regulations were reinstated. Namely, that in the event none of the founders were available to run the company, control would pass to a committee of their offspring. By unanimous decision, my siblings elected me CEO of Angel Pharmaceuticals with fifty-one percent of the voting shares.

  I had voted—and my siblings had gone along with me.

  That was why we were all together now, heading downtown toward a gray concrete-slab factory in Hell’s Kitchen as dusk settled over the city.

  Our excitement was palpable as Leo slowed the car and pulled into an empty parking lot two blocks east of the Angel Pharmaceuticals plant. From this spot, we had a clear view of the factory, which was dark and empty on a Sunday evening.

  Jacob and Leo opened the car doors and we all got out, breathless with anticipation. Speaking for myself, I was also a little bit fearful.

  Harry put it into words.

  “This might be the craziest thing you’ve done yet, Tandy. There are so many options that make more sense.”

  “I know,” I said. “But this puts an end to this dirty business forever. I’m not going to regret it.”

  “No regrets here, either, Tandoo,” said Katherine. “Nothing but blood money came from that horrible place.”

  She put her arm around my waist, and we lined up in a row facing Angel Pharmaceuticals.

  Jacob looked at his watch.

  “Ten seconds and counting,” he said.

  I grinned at him and he grinned back. We bumped fists, and of course, Hugo said, “Boooommmm!”

  It was as if Hugo had pressed the detonator himself. Small controlled explosions erupted on several floors of the building like the beginning of a fireworks display.

  All of us said “Boom,” even Leo and Uncle Jake.

  And then, with sharp crackling sounds and huge clouds of dust, the whole freaking building crumpled, folding in on itself, and Angel Pharma, along with too many family nightmares to count, once and for all came tumbling down.

  In the eerie aftermath of the explosions, as the dust clouds blended with the darkening sky, there was a surprising moment of silence. As Dr. Robosson had said, my father’s dreams and Peter’s had materialized in this place, and now all that was left of their terrible experiments were our wounded hearts and terrible memories.

  I saw that Harry had tears on his cheeks. I hoped this was the end of his deeply felt grief at being the least-loved child.

  And then the breeze coming off the Hudson River blew off the momentary sadness. I was filled with exhilaration. I felt liberated, as though Independence Day was inside me.

  I was actually free.

  My siblings and I whooped and embraced one another, and Matty cracked open a bottle of champagne and poured it over my head. More corks popped, and we all laughed and danced like fools in the delicious sparkling rain. I loved everyone here.

  The wide-open views of the West Side of New York were wider and more open now that Angel Pharmaceuticals was rubble.

  My God.

  This was truly the best day of my life—so far. And I’m not done yet, not even close. But I know this right now. No other kids will take Angel Pharmaceuticals’ heinous, unpredictable, brain-changing “vitamin pills” ever again.

  And that’s all I ever really wanted.

  Game over. Case closed.

  Wishing you the best of everything.

  Your friend,

  Tandoori Angel

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  Our thanks to John A. Duffy for his touching lyrics, pilot Pete Colomello for his super aerodynamics, attorney Philip R. Hoffman for weighing in on the law, and Ingrid Taylar for her thorough research.

  JAMES PATTERSON is the #1 bestselling author of the Maximum Ride, Witch & Wizard, and Confessions novels, as well as Homeroom Diaries. His blockbuster fiction for adults, featuring enduring characters like Alex Cross—in addition to his many books for younger readers, such as the Middle School series—have sold more than 300 million copies worldwide, making him the bestselling author of the decade. He lives in Florida.

  MAXINE PAETRO has also collaborated with James Patterson on the bestselling Women’s Murder Club and Private series. She lives with her husband in New York State.

  BOOKS BY JAMES PATTERSON

  FOR YOUNG ADULT READERS

  The Confessions Novels

  Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Private School Murders (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Paris Mysteries (with Maxine Paetro)

  Confessions: The Murder of an Angel (with Maxine Paetro)

  The Witch & Wizard Novels

  Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)

  The Gift (with Ned Rust)

  The Fire (with Jill Dembowski)

  The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski)

  The Lost (with Emily Raymond)

  The Maximum Ride Novels

  The Angel Experiment

  School’s Out—Forever

  Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports

  The Final Warning

  MAX

  FANG

  ANGEL

  Nevermore

  Maximum Ride Forever

  Nonfiction

  Med Head (with Hal Friedman)

  Illustrated Novels

  Homeroom Diaries (with Lisa Papademetriou, illustrated by Keino)

  Maximum Ride: The Manga, Vols. 1–9 (with NaRae Lee)

  Witch & Wizard: The Manga, Vols. 1–3 (with Svetlana Chmakova)

  For previews of upcoming books in these series and other information, visit confessionsofamurdersuspect.com, maximumride.com, and witchandwizard.com.

  For more information about the author, visit JamesPatterson.com.

  1

  IT WAS 4:30 AM WHEN I WOKE UP AND pulled my backpack out from under the bed. I’d spent the last few nights obsessively packing and unpacking and repacking it, making sure I had exactly what I needed and no more: a couple of changes of clothes, Dr. Bronner’
s castile soap (good for “Shave-Shampoo-Massage-Dental-Soap-Bath,” says the label), and a Swiss Army knife that I’d swiped from my dad’s desk drawer. A camera. And, of course, my journal, which I carry everywhere.

  Oh, and more than fifteen hundred dollars in cash, because I’d been the neighborhood’s best babysitter for going on five years now, and I charged accordingly.

  Maybe there was a part of me that always knew I was going to split. I mean, why else didn’t I blow my money on an iPad and a Vera Wang prom dress, like all the other girls in my class? I’d had that map of the US on my wall for ages, and I’d stare at it and wonder what Colorado or Utah or Michigan or Tennessee is like.

  I can’t believe it took me as long as it did to get up the guts to leave. After all, I’d watched my mom do it. Six months after my little sister, Carole Ann, died, Mom wiped her red-rimmed eyes and took off. Went back East where she’d grown up, and as far as I know, never looked back.

  Maybe the compulsion to run away is genetic. Mom did it to escape her grief. My dad escapes with alcohol. Now I was doing it… and it felt strangely right. At long last. I could almost forgive Mom for splitting.

  I slipped on my traveling clothes and sneakers—saying good-bye to my favorite boots—and hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder, cinching the straps tight. I was going to miss this apartment, this town, this life, like an ex-con misses his jail cell, which is to say: Not. At. All.

  My dad was asleep on the ugly living room couch. It used to have these pretty pink flowers on it, but now they look sort of brownish orange, like even fabric plants could die of neglect in our apartment. I walked right by and slipped out the front door.

  My dad gave a small snort in his sleep, but other than that, he never even stirred. In the last few years, he’d gotten pretty used to people leaving. Would it really matter if another member of the Moore family disappeared on him?

  Out in the hallway, though, I paused. I thought about him waking up and shuffling into the kitchen to make coffee. He’d see how clean I’d left it, and he’d be really grateful, and maybe he’d decide to come home from work early and actually cook us a family dinner (or a what’s-left-of-the-family dinner). And then he’d wait for me at the table, the way I’d waited so many nights for him, until the food got cold.

  Eventually, it would dawn on him: I was gone.

  A dull ache spread in my chest. I turned and went back inside. Dad was on his back, his mouth slightly open as he breathed, his shoes still on. I put out a hand and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

  He wasn’t a horrible father, after all. He paid the rent and the grocery bill, even if it was me who usually did the shopping. When we talked, which wasn’t often, he asked me about school and friends. I always said everything was great, because I loved him enough to lie. He was doing the best he could, even if that best wasn’t very good.

  I’d written about eight hundred drafts of a good-bye note. The Pleading One: Please try to understand, Dad, this is just something I have to do . The Flattering One: It’s your love and concern for me, Dad, that give me the strength to make this journey . The Literary One: As the great Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw wrote, “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” And I want to go create myself, Dad. The Pissy One: Don’t worry about me, I’m good at taking care of myself. After all, I’ve been doing it since Mom left. In the end, though, none of them seemed right, and I’d thrown them all away.

  I bent down closer. I could smell beer and sweat and Old Spice aftershave.

  “Oh, Daddy,” I whispered.

  Maybe there was a tiny part of me that hoped he’d wake up and stop me. A small, weak part that just wanted to be a little girl again, with a family that wasn’t sick and broken. But that sure wasn’t going to happen, was it?

  So I leaned in and kissed my father on the cheek. And then I left him for real.

  2

  ROBINSON WAS WAITING FOR ME IN THE back booth of the all-night diner on Klamath Avenue, two blocks from the bus station. Next to him was a backpack that looked like he’d bought it off a train-hopping hobo for a chicken and a nickel, and his face made me think of a watch-dog resting with one eye open. He looked up at me through the steam rising from his coffee.

  “I ordered pie,” he said.

  As if on cue, the waitress delivered a gooey plate of blueberry pie and two forks. “You two are up early,” she said. It was still dark. Not even the birds were awake yet.

  “We’re vampires, actually,” Robinson said. “We’re just having a snack before bed.” He squinted at her name tag and then smiled his big, gorgeous smile at her. “Don’t tell on us, okay, Tiffany? I don’t need a stake through my heart. I’m only five hundred years old—way too young and charming to die.”

  She laughed and turned to me. “Your boyfriend’s a flirt,” she said.

  “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,” I said quickly.

  Robinson’s response was almost as quick. “She asked me out, but I turned her down.”

  I kicked him under the table and he yelped. “He’s lying,” I told her. “It’s the other way around.”

  “You two are a comedy act,” Tiffany said. She wasn’t that much older than we were, but she shook her head like we were silly kids. “You should take that show on the road.”

  Robinson took a big bite of pie. “Believe me, we’re gonna,” he said.

  He shoved the plate toward me, but I shook my head. I couldn’t eat. I’d managed to keep a lid on my nerves, but now I felt like jumping out of my skin. When had I ever done anything this crazy, this monumental? I never even broke my curfew.

  “Hurry up with that pie,” I said. “The bus to Eureka leaves in forty-five minutes.”

  Robinson stopped chewing and stared at me. “Pardon?” “The buuuuus ,” I said, drawing it out. “You know, the one we’re getting on? So we can get the heck out of here?”

  Robinson cracked up, and I considered kicking him again, because it doesn’t take a genius to tell the difference between being laughed with and laughed at. “What’s so funny?”

  He leaned forward and put his hands on mine. “Axi, Axi, Axi,” he said, shaking his head. “Th is is the trip of a lifetime. We are not going to take it on a Greyhound bus.”

  “What? Who’s in charge of this trip, anyway?” I demanded. “And what’s so bad about a bus?”

  Robinson sighed. “Everything is bad about a bus. But I’ll give you some specifics so you’ll stop looking at me with those big blue eyes. Th is is our trip, Axi, and I don’t want to share it with a dude who just got out of prison or an old lady who wants to show me pictures of her grandkids.” He pointed a forkful of pie at me. “Plus, the bus is basically a giant petri dish for growing superbacteria, and it takes way too long to get anywhere. Th ose are your two bonus reasons.”

  I threw up my hands. “Last I checked, we don’t have a private jet, Robinson.”

  “Who said anything about a plane? We’re going to take a car, you dope,” he said. He leaned back in the booth and crossed his hands behind his head, totally smooth and nonchalant. “And I do mean take one.”

  3

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I HISSED AS Robinson led us down one of the nearby side streets. His legs are about twice as long as mine, so I had to jog to keep up with him.

  When we came to an intersection, I grabbed his arm and whirled him around to face me. Eye to eye. Scalawag to Ms. Straitlaced.

  “Are you serious about this?” I said. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

  He smiled. “You took care of the route. Let me take care of the ride.”

  “Robinson—”

  He shook off my grip and slung his arm around my shoulder, big brother–style. “Now settle down, GG, and I’ll give you a little lesson in vehicle selection.”

  “A lesson in what? And don’t call me that.” It stands for Good Girl, and it drives me absolutely nuts when he says it.

  Robinson pointed to a car just ahead. “Now that, see, i
s a Jaguar. It’s a beautiful machine. But it’s an XJ6, and those things have problems with their fuel filters. You can’t have your stolen car leaking gas, Axi, because it could catch on fire, and if you don’t die a fiery death, well, you’re definitely going to jail for grand theft auto.”

  We walked on a little farther, and he pointed to a green minivan. “The Dodge Grand Caravan is roomy and dependable, but we’re adventurers, not soccer moms.”

  I decided to pretend this was all make-believe. “Okay, what about that one?” I asked.

  He followed my finger and looked thoughtful. “Toyota Matrix. Yeah, definitely a good option. But I’m looking for something with a bit more flair.”

  By now the sun was peeking over the horizon, and the birds were up and chattering to each other. As Robinson and I walked down the leafy streets, I felt the neighborhood stirring. What if some guy stepped outside to grab the newspaper and saw us, two truants, suspiciously inspecting the neighborhood cars?

  “Come on, Robinson,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.” I was still hoping we’d make the bus. We had ten minutes left.

  “I just want the perfect thing,” he said.

  At that moment, we saw a flash in the corner of our eyes. It was brown and fast and coming toward us. I gasped and reached out for Robinson.

  He laughed and pulled me close. “Whoa, Axi, get a grip. It’s only a dog.”

  My heart was thrumming. “Yeah, I can see that… now.”

  I could also now see it wasn’t likely to be an attack dog, either. He was a small thing, with matted, shaggy fur. No collar, no tags. I took a step forward, my hand extended, and the dog flinched. He turned around and went right up to Robinson instead (of course) and licked his hand. Then the darn thing lay down at his feet. Robinson knelt to pet him.