Confessions of a Murder Suspect

63

I called Peter. Here’s what I said.

“Uncle Peter, it’s Tandy.”

Silence.

“I’m sincerely sorry for accusing you of killing my parents. I know you loved Malcolm—”

He hung up on me.

I called him back two more times, and when he didn’t answer, I left my full apology on his voice mail. Then I called Sergeant Caputo. In a strange way, I felt like apologizing to him, too. He was driven to the point of being abusive—just like I’d been—but I thought he was trying his best to solve the murders.

“It’s Tandoori Angel. I have reason to believe that Peter Angel is shipping illegal drugs to China. Yes, I’m sending you some photos via e-mail right now. You may want to notify the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

After sending the incriminating photos to Caputo, I clicked off my phone and looked out the window as we sped up the West Side Highway.

It was starting to rain. I calmed myself by counting the swipes of the windshield wipers and relaxing into the whooshing sound of our wheels speeding over the wet pavement.

And I had the recurring thought that had been driving me since I found out that Malcolm and Maud were dead.

In fact, I felt it more strongly than ever.

Whoever had killed my parents had been an “inside” person who was certain that he was smart enough to outwit all of us.

I didn’t know if he’d robbed us of our parents or liberated us. Either way or both ways, I couldn’t let the killer continue to live among us unpunished.

I couldn’t let the killer win.