Confessions of a Murder Suspect

67

I sat there in the theater for a few minutes, taking deep breaths in through my nose, and then exhaling through my mouth. Some of Dr. Keyes’s techniques still worked wonders for me. Soon I mustered up the courage to switch on the TV show in progress, leaving the recorded DVR segment for later. Much, much later.

I heaved a sigh of relief. I’d rejoined at a commercial break. When the show returned to the air, I saw the four of us wading into the dense field of black umbrellas as we went into the Dakota.

Then the show cut to a close-up of Matthew talking to Kaylee Kerz, lifting his shades to fasten his blue eyes on her, then giving a thumbs-up to the camera. Matty looked slick. Too slick.

The show cut again, to Tony Imbimbo interviewing Capricorn Caputo.

Caputo hacked a couple of times into his hand then said darkly, “It’s an ongoing investigation. I can only say that we have suspects and we’re confident that we will bring the killer to justice.”

Cut again to Imbimbo, stopping neighbors on their way into the Dakota. Mrs. Hauser, wearing gold lamé and a hat, complained to the TV shark, “We’re now looking into taking legal action against the Angels. This kind of disturbance is against the rules.”

I blurted out, “Legal action? What kind of legal action? They wouldn’t try to evict us, would they?”

Then documentary filmmaker Nathan Beale Crosby, wearing his trademark red baseball hat and matching glasses, rushed past, almost knocking Mrs. Hauser down. Crosby wouldn’t stop for someone else’s camera.

But Morris Sampson happily stepped up to Imbimbo’s microphone.

Imbimbo introduced Sampson as a number one bestselling author, which made me snicker. “Bestselling where? Timbuktu?”

Sampson said to Imbimbo, “I’ve heard privately that Maud and Malcolm Angel were poisoned by a toxin that even the city’s forensic lab can’t identify. You know, of course, that the family manufactures pharmaceutical drugs.”

Imbimbo could hardly hold back his elation at the implied connection between Angel Pharmaceuticals and the poison that killed my parents.

I felt as though I’d been shot between the eyes.

“Mr. Sampson, who do you think killed the Angels?”

“I’m not going to point any fingers,” Sampson said. “But if I were writing this story as a novel—and let me emphasize the words work of fiction—I would say that all four children are smart and crafty enough to commit murder. The four of them, working in concert, could probably get away with it.”

Sampson’s remark signaled the end of the program.

The show’s signature close was a series of full-screen photos accompanied by the sound of a camera flash as each picture filled the screen and the words Under Suspicion were stamped across each image.

Matthew, flashbam.

Me, flash-bam.

Harry, flash-bam.

Hugo, flash-bam.

Bam, bam, bam, bam.

“Under suspicion of committing murder by the NYPD.”

What was even worse—much worse—was that I had the exact same list of suspects.