Angel kids survived this—perhaps by a means that I might describe as…
not entirely natural
. But we’ll get to that later.
For the moment, I decided to use the skills my parentshad driven into all of us, and to refuse to react the way Caputo wanted me to.
“Of course, Officer Caputo,” I finally responded to his demand. “We wouldn’t want to interfere in your very thorough investigation.”
I would just have to wait until the officers were out of my way.
CONFESSION
If only Caputo could interrogate Robert.
You see, Robert sees stuff. He
knows
stuff. About the Angels. About me.
Such as: He knows about the time I put my foot right through his TV screen.
On purpose.
Or so I’m told.
I don’t even remember it. But I know it happened because one day I was the best lacrosse player at All Saints, and the next day I woke up in the hospital with fifty stitches in my foot and leg.
In the hospital, Malcolm’s and Maud’s stern faces had looked at me without sympathy. Maud said she never thought lacrosse was good for me, anyway. (I would never play again.) Malcolm announced that my Big Chop was going to be repairing Robertso that he was as good as new. (My efforts were, sadly, flawed; that’s why Robert only watches static these days.)
And that’s pretty much all they’d told me. You don’t demand answers from Malcolm and Maud.
Hugo was the only one who saw what happened. He said I flew into the apartment in such a rage that he hid behind the Claes Oldenburg sculpture and watched me kick the hell out of Robert, screaming, “
They killed her. They killed her!
” My foot crashed through Robert’s screen with the force of a wrecking ball, he claims.
How could I do that? I’d need almost superhuman strength. When I asked Matthew, he shrugged and said only: “It’s a piece of art, Tandy. It’s not industrial strength.”
More important, though, was
why
I would do that. Could I really have been talking about my dead sister, Katherine?
Was I accusing Malcolm and Maud of killing their eldest daughter?
And why don’t I remember it at all?
5
Caputo was still pacing and coughing
, giving us the evil eye and warning us that if we crossed into the no-go zone of the penthouse suite, he would have us removed from the apartment.
“I’m doing you a favor, letting you stay downstairs. Don’t make me sorry.”
I stared back at the menacing detective and remembered what it had been like growing up here in the Dakota—a gated island on an island. It was one of the few places in the world where I felt secure.
Yet Malcolm and Maud Angel weren’t the first people to be killed at the Dakota. Everyone knows that Mark David Chapman gunned John Lennon down right at thefront gates, where the police cars were now parked. And just two floors below us, the actor Gig Young killed his wife and then shot himself.
Now my parents had been murdered in their own bed by an unknown killer for a reason I couldn’t imagine.
Or maybe I could… but I digress. Those are very private thoughts, for later.
As I sat beside Harry, under the withering gaze of Sergeant Caputo, crime-scene investigators trooped through the private entranceway that very few New Yorkers had ever seen, even in photographs. They crossed the cobbled courtyard and used the residents’ elevators to come upstairs, which was strictly forbidden by the cooperative’s bylaws.
Sergeant Caputo had banned us from our parents’ suite—but I
lived
there. I had rights. And I had already taught myself basic criminology.
I learned all about JonBenét Ramsey when I was six, the same age she’d been when she was murdered. She had been an adorable little girl, seemingly happy and unafraid and loving. I was so moved by her death that I wrote to the police in Colorado, asking them why they hadn’t found her killer. No one wrote back. To this day, her killer has not been found.
The unsolved Ramsey case had inspired me to readup on the famous forensic pathologists Michael
not entirely natural
. But we’ll get to that later.
For the moment, I decided to use the skills my parentshad driven into all of us, and to refuse to react the way Caputo wanted me to.
“Of course, Officer Caputo,” I finally responded to his demand. “We wouldn’t want to interfere in your very thorough investigation.”
I would just have to wait until the officers were out of my way.
CONFESSION
If only Caputo could interrogate Robert.
You see, Robert sees stuff. He
knows
stuff. About the Angels. About me.
Such as: He knows about the time I put my foot right through his TV screen.
On purpose.
Or so I’m told.
I don’t even remember it. But I know it happened because one day I was the best lacrosse player at All Saints, and the next day I woke up in the hospital with fifty stitches in my foot and leg.
In the hospital, Malcolm’s and Maud’s stern faces had looked at me without sympathy. Maud said she never thought lacrosse was good for me, anyway. (I would never play again.) Malcolm announced that my Big Chop was going to be repairing Robertso that he was as good as new. (My efforts were, sadly, flawed; that’s why Robert only watches static these days.)
And that’s pretty much all they’d told me. You don’t demand answers from Malcolm and Maud.
Hugo was the only one who saw what happened. He said I flew into the apartment in such a rage that he hid behind the Claes Oldenburg sculpture and watched me kick the hell out of Robert, screaming, “
They killed her. They killed her!
” My foot crashed through Robert’s screen with the force of a wrecking ball, he claims.
How could I do that? I’d need almost superhuman strength. When I asked Matthew, he shrugged and said only: “It’s a piece of art, Tandy. It’s not industrial strength.”
More important, though, was
why
I would do that. Could I really have been talking about my dead sister, Katherine?
Was I accusing Malcolm and Maud of killing their eldest daughter?
And why don’t I remember it at all?
5
Caputo was still pacing and coughing
, giving us the evil eye and warning us that if we crossed into the no-go zone of the penthouse suite, he would have us removed from the apartment.
“I’m doing you a favor, letting you stay downstairs. Don’t make me sorry.”
I stared back at the menacing detective and remembered what it had been like growing up here in the Dakota—a gated island on an island. It was one of the few places in the world where I felt secure.
Yet Malcolm and Maud Angel weren’t the first people to be killed at the Dakota. Everyone knows that Mark David Chapman gunned John Lennon down right at thefront gates, where the police cars were now parked. And just two floors below us, the actor Gig Young killed his wife and then shot himself.
Now my parents had been murdered in their own bed by an unknown killer for a reason I couldn’t imagine.
Or maybe I could… but I digress. Those are very private thoughts, for later.
As I sat beside Harry, under the withering gaze of Sergeant Caputo, crime-scene investigators trooped through the private entranceway that very few New Yorkers had ever seen, even in photographs. They crossed the cobbled courtyard and used the residents’ elevators to come upstairs, which was strictly forbidden by the cooperative’s bylaws.
Sergeant Caputo had banned us from our parents’ suite—but I
lived
there. I had rights. And I had already taught myself basic criminology.
I learned all about JonBenét Ramsey when I was six, the same age she’d been when she was murdered. She had been an adorable little girl, seemingly happy and unafraid and loving. I was so moved by her death that I wrote to the police in Colorado, asking them why they hadn’t found her killer. No one wrote back. To this day, her killer has not been found.
The unsolved Ramsey case had inspired me to readup on the famous forensic pathologists Michael
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