Confessions: The Private School Murders (33 page)

I stood like a block of stone
in Matthew’s kitchen, staring into the broom closet at the evidence Tamara’s killer had left behind. I double-checked and triple-checked what my eyes were telling me, and I was sure.

I saw what I saw, and I knew what it meant.

Shaking from head to toe, I phoned Sergeant Capricorn Caputo and got the operator at the Twentieth Precinct, who insisted that I leave a message for the sergeant.

“Sarge is so busy, he hasn’t seen the sun all day. Spell your name for me, miss, and I’ll be sure to get him the message.”

“This is Tandoori Angel. A-N-G-E-L!” I shouted, my
voice quavering. “I have evidence of a murder. Put Caputo on the phone.”

“Please hold.”

Many long seconds later, Caputo picked up.

“Hey, Pandora—”

“I know who killed Tamara Gee,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ve got proof. And just FYI, it wasn’t Matthew.”

I told him what I’d discovered and instructed him to get to Matthew’s apartment. Caputo said that even if he put the sirens on, it would take him twenty minutes to get there.

“Then jack up the sirens and step on it!” I shouted.

I hit the off button and paced. Would Caputo take me seriously? Would he hurry? And what the hell was I supposed to do in Bloodbath Central for twenty freaking minutes?

I sat down on Matthew’s couch and called Philippe. He didn’t answer, so I texted him and then C.P. and then Harry. None of them replied.

What the hell were C.P. and Harry doing that they wouldn’t answer a text announcing that Matthew was innocent?

Oh. Right. Ew. I didn’t want to go there. I tried calling Philippe again. Still no answer.

Finally, I couldn’t take the waiting anymore. I grabbed my stuff and went downstairs to wait for Caputo.

You understand that I was manic, right? I could not sit still. My mind was churning with anxiety, hope doing battle with despair.

Would this unbelievably solid clue give Phil the slam dunk he needed to get Matthew out of jail? Or would the new evidence be inadmissible because I’d walked around in the former crime scene? Would Matty go free? Or would he come
this close
to exoneration before being locked up for life?

I breezed past Paulie on my way out the door and was about to call Caputo again when I heard the sirens.

Thank God.

The unmarked car squealed to a stop four feet from the stoop I was standing on.

Caputo got out and buttoned his black jacket. “I put a hot murder investigation on ice, Tweedledee. You’d better not be wasting my time.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not,” I said, nodding hello to Detective Hayes as he joined us on the sidewalk.

I took my heirloom key ring out of my bag and led the cops into the apartment building, past a stunned Paulie. No one spoke in the elevator, and we remained silent until we were inside Matthew’s apartment.

I took the detectives to the kitchen, opened the broom closet, and showed them my big find.

Caputo stared, his jaw hanging open ever so slightly. He blinked a few times, then turned to me.

“So what do you think this means?” he asked.

I told him in one long unpunctuated sentence.

His face registered surprise but, to my total elation, not doubt.

“I owe you an apology, Tandy,” he said. “You’ve got something here. And now I’m calling the Sixth Precinct. They’re gonna reopen this crime scene, and you have to skedaddle. Pronto.”

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I was shocked.

Number one, Caputo had
apologized
to me. That was a first.

Number two, he’d called me by my actual name.

Number three, he’d told me to leave my brother’s apartment after I had just done his job for him.

“I’m not leaving, Caputo. I’ll stand off to the side and I won’t say a word, but I think I’ve earned—”

“You can’t stay here, Tandy. Not if you want this evidence to count for something,” Caputo said gruffly. “I’m going to downplay your presence here for your brother’s sake. Okay? And still, I’m making you no promises.”

“Fine. If it’s for Matthew.” I took out my phone and snapped a few shots of the dumbwaiter for Philippe.

“Keep me posted.”

I reluctantly walked out onto the street, where I found Paulie in the wing chair, watching girls, smoking.

“Can I get a drag?” I said, gesturing at his cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but it seemed like an appropriate moment to start.

He handed it over.

I puffed, then coughed. For the millionth time I wondered at the mystique of smoking tobacco. Tastes nasty and ruins your health. I just didn’t get it. I spat a flake of tobacco off my tongue and handed the cigarette back to Paulie.

He said, “Everything okay, Tandy?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Never better.”

“What the hell is going on up there?” he asked, glancing toward the third floor.

“Only good things,” I told him. “At least, I hope.”

He nodded, as if he understood my cryptic words. “Tell Matthew I said to hang tough. I’m rooting for him.”

“Will do.”

I had a MetroCard and about eight dollars in singles, so I joined the herd jogging down the steps to the Christopher
Street subway platform and caught the 1 train. I found a seat near the conductor’s door and suddenly wondered if my silver franc was safe. Had I mistakenly handed it to Caputo? I dug around in my bag, kind of panicked until I touched the coin. Yes, it was there.

As I was retracting my hand, I brushed the pill bottle I’d taken from Marla Henderson’s medicine cabinet.

While the subway car rattled and rolled, I studied the small amber bottle. According to the label from Giuseppe’s Pharmacy, Marla was on her first month of the prescription antidepressant, with one refill left to go.

I wondered if Adele Church had also been on anti-depressants and, if so, whether she’d gotten her prescription filled at Giuseppe’s. Granted, there wasn’t much chance I could ferret out this information, and if I could, what would it mean?

Giuseppe’s Pharmacy was on my way home. I could stop there and still be home before curfew. And besides, after finding Mr. Borofsky last night and the evidence in the dumbwaiter today, I was kind of on a roll.

Might as well see where it would take me. Right?

74

Giuseppe’s Pharmacy
is on Sixty-Eighth and Columbus, only four short blocks and an avenue over from the Dakota, set back and nestled between two high-rise apartment buildings. It’s small and old-fashioned, way different from the big chain drugstores. I’d passed it many times, but I’d never been inside.

I’ll admit I didn’t have a plan. You could almost call my stop at Giuseppe’s a distraction from thinking about the cops going through Matthew’s apartment and having to trust them with evidence that might be Matthew’s last lifeline.

I got out of the subway at the Lincoln Center stop and walked quickly to Giuseppe’s. Out front, a gangly boy, about nineteen or so, was sweeping the sidewalk.

He had bad skin, a straggly soul patch, and running shoes that he’d worn to death, but he had a nice smile and held the door for me.

“We’re closing in about ten minutes,” he said. “Better hurry up.”

I thanked him and walked through the center aisle of the store, past shampoos and skin-care products, and arrived at the back, where the pharmacist was working behind his high counter.

He had white hair and a matching jacket with his name stitched in blue over the pocket:
ALAN
. The man looked up, pushed his glasses to the top of his head, and said, “I can’t fill a prescription for you tonight, you understand. You’ll have to pick it up tomorrow.”

I held up the pill bottle in my hand, shook it, and said, “A friend of mine takes this. Paxil.”

“And?”

“Well, I’m pretty jittery, and Marla told me it really helps her focus. And I was wondering—”

I paused as the scraggly helper guy came to the back of the store and said to the pharmacist, “I put the newspapers away and I’m done sweeping the walk, Alan. I can lock up when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Gary,” Alan said with a nod. “You were saying, young lady?”

“Marla likes Paxil, and I have another friend Adele. I think she gets her Paxil here, too,” I said, fishing for a connection, just casting my line. “I was wondering if you know Marla and Adele,” I rambled on, following a hunch, “and if you can tell me if they, or really anyone, had any side effects from this. Before I ask my doctor for a prescription.”

Alan narrowed his eyes and gave me a curious look. Granted, it was kind of a strange set of questions. “May I see that bottle?” he asked.

I handed it over, and he snatched it, put it in his drawer, and slammed the drawer shut.

“I’m sure you know it’s dangerous to take someone else’s prescription drugs, miss. Now off you go. We’re closing up.”

Great. I was being booted out. Again.

I didn’t say a word. Just spun on my little boot heels and strode out of Giuseppe’s. Outside, I took a deep breath and sighed. It’d been a long shot, anyway.

I glanced at my watch and my eyes widened. How had it gotten so late? If I wasn’t home in a minute, I was going to be in serious trouble.

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