Roses Are Red

by James Patterson

  “Same old, same old,” Betsey said.

  “You know the area?” I asked as we turned onto the street where Petrillo lived.

  She nodded and her brown eyes narrowed. “A certain number of years ago, that number not to be disclosed at this time, I was born not far from here. Four blocks, to be exact.”

  I glanced over at Betsey and saw a grim look on her face as she stared out the windshield. She had let me in on a little piece of her past. She’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Washington. She didn’t look like it.

  “We don’t have to follow up on this hunch,” I told her. “I can check it out later. It’s probably nothing, but Petrillo lives so close to the field office.”

  She shook her head, shrugged. “You read a lot of files today. This is the one that popped for you. We should follow up on it. I’m fine being here.”

  We stopped in front of a corner deli, where local kids had probably been hanging out for the past few decades. The current group looked a little retro in their choice of loose-fitting jeans, dark T-shirts, slicked-back hair. They were all white.

  We crossed the street and walked toward the end of the block. I pointed out a small yellow house. “That’s Petrillo’s.”

  “Let’s go talk to the man,” she said. “See if he’s robbed any banks lately.”

  We climbed pockmarked concrete steps to a gray metal screen door. I knocked on the door frame and called out, “D.C. police. I’d like to talk to Joseph Petrillo.”

  I turned to Betsey, who was standing to my left, down one of the stone stairs. I’m not even sure what I was going to say to her.

  Whatever it was — I never got it out.

  There was a tremendous gun blast — probably a shotgun. Very loud, deafening, scarier than a bolt of lightning. It came from inside the house, not far from the front door.

  Betsey screamed.

  Chapter 41

  I DIVED HEADFIRST OFF THE PORCH, taking Betsey with me. We lay on the lawn, scrambling to get our guns, breathing hoarsely.

  “Jesus Christ! Jesus!” she gasped. Neither of us had been hit, but we were scared shitless. I was also angry at myself for being careless at the door.

  “Damn it! I wasn’t expecting him to shoot at us.”

  “Last time I ever doubt your gut feelings,” she whispered. “I’ll call for backup.”

  “Call Metro first,” I told her. “This is our city.”

  We crouched beside an untrimmed hedge and several out-of-control rose bushes. Both of us had our pistols ready. I held mine pointed upward alongside my face. Was this the Mastermind in here? Had we found him?

  Across the street, the teens in front of the deli were brazenly checking out the action, more specifically, where the gunshot had come from. They had wide-eyed expressions and were watching us as if we were characters in an episode of NYPD Blue or Law & Order.

  “Crazy fuckin’ Joe,” one of them held his hands cupped around his mouth and shouted loudly.

  “At least he stopped shooting for the moment,” Betsey whispered. “Crazy fucking Joe.”

  “Unfortunately, he still has his scattergun. He can shoot some more if he wants to.”

  I shifted around on the ground so I could see the front of the house a little better. There was no hole in the door. Nothing.

  “Joseph Petrillo!” I shouted again.

  No response came from inside the house.

  “D.C. police!” I called out. You waiting for me to show my face again, Crazy Joe? You want a little better target this time?

  I inched up closer to the porch, but I stayed down below the railing.

  The kids across the street had started mimicking me. “Mr. Petrillo? Crazy Mr. Petrillo? You okay in there, you nutso asshole?”

  Help arrived minutes later. Two cruisers with their sirens wailing. Then two more. Then a couple of FBI sedans. Everybody was armed to the gills and ready for big trouble. Blockades were set up and down the street. The houses across the way were vacated, as was the corner store. A TV news helicopter dropped by for an unexpected and unwelcome visit — a flyby.

  I had participated in this kind of shoot-’em-up scene more times than I liked to think about. Not good. We waited another twenty minutes before a SWAT team arrived. The blue knights. They wore full body armor and used a battering ram to take down the front door. Then we went inside.

  I didn’t have to go, but I entered the house behind the primary. I had on a Kevlar vest and so did Agent Cavalierre. I kind of liked that she went in with us.

  It was weirder than weird inside. The living room of the house looked like the attic of a library: musty, coverless books, tattered magazines, and old newspapers were piled as high as seven feet and took up most of the room. There were cats everywhere, dozens of them. They meowed loudly, pathetically. The cats looked half starved.

  Joseph Petrillo was there, too. He lay in a pile of old copies of Newsweek, Time, Life, and People magazines. He must have toppled them when he fell backward. His mouth was open in what looked like a smile — half a smile, anyway.

  He had blown himself away with a shotgun. It was on the floor near his bloodied head. Most of the right side of his face was gone. Blood was splattered on the wall, an armchair, some of the books. One of the cats was fastidiously licking his hand.

  I looked down at the overturned books and papers near the body. I noticed a brochure for Citibank. Also several of Petrillo’s bank statements. The statements showed a balance of $7,711 three years before, but now was down to $61.

  Betsey Cavalierre was crouched near the wasted body. I sensed that she was trying hard not to be sick. A couple of the mangy cats were rubbing against her leg, but she seemed oblivious to them.

  “This couldn’t be the Mastermind,” she said.

  I looked into her eyes and saw fear, but mostly sadness there. “No, I’m sure it isn’t, Betsey. Not poor Petrillo and his starving cats.”

  Chapter 42

  I FINALLY GOT TO GO HOME to my own bed for a night. Jannie took pity on me for the sore back I was developing sleeping in the chair in her room. I was fast asleep at home when the phone rang. I picked up after a couple of loud rings.

  It was Christine.

  “Alex, there’s someone in the house. I think it’s Shafer. He’s come here to get me. Please help me!”

  “Call the police. I’m on my way,” I said into the phone. “You and Alex get out of there now!”

  It usually takes me close to half an hour to get out to Mitchellville. I got there in less than fifteen minutes that night. Lights were blazing all over the street. Two police cruisers were parked in front of Christine’s town house. It was raining hard.

  I jumped out of the Porsche and ran to the porch. A burly patrolman in a dark blue rain slicker raised his hand to stop me.

  “I’m Detective Alex Cross, Metro D.C. I’m a good friend of Christine Johnson.”

  He nodded and didn’t make me show my badge. “She’s inside with the other officers. Ms. Johnson’s fine, Detective. So is the little boy.”

  I could already hear little Alex crying in there. As I entered the living room I saw two patrolmen with Christine. She was crying, but also talking loudly to the policemen.

  “He’s here! I’m telling you. Geoffrey Shafer — the Weasel! He’s here somewhere!” she yelled, and ran both hands through her hair.

  The baby was wailing in his Pack ’N Play. I went over and picked him up. The Boy quieted down as soon as he was in my arms. I walked over to Christine and the two patrolmen.

  “Tell them about Geoffrey Shafer,” Christine pleaded with me. “Tell them what’s already happened. How crazy he is!”

  I told the officers who I was and then the story of Christine’s horrific kidnapping more than a year before in Bermuda. I tried to give a short version, and when I was finished they nodded. They got it, understood.

  “I remember the case from the newspapers,” one of them said. “Trouble is, there’s no evidence that anyone was here tonight.
We’ve checked all the doors, windows, and the grounds.”

  “Would you mind if I took a look around?” I asked.

  “Not at all. We’ll wait here with Ms. Johnson. Take your time, Detective.”

  I gave the baby over to Christine and then I checked the house very carefully. I looked everywhere, but I didn’t find any sign of entry. I walked the grounds and even though it was wet, saw no evidence of fresh footprints. I doubted that Shafer had been there that night.

  When I returned to the living room, Christine and the baby were cuddled up quietly on the couch. The two patrolmen were waiting outside on the front porch. I went out and talked to them.

  “Can I be honest?” one of them asked me. “Could Ms. Johnson have had a bad dream? It sounds like some kind of nightmare or something. She’s sure this guy Shafer was in her house. In the bedroom. We saw nothing to support that, Detective. The doors were locked. The alarm was still on. Does she have nightmares?”

  “Sometimes she does. Lately. Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.”

  After the squad cars drove off, I went back inside to be with Christine. She seemed a little calmer now, but her eyes were so damn sad.

  “What’s happening to me?” she asked. “I want my life back. I can’t get away from him.”

  She wouldn’t let me hold her, not even then. She didn’t want to hear that she might have been dreaming about Geoffrey Shafer, the Weasel. Christine did thank me for coming, but then she told me to go home.

  “There’s nothing you can do for me,” she said.

  I kissed the baby, and then I went home.

  Chapter 43

  AT PRECISELY 7 A.M. Mr. Blue took up his position in the thick fir woods behind a house in the Woodley Park section of Washington.

  As he’d done for the past three mornings, the bank manager, Martin Casselman, left his home at around twenty past seven. Casselman peered around the neighborhood before he got into his car. It was possible he was spooked by the recent bank robberies in Maryland and Virginia. Still, most people never really thought it could happen to them.

  Casselman’s wife was a teacher at Dumbarton Oaks High School. She taught English, which Mr. Blue had always hated. Mrs. C. would be leaving for work sometime closer to eight. The Casselmans were both organized and predictable, which made the job simpler.

  Mr. Blue crouched beside an old elm that was dying; he waited for a call on his cell phone. Everything was on schedule so far, and he felt relaxed. Approximately eight minutes after Martin Casselman left, the phone rang. He pushed the Talk button.

  “Mr. Blue. Talk to me.”

  “C. has arrived for our meeting. He’s in the parking lot as we speak. Over.”

  “Roger that. Everything looks good for my meeting with Mrs. C.”

  No sooner had Mr. Blue pushed End on the phone than he saw Victoria Casselman step out the front door of the house and lock up. She had on a pink suit and reminded him of Farrah Fawcett in her glory days.

  “Where the hell is she going?” he said, surprised. There weren’t supposed to be any surprises on this job. The Mastermind had supposedly scoped everything out perfectly. This wasn’t perfection. Mr. Blue started to walk fast through the tangle of woods and high weeds separating him from the Casselman house. He could already see that he wasn’t going to make it in time.

  Mistake.

  Mine, or hers?

  Both of ours! She’s leaving too early this morning; I’m out of position!

  He began to run toward Hawthorne Street, but she was already inside her black Toyota and backing out of the driveway. If she turned right, everything was completely screwed. If she turned left, he still had a chance to save the day. C’mon Farrah, honey, go left!

  Mr. Blue was trying to think of something to shout to her — something that would stop her cold. What, though? Think. Think.

  Good girl! She had turned left, but he still didn’t think he could get to the freaking road in time to stop her.

  He started to sprint, head down. He felt a burst of sudden, deep heat roaring through his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to run at full tilt like this.

  “Hey! Hey! Can you help me?” he called at the top of his voice. “Please help me! Help!”

  Victoria Casselman’s head of teased blond hair turned when she heard the shouts. She slowed the car a little, but she still didn’t stop completely.

  He had to stop her.

  “My wife’s having a baby!” Mr. Blue shouted. “Please help. My wife’s having a baby.”

  He sighed with incredible relief when he saw the black sedan stop in the middle of the road. He hoped that no busybody neighbor was watching from one of the houses lined up and down the street. It didn’t matter, though. He had to stop her one way or the other. He was still gasping as he ran up to the car.

  “What’s the matter with you? Where’s your wife?” Victoria Casselman called to him through the open window.

  Mr. Blue continued to wheeze until he was right up beside the car. Then he pulled out a Sig Sauer pistol and whacked her jaw with the barrel. Victoria Casselman’s head snapped to the side and she cried out in pain.

  “We’re going back to the house!” he shouted as he jumped into the car. He held the gun to her forehead.

  “Where the hell were you going at seven-forty? Oh, just shut up. I don’t really care. You made a mistake, Victoria. You made a bad mistake.” It was all Mr. Blue could do not to shoot her dead in the front seat of her car.

  Chapter 44

  A ROBBERY WAS IN PROGRESS at the Chase Manhattan Bank branch near the Omni Shoreham Hotel in Washington. Betsey Cavalierre and I didn’t talk much on the ride from the FBI offices to the bank. We were both dreading what we might find.

  Betsey was all business. She’d placed a siren on the roof and we raced through Washington. It was raining again, and streaks of water hammered the car’s roof and windshield. The city of Washington was crying. This nightmare was deepening and seemed to be accelerating. It was as scary and unpredictable as any multiple-murder case I had worked before. It didn’t make sense to me. A bank-robbing crew, or possibly a couple of crews, was operating like a gang of mass killers. The press coverage was massive and overwhelming; the public was terrified, and had a right to be; the banking industry was up in arms that the robberies and murders hadn’t been stopped.

  I was shaken from my reverie by the sound of police sirens wailing up ahead. The shrill chorus made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Then I saw the blue-and-white sign of the Chase Bank branch.

  Betsey stopped about a block away on Twenty-eighth Street. It was as close as we could get. Even with the heavy rain, there were a hundred spectators, dozens of ambulances, police cruisers, even a fire truck had arrived on the scene.

  We ran through the hissing downpour toward a modest red-brick building on the corner of Calvert. I was a few strides ahead of Betsey, but she was moving.

  “Metro police. Detective Cross,” I said, and flashed my badge at a patrolman who tried to block the way into the bank parking lot. The patrolman saw the gold shield and stepped aside.

  The assorted police and emergency sirens continued to wail loudly, and I wondered why. The moment I walked inside the bank lobby, I knew. I counted five bodies. Tellers and executives: three women, two men. All had been shot dead. It was another massacre, possibly the worst one so far.

  “Why? Jesus!” Agent Cavalierre muttered at my side. For a second she held on to my arm, but then realized what she had done and let go.

  An FBI agent hurried up to us. His name was James Walsh, and I remembered him from the first meeting at the field office. “Five are dead here. They’re all on staff, bank employees.”

  “Hostages at home?” Betsey asked.

  Walsh shook his head. “The manager’s wife is dead, too. Shot at close range. Executed for no reason we can figure out. . . . Betsey, they left a survivor at the bank. He has a message for you and Detective Cross. It’s from someone
called the Mastermind.”

  Chapter 45

  THE SURVIVOR’S NAME was Arthur Strickland, and he was being kept in the slain manager’s office, as far away as possible from the press. He was the bank’s security guard.

  Strickland was a tall, slender, well-built man in his late forties. Although physically impressive, he looked to be in a state of shock. Beads of perspiration covered his face, his thick mustache. His light blue uniform shirt was entirely soaked through.

  Betsey went up to the bank guard and spoke very softly, compassionately. “I’m Senior Agent Cavalierre from the FBI. I’m in charge of this investigation, Mr. Strickland. This is Detective Cross from the D.C. police. I hear that you have a message for us?”

  The powerful-looking man suddenly broke down. He sobbed into his hands. It took him a minute or so before he pulled himself together and was able to talk.

  “They were nice people that got killed here today. They were my friends,” he said. “I was supposed to protect them, and our customers, of course.”

  “It’s a terrible thing that happened, but it’s not your fault,” Betsey said to the guard. She was trying to be kind, to calm him, and she was doing a good job. “Why did the gunmen kill them? How did you get away?”

  The guard shook his head in dismay. “I didn’t get away,” he said. “They held me in the lobby with the others. Two of ’em did the job. All of us were told to stay facedown on the floor. They said they had to be out the bank quarter past eight. No later than that. No mistakes, they said several times. No alarms. No panic buttons.”

  “They were late getting out of the bank?” I asked Arthur Strickland.

  “No, sir,” the guard said to me. “That’s just it. They could have made it on time. They didn’t seem to want to. They told me to stand up. I thought they was going to shoot me right then. I was in Vietnam, but I was never this afraid.”