Roses Are Red

by James Patterson

  “This has gotten out of control, Alex,” Sampson complained once we were together in one of the dirt-patch yards separating the project buildings. “Way too much firepower here. Too many cooks in the kitchen. The chief of detectives strikes again.”

  I looked around, shook my head, and cursed under my breath. It was a goddamn zoo. I saw SWAT personnel and several homicide detectives. Plus the usual neighborhood looky-loos. Mitchell Brand. Jesus. Could he possibly be the Mastermind?

  I quickly put on a Kevlar vest. I checked my Glock. Then I went and talked to the chief of detectives. I reminded Pittman that this was my case, and he couldn’t argue with that. I could tell he was surprised that I was at the scene, though.

  “I’ll take it from here,” I said.

  “We’ve got Brand all set up. Just don’t fuck it up,” Pittman finally snarled, then walked away from me.

  Chapter 71

  SENIOR AGENT JAMES WALSH arrived on the scene after I did. No Betsey Cavalierre, though. I went up to Walsh. He and I had gotten friendly over the past couple of weeks, but he seemed distant tonight. He didn’t like what was going on here, either. He’d been called late, too.

  “Where’s Senior Agent Cavalierre?” I asked.

  “She had a couple days off. I think she’s visiting a friend in Maryland. You know this Mitchell Brand?” he asked.

  “I know enough about him. He’ll probably be heavily armed if he’s up there. He apparently has a new girlfriend named Theresa Lopez. She lives in the project. Lopez has three kids. I know her by sight.”

  “That’s really great,” Walsh said, and shook his head, rolled his eyes. “Three kids, their mommy, and an armed bank-robbing suspect.”

  “You got it. Welcome to D.C., Agent Walsh. Anyway, Brand could have been part of the team that struck MetroHartford. He could be the Mastermind. We have to go get him.”

  I met with the raid team at an OP, an observation point, in a nearby building. The OP was a studio apartment used by Metro narcotics detectives assigned to the East Capitol Dwellings project. I had been in the apartment a few times before. This was my neighborhood.

  A team of eight of us would go into the sixth-floor apartment to take down Mitchell Brand. Eight was more than enough; there’s only safety in numbers up to a point.

  As the team checked weapons and put on Kevlars, I stared out onto the streets. Sodium-vapor streetlights created a yellow fuzziness down below. What a bad scene. Even with this much police presence in the neighborhood, the drug game continued. Nothing could stop it. I watched a brazen team of lookouts and steerers selling crack on the far corner, beyond the projects. An addict approached, quick-stepping, his head down. A local foolio, a familiar sight to me. I turned away from the drug deal as if it weren’t happening.

  I began to talk to the team. “Mitchell Brand is wanted for questioning in the robbery of a Union Trust in Falls Church. He could definitely be our link to whoever is behind the robberies. This is the best suspect we’ve come up with so far. He could be the Mastermind.

  “As best we can tell, Brand is up in the girlfriend’s apartment. She’s a new honey for him. Detective Sampson will pass around a standard layout for a one-bedroom in the building. You should know that inside the one-bedroom we may find Brand, his girlfriend, and her three children, aged two to six.”

  I turned to Agent Walsh. Two of his agents were part of the go team. He had nothing to add, but he told his men, “The Washington police will act as the primary at the apartment. We will be backup in the hallway and going into the girlfriend’s apartment. That’s about it,” he said.

  “Okay, let’s move out,” I said. “Everybody use extreme care. Everything we know about Brand says he’s dangerous and will be heavily armed.”

  “He was Special Forces, Army,” John Sampson added. “How’s that for whipped cream on shit?”

  Chapter 72

  ARMED AND DANGEROUS — it is a common enough catchphrase, but with real meaning to police officers.

  We entered Building Three single file through the dingy, underlit basement, then we hurriedly marched up several flights of stairs toward the sixth floor. The stairway was dirty and stained the color of bad teeth. There might have been a serious fire in the building at one time. Heavy soot caked the walls, the floor, and even the metal banister. Could the Mastermind be hiding up here? Was he a black man? That seemed unthinkable to the FBI. Why?

  Suddenly, we surprised a pair of pathetic, bone-thin crackheads lighting up on the fourth-floor stairwell. We had our guns out, and they stared at us bug-eyed, afraid to be there, afraid to move.

  “We didn’t do nothin’ to nobody,” one of the men finally said in a scratchy gargle. He looked well past forty but was probably only in his twenties.

  “As you were,” I said in a low voice. I sternly pointed a finger at them. “Not even a whisper.”

  The paranoid junkies must have thought that we were coming for them. The two crackheads couldn’t believe it when we hurried right past them. I heard Sampson say, “Get the fuck out of here. It’s your last lucky day.”

  I could hear infants crying and small children shouting, the babble of several TV sets, and jazz and hip-hop and salsa music leaking through the thin walls. My stomach was knotted up. Moving in on Brand in a crowded building was a very bad deal, but everybody wanted results now. Brand was an excellent suspect.

  Sampson lightly touched my shoulder. “I’ll go in with Rakeem,” he said. “You follow, sugar. Don’t argue with me.”

  I frowned but nodded. Sampson and Rakeem Powell were the best marksmen we had. They were careful and smart and experienced, but this was a tough, scary bust. Armed and dangerous. Anything could happen now.

  I turned to a detective who held a heavy metal ram with two hands. It looked like a small, blunt missile. “Take the door right the hell down, officer. I’m not asking you to knock first.”

  I looked back at the lineup of tense and anxious men behind me. I held up one fist. “We’re going on four,” I said.

  I gestured with my fingers — one — two — three!

  The battering ram hit the door with all the shattering force of an NFL blocking fullback. The door locks blew right off. We were inside. Sampson and Powell were a step ahead of me. No shots had been fired yet.

  “Mom-mee!” One of the small children screeched an alarm. I had an instant of fear about the families that had been hurt already because of the Mastermind. We didn’t need any blood to flow here.

  Armed and dangerous.

  Two kids were watching South Park on TV. Where was Mitchell Brand? And where was the kids’ mother, Theresa Lopez? Maybe they weren’t even home. Sometimes kids got left alone in apartments for days.

  The bedroom door in front of us was closed. Music was playing somewhere in the apartment. If Mitchell Brand was here tonight, he wasn’t too security conscious. That didn’t track very well for me. I didn’t like anything about this so far.

  I yanked open the bedroom door and peered inside. My heart was thundering. I was in a crouched shooting stance. A third small child was playing with a teddy bear on the floor. “Blue Bear,” she told me.

  “Blue Bear,” I whispered.

  I stepped back fast into the hallway. I saw Sampson kick another door open. The apartment layout we’d been given was wrong! This was a two-bedroom apartment.

  Suddenly, Mitchell Brand came out into the hallway. He was dragging along Theresa Lopez. He had a .45-caliber handgun pressed up against her forehead. She was a pretty, light brown–skinned woman, shaking badly. Both Brand and Lopez were naked except for gold chains around his thick neck, wrist, and left ankle.

  “Put down the gun, Brand,” I shouted above the din in the apartment. “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t get out of here. You’re smart enough to know that. Put down the gun.”

  “Just get out of my way!” he shouted. “I’m smart enough to put a hole in your face first.”

  I stood my ground in front of Brand. Sampson and Rakeem
Powell came up on either side. “The First Union Bank job in Falls Church. If you’re not involved, you’ve got no problem,” I said, lowering my voice some. “Put down the gun.”

  Brand yelled again. “I didn’t rob the First Union Bank! I was in New York City the whole week! I was at a weddin’, Theresa’s sister. Somebody set me up. Somebody did this to me!”

  Theresa Lopez was starting to sob uncontrollably. Her children were crying and calling out for their mother. Detectives and FBI agents held them back, kept them safe.

  “He was at my sister’s wedding!” Theresa Lopez screamed at me. Her eyes were pleading. “He was at a wedding!”

  “Mommee! Mommee!” the kids cried.

  “Put the gun down, Brand. Get some clothes on. We need to talk to you. I believe you were at a wedding. I believe you and Theresa. Put the gun down.”

  I was aware that my shirt was soaked through to the skin. One of the children was still lurking behind Brand and Lopez. In the line of fire. Oh, God, don’t make me shoot this man.

  Then, slowly, Mitchell Brand lowered his gun from the forehead of Theresa Lopez. He kissed the side of her head. “Sorry, baby,” he whispered.

  I was already thinking we’d made a mistake. I felt it in my gut. When he lowered his gun, I knew it. Maybe somebody had set up Mitchell Brand. We’d wasted a lot of time and resources to capture him. We had been distracted for days.

  I felt the cold breath of the Mastermind on the back of my neck.

  Chapter 73

  I CAME HOME VERY LATE from the East Capitol Dwellings project. I wasn’t feeling too hot about a lot of things: working too much, Christine, the arrest that night of Mitchell Brand.

  I needed to wind down, so I played Gershwin and Cole Porter on the piano until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. Then I climbed upstairs. I fell fast asleep as soon as my head collided with the pillow.

  I actually slept in the next morning. I finally joined Nana and Damon for breakfast around seven-thirty. This was a big day for the Cross family. I wouldn’t even be going in to work. I had better things to do.

  We left the house at eight-thirty. We were on our way to St. Anthony’s Hospital. Jannie was coming home.

  She was waiting on us. Jannie was all packed up and dressed in blue jeans and a “Concern for the Earth” T-shirt when we arrived at her room. Nana had brought her clothes the day before, but of course Jannie had told Nana exactly what to bring.

  “Let’s go, let’s go. I can’t wait to get home,” she giggled and motormouthed as soon as we walked in the door. “Here’s my suitcase, what’s the hurry?” She handed her little pink American Tourister to Damon and he rolled his eyes, but he took the overnighter from her anyway.

  “How long is this special treatment supposed to last?” he asked.

  “Rest of your life.” She set her brother straight about men and women. “Maybe even longer than that.”

  Suddenly, a storm cloud of fear crossed Jannie’s face. “I can go home, can’t I?” she asked me.

  I nodded and smiled. “You sure can. But what you can’t do is walk out of here by yourself. Hospital rules, little sister.”

  Jannie looked a little crestfallen. “Not in a wheelchair. My grand exit.”

  I reached down and picked her up. “Yes, in a wheelchair,” I said. “But you’re all dressed up now. You look beautiful for your departure, princess.”

  We stopped off at the nurses’ station and Jannie said her good-byes and got some big hugs. Then we finally left St. Anthony’s Hospital.

  She was well now. The tests on the removed tumor had come back benign. She had a clean bill of health, and I had never felt so relieved in my life. If I had ever forgotten how precious she was to me, and I doubt that I had, I never would again. Jannie, Damon, and little Alex were my treasures.

  It took us less than ten minutes to ride home, and Jannie was like a frisky little pup in the car. She had her face out the open window and was gazing wide-eyed at everything and sniffing the smoky city air, which she proclaimed spectacular, absolutely brilliant.

  When we got to the house and I parked the car, Jannie climbed out slowly, almost reverently. She stared up at our old homestead as if it were the Cathedral of Notre Dame. She did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, checked out our neighborhood on Fifth Street, and nodded her approval.

  “There’s no place like home,” she finally whispered. “Just like in the Wizard of Oz.” She turned to me. “You even got the Batman and Robin kite down out of the tree. Praise the Lord.”

  I grinned and I could feel something good spreading through my body. I knew what it was. I wasn’t petrified of losing Jannie anymore. “Actually, Nana climbed out there and got the kite down,” I said.

  “You, stop.” Nana Mama laughed and waved a hand at me.

  We followed Jannie inside the house and she immediately picked up Rosie the Cat. She held Rosie close to her face and got licked with Rosie’s sandpaper tongue. Then she slowly danced with the family cat for a magical moment or two, just as she had on the night of little Alex’s christening.

  Jannie softly sang, “Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m so happy I’m home, I love all of you.”

  It was so fine and good to watch and be a part of — and yes, Jannie Cross, you’re right, there is no place like home. Maybe that’s why I work so fiercely to protect it.

  But then again, maybe I’m just rationalizing about the way I am, and probably always will be.

  Chapter 74

  I WENT TO THE FBI FIELD OFFICE early the next morning. The floor was buzzing with faxes, phones, personal computers, and energy — good and bad. It was already pretty clear that Mitchell Brand wasn’t our man, and maybe even that he had been set up.

  Betsey Cavalierre had returned from her weekend off. She had a tan, a bright smile, and looked nicely rested. I wondered briefly where she had been, but then I was sucked into the powerful vortex of the investigation again.

  The high-tech FBI war room was still in place, but now three of the four walls were covered with possible leads. The FBI point of view was that every avenue must be explored. The director had already gone on record saying that it was the largest manhunt in FBI history. Corporate America was applying enormous pressure. The same thing had happened after the Unabomber had killed a New Jersey businessman in the early nineties.

  I spent most of the day in a windowless, seemingly airless conference room watching an endless slide show, along with several agents and other Metro police detectives. Suspects were continuously shown on the big screen, then discussed and placed into three categories: Discard, Active, and Extremely Active.

  At six o’clock that night, Senior Agent Walsh held a meeting that covered the possibility that the crew might strike again soon. Betsey Cavalierre arrived late for the briefing. She sat in the back and observed.

  Two FBI behavioral psychologists had worked up a list of potential future targets for the Mastermind. The targets included multinational banks, other top insurance companies, credit card companies, communications conglomerates, and Wall Street firms.

  One of the behavioral psychologists, Dr. Joanna Rodman, stated that the robberies demonstrated venom and hatred — the likes of which she’d never seen before. She said the perpetrators relished outwitting authorities and possibly hungered for fame and notoriety.

  Dr. Rodman then made her most challenging statement. She believed that the Mastermind would strike again. “I’m willing to bet on it,” she said, “and I’m not a betting type of person.”

  I remained quiet for most of the meeting. I preferred to sit in the back of the class and listen. That was the way I had gone through Georgetown undergraduate and then Johns Hopkins.

  Agent Cavalierre would have none of it. “Dr. Cross, what do you think about the possibility of our Mastermind hitting again?” she asked shortly after Dr. Rodman finished speaking. “Care to make your bet?”

  I rubbed my lower face and I remembered that I’d had the same tic in grad school.
I sat up in my seat.

  “I’m not a betting person, either. I think the list of potential targets is thorough. I agree with most of what’s been said. One person is running this thing. Different crews were recruited for very specific tasks.”

  I frowned slightly at Betsey, then I went on. “I think the first robbery-murders were supposed to terrify everybody. They did. But in the MetroHartford job, the crew was supposed to operate quickly and efficiently, without bloodshed. I didn’t see evidence of venom or hatred in the MetroHartford kidnapping. Not from what the hostages told us. That’s inconsistent with the earlier bank robberies. The fact that no one was killed makes me believe . . . that it’s all over. It’s done.”

  “Thirty million and out?” Betsey Cavalierre asked. “That’s it?”

  I nodded. “I think the Mastermind’s game now is — catch me if you can. And by the way — you can’t.”

  Chapter 75

  BETSEY CAVALIERRE came up to me after the briefing ended. “Not to be a total suck-up, but I agree with you,” she said. “I think he might be playing with us. He may have even set up Mitchell Brand.”

  “I think it’s possible,” I said. “Strange and insane as it seems on the face of it. He has a huge ego, he’s competing, and that’s the best thing we have going for us right now. It’s the only small edge that we have.”

  “We’re going to break for the night. Have a drink with me downstairs, Alex. I want to talk to you. I promise not to babble about the Mastermind.”

  I winced. “Betsey, I have to get home tonight. My little girl came back from the hospital yesterday,” I told her. “Sorry. I can’t believe this has happened twice. I’m not trying to avoid you.”

  She smiled kindly. “I understand, and it’s no big deal. I just have this sixth sense that you need somebody to talk to. Go home. I’ve got plenty to do here. One more thing. A team of us is heading to Hartford tomorrow. We’re going to interview employees and former employees at MetroHartford. You should be part of the group. It’s important, Alex. We leave from Bolling field at around eight.”