Roses Are Red

by James Patterson

  “I’ll be there at Bolling. Somehow, we’ll get the Mastermind. If he did set up Mitchell Brand, it’s his first mistake. It means he’s taking chances he doesn’t have to take.”

  I went home and had a fabulous dinner with Nana and the kids, the best in all of Washington that night. Nana had cooked a turkey, which she does once every couple of months. She says that the white meat of a turkey, properly prepared, is too good to have only twice a year, at Christmas and Thanksgiving.

  “You see this, Alex?” she asked, and handed me an article she’d clipped from the Washington Post. It was a listing compiled by the Children’s Rights Council on the best, and worst, places to raise a child. Washington, D.C., was dead last.

  “I did see it,” I told her. I couldn’t resist a little dig. “Now you see why I work late so many nights. I’m trying to help clean up a big mess here in our capital city.”

  Nana looked me in the eye. “You’re losing, big guy,” she said.

  Irony of ironies, it was the night we always reserved for our weekly boxing lesson. Jannie insisted that I go downstairs with Damon and that she be allowed to watch. Damon had a line ready for the occasion. “You just want to see if I get sent to the hospital, too.”

  Jannie retorted, “Lame. Besides, Dr. Petito said the boxing lessons, and your ‘phantom punch,’ had nothing to do with my tumor. Don’t kid yourself, Damo, you are no Muhammad Ali.”

  So we went down to the cellar and we concentrated on footwork — the basics. I even showed the kids how Ali had dazzled Sonny Liston in the first two fights in Miami and Lewiston, Maine, and then done the same to Floyd Patterson after Patterson had taunted him for months before the fight.

  “Is this a boxing lesson or about ancient history?” Damon finally asked, his voice a mild complaint.

  “Two for the price of one!” Jannie shouted with glee. “Can’t beat that. Boxing and history. Works for me.” She was back in all her glory.

  After the kids went up to bed, I called Christine and got her answering machine again. She wouldn’t pick up. I felt as if a knife had been slid between my ribs. I knew I had to move on with my life, but I kept hoping I could get Christine to change her mind. Not if she wouldn’t talk to me. Or even let me talk to little Alex. I was missing him badly.

  I wound up playing the piano again, and I was reminded that jelly is a food that usually winds up on white bread, children’s faces, and piano keys.

  I carefully wiped down the piano, then I played Bach and Mozart to soothe my soul. It didn’t work.

  Chapter 76

  THE NEXT MORNING I arrived at Bolling Air Force Base in Anacostia at ten to eight. SAC Cavalierre and three other agents, including James Walsh, got there promptly at eight. The behaviorist from Quantico, Dr. Joanna Rodman, showed up a couple of minutes late. We took off in a Bell helicopter that was shiny black, both official and important looking. We were off hunting the Mastermind. I hoped he wasn’t doing the same thing with us.

  We arrived at the downtown MetroHartford headquarters at nine-thirty. As I entered the office building, I had the overwhelming feeling that the place had been consciously designed by the insurance company to inspire trust, even awe. The lobby had enormously high ceilings, glinty glass everywhere, polished black-ice floors, and overscaled modern art screaming from the walls. In contrast to the grand public space, the offices inside looked as if they had been designed by either the junior architect of the firm or its resident hack. Warrens of half-walled cubicles filled large, airless rooms on every floor. There was lots of “prairie-dogging” out of the cubes, plenty of fodder for “Dilbert” satire. The FBI had sent agents here before today, but now it was time for the big guns to go to work.

  I saw twenty-eight people that day and I quickly found out that few of the MetroHartford’s employees had any sense of humor. What’s there to laugh about? seemed to be the company motto. It also hit me that there were a very few risk-takers among the people I met. Several of them actually said, “You can never be too careful.”

  My very last interview turned out to be the most intriguing. It was with a woman named Hildie Rader. I was bored and distracted, but her opening line perked me right up.

  “I think I met one of the kidnappers. He was here in downtown Hartford. I was as close to him as I am to you right now,” she said.

  Chapter 77

  I TRIED NOT to show too much surprise. “Why didn’t you tell anybody before?” I asked.

  “I called in to the hot line MetroHartford set up. I talked to a couple of ding-a-lings. This is the first anyone got back to me.”

  “You have my full attention, Hildie,” I told her.

  She was a large woman with a pretty, homey smile. She was forty-two years old and had worked as an executive secretary. She was no longer with MetroHartford, which might have been why no one had interviewed her earlier. She had been fired twice by the insurance company. The first time she was let go was during one of the company’s periodic and fairly regular belt-tightenings. Two years later Hildie was rehired, but she had been let go three months ago because of what she described as “bad chemistry” with her boss, the CFO of MetroHartford, Louis Fincher. Fincher’s wife had been one of the tour-bus hostages.

  “Tell me about the man you met in Hartford, the one you believe might have been involved with the hostage-taking,” I asked after I’d let her talk.

  “Is there any money in this for me?” she asked, eyeballing me suspiciously. “I’m presently unemployed, you know.”

  “The company is offering a reward for information that leads to a conviction.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Hah! That sounds like a long, drawn-out affair. Besides, I should trust the word of Metro?”

  I couldn’t deny what she’d said. I waited for her to collect her thoughts. I sensed that she was thinking about just how much she wanted to tell me.

  “I met him in Tom Quinn’s. That’s a local watering hole on Asylum Street near the Pavilion and the Old State House. We talked, and I liked him okay. He was a little too charming, though, which set off my warning alarms. The charming ones are usually trouble. Married man? Fruitcake?

  “Anyway, we talked for a while, and he seemed to enjoy himself, but nothing came of it, if you know what I mean. He left Quinn’s first, actually. Then a couple of nights later, I met him again at Quinn’s. Only now, everything’s changed. See, the bartender is a very good friend of mine. She told me this guy had asked her about me before the night I met him. He knew my name. He knew I had worked for Metro. Out of sheer curiosity, I talked to him the second time.”

  “You weren’t afraid of the man?” I asked.

  “Not while I was in Tom Quinn’s. They all know me, so I’d get help in a nanosecond if I needed it. I wanted to know what the hell this guy was up to. Then it got pretty clear to me. He wanted to talk about MetroHartford more than about me. He was clever about it, but he definitely wanted to talk about the executives. Who was the most demanding? Who called the shots? Even got into their families. He asked specifically about Mr. Fincher. And Mr. Dooner. Then, just like the other time, he left before I did.”

  I nodded as I finished making a few notes. “You never saw him again, never heard from him?”

  Hildie Rader shook her head and her eyes narrowed. “I did hear about him, though. I had stayed good friends with Betsy Becton. She’s one of the assistants to Mr. Dooner, the chairman. He calls the shots at MetroHartford.”

  I had seen Dooner in action and I agreed with Hildie. He was the boss of bosses at MetroHartford.

  “This is interesting,” she said to me. “Betsy had met a fella who looked just like my guy from Quinn’s. Because he was the same guy. He sat down next to her at the coffee bar in the Borders on Main Street. He chatted Betsy up while they sipped expensive caffe mochas, lattes, whatever. He wanted to know about, guess what? The executives at MetroHartford. He was one of the kidnappers, wasn’t he?”

  Chapter 78

  DURING THE COURSE OF A LON
G DAY, I had learned that nearly seventy thousand people in the Hartford area are employed in the insurance industry. Besides MetroHartford, Aetna, Travelers, MassMutual, Phoenix Home Life, and United Healthcare are all headquartered there. On account of this, we had more help than we needed, and more suspects. The Mastermind might have been associated with any of the insurance companies at some time in the past.

  After I finished for the day at the insurance company, I got together to share notes with the others at a nearby Marriott. The breakthrough for day one was Hildie Rader’s story that one of the crew members had probably been in Hartford a week before the hostages were taken.

  “Tomorrow morning we interview both women, Rader and Becton. Get a composite drawing made from their description. As soon as we have that, we’ll show it around corporate headquarters. Also, have the composites we made in D.C. sent up here. See if there’s a match,” Betsey said. She smiled then. “Things are heating up. Maybe they aren’t so smart after all.”

  Around eight-thirty I left the suite to call Jannie and Damon before they went to bed. Nana answered the phone. She knew it was me before I said a word.

  “Everything is just fine here, Alex. Home fires are burning nicely without you. You missed a delicious pot roast supper. Soon as I knew you were going to be away, I made your favorite dish.”

  I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. “Did you really make pot roast?” I asked Nana.

  She cackled for a good minute. “Of course not. We had prime ribs of beef, though.” Nana cackled even louder. Prime ribs were probably my second-favorite dish — and I was still hungry after the hotel deli food, pastrami and processed cheese on stale rye.

  Nana laughed again. “We had turkey sandwiches. But we did finish up with hot, homemade pecan pie. À la mode. Jannie and Damon are right here. We’re playing Scrabble, and I’m winning their life savings.”

  “Nana’s winning by a measly twelve points and she already had her turn,” Jannie said as she took the phone. “Are you all right, Daddy?” she asked, and her voice became motherly.

  “Why shouldn’t I be all right?” I asked her. I was feeling much better, actually. Nana had made me laugh. “How are you doing?”

  Jannie giggled. “I’m good as can be. Damon is being surprisingly nice. He brought my homework from school, and it’s all done. Aced! I’m about to take the lead, for good, in our Scrabble game. We all miss you, though. Don’t get hurt, Daddy. Don’t you dare get hurt.”

  I was feeling pretty fried, but I trudged back to finish the work session with the FBI agents. Don’t get hurt, I was thinking as I walked the long hotel corridor. Jannie was beginning to sound like Christine. Don’t get hurt. Don’t you dare get hurt.

  Chapter 79

  MY MIND WAS SOMEWHERE ELSE when I knocked and Betsey Cavalierre answered the door to her room. It looked like the other agents had gone. She’d changed into a white T and a pair of jeans, and she wasn’t wearing shoes.

  “Sorry. I had to call home,” I apologized.

  “We solved everything while you were gone.” She grinned.

  “Perfect,” I said. “God bless the FBI. You guys are the best. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.”

  “You know the motto on our seal. Actually, everybody was beat. We could try for that drink now, if you’d like. You can’t have any excuses left. How about the Roof Bar I’ve read so much about in the elevator? Or we could go see the Connecticut Sports Museum? The Hartford Police Museum?”

  “The bar on the roof sounds good to me,” I said. “You can show me the city from up there.”

  The bar actually had a perfect view of Hartford and the surrounding countryside. I could see lighted logos for Aetna and Travelers from where we sat, as well as Route 84 snaking northeast toward the Massachusetts Turnpike. Betsey ordered a glass of cabernet. I had a beer.

  “How was everything at home?” she asked as soon as the bartender left with our order.

  I laughed. “I have two kids at home now, and they’re both terrific, but there is a certain amount of flux and change to our lives.”

  “I’m one of six girls,” she said. “The oldest and most spoiled one. I know all about flux and change in families.”

  She smiled, and I liked seeing her loosen up. I liked seeing myself loosen up.

  “You have a favorite?” she asked. “Of course you do, but don’t tell me. I know you won’t, anyway. I was my father and mother’s favorite. Therein lies the recurring problem in my terribly self-involved life story.”

  I continued to smile. “What’s the problem? I don’t see any problem. I thought you were perfect.”

  Betsey nibbled salted nuts out of her hand. She looked me in the eye. “Overachiever syndrome. Nothing I did was ever good enough — for me. Everything had to be perfect. No mistakes, no slipups,” she said, and laughed at herself. I liked that about her: She had no airs, and her perspective on things actually seemed pretty healthy.

  “You still live up to your own high ideals?” I asked.

  She finger-combed her dark hair away from her eyes. “I do, and I don’t. I’m pretty much where I want to be on the work front. I’m sooo good for the Bureau. What’s that quote? ‘Ambition makes more trusty slaves than need.’ However, I must admit that I’m missing a certain balance in my life. Here’s a nice image for a life in balance,” she said. “You’re juggling these four balls that you’ve named work, family, friends, spirit. Now, work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it bounces back. The other balls — they’re made of glass.”

  “I’ve dropped a few of those glass balls in my day. They chip, sometimes they shatter to pieces.”

  “Exactly.”

  Our drinks came, and we took the obligatory nervous sips. Pretty funny. We both knew what was going on here, though not where it was going or if it was a good or a really terrible idea. She was warmer and much more nurturing than I had expected. Betsey was a good listener, too.

  “I bet you’re actually pretty good at balancing work, family, friends. Your spirit seems okay, too,” she said.

  “I’m not balancing work too well lately. You have good spirit yourself. You’re enthusiastic, positive. People like you. But you’ve heard all that before.”

  “Not so much that I mind hearing it again.” She raised her glass of wine. “Here’s to positive spirit, and spirits. And here’s to prison for life plus life for our friend the Masterprick.”

  “To prison for life plus life for the Masterprick,” I said, and raised my beer.

  “So here we are in greater Hartford,” she said, staring out at the blurred scrim of city lights. I watched her for a moment, and I was pretty sure that she wanted me to watch her.

  “What?” I said.

  She started to laugh again and it was infectious. She had a great smile, which featured her dark, sparkling eyes. “What do you mean, what?”

  “What? Just a simple what,” I teased. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  She was still laughing. “I have to ask you this question, Alex. I have no choice in the matter. I have no free will. Here it comes. This could be embarrassing, but I don’t care. Okay. Now, do you want to go back to my room? I’d like you to. No strings attached. Trust me. I won’t ever cling.”

  I didn’t know what to say to Betsey, but I didn’t say no.

  Chapter 80

  WE WERE BOTH QUIET as we walked out of the hotel bar. I was feeling a little uncomfortable, maybe a lot uncomfortable.

  “I kind of like strings,” I finally said to her. “Sometimes I even like a little clinging.”

  “I know you do. Just go with the flow this one time. It’ll be good for both of us. This will be nice. It’s been building and it has a very fine edge.”

  A very fine edge.

  Once we were inside the hotel elevator, Betsey and I kissed for the first time, and it was gentle and sweet. It was memorable, like first kisses ought to be. She had to stretch way up on her tiptoes to reach my mouth. I knew I wouldn’t forget that.
<
br />   She started to laugh as soon as we pulled apart — her usual burst of humor. “I’m not that small. I’m five-three and a lot, almost five-four. Was it any good? Our kiss?”

  “I liked kissing you,” I told her. “But you are that small.”

  The taste of her mouth was sweet peppermint, and it lingered with me. I wondered when she had slipped a mint into her mouth. She was sneaky fast. Her skin was soft and smooth to the touch. Her dark hair glistened and bounced lightly on her shoulders. I couldn’t deny that I was attracted.

  But what to do about it. I had the feeling that this was too much too soon for me. Way too much, way too soon.

  The elevator door opened on her floor with a thud. I felt a rush of anticipation, and maybe a rush of fear. I had no idea what to make of it, but I knew I liked Betsey Cavalierre. I wanted to hold her close, wanted to know who she was, what she was like to be with, how her mind worked, what she dreamed about, what she might say next.

  Betsey said, “Walsh.”

  We quickly stepped back into the elevator car. My heart clutched. Shit.

  She turned to me and started to laugh. “Gotcha. There’s nobody out there. Don’t be so nervous! I am, though.”

  By this time we were both laughing. She was definitely fun to be with. Maybe that was enough for now. I liked being around her, laughing the way we were.

  We hugged as soon as we were inside her room. She felt so warm. I let my fingers trail gently down her back, and she sighed softly. I moved my thumb in the tiniest circles all over her back. I gently kneaded her skin and could feel her breathing pick up tempo. My heart was racing, too.

  “Betsey,” I whispered, “I can’t do this. Not yet I can’t.”

  “I know,” she whispered back. “Just hold me, though. Holding is nice. Tell me about her, Alex. You can talk to me.”