Roses Are Red

by James Patterson

  I thought that she was probably right. I could talk to her, and I even wanted to. “It’s like I said, I like ties. I’m big on intimacy, but I feel it has to be earned. I was in love with a woman named Christine Johnson. It seemed so right for both of us. There never was a time I didn’t want to be with her.”

  I broke down. I didn’t want to, but the sob came out of nowhere. Then I was crying a lot and I couldn’t make myself stop. My body was heaving, but I could feel Betsey holding on to me, holding me tight, refusing to let go.

  “I’m so sorry.” I finally managed a few words.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not at all. In fact, you did everything right.”

  I finally pulled back a little and I looked at her face. Her beautiful brown eyes were wet with tears.

  “Let’s just hug,” she said. “I think we both need hugs. Hugs are good.”

  Betsey and I hugged for a long time and then I went back to my room alone.

  Chapter 81

  THE MASTERMIND was feeling so goddamned confident, and excited, that he couldn’t stand it. That night, he was there in Hartford. He had no fear anymore. No one scared him. Not the FBI. Not anyone involved with the case.

  How to top oneself? How to reinvent himself? Those were his only concerns. How to get better and better.

  He had a plan for tonight — a different kind of plan. This maneuver was so clever, so perverse. He’d never heard of anything like it. It was such a lovely and original “creation.”

  The most commonplace part was breaking into the small, garden-style apartment on the outskirts of Hartford. He cut out a pane of glass in the door of the loggia, reached in and turned the knob, and voilà — he was in.

  He listened to the house breathe for a delicious moment. The only sound he could hear was the wind whistling through a stand of trees that overlooked the still, black water of a country pond.

  He was a little afraid to be inside the house, but the fear was natural, and intoxicating. The fear made the moment great for him. He slipped on a President Clinton mask — the same kind of mask used in the very first bank robbery.

  He quietly made his way toward the master bedroom at the back of the apartment. This was getting so good. He almost felt that he belonged here now. Possession was nine tenths of the law. Wasn’t that the old saw?

  The moment of truth!

  He quietly, quietly opened the bedroom door. The room smelled of sandalwood and jasmine. He paused in the doorway until his eyes became accustomed to the low light. He squinted as he stared into the room, studied it, got his bearings. He saw her!

  Now! Go! Not a second to lose.

  He moved very fast. He seemed to fly across the room and onto the queen-size bed. He fell on the sleeping figure with his full weight.

  There was an ooff, then a startled cry. He slapped a wad of electrician’s tape across her mouth, then handcuffed both slender wrists to a bedpost.

  Click-click. So fast, so efficient.

  His hostage tried to scream, tried to twist and turn and break free. She had on a yellow silk teddy. He loved the feel of it, so he slipped it off her body. He caressed the silk, ran it over his face. Then back and forth through his teeth.

  “It’s not going to happen. You can’t get away. Stop trying! It’s annoying.

  “Please try to relax. You’re not going to be hurt,” he said then. “It’s important to me that you not be harmed.”

  He gave her a few seconds to take in what he had said. To understand.

  He stooped close until his face was only inches from hers. “I’m going to explain why I’m here, what I plan to do. I will be very, very clear and precise. I trust that you won’t tell a soul about this, but if you ever do, I’ll come back as easily as I did tonight. I’ll get through any security system you can buy, and I will torture you. I will kill you, but first I’ll do much worse than that.”

  The prey nodded. At last — understanding. Torture was the magic word. Perhaps it ought to be used more in schools.

  “I’ve been watching and studying you for a while. I think you’re just perfect for me. I’m certain, and I’m usually right about these things. I’m right over ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  The hostage was lost again. He could see it in her eyes. The lights were on, but nobody was home.

  “Here’s the idea, the concept. I’m going to try and give you a baby tonight. Yes, you heard right. I want you to have the baby,” the Mastermind finally explained. “I’ve studied your fertility rhythms, your contraceptive program. Don’t ask how, but I have. Trust me. I’m very serious about this.

  “If you don’t have the baby, I will come back for you. Justine. If you abort the baby, I will torture you horribly, then kill you. But don’t worry, this child will be very special,” said the Mastermind. “This child will be a masterpiece. Make love to me, Justine.”

  Chapter 82

  AT NOON THE NEXT DAY, the case seemed to take another terrible, and unexpected, twist. I was in an interview at MetroHartford when Betsey broke in. She asked me to please come out into the hallway. Her face was ashen.

  “Oh no, what?” I managed to say.

  “Alex, this is so creepy that I’m still shaking. Listen to what just happened. Last night, a twenty-five-year-old woman was raped in her apartment in a suburb outside Hartford. The rapist told her he wanted her to have his baby. After he left, she went to a hospital and the police were called in. In their report, it states that the rapist wore a Clinton mask — like the one worn at the first bank robbery, Alex — and also that he called himself a mastermind.”

  “Is the woman still at the hospital? Are the police with her?” I asked. My mind was racing, already filled with possibilities, rejecting the notion of coincidence out of hand. A mastermind in a Clinton mask, just outside of Hartford? It was too close.

  “She left the hospital and went home, Alex. They just found her dead. He warned her not to tell anyone, and not to abort. She disobeyed him. She made a mistake. He poisoned her, Alex. Goddamn him.”

  Betsey Cavalierre and I went to the dead woman’s apartment, and the scene was beyond horrifying. The woman lay on her kitchen floor, grotesque and twisted. I remembered the bodies of Brianne and Errol Parker. The poor woman had been punished. FBI technicians were all over the small garden apartment. There was nothing Betsey or I could do there. The bastard had been right there in Hartford — maybe he still was. He was taunting us.

  This was as stressful as any case I’d ever worked. Whoever was behind the robberies and gruesome murders was impossible to trace, to figure out in a meaningful way.

  Who the hell was the Mastermind? Had he really been here in Hartford last night and this morning? Why was he taking chances like this?

  I worked at the MetroHartford offices until almost seven. I was trying not to show it, but I was close to a burnout. I interviewed several more employees, and then I went to the personnel office and read nuisance mail aimed at MetroHartford. There were stacks of it. Generally, the hate mail came from grieving and angry family members who had been denied claims or felt the process was taking too long — which it usually did. I talked for an hour or so with the head of the building’s security, Terry Mayer. She was separate from Steve Bolding, who was an outside consultant. Terry gave me the procedures for mail surveillance, bomb threats, E-mail threats, and even a widely distributed form on how to be alert for possible letter bombs. “We were prepared for a lot of potential disasters,” Mayer told me. “Just not for the one that happened.”

  I was just going through the motions all day. I kept seeing the poisoned woman. The Mastermind had wanted her to have his baby. That probably meant that he didn’t have any kids of his own. He wanted an heir, a tiny piece of immortality.

  Chapter 83

  I RETURNED TO WASHINGTON on the last flight out that night. When I arrived home it was a few minutes past eleven. Bright light illuminated the kitchen windows. The upstairs was dark. The kids were probably a
sleep.

  “I’m home,” I announced as I edged open the creaky kitchen door. It needed oil, I noticed. I was falling way behind on my home repairs again.

  “You catch all the bad guys?” Nana asked from her catbird seat at the table. A paperback book called The Color of Water was propped in front of her.

  “We’re moving in the right direction. The bad guy made a couple of mistakes finally. He’s taking a lot of chances. I’m more hopeful than I was. You like the book?” I asked. I wanted to change the subject. I was home.

  Nana pursed her lips, gave me a half smile. “I’m hopeful. The man can certainly write up a storm. Don’t stray off my topic, though. Sit down and talk to me, Alex.”

  “Can I stand and talk, and maybe put together a little supper for myself?”

  Nana frowned, shook her head in disbelief. “They didn’t feed you on the airplane?”

  “Dinner on the flight was honey-roasted peanuts and a small plastic cup of Coke. It fit with the rest of the day. This chicken and biscuits any good?”

  Nana slanted her head to one side. She frowned at me from the sideways angle. “No, it’s spoiled. I put it away spoiled. What do you think, Alex? Of course it’s good. It’s a down-home culinary masterpiece.”

  I stopped peering into the fridge and stared over at her. “Excuse me. Are we having a fight?”

  “Not at all. You’d know it if we were. I’m fine myself. You’re working too hard again. But you seem to thrive on it. Still the Dragonslayer, right? Live by the sword and all that?”

  I took the chicken out of the fridge. I was famished. Probably could have eaten it cold. “Maybe this whacked-out case will be over soon.”

  “Then there’ll be another one and another one after that. I saw a pretty good saying the other day — There’s always room for improvement — then you die. What do you think of that one?”

  I nodded and let out a deep sigh. “You tired of being with a homicide detective, too? Can’t say that I blame you.”

  Nana crinkled up her face. “No, not at all. Actually, I enjoy it. But I do understand why it might not be to everyone’s liking.”

  “I do, too, especially on days like today. I don’t like what happened between Christine and me. I hate it, actually. Makes me sad. Hurts my heart. But I do understand what she was afraid of. It scares me, too.”

  Nana’s head bobbed slowly. “Even if it can’t be Christine, you still need someone. So do Jannie and Damon. How about you get those priorities straight.”

  “I spend a lot of time with the kids. But I’ll work on it,” I said as I plopped the cold chicken and fixings in a pan.

  “How can you, Alex? You’re always working on murder cases. That seems to be your priority these days.”

  Nana’s statement hurt. Was it the truth? “These days, there seem to be a lot of bad murder cases. I’ll find someone. Has to be somebody out there will think I’m worth a little trouble.”

  Nana cackled. “Probably some serial killer. They sure seem attracted to you.”

  I finally trudged up to bed around one o’clock. I was at the top of the stairs when the phone started to ring. “Damnit!” I cursed, and hurried to my room. I picked up before it woke the whole house.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry.” I heard a whispering voice. “I’m sorry, Alex.”

  It was Betsey.

  I was glad to hear her voice, anyway. “It’s all right. What’s up?” I asked.

  “Alex, we have a break in the case. It’s good news. Something just happened. A fifteen-year-old girl in Brooklyn made a claim on the insurance company reward! This is being taken very seriously in New York. The girl says her father was one of the men involved in the MetroHartford job. She knows the others involved, too. Alex, they’re New York police detectives. The Mastermind is a cop.”

  Chapter 84

  THE MASTERMIND IS A COP. If it were true, it made sense out of a whole lot of things. It partly explained how he’d known so much about bank security, and about us.

  At five-fifteen in the morning, I met Betsey Cavalierre and four other FBI agents at Bolling field. A helicopter was waiting for us. We took off into a thick, gray soup that made the ground disappear seconds after we were airborne.

  We were pumped up and extremely curious. Betsey sat in the first row with one of her senior agents, Michael Doud. She was wearing a light gray suit with a white blouse, and she looked serious and official again. Agent Doud handed out folders on the suspected New York City detectives.

  I read the background material as we flew steadily toward New York. The detectives in question were from Brooklyn. They worked out of the Sixty-first Precinct, which was near Coney Island and Sheepshead Bay. The crib notes said the precinct was a mix of assorted criminals, including the Mafia, the Russian mob, Asians, Hispanics, blacks. The five suspected detectives had worked together for a dozen years and were reportedly close friends.

  They were supposed to be “good cops,” the file said. There had been warning signals, though. They’d used their weapons more than average, even for narcotics detectives. Three of the five had been disciplined repeatedly. They jokingly called one another “goomba.” The leader of the pack was Detective Brian Macdougall.

  There were also about a half dozen pages on the fifteen-year-old witness: Detective Brian Macdougall’s daughter. She was an honors student at Ursuline High School. She was apparently a loner there and never had many friends. She seemed to be responsible and solid and believable, according to the NYPD detectives who had interviewed her. Her reason for giving up her father was credible, too — he drank and struck her mother often when he was home. “And he’s guilty of the MetroHartford kidnapping. He and his detective pals did it,” said the girl.

  Actually, I felt very good about this. It was the way police work usually went. You put out a lot of nets, you checked them, and every so often something was actually in one of the nets. More often than not, it came from a relative or friend of the perp. Like an angry daughter who wanted retribution against her father.

  At seven-thirty, we entered the conference room at One Police Plaza and met up with several members of the NYPD, including the chief of detectives. I was the representative from the Washington police, and I knew Kyle Craig had been instrumental in getting me into the meeting. He wanted me to hear the girl’s story firsthand.

  Kyle wanted to know if I believed her.

  Chapter 85

  VERONICA MACDOUGALL was already in the large conference room. She wore wrinkled blue jeans and a ratty green sweatshirt. Her curly red hair was unkempt. The darkish, puffy rings under both eyes told me she hadn’t slept in a while.

  Veronica stared impassively at us as we introduced ourselves around a massive glass-topped mahogany conference table inside what the NYPD called “the Big Building.” Chief of Detectives Andrew Gross then introduced the girl. “Veronica is a very brave young woman,” he said. “She’ll tell her story in her own words.”

  The girl took a quick, deep breath. Her eyes were small green beads and they were filled with fear. “I wrote out something last night. Organized myself. I’ll give my statement, and then there can be questions if you want.”

  Chief of Detectives Gross broke in gently. He was a heavyset man with a thick gray mustache and long sideburns. His manner was subdued. “That would be fine, Veronica. However you want to do it. However it happens to go is perfect for us. Take your time.”

  Veronica shook her head and looked very, very unsteady. “I’m okay. I need to do this,” she said. Then she began her story.

  “My father is what you people call a man’s man. He’s very proud of it, too. He’s loyal to his friends, and especially to other cops. He’s this ‘great guy,’ right? Well, there’s another side to him. My mother used to be pretty. That was ten years and thirty pounds ago. She needs nice things. I mean, she physically needs things, possessions like clothes and shoes. She is her possessions.

  “She’s not the smartest person in the world, but my fa
ther thinks he is right up there and that’s why he picks on her unmercifully. A few years back he started to drink a lot. And then he started to get really mean, to hit my mother. He calls her ‘the bag,’ and ‘speed bag.’ Isn’t that clever of him?”

  Veronica paused and looked around the room; she checked our reaction to what she was saying. The conference room was eerily silent. None of us could look away from the teenager and the anger blooming in those green eyes.

  “That’s why I’m here today. That’s how I’m able to do this terrible thing — to ‘rat out’ my own father. To break the sacred Blue Wall.”

  She stopped and stared defiantly at us again. I couldn’t take my eyes away from her. No one in the room could. This made so much sense: a break coming from a family member.

  “My father doesn’t realize that I’m actually a lot smarter than he is, and I’m also observant. Maybe I learned that from him. I remember when I was around ten or so, I just knew I was going to be a police detective, too. Pretty ironic, huh? Pretty pathetic, don’t you think?

  “As I got older I noticed — observed — that my father had lots more money than he ought to have. Sometimes he would take us on a ‘guilt trip’ — Ireland, maybe the Caribbean. And he always had money for himself. Really good clothes, fancy threads from Barneys and Saks. A new car every other year. A sleek white sailboat parked in Sheepshead Bay.

  “Last summer my father was disgustingly drunk one Friday night. I remember he was going out to Aqueduct racetrack with his running-dog detective pals on Saturday. He took a walk to my grandmother’s house, which is a few streets away from us. I followed him that night. He was too far gone to even notice.

  “My father went to an old gardening shed behind my grandmother’s house. Inside the shed, he moved away a work bench and some wooden slats. I couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing, so I came back the next day and looked behind the boards. There was money inside — a lot. I don’t know where it came from, still don’t. But I knew it wasn’t his detective’s pay. I counted almost twenty thousand dollars. I took a few hundred, and he never even noticed.