Roses Are Red

by James Patterson

  I heard a voice on the line. It froze everything inside of me.

  “I just wanted to congratulate you. You did wonderful work. You caught and punished all my little minions, as I thought you might. Actually, they were put there for that very purpose.”

  “Who is this?” I asked. But I thought I knew who it was.

  “You know who it is, Dr. Detective Cross. You’re a smart-enough fellow. You knew that catching the good Dr. Francis was a little too convenient. Also my detective friends in New York — Mr. Brian Macdougall and his crew. And of course there’s still the matter of all that missing money. I’m the one you call Mastermind. That’s a name I can live with. It fits. I am that good.

  “Good night for now. I’ll see you soon. Oh. And have a nice time over at Betsey Cavalierre’s. I certainly did.”

  Chapter 125

  I CALLED SAMPSON first and asked him to come out and be with Nana and the kids. Then I raced out to Woodbridge, Virginia, and Betsey’s house. I drove the HOV lane all the way at speeds up to a hundred.

  I had never been there before, but I didn’t have any trouble finding her house. There were cars double-parked everywhere on the street. Several were Crown Victorias and Grand Marquises. I figured most of them were FBI. EMS was there, too. I could hear the burping screams of more sirens racing to the murder scene.

  I took a deep breath before I walked inside. Suddenly I felt dizzy. Kyle was still there, directing the Bureau’s Violent Crime Unit as it began to collect evidence. I shook my head: I doubted they would find much here. They hadn’t at crime scenes where the Mastermind had been involved before this.

  A few FBI agents were crying. I had cried during the car ride here, but right now I needed to be as clear and focused as possible. This was the only chance I would get to see Betsey’s house close to the way the killer had seen it, the way he had left it for us.

  It looked as if there had been a break-in. A window in the kitchen had been tampered with. FBI techs were videotaping it now. I couldn’t help noticing Betsey’s things, her style, her home. On the refrigerator was the Newsweek cover of the American Women’s World Cup soccer champion Brandi Chastain and the headline “Girls Rule!”

  The house looked to be close to a hundred years old and was filled with country clutter. Andrew Wyeth paintings, photos of loons in autumn on a gorgeous lake. On a hallway table I noticed a reminder for Betsey’s next mandatory shooting qualifier at the FBI range.

  Finally, I did the really hard thing, the impossible thing. I walked down a long hallway that led back from the living room. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. It was easy to tell that she had been murdered there. The FBI’s activity centered around the rear bedroom. The murder scene. It had happened right here.

  I still hadn’t spoken to Kyle, hadn’t bothered him, hadn’t pulled him away from the VCU team and their search of the place. Maybe we would get lucky this time. And maybe not.

  Then I saw Betsey and I lost it. My left hand flew to my face as if it had a mind and will of its own. My legs buckled badly. My entire body shook.

  I could hear his goddamn voice ringing inside my head: Oh. And have a nice time over at Betsey Cavalierre’s. I certainly did.

  He had stripped off her nightclothes. I didn’t see them anywhere in the bedroom. Her body was covered with blood. He’d used a knife this time — he’d punished her. There was blood everywhere I looked, but especially between her legs. Her beautiful brown eyes were staring right up at me, but she saw nothing, and never would again.

  The medical examiner turned around and saw me standing there. I knew the man, Merrill Snyder. We had successfully worked together before — but nothing like this.

  “She might have been raped,” he whispered. “At any rate, he used the knife on her. Maybe he was cutting away evidence. Who the hell knows, Alex. This is sick. You have any ideas?”

  “Yes,” I said in a low voice. “I want to kill him for this, and I will.”

  Chapter 126

  THE KILLER WAS RIGHT THERE inside Betsey Cavalierre’s house. He was feeling sadness and hatred — theirs — and he thrived on it. This was the supreme thrill for him, a great, great moment in his life.

  To be here with the police and FBI.

  To rub elbows, chat, and listen to them curse him and shed tears for their fallen compatriot, to smell their fear. They were in a rage — against him.

  And yet they were powerless to do anything.

  He was counting coup. He was in control.

  He even revisited Betsey Cavalierre, who had believed she would one day rise to the top of the Federal Bureau.

  What incredible hubris on her part.

  Did she truly believe she was one of the best, the top brains in the FBI? Of course she did. They all thought they were so goddamn smart these days.

  Well, she didn’t look so smart right now, naked and coated with her own blood, violated in every way he could imagine.

  He saw Alex Cross coming out of the bedroom. Cross looked humbled, finally. Humbled, but also self-righteous and angry.

  He made certain he had his game face on, and then he walked right up to Alex Cross.

  This was the moment.

  “I’m so sorry about Betsey,” said Kyle Craig, the Mastermind. “I’m so sorry, Alex.”