James Patterson - Roses Are Red

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. ," 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.

During a robbery, the new members called themselves Mr. Blue, Mr. White, Mr. Red, and Ms Green. That morning at seven precisely, Mr. Blue was in 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.

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.

"Blue. Talk to me."

"Mr. 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 Blue pushed End on the phone than he saw Victoria Casselman step out of 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 Tercel 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 blonde hair turned when she heard the shouts coming on her street. She slowed the car a little, but she still didn't stop completely.

He had to stop her.

"My wife's having a baby!" 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-thirty? 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.

me;

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 of her car 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 for 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.