Roses Are Red

Chapter One Hundred and Ten

Szabo got out of his cab on Rhode Island Avenue in Northwest. So did I. He walked for a while window-shopped. At least that's what it looked like. He seemed more relaxed now. His nervous tics had lessened once he was off the hospital grounds. Probably because he had been faking them.

He finally turned into a squat, dilapidated brownstone building, still on Rhode Island Avenue. The basement floor was a Chinese laundry

– A LEE.

What was he doing in there? Was he skipping out a back door? But then I saw a light flash in the second-floor window. Szabo crossed past it a few times. It was him. Tall and bearded.

My brain was starting to overload with possibilities. No one at Hazelwood knew about Szabo's apartment in DC. There wasn't any mention of it in the nursing notes.

Szabo was supposed to be a drifter. Hopeless, harmless, homeless. That was the illusion he'd created. I'd finally learned a secret of his. What did it mean?

I waited down on Rhode Island Avenue. I didn't feel in any particular danger. Not yet anyway.

I waited out on the street for quite a while. He was inside the building for nearly two hours. I didn't see him appear at the window again. What was he doing in there? Time flies when you're hanging by your fingernails.

Then the light in the apartment blinked out.

I watched the building with mounting apprehension. Szabo didn't come outside. I was concerned. Where was he?

A good five minutes after the light went out upstairs, Szabo appeared on the front doorstep again. His nervous tics seemed to have returned. Maybe they were for real.

He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and then his lower chin. He twitched and continually pulled his shirt away from his chest. He finger-combed his thick black hair three or four times.

Was this the Mastermind that I was watching? It almost didn't seem possible. But if he wasn't, where did that leave us?

Szabo kept nervously looking around the street, but I was hidden in the dark shadows of another building. I was sure he couldn't see me. What was he afraid of?

He started to walk. I watched him retrace his steps up Rhode Island Avenue. Then he waved down a cab.

I didn't follow Szabo. I wanted to but I had an even stronger urge. A hunch I needed to play. I hurried across the street and entered the brownstone where he'd spent most of the afternoon.

I had to find out what Szabo had been doing in there. I finally had to admit he was driving me crazy. He was giving me nervous tics.