Roses Are Red

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

Betsey Cavalierre and I returned to Hazelwood and the mountains of grunt work that still had to be done there. Sampson met us. By ten-thirty that night, we'd gone through everything we could find at the hospital. We had managed to identify nineteen staff members who'd spent time with Szabo. The short list included six therapists who'd seen him.

Betsey and I tacked the pictures up on one wall. Then I walked back and forth staring at them, hoping for a blinding insight. Where the hell was the money? How had Szabo actually controlled the robbery-murders?

I sat down again. Betsey was sipping her sixth or seventh Diet Coke. I'd matched her coffee for Coke. Intermittently, we had revisited the mystery of James Walsh's supposed suicide and the sudden disappearance of Michael Doud. Szabo had refused to answer any questions about the two agents. Why would he murder the two of them? What was his real plan? Goddamn him!

"Could Szabo really be behind all this, Alex? Is he that clever? That goddamn evil? That nuts?"

I pushed myself up from the desk I was working at. "I don't know anymore. It's late again. I'm fried, Betsey. I'm out of here. Tomorrow's another day."

The overhead lights were blinding and hurtful. Betsey's eyes were red-rimmed and vacant as they stared up at me. I wanted to hug her some but half a dozen agents were still working in the office. I ached to hold her in my arms, to talk to her about anything but the case.

"Goodnight," I finally said. "Get some sleep."

"Night, Alex." ," miss you, she mouthed.

"Be careful,” I said. "Be careful going home."

"I always am. You be careful."

I got home somehow and climbed upstairs to bed. I'd been working too hard for too long. Maybe I did need to quit the job. I hit the pillow hard. At about twenty past two I woke up. I'd been having a conversation with Frederic Szabo in my sleep. Then I talked to someone else from the investigation. Oh brother.

It was a bad, bad time to be awake. I usually don't remember my dreams, which probably means I'm repressing them but I woke with a clear and very disturbing image of the last couple of minutes.

The bank robber Tony Brophy had been describing his meeting with the Mastermind; how he'd been sitting behind bright lights and could only see a silhouette of the man. The silhouette he described didn't match the shape of Frederic Szabo's head. Not even close. He had talked about a big hooked nose and large ears. He'd mentioned the ears a couple of times. Big ears, like a car with both doors open. Szabo actually had small ears and a regular nose.

But there was someone else who came to mind! Jesus! I rolled over out of bed. I stared out my window until my mind was clearer and more focused. Then I called Betsey.

She picked up after the second ring. Her voice was a soft, muffled moan.

"It's Alex. Sorry to call you, to wake you. I think I know who the Mastermind is."

"Is this a bad dream?" she muttered.

"Oh, definitely," I told her. "This is our worst nightmare."