Roses Are Red

Chapter Thirty-Si

Two days later, I returned to the robbery-murders, a case that both fascinated and repulsed me. Work was still there, wasn't it? The investigation had survived without me. On the other hand, no one had been caught. One of Nana's favorite sayings came to mind: If you're going around in circles, maybe you're cutting corners. Perhaps that was the problem with the investigation so far.

I saw Betsey Cavalierre at the FBI office on Fourth Street. She wagged a finger at me, but she also smiled in a friendly way. She had on a tan blazer, blue T-shirt, jeans, and she looked good. I was glad to see her. That first smile of hers seemed to finally break the ice between us.

'You should have told me about your little girl the operation. Everything okay, Alex? You haven't slept much, have you?"

"The doctor said he got it all. She's a tough little girl. This morning she asked me when we could start our boxing lessons again. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I wasn't myself."

She waved off my last few words. 'I'm just happy that your daughter is fine, "she said. "I can see the relief on your face."

I smiled. "Well, I can feel it. It brought lots of things into focus for me. Let's go to work."

Betsey winked. "I've been here since six."

"Show-off,” I said.

I sat down at the desk I was using and started to look through the mountain of paperwork that had already accumulated. Agent Cavalierre was at the desk across from mine. I was glad to be back on the line. One or more killers were out there murdering bank tellers, managers, families. I wanted to help stop it if I could.

An hour or so later, I looked up and saw Agent Cavalierre staring my way with a blank look on her face. She'd been lost in her thoughts, I suppose.

"There's someone I need to see," I said. "I should have thought of him before today. He left Washington for a while. Went to Philly, New York, Los Angeles. Now he's back. He's robbed a lot of banks, and he's violent."

Betsey nodded. "I'd love to meet him. Sounds like a swell guy."

It probably had something to do with our scarcity of solid leads that she went with me that morning. We rode in her car to a fleabag hotel on New York Avenue. The Doral was a decrepit, paint-peeling flophouse. A trio of skinny, shopworn prostitutes in miniskirts were just leaving the hotel as we arrived. A retro-looking pimp in a gold lame zoot suit leaned against a yellow Cadillac convertible, picking at his teeth.

"You take me to all the nicest places," Agent Cavalierre said as she climbed out of the car. I noticed she was wearing an ankle holster. Dressed for success.