Roses Are Red

Chapter Forty-Two

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.

The assorted police and emergency sirens continued to wail loudly and I wondered why. The moment I walked inside the bank lobby, I knew. I counted five bodies. Tellers and executives: Three women, two men. All had been shot dead. It was another massacre, possibly the worst one so far.

"Why? Jesus!" Agent Cavalierre muttered at my side. For a second she grabbed on to my arm, but then realized what she had done and let go.

An FBI agent hurried up to us. His name was James Walsh and I remembered him from the first meeting at the field office. "Five are dead here. They're all on staff, bank employees."

"Hostages at home?" Betsey asked.

Walsh shook his head," The manager's wife is dead too. Shot at close range. Executed for no reason we can figure out… Betsey, they left a survivor at the bank. He has a message for you and Detective Cross. It's from someone called the Mastermind."