Roses Are Red

Chapter Eighty-Five

Four o'clock comes very early in the morning. That was the hour we were scheduled to hit the homes of the five detectives. Everything was set. The politicking was done; at least I hoped it was over.

Three-thirty comes even earlier and that was when we met somewhere in Nassau County out on Long Island. I didn't know much about the area, but it was upscale and pretty, a far cry from Fifth Street and Southeast. Someone on the team said the neighborhood was unusual because a lot of cops and also Mafia people lived there in apparent harmony.

This was a federal case and Betsey Cavalierre was officially in charge of the arrests. It illustrated the regard in which she was held back in Washington, if not in New York.

"I'm happy to see that everybody is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning? Night? Whatever time zone we're in?" She offered up a joke and got a few smiles from the troops. There were about forty of us, a mix of police and FBI, but the Bureau was definitely in charge of the morning's raids. She divided us into teams, and I was in her group.

Everybody was ready, and incredibly pumped-up. We drove to a split-level house on High Street in Massapequa. No one seemed to be up in the suburban neighborhood. A dog started barking in one of the yards nearby. Dew glistened on every manicured lawn. Life seemed good out here where Detective Brian Macdougall lived with his battered wife and bitterly angry daughter.

Betsey spoke into her Handie-Talkie. She seemed extremely cool under fire. "Radio check. Then, "Team A, through the front door. Team B, kitchen. Team C, sun porch. Team D is backup … Now. Go! Take him down!"

The agents and police detectives swarmed toward the house on her signal. Betsey and I got to watch them quickly move in. We were Team D, the backup.

Team A was inside the house fast and cleanly.

Then so was Team B. We couldn't see the third team from where we were parked. They went in the back.

There was shouting inside. Then we heard a loud pop. Percussive, definitely a gunshot.

"Oh, shit." Betsey looked over at me. "Macdougall was waiting for us. How the hell did that happen?"

There were several more gunshots. Someone yelled. A woman began to scream and curse. Was it Veronica Macdougall's mother?

Betsey and I jumped out of the car and moved quickly toward the Macdougall house. We still didn't go inside. I was thinking that four other houses in Brooklyn were being hit right now. I hoped there wasn't more trouble like this.

Talk to me," Betsey said into her Handie-Talkie. "What's happening in there? Mike? What the hell is wrong?"

"Rice is down. I'm outside the master bedroom on the second floor. Macdougall and his wife are inside."

"How is Rice?" she asked, very concerned.

"Chest wound. He's conscious. Wound is sucking bad, though. Get an ambulance here now! Macdougall shot him."

Suddenly a window on the second floor opened. I saw a figure come out of the window and run in a low crouch across the attached garage roof.

Betsey and I sprinted toward the man. I remembered that she'd been a good lacrosse player at Georgetown. She could still move.

"He's outside! Macdougall's up on the roof over the garage," she reported to the others.

"I got him," I told her. He was angling toward where the garage roof intersected with a row of feathery-looking fir trees. I couldn't see what was beyond the trees, but I figured it had to be another yard, another house.

"MacDougall!” I yelled at the top of my voice. "Stop! Police! Stop or I'll shoot!"

He didn't look back, didn't stop, and didn't hesitate. Macdougall jumped down into the trees.