Roses Are Red

Spring,” the manager said. His wide, square face was beet red. Perspiration dripped from his forehead in large drops. His blue eyes blinked repeatedly.
    “Watch your computer screen,” Mr. Blue said, and pointed with his gun. “Watch it.”
    A film sequence came up, and the manager saw his wife putting black tape on the mouths of his three children.
    “Oh, God! I know that the manager in Silver Spring was late. Let’s get going,” he said to the ski-masked man in his office. “My family is everything to me.”
    “We know,” Blue said. He turned to the assistant manager. He pointed the gun at her. “You’re not a hero, are you, Ms. Collins?”
    She shook her head of soft red curls. “No, sir, I’m not. The bank’s money is not my money. It isn’t worth dying for. It isn’t worth Mr. Bartlett’s children dying for.”
    Mr. Blue smiled under his mask. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
    He turned back to the manager. “I have children, you have children. We don’t want them to be fatherless,” he said. It was the Mastermind’s line and an effective one, he thought. “Let’s get going.”
    They hurried to the main vault, which had a dual combination and needed both Bartlett and his assistant manager to open it. In less than sixty seconds, the vault was open.
    Mr. Blue then held up a silver metal device for all to see; it looked like a TV remote control. “This is a police scanner,” he said. “If the police or the FBI are alerted and come our way, I’ll know as soon as they do. And then you two, and also the two tellers, die. Are there any trip alarms inside the vault?”
    The manager shook his head. “No, sir. There are no secret alarms. You have my word.”
    Mr. Blue smiled again behind his mask. “Then let’s go get my money. Move it!”
    Blue had just about finished loading up the cash when his police scanner suddenly picked up an alert.
“Robbery in progress at First Union Bank, downtown Falls Church.”
    He swiveled toward James Bartlett and shot the bank manager dead. Then he turned and shot Ms. Collins through the forehead.
    Just the way it had been planned.

Chapter 17
    THE SIREN ON THE ROOF OF MY CAR was screaming.
    So was my body.
    And my brain.
    I arrived at the First Union Bank in Falls Church, Virginia, at almost the same time that Kyle Craig and his FBI team got there.
    A black helicopter was just settling into the mostly empty shopping-mall parking area directly behind the bank. Kyle and three other agents climbed out of the chopper and headed toward me at a fast trot. They were stooped over and looked like monks hurrying to chapel. All four wore blue FBI windbreakers, which meant the Bureau wanted the public to know the FBI was involved with the investigation. The murders so far were gross and chilling for everyone. People needed to be reassured, to have their hands held.
    “You been inside the bank already?” Kyle huffed as he came jogging up to me. He, too, looked as if he hadn’t slept.
    “I just got here myself. Saw the big bad Bell Jet sputtering in. Figured it had to be you, or Darth Vader. Let’s go in together.”
    “This is Senior Agent Betsey Cavalierre,” Kyle said, indicating a smallish woman with lustrous black hair and eyes almost as dark. She wore her oversized FBI windbreaker over a white T-shirt, khaki trousers, running shoes. She was probably in her mid-thirties. Intense looking and also pretty, though certainly not glamorous.
    “This is the rest of the first team. Agents Michael Doud and James Walsh,” Kyle continued with the introductions. “This is Alex Cross. He’s the VICAP liaison with the D.C. police. Alex found the bodies of Errol and Brianne Parker.”
    There were quick, polite hellos and handshakes all around. Senior Agent Betsey Cavalierre seemed to be sizing me up. Maybe it was because her boss and I were friends. Or maybe because I was VICAP, the official liaison between the FBI and the Metro police. Kyle took me by the elbow and steered me away from his agents.
    “If the original two bank robbers are dead, who the hell did this job?” Kyle asked as we walked past ribbons of yellow crime tape snapping loudly in a crisp breeze from the southeast. “This is as bad as it gets. You see why I brought you in?”
    “Because misery likes company,” I said.
    The FBI ADIC, or assistant director in charge, walked with me into the bank lobby. My stomach fell. Two female tellers were lying on the floor. They were dressed in