Roses Are Red

of Citibank in New York had received an angry, even vicious letter from Petrillo. He had worked in security for the bank from January of 1990 until recently. He’d been fired because of budget cuts that affected every department in the bank, not just his. Petrillo didn’t accept the explanation, or anything else the bank tried to make him go away.
    There was something about the tone of the letters that alarmed me. They were well-written and intelligent, but the letters showed signs of paranoia, possibly even schizophrenia. Petrillo had been a captain in Vietnam before he worked for the bank. He’d seen combat. The police had been to see him about the crank mail, but no charges had been filed.
    “This must be one of those famous feelings of yours,” Betsey said as we rode to the suspect’s house on Fifth Avenue.
    “It’s one of those famous
bad
feelings,” I said. “The detective who interviewed him a few months ago had a bad feeling, too. The bank refused to go any further with the complaint.”
    Unlike its namesake in New York, Fifth Avenue in D.C. was a low-rent area on the edge of gentrifying Capitol Hill. It had originally been mostly Italian American but was now racially mixed. Rusted, dated cars lined the street. A BMW sedan, fully loaded, stood out from the other vehicles. Probably a drug dealer.
    “Same old, same old,” Betsey said.
    “You know the area?” I asked as we turned onto the street where Petrillo lived.
    She nodded and her brown eyes narrowed. “A certain number of years ago, that number not to be disclosed at this time, I was born not far from here. Four blocks, to be exact.”
    I glanced over at Betsey and saw a grim look on her face as she stared out the windshield. She had let me in on a little piece of her past. She’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Washington. She didn’t look like it.
    “We don’t have to follow up on this hunch,” I told her. “I can check it out later. It’s probably nothing, but Petrillo lives so close to the field office.”
    She shook her head, shrugged. “You read a lot of files today. This is the one that popped for you. We should follow up on it. I’m fine being here.”
    We stopped in front of a corner deli, where local kids had probably been hanging out for the past few decades. The current group looked a little retro in their choice of loose-fitting jeans, dark T-shirts, slicked-back hair. They were all white.
    We crossed the street and walked toward the end of the block. I pointed out a small yellow house. “That’s Petrillo’s.”
    “Let’s go talk to the man,” she said. “See if he’s robbed any banks lately.”
    We climbed pockmarked concrete steps to a gray metal screen door. I knocked on the door frame and called out, “D.C. police. I’d like to talk to Joseph Petrillo.”
    I turned to Betsey, who was standing to my left, down one of the stone stairs. I’m not even sure what I was going to say to her.
    Whatever it was —
I never got it out.
    There was a tremendous gun blast — probably a shotgun. Very loud, deafening, scarier than a bolt of lightning. It came from inside the house, not far from the front door.
    Betsey screamed.

Chapter 41
    I DIVED HEADFIRST OFF THE PORCH, taking Betsey with me. We lay on the lawn, scrambling to get our guns, breathing hoarsely.
    “Jesus Christ!
Jesus!
” she gasped. Neither of us had been hit, but we were scared shitless. I was also angry at myself for being careless at the door.
    “
Damn it!
I wasn’t expecting him to shoot at us.”
    “Last time I ever doubt your gut feelings,” she whispered. “I’ll call for backup.”
    “Call Metro
first,
” I told her. “This is our city.”
    We crouched beside an untrimmed hedge and several out-of-control rose bushes. Both of us had our pistols ready. I held mine pointed upward alongside my face. Was this the Mastermind in here? Had we found him?
    Across the street, the teens in front of the deli were brazenly checking out the action, more specifically, where the gunshot had come from. They had wide-eyed expressions and were watching us as if we were characters in an episode of
NYPD Blue
or
Law & Order.
    “Crazy fuckin’ Joe,” one of them held his hands cupped around his mouth and shouted loudly.
    “At least he stopped shooting for the moment,” Betsey whispered. “Crazy fucking Joe.”
    “Unfortunately, he still has his scattergun. He can shoot some more if he wants to.”
    I shifted around on the ground so I