Roses Are Red

could see the front of the house a little better. There was no hole in the door. Nothing.
    “Joseph Petrillo!” I shouted again.
    No response came from inside the house.
    “D.C. police!” I called out.
You waiting for me to show my face again, Crazy Joe? You want a little better target this time?
    I inched up closer to the porch, but I stayed down below the railing.
    The kids across the street had started mimicking me. “
Mr. Petrillo? Crazy Mr. Petrillo?
You okay in there, you nutso asshole?”
    Help arrived minutes later. Two cruisers with their sirens wailing. Then two more. Then a couple of FBI sedans. Everybody was armed to the gills and ready for big trouble. Blockades were set up and down the street. The houses across the way were vacated, as was the corner store. A TV news helicopter dropped by for an unexpected and unwelcome visit — a flyby.
    I had participated in this kind of shoot-’em-up scene more times than I liked to think about. Not good. We waited another twenty minutes before a SWAT team arrived. The blue knights. They wore full body armor and used a battering ram to take down the front door. Then we went inside.
    I didn’t have to go, but I entered the house behind the primary. I had on a Kevlar vest and so did Agent Cavalierre. I kind of liked that she went in with us.
    It was weirder than weird inside.
The living room of the house looked like the attic of a library: musty, coverless books, tattered magazines, and old newspapers were piled as high as seven feet and took up most of the room. There were cats everywhere, dozens of them. They
meowed
loudly, pathetically. The cats looked half starved.
    Joseph Petrillo was there, too. He lay in a pile of old copies of
Newsweek, Time, Life,
and
People
magazines. He must have toppled them when he fell backward. His mouth was open in what looked like a smile — half a smile, anyway.
    He had blown himself away with a shotgun. It was on the floor near his bloodied head. Most of the right side of his face was gone. Blood was splattered on the wall, an armchair, some of the books. One of the cats was fastidiously licking his hand.
    I looked down at the overturned books and papers near the body. I noticed a brochure for Citibank. Also several of Petrillo’s bank statements. The statements showed a balance of $7,711 three years before, but now was down to $61.
    Betsey Cavalierre was crouched near the wasted body. I sensed that she was trying hard not to be sick. A couple of the mangy cats were rubbing against her leg, but she seemed oblivious to them.
    “This couldn’t be the Mastermind,” she said.
    I looked into her eyes and saw fear, but mostly sadness there. “No, I’m sure it isn’t, Betsey. Not poor Petrillo and his starving cats.”

Chapter 42
    I FINALLY GOT TO GO HOME to my own bed for a night. Jannie took pity on me for the sore back I was developing sleeping in the chair in her room. I was fast asleep at home when the phone rang. I picked up after a couple of loud rings.
    It was Christine.
    “Alex, there’s someone in the house. I think it’s Shafer. He’s come here to get me. Please help me!”
    “Call the police. I’m on my way,” I said into the phone. “You and Alex get out of there
now!
”
    It usually takes me close to half an hour to get out to Mitchellville. I got there in less than fifteen minutes that night. Lights were blazing all over the street. Two police cruisers were parked in front of Christine’s town house. It was raining hard.
    I jumped out of the Porsche and ran to the porch. A burly patrolman in a dark blue rain slicker raised his hand to stop me.
    “I’m Detective Alex Cross, Metro D.C. I’m a good friend of Christine Johnson.”
    He nodded and didn’t make me show my badge. “She’s inside with the other officers. Ms. Johnson’s fine, Detective. So is the little boy.”
    I could already hear little Alex crying in there. As I entered the living room I saw two patrolmen with Christine. She was crying, but also talking loudly to the policemen.
    “He’s here! I’m telling you. Geoffrey Shafer — the Weasel! He’s here somewhere!” she yelled, and ran both hands through her hair.
    The baby was wailing in his Pack ’N Play. I went over and picked him up. The Boy quieted down as soon as he was in my arms. I walked over to Christine and the two patrolmen.
    “Tell them about Geoffrey Shafer,” Christine pleaded with me. “Tell them what’s already happened.
How crazy he is!
”
    I told the