Roses Are Red

compassionately. “I’m Senior Agent Cavalierre from the FBI. I’m in charge of this investigation, Mr. Strickland. This is Detective Cross from the D.C. police. I hear that you have a message for us?”
    The powerful-looking man suddenly broke down. He sobbed into his hands. It took him a minute or so before he pulled himself together and was able to talk.
    “They were nice people that got killed here today. They were my friends,” he said. “I was supposed to protect them, and our customers, of course.”
    “It’s a terrible thing that happened, but it’s not your fault,” Betsey said to the guard. She was trying to be kind, to calm him, and she was doing a good job. “Why did the gunmen kill them? How did you get away?”
    The guard shook his head in dismay. “I didn’t get away,” he said. “They held me in the lobby with the others. Two of ’em did the job. All of us were told to stay facedown on the floor. They said they had to be out the bank quarter past eight. No later than that. No mistakes, they said several times. No alarms. No panic buttons.”
    “They were late getting out of the bank?” I asked Arthur Strickland.
    “No, sir,”
the guard said to me. “That’s just it. They could have made it on time. They didn’t seem to want to. They told me to stand up. I thought they was going to shoot me right then. I was in Vietnam, but I was never this afraid.”
    “They gave you a message for us?” I asked him.
    “Yes, sir. A message for both of you.
‘You like this bank?’
one of them asked me. I said that I liked my job. He called me a dumb spade asshole. Then he said that I was to be their messenger. I should tell FBI Agent Cavalierre and Detective Cross that there was a mistake made at the bank. He said there could be no more mistakes. He repeated that several times.
No more mistakes.
He said, ‘Tell them the message is from the Mastermind.’ Then they shot everybody else. They shot them where they lay on the floor, in cold blood. It’s all my fault. I was the guard on duty at the bank. I let it happen.”
    “No, Mr. Strickland.” Betsey Cavalierre spoke softly to the bank guard. “You didn’t. We’re the ones at fault, not you.”

Chapter 46
    THERE CAN BE NO MORE MISTAKES.
    The Mastermind knew all about the FBI’s Betsey Cavalierre and Detective Cross. He was on top of everything, even the police officers assigned to the case. They were part of his plan now.
    It was a gorgeous day for his excursion into the countryside outside Washington. The lilies were in bloom, and the sky was clear; it was bright china blue, with just a couple of cloud puffs placed symmetrically to the east and west.
    The current bank-robbing crew was staying in a farmhouse just south of Hayfield, Virginia. It was a little more than eighty miles southwest of Washington, almost in West Virginia.
    He rounded a bend on an unpaved road and saw the rear end of Mr. Blue’s van jutting out of a faded red barn. A pair of dogs were roaming in the yard, biting at horseflies. He didn’t see any of the gang yet, or their girlfriends, but he did hear their loud rock-and-roll music: guitar-heavy, Southern-flavored rock that they played constantly, morning and night.
    He walked into the farmhouse living room, which had been remodeled to resemble a loft. He saw Mr. Blue, Mr. Red, Mr. White, and their girlfriends, including Ms. Green. He could smell coffee brewing. A broom was leaning against one wall, which meant they had cleaned up a little before he arrived. Next to the broom was a Heckler and Koch Marksman’s rifle.
    “Hello, everybody,” he said, and waved shyly,
his way.
He smiled, but knew that they considered him a geek. So be it. Ms. Green was looking at him as if he were
a geek with the hots for her.
    “Hey, mon professor,” Blue said, and gave him a lighthearted grin that was so insincere it hurt. The Mastermind wasn’t fooled. Mr. Blue was a stone-cold killer. That was why he had been chosen for the First Union, First Virginia, and Chase robberies. They were all killers, even the three girls.
    “Pizza.” He held up two boxes and a paper bag. “I bought pizza. And some excellent Chianti.”

Chapter 47
    KILLJOY,
he was thinking.
    Killing machine.
    Killing time.
    Killer idea.
    Killing fields.
    The Mastermind smiled thinly at his own obsessive wordplay. It was the kind of half smile that didn’t feel good on his face, though. It felt false and a little forced. It was just past four o’clock, and