Roses Are Red

Washington, D.C., to his pal Jimmy Crews. Then he went away for four days.
    “He got home on the fourth afternoon. It was the day after the MetroHartford kidnapping. He started to ‘celebrate’ at around three, and he was flying high by seven. That night, he broke my mom’s cheekbone. He cut her eye and could have put it out. My father wears this stupid signet ring from St. John’s. The Redmen — now the Red Storm, you know. I went to my grandma’s shed that night and I found more money. I couldn’t believe it. There’s so much money there, all cash.”
    Veronica Macdougall reached under the table and hoisted up a powder blue backpack, the kind kids wear to school. She opened it. She pulled out several stacks of bills and showed us the money. Her face was a mask of shame and pain.
    “Here’s ten thousand four hundred dollars. It was right there in my grandmother’s shed. My father put it there. My father was in on that kidnapping in Washington. He thinks he’s so goddamn smart.”
    Only then, once she was finished telling us what her father had done, did Veronica Macdougall finally break down and cry. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying. “I’m so, so sorry.” I think she was apologizing for his crimes.

Chapter 86
    I BELIEVED HER, and I was still reeling from hearing Veronica Macdougall’s chilling confession about her policeman father. An intriguing question was whether the crew of Brooklyn detectives had “masterminded” the earlier bank robberies, too. Had they murdered several people in cold blood before they attempted the MetroHartford kidnapping? Was one of the detectives the Mastermind?
    I had plenty of time to think about it during an interminable day of politicking and infighting involving the FBI, the mayor, and the New York police commissioner. Meanwhile, the five Brooklyn detectives were put under surveillance, but we weren’t given the go-ahead to bring them in. It was frustrating, maddening, like being stuck for a day on the Long Island Expressway in a traffic jam, or on a New York subway. The detectives’ attendance records were being checked against the days all of the robberies took place. Credit and spending checks were run on each of them. Other detectives, even snitches, were quietly interviewed. The money found at Brian Macdougall’s mother’s house had been retrieved and it was definitely part of the ransom.
    As of six o’clock, nothing had been decided. None of us could believe the delay. Betsey surfaced briefly and reported that no progress had been made so far. Around seven, I went and checked into a hotel for the night.
    I kept getting angrier and angrier. I took a hot shower, and then I leafed through a Zagat’s guide looking for a good place to eat downtown. Around nine, I finally ordered from room service. I’d been thinking about Christine and the Boy. I didn’t feel like going out. Maybe if Betsey had been available, but she was tied up, raging against the machine at Police Plaza.
    I propped myself up in bed and tried to read
Prayers for Rain
by Dennis Lehane. I was on a string of books that I’d enjoyed lately:
The Pilot’s Wife, The Pied Piper, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,
the Lehane.
    I couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to take down the five New York detectives. I wanted to be home with the kids, and I wanted little Alex to be part of our family. That was the one thing that had kept me going strong lately.
    Finally, I started to think about Betsey Cavalierre. I had been trying not to, but now I remembered our “date” in Hartford. I liked her — it was as simple as that. I wanted to see her again and I hoped she wanted to see me.
    The phone in my room rang around eleven o’clock.
It was Betsey.
She sounded tired and frustrated and decidedly non-peppy for her.
    “I’m just finishing up here at Police Plaza. I
hope.
Believe it or not, we’re set to take them down tomorrow. You definitely wouldn’t believe the bullshit that’s gone on today. Lots of talk about the detectives’ civil rights. Plus the effect on morale inside the NYPD. Making the arrest ‘the right way.’ Nobody’s willing to say
these are five very bad actors. They’re probably killers. Take their sorry asses down.
”
    “They’re five very bad actors. Take their sorry asses down,” I said to her.
    I heard her laugh and I could picture her smile. “That’s what we’re doing, Alex. Bright and early tomorrow morning. We’re taking them down. Maybe we’ll get the