Roses Are Red

heartless killers. Why?
    Sampson and I stopped for lunch at a Boston Market around one in the afternoon. It wasn’t our first, or even second choice, but it was handy and the Big Man was hungry, wouldn’t be denied. I could have continued on without eating.
    “You think the Parkers are off doing another job?” he asked me as we dug into orders of meat loaf, corn, and mashed potatoes.
    “If they’re the ones who did the bank in Maryland, they’re probably hiding out. They know the heat is on. Errol sneaks off to South Carolina sometimes. He’s a fisherman. Kyle already has FBI agents on the ground there.”
    “You ever spend time with Errol?” Sampson wanted to know.
    “Family get-togethers mostly, but he only came to a few that I can remember. I went fishing with him once. He was like a little kid as long as we were catching largemouth bass and two- or three-pound catfish. Maria always liked Errol.”
    Sampson kept eating his meat loaf and double order of mashed potatoes. “You think about Maria much?”
    I scrunched down into my seat. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about this now. “Different things remind me of her. Especially Sundays. We’d sleep until noon sometimes, treat ourselves to a nice brunch. Or visit the duck pond near the river. St. Tony’s. Long walks in Garfield Park. It’s a sad, confusing thing, John — that she died so young. It especially hurts that I could never solve her murder.”
    Sampson kept on hounding me with questions. He gets that way sometimes.
    “You and Christine are doing all right?”
    “No,” I finally admitted. But I couldn’t quite get out the whole truth. “She can’t get over what happened with Geoffrey Shafer. I’m not even sure that the Weasel is dead. We finished here?”
    Sampson grinned. “Food, or my cross-examination?”
    “Let’s go. Let’s find Errol and Brianne Parker. Solve the bank robbery. Take the rest of the day off.”

Chapter 12
    AROUND SEVEN O’CLOCK Sampson and I decided to take a dinner break. We figured we’d be working late, probably past midnight. It was that kind of case. I went home for supper with the kids and Nana Mama.
    I ate, and complimented Nana on her cooking, but I didn’t taste much of anything. I was keeping the Christine thing bottled up inside me. Not too bright on my part.
    Sampson and I agreed to meet around ten to check out a few night crawlers who would be easier to find after darkness fell. At quarter past ten, we were trolling Southeast again in my car.
    Sampson spotted a small-time drug hustler and snitch we knew. Darryl Snow was hanging out with his boys in front of a bar and grill that kept changing its name and now was called Used-To-Be’s.
    Sampson and I hopped out of the Porsche and came up fast on Snow. He had nowhere to run. As always, Darryl was a drug-hustler fashion plate: crimson nylon shorts over blue nylon pants, Polo T-shirt, Tommy Hilfiger windbreaker, Oakley shades.
    “Hey there, Snowman,” Sampson said in his deep voice. “You’re melting away to nothing.”
    Even Snow’s hustler friends laughed. Darryl was around five-eleven, and I doubt he weighed a hundred and twenty pounds with his clothes on, designer labels and all.
    “Walk and talk with me, Darryl,” I told him. “This is not open to discussion.”
    His head shook like a dashboard doll’s, but he reluctantly went along. “I don’t wanna talk to you, Cross.”
    “Errol and Brianne Parker,” I said, once we were far enough away from the others.
    Darryl looked at me and frowned heavily as his head continued to bob. “You the one was married to his sister or whatever? Why you askin’ me? Why you always prosecutin’ me, man?”
    “Errol doesn’t spend a lot of time with the family anymore. He’s too busy robbing banks. Where is he, Darryl? Sampson and I don’t owe you any favors right now. That’s a dicey place to be.”
    “I can live with it,” Darryl said, and looked away into the streetlights.
    My hand shot out and grabbed some windbreaker and shirt. “No, you can
not.
You know better, Darryl.”
    Snow sniffled and cursed under his breath. “I hear Brianne be over the old First Avenue projects. Rat-shit buildings on First? I don’t know she still at that place, though. That’s all I got.” He held out his hands, palms up.
    Sampson came rolling up behind Snow.
“Boo,”
he said, and Darryl’s sneakered feet almost left the ground.
    “Is Darryl being helpful?” he asked me. “Seems a little