Roses Are Red Read online

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ROSES ARE RED. Copyright © 2000 by James Patterson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Little, Brown,

  Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2148-3

  A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2000 by Little, Brown.

  The “Little Brown” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook edition: November 2000.

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Part One

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Two

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Part Three

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Part Four

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Part Five

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Epilogue

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Roses

  Are

  Red

  Also by James Patterson

  The Thomas Berryman Number

  Season of the Machete

  See How They Run

  The Midnight Club

  Along Came a Spider

  Kiss the Girls

  Hide & Seek

  Jack & Jill

  Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge)

  Cat & Mouse

  When the Wind Blows

  Pop Goes the Weasel

  Black Friday

  Cradle and All

  Roses

  Are

  Red

  A NOVEL BY

  JAMES

  PATTERSON

  LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY

  BOSTON NEW YORK LONDON

  Roses Are Red is for Charles and Isabelle; Lorraine and O. B.; Maryellen and Andrew; Carole, Jimmy, Brigid, and Meredith; Theresa and Rick; Suzie and Jack; Artie, Harriette, Richard, Nancy, Gideon, and Adam — all the families that inspire the Cross family.

  Prologue

  ASHES, ASHES

  Chapter 1

  BRIANNE PARKER didn’t look like a bank robber or a murderer — her pleasantly plump baby face fooled everyone. But she knew that she was ready to kill if she had to this morning. She would find out for sure at ten minutes past eight.

  The twenty-four-year-old woman wore khakis, a powder blue University of Maryland windbreaker, and scuffed white Nike sneakers. None of the early-morning commuters noticed her as she walked from her dented white Acura to a thick stand of evergreen trees, where she hid.

  She was outside the Citibank in Silver Spring, Maryland, just before eight. The branch was scheduled to open in ninety seconds. She knew from her talks with the Mastermind that it was a freestanding bank with two drive-through lanes. It was surrounded by what he called big-box stores: Target, PETsMART, Home Depot, Circuit City.

  At eight o’clock on the dot, Brianne approached the bank from her hiding place in the evergreens under a colorful billboard obnoxiously offering McDonald’s breakfast to the public. From that angle she couldn’t be seen by the female teller who was just opening the glass front door and had momentarily stepped outside.

  A few strides from the teller, she slipped on a rubbery President Clinton mask, one of the most popular masks in America and probably the one hardest to trace. She knew the bank teller’s name, and she spoke it clearly as she pulled out her gun and pressed it against the small of the woman’s back.

  “Inside, Ms. Jeanne Galetta. Then turn around and lock the front door again. We’re going to see your boss, Mrs. Buccieri.”

  Her short speech at the entrance to the bank was scripted, word for word, even the pauses. The Mastermind said it was crucial that a bank robbery proceed in a specific order, almost by rote.

  “I don’t want to kill you, Jeanne. But I will if you don’t do everything I say, when I say it. It’s your turn to talk now, darling. Do you understand what I’ve just told you so far?”

  Jeanne Galetta nodded her head of short brown hair so vigorously that her wire-rimmed glasses nearly fell off. “Yes, I do. Please don’t hurt me,” she gasped. She was in her late twenties, attractive in a suburban sort of way, but her
blue polyester pantsuit and sensible stack-heeled shoes made her look older.

  “The manager’s office. Now, Ms. Jeanne. If I’m not out of here in eight minutes, you will die. I’m serious. If I’m not out of here in eight minutes, you and Mrs. Buccieri die. Don’t think I won’t do it because I’m a woman. I will shoot you both like dogs.”

  Chapter 2

  SHE LIKED THIS AURA OF POWER and she really liked the new respect she was suddenly getting at the bank. As she followed the trembling teller past the two Diebold ATMs and then through the meeter-greeter area of the lobby, Brianne thought about the precious seconds she had already taken. The Mastermind had been explicit about the tight schedule for the robbery. He had repeated over and over that everything depended on perfect execution.

  Minutes matter Brianne.

  Seconds matter Brianne.

  It even matters that it’s Citibank we’ve chosen to hit today, Brianne.

  The robbery had to be exact, precise, perfect. She got it, she got it. The Mastermind had planned it on what he called “a numerical scale of 9.9999 out of 10.”

  With the heel of her left hand, Brianne shoved the teller into the manager’s office. She heard the low hum of a computer coming from inside. Then she saw Betsy Buccieri sitting behind her big executive-style desk.

  “You open up your safe every morning at five past eight, so open it for me,” she screamed at the manager, who was wide-eyed with surprise and fear. “Open it. Now!”

  “I can’t open the vault,” Mrs. Buccieri protested. “The vault is automatically opened by a computer signal from the main office in Manhattan. It never happens at the same time.”

  The bank robber pointed to her own left ear. She signaled with her finger for Mrs. Betsy Buccieri to listen. To listen to what, though? “Five, four three, two —” Brianne said. Then she reached for the phone on the manager’s desk. It rang. Perfect timing.

  “It’s for you,” Brianne said, her voice slightly muffled by the rubbery President Clinton mask. “You listen carefully.”

  She handed the phone to Mrs. Buccieri, but she knew the exact words the bank manager would hear, and who the speaker was.

  The scariest voice of all for the bank manager to hear was not that of the Mastermind making very real but idle-sounding threats, but someone even better. Scarier.

  “Betsy, it’s Steve. There’s a man here in our house. He has a gun pointed at me. He says that unless the woman in your office leaves the bank with the money by eight-ten exactly, Tommy, Anna, and I will be killed.

  “It’s eight-oh-four.”

  The phone line suddenly went dead. Her husband’s voice was gone.

  “Steve? Steve!” Tears flowed into Betsy Buccieri’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She stared at the masked woman and couldn’t believe this was happening. “Don’t hurt them. Please. I’ll open the vault for you. I’ll do it now. Don’t hurt anyone.”

  Brianne repeated the message the bank manager had already heard. “Eight-ten exactly. Not one second later. And no stupid bank tricks. No silent alarms. No dye packs.”

  “Follow me. No alarms,” Betsy Buccieri promised. She almost couldn’t think. Steve, Tommy, Anna. The names rang loudly in her head.

  They arrived at the door of the bank’s Mosler vault. It was 8:05.

  “Open the door, Betsy. We are on the clock. We’re losing time. Your family is losing time. Steve, Anna, little Tommy, they could all die.”

  It took a little less than two minutes for Betsy Buccieri to get into the vault, which was a polished steel thing of beauty with pistons like a locomotive. Stacks of money were plainly visible on nearly all the shelves — more money than Brianne had ever seen in her life. She snapped open two canvas duffel bags and began filling them with the cash. Mrs. Buccieri and Jeanne Galetta watched her take the money in silence. She liked seeing the fear and respect for her on their faces.

  As she’d been instructed to, Brianne counted off the minutes as she filled the duffel bags. “Eight-oh-seven . . . eight-oh-eight . . .”Finally, she was finished with her part in the vault.

  “I’m locking you both inside the vault. Don’t say one word or I’ll shoot you, then lock your dead bodies up.”

  She hoisted the black duffel bags.

  “Don’t hurt my husband or my baby,” Betsy Buccieri begged. “We did what you —”

  Brianne slammed the heavy metal door on Betsy Buccieri’s desperate plea. She yanked her President Clinton mask from her sweaty face.

  She was running late. She walked across the lobby, unlocked the front door with plastic-gloved hands, and went outside. She felt like running as fast as she could to her car, but she walked calmly, as if she didn’t have a care in the world on this fine spring morning. She was tempted to pull out her six-shooter and put a hole into the big Egg McShit staring down on her. Yeah, she had an attitude, all right.

  When she got to the Acura, she checked her watch: 52 seconds past 8:10. And counting. She was late — but that was the way it was supposed to be. She smiled.

  She didn’t call Errol at the Buccieri house where Steve, Tommy, and the nanny, Anna, were being held. She didn’t tell him she had the money and she was safely in the Acura.

  She had been told not to by the Mastermind.

  The hostages were supposed to die.

  Part One

  THE ROBBERY-MURDERS

  Chapter 3

  THERE’S AN OLD SAYING that I’ve learned to believe in my time as a detective: Don’t think there are no crocodiles because the water is calm.

  The water was certainly lovely and calm that day. My young and irrepressible daughter, Jannie, had Rosie the Cat up on her hind legs and she was holding Rosie’s front paws in her hands. She and “la chatte rouge” were dancing, as they often did.

  “Roses are red, violets are blue,” Jannie sang in a sweet, lilting voice. It was a moment and an image I wouldn’t forget. Friends, relatives, and neighbors had begun to arrive for the christening party at our house on Fifth Street. I was in a hugely celebratory mood.

  Nana Mama had prepared an amazing meal for the special occasion. There was cilantro-marinated shrimp, roasted mussels, fresh ham, Vidalia onions, and summer squash. The aroma of chicken with garlic, pork ribs, and four kinds of homemade bread filled the air. I’d even made my specialty that night, my contribution, a creamy cheesecake with fresh raspberries on top.

  One of Nana’s refrigerator notes was posted on the door of the GE. It read: “‘There is an incredible amount of magic and feistiness in black men that nobody has been able to wipe out. But everybody has tried.’ — Toni Morrison.” I smiled at the magic and feistiness of my eightysomething-year-old grandmother.

  This was so good. Jannie, Damon, little Alex, and I were greeting everybody on the front porch as they arrived. Alex was in my arms, and he was a very social little baby. He had happy smiles for everyone, even for my partner, John Sampson, who can scare little kids at first because he’s mammoth — and scary.

  “The boy obviously likes to party,” Sampson observed, and grinned broadly.

  Alex grinned right back at Two-John, who is six-nine and about two hundred fifty pounds.

  Sampson reached out and took the baby from me. Alex nearly disappeared in his hands, which are the size of catcher’s mitts. Then Sampson laughed and began to talk to the baby in total gibberish.

  Christine appeared from the kitchen. She joined the three of us. So far, she and Alex Jr. were living apart from us. We hoped they would come join Nana, Damon, Jannie, and me in this house. Just one big family. I wanted Christine as my wife, not just as a girlfriend. I wanted to wake little Alex in the mornings, then put him to sleep at night.

  “I’m going to walk around the party with little Alex. Shamelessly use him to pick up pretty women,” Sampson said. He walked off with Alex cradled in his arms.

  “You think he’ll ever get married?” Christine asked.

  “Little Alex? The Boy? Sure he will.”

  “No, your partner in
crime, John Sampson. Will he ever get married, settle down?” It didn’t sound like it bothered her that we weren’t.

  “I think he will — someday. John had a bad family model. His father walked out when John was a year old — eventually died of an overdose. John’s mother was a drug addict. She lived in Southeast until a couple of years ago. Sampson was practically raised by my Aunt Tia, with help from Nana.”

  We watched Sampson cruise the party with little Alex in his arms. He hit on a pretty lady named De Shawn Hawkins, who worked with Christine. “He really is using the baby to hit on women,” Christine said in amazement. “De Shawn, be careful,” she called to her friend.

  I laughed. “Says what he’s going to do, does what he says.”

  The party had started around two in the afternoon. It was still going strong at nine-thirty. I had just sung a duet with Sampson, Joe Tex’s “Skinny Legs and All.” It was a howling success. We got a lot of laughs and playful jeers. Sampson was starting to sing “You’re the First, the Last, My Everything.”

  That was when Kyle Craig from the FBI arrived. I should have told everybody to go home — the party was all but over.

  Chapter 4

  KYLE WAS CARRYING a colorfully wrapped and ribboned present for the baby. And he had balloons! The gifts didn’t fool me. Kyle is a good friend, possibly a great cop, but he isn’t social and avoids parties as if they were viral diseases.

  “Not tonight, Alex,” Christine said, and she suddenly looked concerned, maybe even angry. “Don’t get involved in some scary, terrible case. Please, Alex, don’t do it. Not on the night of the christening.”

  I knew what she meant, and I took her advice, or warning, to heart. My mood had already darkened.

  Goddamn Kyle Craig.

  “No, no, and no,” I said as I walked up to Kyle. I used my index fingers to make a cross. “Go away.”

  “I’m real happy to see you, too,” Kyle said, and beamed. Then he gave me a hug. “Multiple homicide,” he whispered.

  “Sorry, call back tomorrow or the next day. This is my night off.”

  “I know it is, but this is particularly bad, Alex. This one has really struck a nerve.”

  While he was still holding on to me, Kyle told me he was in Washington only for the night and he badly needed my help. He was feeling a lot of pressure. I told him no again, but he wasn’t listening, and we both knew it was part of my job to assist the FBI on important cases here. Also, I owed Kyle a favor or two. A few years back he’d let me into a kidnapping-and-murder case in North Carolina when my niece disappeared from Duke University.