Roses Are Red (Alex Cross 6)

“You know the area?” I asked as we turned onto the street where Petrillo lived.

She nodded and her brown eyes narrowed. “A certain number of years ago, that number not to be disclosed at this time, I was born not far from here. Four blocks, to be exact.”

I glanced over at Betsey and saw a grim look on her face as she stared out the windshield. She had let me in on a little piece of her past. She’d grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Washington. She didn’t look like it.

“We don’t have to follow up on this hunch,” I told her. “I can check it out later. It’s probably nothing, but Petrillo lives so close to the field office.”

She shook her head, shrugged. “You read a lot of files today. This is the one that popped for you. We should follow up on it. I’m fine being here.”

We stopped in front of a corner deli, where local kids had probably been hanging out for the past few decades. The current group looked a little retro in their choice of loose-fitting jeans, dark T-shirts, slicked-back hair. They were all white.

We crossed the street and walked toward the end of the block. I pointed out a small yellow house. “That’s Petrillo’s.”

“Let’s go talk to the man,” she said. “See if he’s robbed any banks lately.”

We climbed pockmarked concrete steps to a gray metal screen door. I knocked on the door frame and called out, “D.C. police. I’d like to talk to Joseph Petrillo.”

I turned to Betsey, who was standing to my left, down one of the stone stairs. I’m not even sure what I was going to say to her.

Whatever it was — I never got it out.

There was a tremendous gun blast — probably a shotgun. Very loud, deafening, scarier than a bolt of lightning. It came from inside the house, not far from the front door.

Betsey screamed.

Chapter 41

I DIVED HEADFIRST OFF THE PORCH, taking Betsey with me. We lay on the lawn, scrambling to get our guns, breathing hoarsely.

“Jesus Christ! Jesus!” she gasped. Neither of us had been hit, but we were scared shitless. I was also angry at myself for being careless at the door.

“Damn it! I wasn’t expecting him to shoot at us.”

“Last time I ever doubt your gut feelings,” she whispered. “I’ll call for backup.”

“Call Metro first,” I told her. “This is our city.”

We crouched beside an untrimmed hedge and several out-of-control rose bushes. Both of us had our pistols ready. I held mine pointed upward alongside my face. Was this the Mastermind in here? Had we found him?

Across the street, the teens in front of the deli were brazenly checking out the action, more specifically, where the gunshot had come from. They had wide-eyed expressions and were watching us as if we were characters in an episode of NYPD Blue or Law & Order.

“Crazy fuckin’ Joe,” one of them held his hands cupped around his mouth and shouted loudly.

“At least he stopped shooting for the moment,” Betsey whispered. “Crazy fucking Joe.”

“Unfortunately, he still has his scattergun. He can shoot some more if he wants to.”

I shifted around on the ground so I 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?”