Roses Are Red (Alex Cross 6)

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 cr

ime, 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.”