Roses Are Red (Alex Cross 6)

“We didn’t do nothin’ to nobody,” one of the men finally said in a scratchy gargle. He looked well past forty but was probably only in his twenties.

“As you were,” I said in a low voice. I sternly pointed a finger at them. “Not even a whisper.”

The paranoid junkies must have thought that we were coming for them. The two crackheads couldn’t believe it when we hurried right past them. I heard Sampson say, “Get the fuck out of here. It’s your last lucky day.”

I could hear infants crying and small children shouting, the babble of several TV sets, and jazz and hip-hop and salsa music leaking through the thin walls. My stomach was knotted up. Moving in on Brand in a crowded building was a very bad deal, but everybody wanted results now. Brand was an excellent suspect.

Sampson lightly touched my shoulder. “I’ll go in with Rakeem,” he said. “You follow, sugar. Don’t argue with me.”

I frowned but nodded. Sampson and Rakeem Powell were the best marksmen we had. They were careful and smart and experienced, but this was a tough, scary bust. Armed and dangerous. Anything could happen now.

I turned to a detective who held a heavy metal ram with two hands. It looked like a small, blunt missile. “Take the door right the hell down, officer. I’m not asking you to knock first.”

I looked back at the lineup of tense and anxious men behind me. I held up one fist. “We’re going on four,” I said.

I gestured with my fingers — one — two — three!

The battering ram hit the door with all the shattering force of an NFL blocking fullback. The door locks blew right off. We were inside. Sampson and Powell were a step ahead of me. No shots had been fired yet.

“Mom-mee!” One of the small children screeched an alarm. I had an instant of fear about the families that had been hurt already because of the Mastermind. We didn’t need any blood to flow here.

Armed and dangerous.

Two kids were watching South Park on TV. Where was Mitchell Brand? And where was the kids’ mother, Theresa Lopez? Maybe they weren’t even home. Sometimes kids got left alone in apartments for days.

The bedroom door in front of us was closed. Music was playing somewhere in the apartment. If Mitchell Brand was here tonight, he wasn’t too security conscious. That didn’t track very well for me. I didn’t like anything about this so far.

I yanked open the bedroom door and peered inside. My heart was thundering. I was in a crouched shooting stance. A third small child was playing with a teddy bear on the floor. “Blue Bear,” she told me.

“Blue Bear,” I whispered.

I stepped back fast into the hallway. I saw Sampson kick another door open. The apartment layout we’d been given was wrong! This was a two-bedroom apartment.

Suddenly, Mitchell Brand came out into the hallway. He was dragging along Theresa Lopez. He had a .45-caliber handgun pressed up against her forehead. She was a pretty, light brown–skinned woman, shaking badly. Both Brand and Lopez were naked except for gold chains around his thick neck, wrist, and left ankle.

“Put down the gun, Brand,” I shouted above the din in the apartment. “You’re not going anywhere. You can’t get out of here. You’re smart enough to know that. Put down the gun.”

“Just get out of my way!” he shouted. “I’m smart enough to put a hole in your face first.”

I stood my ground in front of Brand. Sampson and Rakeem

Powell came up on either side. “The First Union Bank job in Falls Church. If you’re not involved, you’ve got no problem,” I said, lowering my voice some. “Put down the gun.”

Brand yelled again. “I didn’t rob the First Union Bank! I was in New York City the whole week! I was at a weddin’, Theresa’s sister. Somebody set me up. Somebody did this to me!”

Theresa Lopez was starting to sob uncontrollably. Her children were crying and calling out for their mother. Detectives and FBI agents held them back, kept them safe.

“He was at my sister’s wedding!” Theresa Lopez screamed at me. Her eyes were pleading. “He was at a wedding!”

“Mommee! Mommee!” the kids cried.

“Put the gun down, Brand. Get some clothes on. We need to talk to you. I believe you were at a wedding. I believe you and Theresa. Put the gun down.”

I was aware that my shirt was soaked through to the skin. One of the children was still lurking behind Brand and Lopez. In the line of fire. Oh, God, don’t make me shoot this man.

Then, slowly, Mitchell Brand lowered his gun from the forehead of Theresa Lopez. He kissed the side of her head. “Sorry, baby,” he whispered.

I was already thinking we’d made a mistake. I felt it in my gut. When he lowered his gun, I knew it. Maybe somebody had set up Mitchell Brand. We’d wasted a lot of time and resources to capture him. We had been distracted for days.