At six o’clock that night, Senior Agent Walsh held a meeting that covered the possibility that the crew might strike again soon. Betsey Cavalierre arrived late for the briefing. She sat in the back and observed.
Two FBI behavioral psychologists had worked up a list of potential future targets for the Mastermind. The targets included multinational banks, other top insurance companies, credit card companies, communications conglomerates, and Wall Street firms.
One of the behavioral psychologists, Dr. Joanna Rodman, stated that the robberies demonstrated venom and hatred — the likes of which she’d never seen before. She said the perpetrators relished outwitting authorities and possibly hungered for fame and notoriety.
Dr. Rodman then made her most challenging statement. She believed that the Mastermind would strike again. “I’m willing to bet on it,” she said, “and I’m not a betting type of person.”
I remained quiet for most of the meeting. I preferred to sit in the back of the class and listen. That was the way I had gone through Georgetown undergraduate and then Johns Hopkins.
Agent Cavalierre would have none of it. “Dr. Cross, what do you think about the possibility of our Mastermind hitting again?” she asked shortly after Dr. Rodman finished speaking. “Care to make your bet?”
I rubbed my lower face and I remembered that I’d had the same tic in grad school.
I sat up in my seat.
“I’m not a betting person, either. I think the list of potential targets is thorough. I agree with most of what’s been said. One person is running this thing. Different crews were recruited for very specific tasks.”
I frowned slightly at Betsey, then I went on. “I think the first robbery-murders were supposed to terrify everybody. They did. But in the MetroHartford job, the crew was supposed to operate quickly and efficiently, without bloodshed. I didn’t see evidence of venom or hatred in the MetroHartford kidnapping. Not from what the hostages told us. That’s inconsistent with the earlier bank robberies. The fact that no one was killed makes me believe . . . that it’s all over. It’s done.”
“Thirty million and out?” Betsey Cavalierre asked. “That’s it?”
I nodded. “I think the Mastermind’s game now is — catch me if you can. And by the way — you can’t.”
Chapter 75
BETSEY CAVALIERRE came up to me after the briefing ended. “Not to be a total suck-up, but I agree with you,” she said. “I think he might be playing with us. He may have even set up Mitchell Brand.”
“I think it’s possible,” I said. “Strange and insane as it seems on the face of it. He has a huge ego, he’s competing, and that’s the best thing we have going for us right now. It’s the only small edge that we have.”
“We’re going to break for the night. Have a drink with me downstairs, Alex. I want to talk to you. I promise not to babble about the Mastermind.”
I winced. “Betsey, I have to get home tonight. My little girl came back from the hospital yesterday,” I told her. “Sorry. I can’t believe this has happened twice. I’m not trying to avoid you.”
She smiled kindly. “I understand, and it’s no big deal. I just have this sixth sense that you need somebody to talk to. Go home. I’ve got plenty to do here. One more thing. A team of us is heading to Hartford tomorrow. We’re going to interview employees and former employees at MetroHartford. You should be part of the group. It’s important, Alex. We leave from Bolling field at around eight.”
“I’ll be there at Bolling. Somehow, we’ll get the Mastermind. If he did set up Mitchell Brand, it’s his first mistake. It means he’s taking chances he doesn’t have to take.”
I went home and had a fabulous dinner with Nana and the kids, the best in all of Washington that night. Nana had cooked a turkey, which she does once every couple of months. She says that the white meat of a turkey, properly prepared, is too good to have only twice a year, at Christmas and Thanksgiving.
“You see this, Alex?” she asked, and handed me an article she’d clipped from the Washington Post. It was a listing compiled by the Children’s Rights Council on the best, and worst, places to raise a child. Washington, D.C., was dead last.
“I did see it,” I told her. I couldn’t resist a little dig. “Now you see why I work late so many nights. I’m trying to help clean up a big mess here in our capital city.”
Nana looked me in the eye. “You’re losing, big guy,” she said.
Irony of ironies, it was the night we always reserved for our weekly boxing lesson. Jannie insisted that I go downstairs with Damon and that she be allowed to watch. Damon had a line ready for the occasion. “You just want to see if I get sent to the hospital, too.”
Jannie retorted, “Lame. Besides, Dr. Petito said the boxing lessons, and your ‘phantom punch,’ had nothing to do with my tumor. Don’t kid yourself, Damo, you are no Muhammad Ali.”
So we went down to the cellar and we concentrated on footwork — the basics. I even showed the kids how Ali had dazzled Sonny Liston in the first two fights in Miami and Lewiston, Maine, and then done the same to Floyd Patterson after Patterson had taunted him for months before the fight.
“Is this a boxing lesson or about ancient history?” Damon finally asked, his voice a mild complaint.
“Two for the price of one!” Jannie shouted with glee. “Can’t beat that. Boxing and history. Works for me.” She was back in all her glory.
After the kids went up to bed, I called Christine and got her answering machine again. She wouldn’t pick up. I felt as if a knife had been slid between my ribs. I knew I had to move on with my life, but I kept hoping I could get Christine to change her mind. Not if she wouldn’t talk to me. Or even let me talk to little Alex. I was missing him badly.
I wound up playing the piano again, and I was reminded that jelly is a food that usually winds up on white bread, children’s faces, and piano keys.