Roses Are Red

It was Szabo.

"You're the Mastermind," I gasped. "It is you."

"I didn't do anything," he snarled back. He started to struggle again. He cursed loudly. "You broke into my house. You fool! You're all goddamn fools. Listen to me, asshole. Listen! You got the wrong man!"

Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

It was a madhouse and that certainly seemed appropriate for the dramatic capture. A team of FBI technicians arrived at Frederic Szabo's apartment in less than an hour. I recognized two of them, Greg Wojcik and Jack Heeney, from past jobs. They were the FBI's best, and they began to expertly take the place apart.

I stayed on and watched the painstaking search. The techies were looking for false walls, loose floorboards, anywhere Szabo might have concealed evidence, or possibly hidden fifteen million dollars.

Betsey Cavalierre got to the apartment just after the technical crew. I was glad to see her. She and I tried to question Frederic Szabo. He wouldn't talk to us. Not a word. He seemed crazier than ever; manic one moment, then quiet and unresponsive the next. He did what he was known for at Hazelwood he spit at me several times. Szabo spit until his mouth was dry. Then he wrapped his arms around himself, and was silent.

Szabo shut his eyes tight. He wouldn't look at either of us, wouldn't respond in any way. Finally, he was taken away in a straitjacket.

"Where's the money? "Betsey asked as we watched Szabo leaving the building.

"He's the only one who knows and he sure as hell isn't talking. I have never, ever felt more out of it on a case."

The next day was a rainy, miserable, godawful Friday. Betsey and I went to the Metropolitan Detention Center where Frederic Szabo was being held.

The press was gathered in large numbers everywhere outside the building. Neither of us said a word as we passed through them. We hid under and behind a big black umbrella and the streaking rain as we hurried inside.

"Pitiful, goddamn vultures," Betsey whispered to me," Three things are certain in this life: Death, taxes, and that the press will get it wrong. They will, you know."

"Once somebody writes it wrong, it stays wrong," I said.

We met with Szabo in a small, anonymous-looking room attached to the cellblock. He was no longer confined in a straitjacket, but he looked out of it. His court-appointed lawyer was present. Her name was Lynda Cole, and she didn't seem to like Szabo much more than we did.

I was surprised that Szabo hadn't gone after a bigger-name attorney, but just about everything he did surprised me. He didn't think like other people. That was his strength, wasn't it? It was what he loved about himself, and maybe it was what had brought him down.

Once again, Szabo wouldn't look at us for several minutes. Betsey and I tried a steady battery of questions, but he was completely, stubbornly unresponsive. His dosage of haldol had been increased, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his listlessness. Somehow I doubted it. I felt he might be play-acting again.

"This is hopeless, "Betsey finally said after we'd been there for over an hour. She was right. It was futile to spend anymore time with Szabo that day.

She and I got up to leave, and so did Lynda Cole, who was small like Betsey, and very attractive. She hadn't said more than a dozen words during the hour. There wasn't any need for her to talk if her client didn't. Szabo suddenly looked up from a spot on the table. He'd been staring at it for at least twenty minutes.

He looked straight at me and he finally spoke. "You got the wrong man."

Then Frederic Szabo gri

Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen

Betsey Cavalierre and I returned to Hazelwood and the mountains of grunt work that still had to be done there. Sampson met us. By ten-thirty that night, we'd gone through everything we could find at the hospital. We had managed to identify nineteen staff members who'd spent time with Szabo. The short list included six therapists who'd seen him.

Betsey and I tacked the pictures up on one wall. Then I walked back and forth staring at them, hoping for a blinding insight. Where the hell was the money? How had Szabo actually controlled the robbery-murders?

I sat down again. Betsey was sipping her sixth or seventh Diet Coke. I'd matched her coffee for Coke. Intermittently, we had revisited the mystery of James Walsh's supposed suicide and the sudden disappearance of Michael Doud. Szabo had refused to answer any questions about the two agents. Why would he murder the two of them? What was his real plan? Goddamn him!

"Could Szabo really be behind all this, Alex? Is he that clever? That goddamn evil? That nuts?"

I pushed myself up from the desk I was working at. "I don't know anymore. It's late again. I'm fried, Betsey. I'm out of here. Tomorrow's another day."

The overhead lights were blinding and hurtful. Betsey's eyes were red-rimmed and vacant as they stared up at me. I wanted to hug her some but half a dozen agents were still working in the office. I ached to hold her in my arms, to talk to her about anything but the case.

"Goodnight," I finally said. "Get some sleep."

"Night, Alex." ," miss you, she mouthed.

"Be careful,” I said. "Be careful going home."

"I always am. You be careful."

I got home somehow and climbed upstairs to bed. I'd been working too hard for too long. Maybe I did need to quit the job. I hit the pillow hard. At about twenty past two I woke up. I'd been having a conversation with Frederic Szabo in my sleep. Then I talked to someone else from the investigation. Oh brother.

It was a bad, bad time to be awake. I usually don't remember my dreams, which probably means I'm repressing them but I woke with a clear and very disturbing image of the last couple of minutes.

The bank robber Tony Brophy had been describing his meeting with the Mastermind; how he'd been sitting behind bright lights and could only see a silhouette of the man. The silhouette he described didn't match the shape of Frederic Szabo's head. Not even close. He had talked about a big hooked nose and large ears. He'd mentioned the ears a couple of times. Big ears, like a car with both doors open. Szabo actually had small ears and a regular nose.

But there was someone else who came to mind! Jesus! I rolled over out of bed. I stared out my window until my mind was clearer and more focused. Then I called Betsey.

She picked up after the second ring. Her voice was a soft, muffled moan.