Roses Are Red - James Patterson [24]
There was a hand wave and a question from the front of the room. “Where is Mr. Grandstaff now?”
“Oh, he’s gone underground,” said Agent Cavalierre. “About six feet. He isn’t involved in these robberies, Agent Doud. But he may have helped inspire them. The same goes for Joseph Dougherty. Whoever did these jobs might be aware of their handiwork. As I’ve heard them say in the movies, ‘He’s a student of the game.’”
About half an hour into the meeting, Agent Cavalierre introduced me to the other agents.
“Some of you already know Alex Cross from the D.C. police. He’s Homicide, with a Ph.D. in psychology. Dr. Cross is a forensic psychologist. He is a very good friend of Kyle Craig, by the way. The two of them are tight. So whatever you might think of the Metro police, or ADIC Craig, you’d better keep it to yourself.”
She looked over at me. “Actually, Dr. Cross discovered the bodies of Brianne and Errol Parker in D.C. That’s as close as we have to a break in the case. Notice how I’m careful to kiss Dr. Cross’s butt.”
I stood up and looked around the conference room as I spoke to the agents. “Well, I’m afraid the Parkers have gone underground, too,” I said, and got a few laughs. “Brianne and Errol were small-timers, but had served time for bank jobs. We’re checking on anyone they knew at Lorton Prison. So far, nothing has come of it. Nothing much has come of anything we’ve done, and that’s disturbing.
“The Parkers were competent thieves, but not as organized as whoever brought them in — and then decided to kill them. The Parkers were poisoned, by the way. I think the killer watched them die, and the deaths were gruesome. The killer may have had sex with Brianne Parker after she was dead. This is just a guess right now, but I don’t think this mess is just about bank robberies.”
Chapter 34
THE MASTERMIND COULDN’T SLEEP! Too many unwelcome thoughts were buzzing around like a swarm of angry wasps invading his already overwrought brain. He had been severely victimized, driven to this intolerable state. He needed revenge. He’d dedicated his life to it — every waking moment of the past four years.
The Mastermind finally rose up from bed. He sat slumped over his desk, waiting for the waves of nausea to pass, waiting for his goddamn hands to stop trembling. This is my pitiful life, he thought. I despise it. I despise everything about it, every breath I take.
Finally, he began to write the hate mail that had been on his mind as he lay in bed.
Attention of the Chairman, Citibank
This is a wake-up call, and it’s serious. The consequences to Citibank are dire.
You think that you’re safe from the little people, but you’re not safe.
My hand is shaking as I write this. My whole body trembles with outrage.
My banker is asleep at the switch. For a “personal banker” she is about as impersonal as one of the gray partitions in her cubicle office. I had always thought bankers were smart, and buttoned-up. How is it possible, then, that on numerous occasions I have had annoying, insane, egregious errors made on my account?
I requested a simple transfer of money between Funds: IMMA to checking. It didn’t get done in a timely manner.
When I recently moved, my change of address was not handled properly. Three months have passed, and I still haven’t received any of my statements. It turns out the address was never changed and my statements are going to the wrong address.
After all of these insults, after all of these mistakes by your busy-doing-nothing employees, your bank has the nerve, the gall, to deny me a personal loan. The most intolerable part is to have to sit there and listen to little Miss Princeton Priss turning me down with insincerity and condescension dripping in her voice.
I judge service organizations on a ten scale. I expect 9.9999 out of 10. Your bank