I stopped at St. Anthony's Hospital again before I went to work. Jannie was up and we had breakfast together. She told me that I was the best dad in the world and I said she was the best daughter. Then I told her about the tumor and that she needed to have surgery. My little girl cried in my arms.

Nana arrived, and Jannie was taken away for more tests. There was nothing I could do at the hospital for several hours. I went off to meet with the FBI again. The job was always there. Christine had told me, Your work is chasing insane, pathetic maniacs. There didn't seem to be any end in sight.

Special Agent in Charge Cavalierre arrived precisely at eleven for her briefing of the team at the Bureau's field office on Fourth Street in Northwest. It looked to me as if half the Bureau were there, and it was an impressive sight, somewhat reassuring.

I was reminded that the bank-robbing crew demanded exactness. Maybe that was the reason why Kyle Craig felt Agent Cavalierre was right for this case. He'd told me that she was exacting and precise, one of the most professional agents he'd seen in his years at the Bureau. My thoughts kept going back to the high-profile bank jobs and the murders. Why did they want publicity, even infamy? Were the robbers preconditioning other bank employees and corporations for future robberies? Scaring the shit out of everyone so there would be no resistance? Or did the murders have to do with revenge? It made sense that one or more of the killers might have worked at a bank. We were chasing that lead with everything we had.

I peered around the over-crowded crisis room inside the FBI field office. Several partitions on one wall had been allotted to write-ups and photos of suspects and witnesses. Unfortunately, none of the suspects were particularly hot. Not even lukewarm. The partitions were titled, Tat Man," "Husband's Girlfriend," "Mustache."

Why didn't we have a single good suspect? What should that be telling us? What were we all missing?

"Hi and good morning. I want to thank everyone in advance for giving up your weekend," Agent Cavalierre said with just the right amount of irony and humor. She was wearing khakis and a light purple T-shirt. There was a tiny purple barrette in her hair. She looked confident and surprisingly relaxed.

"If you don't come in on Saturday," an agent with a droopy mustache spoke up from the back of the room," don't bother to come in on Sunday."

"You ever notice how the wise asses always sit in the back," Cavalierre cracked, and then smiled convincingly. She was as cool as they come.

She held up a thick blue folder," Everybody has a big bad file like this one, containing past cases that might relate. The Joseph Dougherty robberies through the Midwest in the eighties were similar in some ways. There's also material on David Grandstaff, who masterminded the largest single bank robbery in American history. Of some interest, Grandstaff was caught by the Bureau. However, in our zealous efforts to take him down, questionable tactics were used. After a six-week trial, a jury deliberated for all of ten minutes, then let Grandstaff off. To this day, the three million from the Tucson First National Bank job hasn't been recovered."

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 DC police. He's Homicide, with a PhD 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 DC. That's as close as we have come 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 Enrol 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."

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 his 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

f, 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.