Hypocrisy (14 page)

Dupree had witnessed T.J.’s interrogation tactics many times. It amazed her how he could turn a hard-ass suspect into a sniveling crybaby.

“Okay, Mr. Bad Ass, here’s the question: Who hired you to tail Dr. Lauren Crawford?”

Tesler’s body froze; his eyes were wide and he was blinking furiously. Dupree watched him closely and could see his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he forced one swallow after another.

“Um… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard of no Dr. Crawford.”

Tesler was noticeably anxious, frightened actually. Dupree wasn’t sure if he was rattled because of the legal consequence or something more sinister.

“Well, partner,” T.J. said to Dupree, “I think we’re done for the day.”

“What about me?” Tesler asked. “Are you releasing me?”

T.J. laughed out loud. “Oh, we’re going to release you all right.” He looked at the wall clock. “In about sixty-eight hours when you’ve had some time to ponder your pathetic future, we’re going to release you to an IRS special agent. And when they’re finished with you, they’ll toss you to the New York State Department of Taxation.”

T.J. stood, slammed his palms on the table, his face inches away from Tesler’s. “When the tax folks are finished reaming your ass, believe me, you’ll never be constipated again. Say goodbye to your apartment, furniture, whatever money you’ve got socked away, and that nice shiny car. But here’s the best part. After they’re done with you, we get to charge you as an accessory to murder.”

Tesler popped up like a jack-in-the-box, almost stumbling backwards. “Accessory to
murder
? What the
fuck
are you talking about?”

“We know that you were tailing Dr. Crawford,” Dupree said. “And reporting back to the killer. That connects you to the crime as an accessory.”

T.J. eyed Dupree. “What do you think? Ten, fifteen years?”

“Actually, considering the stature of Dr. Crawford and the incredible loss to the scientific and medical community, I think the D.A. will go for twenty-five to life.”

“We’ll send in an officer and he’ll show you to your new quarters. See you in a couple days.”

As soon as they stepped into the hall, Dupree softly clapped her hands. “Bravo, partner. I think you just earned a nomination for an Academy Award.”

“Don’t nominate me yet. Not until we get a name out of Mr. Bad Ass.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

As if God Himself had waved His hand and ended the oppressive heat wave, the morning of the Making Strides for Breast Cancer walk was nearly perfect. The temperature hovered at seventy degrees, the humidity surrendered to dry, refreshing air, a light breeze blew out of the northeast, and the sky was blue and cloudless. The relief from the gripping heat could change in a heartbeat, but Dupree hoped it would remain comfortable at least until she crossed the finish line.

The crowd, spirited and energized, appeared to be the biggest Dupree had ever seen. She stood in front of the portable stage, side by side with other supporters, and watched cancer survivors one by one hold a microphone, take center stage, and tell a brief story about their journey from cancer to remission. As each survivor ended her speech, the roar of the crowd and robust applause was nearly deafening. The height of the frenzy came when a man stood on stage and reminded everyone that breast cancer did not play favorites. When he announced that he’d been cancer free for nine years, the crowd howled with cheers.

Dupree struggled through the walk with greater difficulty than years past, but made it to the finish line. When she got back to her apartment, she drank a quart of Gatorade, picked up her two cats, set them on her bed, and curled up next to them.

She couldn’t stop thinking about T.J.’s story, unable to imagine what it must have been like for him to discover that someone
had raped and strangled his wife. And even worse, to learn that it wasn’t just one assailant. What horrific images did T.J. have to deal with every day of his life? How did he find the strength to move on after experiencing something so unimaginable?

Although nowhere near as traumatic as T.J.’s ordeal, Dupree knew all too well what it felt like to be wounded by the loss of a loved one, to lie in bed every night wishing that she could go back in time and make peace with her mother long before cancer had swept her away. And of course, not a day went by that Dupree didn’t think about her daughter, how foolish she had been to give her up, not knowing anything about her, what she looked like, or if she was healthy and happy.

Today, yet another painful 4
^th
of July, it took Dupree ten minutes to cry herself to sleep.

In the middle of the night, just about three a.m., Dupree, parched and dehydrated, made her way to the kitchen for some water. She filled the tall glass from the plastic jug in the fridge, and nearly guzzled the glass empty. As she poured another glass, Ben wandered out of the bedroom. Attracted to any unfamiliar object, he went into the foyer, and sniffed something sitting on the carpeting, just inside the door. From where she stood, it looked like a letter-size envelope, one of those cardboard envelopes with a little tab at the top to zip it open.

Dupree walked over, picked it up, and carefully examined the front of the envelope. It had been delivered to her through a company called Express Delivery Service. It was addressed to: Detective Amaris Dupree. Across the bottom of the envelope in big, bold letters it said: URGENT MATERIAL ENCLOSED.

Obviously, the courier had delivered it to the front desk in the lobby and when one of the staff members saw that it appeared
to be urgent, instead of calling her in the middle of the night, someone had slipped it under her door. About to zip it open, she noticed the sender’s name in the upper left hand corner.

She froze.

Shocked, alarmed, and utterly perplexed, Dupree gawked at the name with teary eyes. Her hands were trembling so severely, she almost lost her grip on the envelope.

The sender’s name was Mary Dupree, her dead mother.

Disoriented and overwhelmed with alarm, she wrapped a robe around her shivering body, put on a pair of slippers, and took the elevator to the lobby, envelope in hand. Mirrors were mounted on the back wall of the elevators, and when Dupree saw her reflection, she did her best to tame her wild hair, but it proved hopeless.

Charlie was working the overnight shift, sitting behind the front desk reading a
Sports Illustrated
magazine—swimsuit edition. She immediately caught his eye.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Dupree?” he said as he dropped the magazine and stood up.

She pointed to the envelope. “Know anything about this, Charlie? Someone stuffed it under my door.”

He ran his finger down the front page of the log book they used to track all visitors and deliveries. “Well, it was delivered a little before eleven p.m., which is very unusual. Most couriers stop their deliveries at nine p.m. This envelope was delivered just before I started my shift. I hope it was okay for us to put it under your door. Someone from the earlier shift must have done it. I’d be happy to do a little checking and let you know for sure.

“That’s not necessary, Charlie. Thank you. Did the delivery guy sign the log book?”

“Sure did.”

“Can I have his name, please?”

Charlie studied the log as if he were examining Dead Sea scrolls. “It’s hard to read but it looks like Juan Vargas.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

Once back in her apartment, Dupree fell into her leather recliner holding the mysterious envelope in her hand. She wanted to open it, but didn’t have the courage. What if it was a toxic poison? After much thought, she felt her paranoia was a little over the top and decided to open it. If it was a harmful substance, it wasn’t going to leap out of the envelope like a poisonous snake.

She slipped on a pair of Playtex gloves, and slowly zipped open the envelope. Very carefully, she looked inside and found a plain white envelope. She held it up to the light and could see something inside, which appeared to be a three-by-five piece of paper or index card. She shook the envelope and could not see any foreign substance inside.

Dupree tore the end of the envelope, careful not to disturb or damage its contents, reached in, and pulled out a piece of paper folded in half. She could see something written on the paper. She held it in her hand for several minutes, feeling silly that a little piece of paper could make her so anxious. Then, she opened the note and gasped.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After a horribly restless night, and a pounding headache this morning, Dupree couldn’t take her mind off of the unexplained envelope. Either someone from her past—a criminal she had put behind bars—or someone associated with the Crawford murder was trying to intimidate and distract her. She didn’t want to admit it, but whoever sent the letter had accomplished their goal. She’d placed the envelope and note inside a plastic bag and set it on her nightstand. She glanced at the note and couldn’t help reading it one more time.

Ever eat cat stew
?

The mere thought of it both frightened and infuriated her. And of course, seeing Mary Dupree as the sender spooked her almost as much as the note inside the envelope.

Her cop instincts made her feel strongly that the envelope had something to do with the Crawford investigation. It now seemed obvious that the momentum of the investigation was leading T.J. and her closer to the killer.

Time for her to get her act in gear. She took a ten-minute shower, dressed, fussed with her hair the best she could, kissed both of her kitties on the head, and headed out the door with the plastic bag and its contents.

In desperate need of high-test coffee, Dupree decided to swing by Starbucks on her way to the precinct; caffeine always worked better than pain killers. In Manhattan, there were three
possible choices for parking a car: finding a free spot on the street, which was as rare as a royal flush, stuffing quarters into a metered street spot, or using a private parking lot that charged a minimum of ten bucks and hour. Dupree was in no mood to cruise up and down the street, so she pulled into a small lot and the attendant was happy to hand her a parking ticket.

As she approached the entrance to Starbucks, only a short walk from where she’d parked, Dupree thought about scrapping the idea altogether and settling for some nasty cop-coffee when she saw ten or more people in line waiting to place an order. Just as she was ready to turn around, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two vaguely familiar faces. Sitting at a table for two, tucked away in the corner, holding hands like two high school sweethearts, she saw Jonathan Lentz and Maggie Hansen. Their body language and facial expressions were clearly those of two people who were more than just friends.

Interesting
.

She thought about confronting them, if for no other reason than to see the looks of horror on their faces and to hear their lame excuses about why they were together. But that would not be wise. What would it accomplish? She decided to contact each of them individually and ask them to come to the precinct to answer a few more questions. That’s when she’d blindside them. The element of surprise always gave cops an edge. At this juncture, Dupree wasn’t quite sure how she’d handle the situation, what questions she’d ask. They hadn’t broken any laws and had the right to be in a relationship. Considering that Lentz lived in Queens and Hansen in Prospect Heights, it seemed odd to Dupree that their rendezvous was in the Village. Under the circumstances, meeting someplace away from their turf made sense.

Dupree did an about face and scurried to her car before Lentz and Hansen had a chance to see her. She grudgingly paid the attendant ten dollars for the five minutes she’d parked there. Ready to
drive off, she thought it might be a good idea to hang around and wait for them to leave. After all, the parking lot still owed her fifty-five minutes. Who knows? Maybe they’d do something to spark her curiosity. Not wanting to leave T.J. wondering why she hadn’t yet made it to the precinct, Dupree called him on his cell.

“Got everything under control there, partner?” Dupree said. She thought about telling him about the letter but decided to wait until they were face to face.

“Did you get caught in traffic or meet an old boyfriend?” T.J. said.

“Neither. I stopped at Starbucks for a latté and stumbled upon something interesting.”

“Do tell.”

She told him about seeing Lentz and Hansen.

“Ain’t that a kick in the pants,” T.J. said.

“I’m going to stick around until they leave. I want to see if they part company with a peck on the cheek or they lock lips. You mind waiting for me?”

“Got plenty to keep me busy,” T.J. said. “I’ll keep Tesler on ice until you get here.”

“Great. Talk to you soon.”

Dupree eased back and rested her head against the headrest. When she felt her eyes drooping, she decided to sit upright to help her stay alert.

After sitting in her car for nearly thirty minutes, getting constant dirty looks from the parking attendant, Dupree spotted Lentz and Hansen strolling out the front door of Starbucks, holding hands. She scooched down in the driver’s seat and watched them walk to the far side of the same lot where she had parked. The lovebirds approached a white car. A giant-size SUV obstructed Dupree’s view, so she could not see what type of vehicle they were driving. She could just barely see the top of Lentz’s head disappear and assumed he’d gotten into the car.