Hypocrisy (27 page)

“Anything jump off the page?” T.J. asked.

Dupree studied the chart. “As if we needed more reason to believe that Hansen was in the thick of things, she’s in some way connected to everyone except Tesler. And Tesler’s only connected to Cassano.”

“I think that in the morning, when we show up unannounced at Horizon and bushwhack Dr. Mason, Michael Adelman, and Dominic Gallo, this whole investigation is going to come together.”

“I agree,” Dupree said. “But if we don’t track down Hansen…”

T.J. nodded. “Yep. We’re kind of screwed.”

Dupree stood up and rocked her head from side to side and she could hear her neck crack.

“A little tension there, Amaris?” T.J. asked “You have no idea.”

“Sit back down. I’ll bet I can help.”

“Sure you can.”

“Seriously, I’ve won awards for my chair massages. I give a one-hundred percent money back guarantee.”

After what Brenda had observed and the face touching incident, Dupree really felt self-conscious. “I’ll take a rain check.”

“Please let me give it a try.”

Reluctantly, she gave in. “Okay, you’ve got five minutes.”

He got to work immediately.

“Your muscles are twisted into knots, so for me to loosen them up, I really have to crank on you. Tell me if this is too much for you to handle.”

He squeezed the top of her shoulders with his fingers and palms. And in a circular motion, he worked his thumbs deep into the taut muscles.

Dupree moaned as his hands worked tirelessly and she could feel the muscles begin to relax. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given her a massage.

“Am I doing okay?” T.J. asked.

“More than okay.”

He continued for another few minutes and Dupree felt so relaxed her head dropped forward and she nearly fell asleep.

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to fall on the floor and break my neck.”

“Feel any better?”

“One thousand percent better. I think you missed your calling.” Dupree stood up and felt a little wobbly.

“You all right?” T.J. asked.

“I’m fine. I just need to get home, take a warm bath, and crash.”

“Sure you’re okay to drive?” T.J. asked, a look of concern in his dark brown eyes. “I’d be happy to drop you off at your place and swing by in the morning.”

“That’s sweet of you. Really. But I can manage.” Dupree suspected that T.J.’s offer represented more than a ride home. He’d never admit it, but he wanted to assume the role as her bodyguard.

“Listen to me, Amaris. I need to be sure that you make it home safely. I know you’re a big girl and you can take care of yourself, but—”

“I’ll be okay. Trust me.”

“What time do you want to meet in the morning?” T.J. asked.

“You okay with eight a.m.?”

“Works for me.”

“We can check with Brenda first thing,” Dupree said, “update the captain on what’s going on, and then head over to Horizon. That should be interesting.”

“And maybe if we’re lucky, somebody will spot Hansen.”

“Let’s hope.”

Dupree turned to leave, but T.J. stopped her.

“No heroics. Call me if you need
anything
.”

“Even if I want a quart of Ben & Jerry’s at three a.m.?”

“Only if you share.”

When Dupree turned the key in the door to her apartment, she felt a dull ache in her stomach.

Cat stew
.

She opened the door slowly, holding her breath, hoping that her little buddies would greet her. True to their nature, Ben and Alex were waiting impatiently, each vehemently protesting her long absence. She’d never been so happy to hear them complain. The chorus of meows wouldn’t stop. Dupree glanced at their food bowls and both were licked clean.

“I’m so sorry, kitties. I guess I haven’t been a good mommy, have I?” Dupree dropped her handbag on the kitchen table, and gave both cats a generous helping of Fancy Feast—their favorite—then gave them fresh water.

“My turn,” she said as she set a wineglass on the counter. She knew better than to drink on an empty stomach, but she wasn’t at all hungry, which was a rare event.

“Red or white?” She preferred red wine, particularly Malbec, but tonight just seemed like a Chardonnay kind of evening. Mentally drained, she poured a generous glass, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed into her favorite La-Z-Boy recliner. She was just about to take a sip of the ice cold wine, when she heard her cell ring.

She struggled to get up, reached for her handbag, and found her phone. She looked at the display and saw that it was T.J.’s number.

“Hey partner,” Dupree said softly. “Are you calling to tell me we collared Hansen?”

“No such luck,” T.J. said. “Just checking in to be sure you made it home.”

“That’s kind of you.” She tasted the wine. “I’m safe and sound.” They’d been partners for over six months and this was the first time T.J. had ever called to check on her. Of course, in the time they’d worked together, this was also the first time she’d gotten threatening letters. “I wonder why Hansen hasn’t come home. Think Ralph tipped her off?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” T.J. said. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Everything’s cool.”

“Great,” T.J. said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening—whatever’s left of it. I’ll see you on the flip side.”

“Get a good night’s sleep,” Dupree warned. “Tomorrow’s going to be a tough day.”

“Sleep well.”

“One more thing,” Dupree said. “I have a hankering for some Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice cream. So don’t be surprised if I call you in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Dupree finished the wine and considered having another, but thought it unwise. She couldn’t afford to be off her mark tomorrow. It was destined to be a monumental day. Confronting Mason, Adelman, and Gallo would pose many challenges. The caliber of men she’d be dealing with wasn’t like interrogating Cassano or Tesler. These men, she suspected, could not easily be intimidated. She had to be certain that all her facts and figures were clear in her mind. In light of everything T.J. and she had documented in the case file so far, Dupree felt certain that both Adelman and Gallo—at the least—had conspired to murder Dr. Crawford. But her gut told her that Mason wasn’t squeaky-clean.

What troubled her most was Hansen. Sure, there was plenty of circumstantial evidence, lots of incriminating facts. An ominous past. But were they compelling enough to convince the DA
to prosecute her for conspiracy to commit murder? And would a murder charge hold up before a grand jury? Until they located Hansen and brought her in for questioning, any conclusions that Dupree might make were purely speculative.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Dupree’s sleepless night had taken its toll. Visions of the two mysterious envelopes she’d received dominated her thoughts. Sending her a note about cat stew was one thing. But attempting to injure or even kill her with a toxic drug was quite another. In all her years in law enforcement, she’d never encountered such a situation and was having a difficult time dealing with it.

When Dupree entered the precinct, she wanted to turn around, go back to her car, recline the driver’s seat, and take a nap. This, of course, was not possible. Still, she thought about it. Walking towards her desk, she spotted Mark Wells, soon-to-be-retired homicide detective, talking to T.J.

“Mornin’,” Dupree said as she set down Brenda’s latté and brownie on her desk. Dupree glanced at the wall clock, and then looked at Wells. “I know why T.J. is here, but what got you out of bed so early this morning? Haven’t seen you here this early in ages.”

“Homicide got me up,” Wells said.

Kiddingly, Dupree said, “Anyone I know?”

Wells looked at T.J. “Should I tell her, or do you want to?”

“It’s your show,” T.J. answered.

“Ever heard of Jonathan Lentz?”

Suddenly, as if a shot of epinephrine was coursing through her veins, Dupree was wide-eyed and alert. “What about him?”

“He’s lying on a stainless steel table at the coroner’s office.”

For an instant, she couldn’t find her voice. “What happened?”

“Well, a housekeeper at Shoreline Hideaways on Long Island was doing her thing in the early afternoon. It’s one of those places where a couple can get away for a few days and screw like bunnies. Anyway, when she entered one of the cabins to clean it, she found Lentz handcuffed to the bed wearing only his underwear. The killer had stuffed a washcloth in his mouth and it was soaked with champagne. Must have been the killer’s innovative way of waterboarding.” Wells paused for a breath. “His head was bashed in with what appears to be the empty champagne bottle. Whoever killed the poor bastard must have whacked him a dozen or more times. It wasn’t pretty.”

“How did you get a positive ID?” Dupree asked.

“We talked to a lady at the check-in office and she gave us his name, address, credit card information, and the year, make, model, and plate number of his car. We found no driver’s license, and his face was so bashed in, it was impossible to get a visual ID from DMV records.”

“Was the car a new pearl white Audi A8?” Dupree asked.

“Affirmative.”

“Is it still on sight or impounded?”

“It’s gone.”

Dupree tried to process this new information. “Did the lady at the check-in get a look at Lentz’s companion?”

“She said Lentz checked in alone.”

“What time?”

“Before ten a.m. And get this. The young girl at check-in did say that she saw the Audi peel out of the driveway at eleven-thirty.”

“Could she give a description of the person driving the car?”

“Better than that. She felt sure she could pick her out of a lineup.”

“Just out of curiosity, why were you called to investigate a murder on Long Island?” Dupree asked.

“Benny Johnson was first on the scene. Worked with him for a lot of years before he transferred to the Island. When they ran Lentz’s name through the system, Benny noticed that we interviewed him in connection with the Crawford investigation, so he gave me a call.”

“Not for nothing,” Dupree said, “but you took it upon
yourself
to respond without contacting T.J. or me?”

“Hey, don’t get all territorial on me. I knew that you two had your hands full with the Crawford case and the mayor is putting lots of pressure on Captain Jensen, so I thought I’d be a nice guy and give you a break. I don’t sleep anymore anyways, so trekking out at six a.m. is no real inconvenience.”

Dupree could relate to not sleeping. “Sorry if I barked at you, Mark—”

“Wait till I tell you the best part,” Wells said. “We lifted a print off the handcuffs.”

“And?”

“Does the name Margaret
Hansen
ring a bell?”

Dupree and T.J. gawked at each other.

“Yeah,” Dupree said. “It rings a lot of bells.” She paused, her mind racing. “Has Lentz’s name been released to the media yet?”

“Not until we notify next of kin.”

“Here’s a bizarre coincidence,” Dupree said. “T.J. and I are meeting with Lentz’s step-father later this morning. Tell Benny Johnson to keep Lentz’s identity under wraps until we’ve had a chance to inform his step-dad. And I don’t want anyone in the media to know that we lifted Hansen’s fingerprint.”

“I’ll handle it,” Wells said.

“Thanks for all the info, Mark,” Dupree said. “T.J. and I have to check in with Brenda.” She winked. “Oh, and one more thing: Sorry I’m such a wench this morning.”

Dupree and T.J. walked down the long hallway to the back office cubicles.

“It seems,” T.J. said, “that little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes has a really dark side. It’s one thing to punch a roommate in the chops because she’s hitting on your boyfriend, and quite another bashing someone’s brains in with a champagne bottle.”

“The question,” Dupree asked, “is why? What’s the motive?”

“Until we track her down, it’s anybody’s guess.”

When they reached Brenda’s cubicle, they found her sitting in front of the computer, arms folded across her chest, chair reclined as far back as it would go, staring at the flat screen.

Dupree held up the latté and brownie. “As promised, here’s your morning treat.”

Brenda beamed with a broad smile. “You’re the best, Missy.”

“Any luck with tracking down that account number?” Dupree asked.

Brenda cocked her head to one side. “Girl, you know better than that.” She set down her brownie, took a sip of the drink, and hit a few keys. She pointed to the screen. “C27-4150-6930 is an off-shore account number at GCI Trust Ltd., which, by the way, is Grand Cayman Island Trust, Limited. It took some doing but after being transferred to six different people, I finally spoke to someone who would help me. The account is in the name of Oscar Cassano. But here’s the kicker: The custodian for the account is none other than Margaret Hansen.”

“How shocking,” Dupree said. “Were you able to find out how much is in the account?”

“Six-hundred-fifty-thousand. USA legal tender.”

“Maybe that’s why we can’t locate her,” T.J. said. “She’s probably drinking a piña colada somewhere in the Caribbean.”

Dupree thought for a minute. “Brenda, is it possible to run a report for the passenger manifest for all the major airlines that fly to the Cayman Islands?”