Hypocrisy (11 page)

Cardone unlocked the door. “I don’t think you detectives need my assistance. Take as long as you like, but please turn the deadbolt clockwise when you leave to be sure the door locks. Good luck.”

The detectives slipped on latex gloves.

Dupree turned the doorknob and pushed open the steel door. T.J. and she stopped cold before stepping over the threshold.

“Looks like someone beat us to the punch,” Dupree said. “This place looks like a tornado blew through it.”

Dupree speed-dialed Butler’s phone number. He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, John. It’s Amaris.”

“What’s up?”

“I need a CSI team dispatched to 1550 Plaza Street West ASAP. It’s in the Park Slope area. T.J. and I just gained entry to Dr. Crawford’s apartment and somebody turned the place upside down. Call me when you get here and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can. I know I don’t have to remind you, but please don’t touch—”

“Save your speech for the rookies.”

When Dupree hung up and turned around, T.J. was still standing in the doorway perusing the main living area.

“Well, it seems that whoever murdered Dr. Crawford,” Dupree said, “wasn’t satisfied with her computer and external drive. Or they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

“Should we go in and poke around before the crew gets here?” T.J. asked.

“Of course.”

Dupree and T.J. gingerly navigated their way into the apartment, finding it difficult to weave through the rubble without disturbing anything. The sofa was turned upside down and the fabric on the underside of the sofa was torn open. Like fallen soldiers, several lamps lay on the floor. A desk was turned on its side, the drawers pulled out, lying on the floor with the contents scattered about. A flat screen TV
lay on the floor, its screen shattered. They wandered into bedrooms, bathrooms and looked in closets. But nothing struck either of them.

“Wow,” Dupree said. “It almost looks like whoever did this was more than looking for something.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think that a thief would take her jewelry? There’s a pile of it lying on the bedroom floor and a few pieces look expensive.” Dupree, moving towards the kitchen, pointed. “Look at that Nikon camera sitting on the kitchen table. Why would a thief leave that behind?”

Dupree walked over to the refrigerator and studied the front of the door. It was covered with everything from photos, to little pieces of paper with phone numbers, to magnets from the local pizza joint, insurance agent, and a real estate broker. There was also an assortment of sticky notes attached to the side of the refrigerator. Dupree studied each and every one of them. About to walk away, a light blue sticky note caught her eye.

“Check this out.”

T.J. made his way to the kitchen.

“Remember what Lentz told us about Dr. Crawford believing that someone in a white Ford was following her?”

“What about it?”

Dupree pointed to the blue sticky note “White Ford Fusion. JAF-9401.”

CHAPTER TEN

Dupree was amazed that she could get a cell phone signal while T.J. and she rode the elevator down to the lobby of Dr. Crawford’s building. She called Brenda—her go-to-gal—and asked her to run the plate number for the Ford Fusion. When the elevator doors opened, David Cardone, the superintendent, was standing near the entrance speaking to the doorman. As soon as Cardone noticed the detectives, he abruptly ended his conversation and walked over to them.

“Well, detectives, did you find anything unusual in Dr. Crawford’s residence?”

“Other than the fact that it looks like Godzilla and King Kong had a little party up there,” T.J. said, “everything looks fine.”

T.J. explained to Cardone what they’d found.

“I don’t understand,” Cardone said. “No one has been in there since Dr. Crawford’s murder.”

“I’m going to disagree with you on that one,” Dupree said. “The place is completely trashed.”

“I don’t know how this happened,” Cardone said. “If it’s as bad as you say, whoever broke in must have made a racket.”

“Based on the condition of the place,” Dupree said, “I’d say that your assumption is correct.”

“But this doesn’t make any sense,” Cardone said. “First of all, nobody gets into any residence without a key. Our deadbolts are nearly impossible to jimmy. And second, Dr. Crawford’s
neighbors, two senior citizens who have zero tolerance for noise, complain about
everything
. I don’t know how Dr. Crawford’s apartment could have been ransacked without her neighbors hearing anything.”

“I guess we’ll have to speak to the neighbors and see what they have to say.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Detective Dupree. You see, the Johnsons left early this morning for a European vacation and won’t return for five weeks.”

“Terrific,” Dupree said.

Just then, the doorman opened the front door for John Butler and two other CSI agents.

“Nice to see you could make it,” Dupree said. She turned toward Cardone. “This is John Butler, one of our forensic experts. He and his team are going to need access to Dr. Crawford’s apartment so they can dust for fingerprints and search for anything unusual.”

“You can take it from here, John,” Dupree said. “T.J. and I have bigger fish to fry.”

“Must be time for your midday snack,” Butler said. “You two have the good life.”

“That we do,” T.J. said. He turned towards Dupree. “What’s your pleasure, partner? Sushi? Italian? Thai?”

“Let’s try that new seafood restaurant in the Village.”

“Perfect!”

Just as Dupree and T.J. were about to leave, Dupree remembered something. “Mr. Cardone, I noticed surveillance cameras in the hallway not far from Dr. Crawford’s residence. Can we get a copy of the videotapes for the last forty-eight hours?”

“That’ll take a little maneuvering, but sure. I’ll get them ASAP.”

“If John Butler’s still here,” Dupree said, “just give them to him. If he’s not, you still have my phone number, correct?”

“Sure do, Detective. As soon as I give your colleagues access to Dr. Crawford’s apartment, I’ll contact the security company and see how quickly I can get you the videotapes.”

“Tell them it’s a police matter and it’s urgent,” T.J. said.

Dupree and T.J. headed for the front entrance and the doorman promptly opened the door. Dupree looked at Butler. “Call me if you stumble on anything worthwhile, John.”

He saluted her like a boot camp recruit. “Roger that, Sir.”

“Butler’s a real ball buster, isn’t he?” T.J. said.

“Yeah, but you gotta love the guy,” Dupree answered. “He knows his job inside and out.”

Dupree and T.J. waited in the idling car with the air conditioner on full blast. Knowing that Brenda would be calling any minute with info on the Ford Fusion plate number, Dupree thought it best that they just sit tight.

“Feels like it’s flirting with triple digits today,” T.J. said.

“One-oh-two to be exact. The humidity isn’t making it any better.”

“Do you have plans for the holiday?” T.J. asked.

At first, Dupree didn’t answer. She just studied her fingernails. “Every year on July 4
^th
, I participate in the Making Strides for Breast Cancer five-mile walk in Central Park—in memory of my mother.”

“I thought all the Making Strides events across the country were coordinated for May or September,” T.J. said. “Why the hell would they schedule the walk in the middle of summer?”

“I think it’s because Rita Sinclair, founder of the Sinclair Memorial Hospital, which specializes in treating breast cancer, opened the facility on July 4
^th
. I guess it’s in commemoration of her. Besides, it kicks off at six a.m., long before the crushing
heat sets in. It’s more of a casual walk than a marathon. And there are a dozen booths set up along the way providing water, Gatorade, and dampened washcloths. Far as I know, no one’s ever died from the walk, so unless someone has a heat stroke, the local American Cancer Society will continue organizing the event for July 4
^th
.”

“I’m impressed, Amaris. Quite the noble gesture on your part.”

“It’s not really that noble.” She chewed on her lip. “It’s the one day a year I get the double whammy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I told you my mother died of breast cancer. But what I didn’t tell you is that my daughter was born on the 4
^th
of July eighteen years ago. The 4
^th
has never been a good day for me. Obviously. In fact, after I complete the walk, I usually stay home by myself and spend the day crying, drinking, and feeling sorry for myself, asking the same haunting question: Why did I give up my baby? I keep praying that by some miracle, she’ll find me or I’ll find her. But for all I know, she may not even know I exist.”

“I’m so sorry, Amaris. I wish there was something I could do.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes. Something struck Dupree that had never crossed her mind before. What if—she could barely reflect on the thought—her daughter wasn’t even alive? A chill shivered through her body as if her blood had turned to ice. She couldn’t even imagine such a devastating possibility. Still, she couldn’t dismiss it.

“How about you?” Dupree asked. “Big plans for the 4
^th
?”

“Nothing special. Just driving to Jersey for a barbeque. My parents have a little bash every 4
^th
of July.”

“Sounds great.” Dupree wished that she had a family to bond with on the holidays.

“Here’s a thought,” T.J. said. “Why don’t you drive to Jersey with me and join the party? I’d love for you to meet my family. I’m
not leaving until noon so it would give you plenty of time to finish the Making Strides walk and freshen up. How about it?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Would you really rather be alone?”

“Actually, I would.” She thought about that for a minute, tempted to accept his offer, but was afraid at some point she’d completely breakdown and didn’t want to subject anyone to her private pity party.

“Okay, partner, I won’t push it. But if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

Just then, her phone sang, “Set Fire to the Rain,” by Adele.

“Hi, Brenda. What’s cooking?”

“I ran the plate number through DMV and the registered owner is Ivan Tesler. His last known address is—”

“Hang on Brenda, let me get something to write on.” Dupree pointed to the glove box. “There’s a pad and pen in there,” she said to T.J. “Hand them to me, please.”

“Okay, Brenda, shoot.”

“The DMV records show him at 751 Cedar Street, Unit 3, in Yonkers. I also checked with the Tax Assessor’s office and he doesn’t have an account with them so he’s probably a renter.”

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Hey, Girlfriend, that’s what I do. You didn’t ask for this, but I ran his name through the New York and FBI criminal records database, and also through the AFIS archives. He’s been a busy boy. Been arrested and charged with assault, breaking and entering, auto theft, resisting arrest, and petty larceny. But get this: he’s
never
been convicted.”

“Must have a hell of an attorney.”

“Or he’s connected to somebody powerful.”

“I appreciate your help, Brenda. Have a nice 4
^th
.” For the first time since beginning the investigation, Dupree felt as if she’d
uncovered a significant lead. But she tried to harness her enthusiasm. How many times in the past had a supposed good lead taken her to a dead end street?

From her past experiences, Dupree estimated that the ride from Park Slope to Yonkers could take as long as two hours.

“Ready for a long trek?” Dupree said to T.J. who had already reclined his seatback.

“Not really, but do I have a choice?”

“Sure. You can catch a cab. Or better yet, thumb a ride.”

“Funny girl. Have you ever thought about being a stand-up comedian?”