Hypocrisy (17 page)

“If I tell you what I know, what’s in it for me?”

“As long as you haven’t committed a felony, we can make a deal with the IRS not to press charges for tax evasion and convince the district attorney not to charge you as an accessory to murder.”

Tesler thought about that for a minute. “So if I admit that somebody paid me to tail her, is that a felony?”

“If your only part in this was watching her,” T.J. said, “no, it’s not a felony.”

Tesler combed his fingers through his greasy hair and licked his lips. “If he hears I ratted him out, he’ll slit my fucking throat.” Tesler covered his face with both hands and cleared his throat several times. “His name is Oscar. Never got his last name, but he’s definitely Italian. A real scary type. Strange thing is, he’s got a twisted sense of humor. I mean this guy could crack jokes at a funeral. He used to be a regular at the Night Owl on Walnut Street in Yonkers, a few blocks away from my place. But I haven’t run into him in a while. I heard that he had a run in with the owner and it almost came to blows. Anyway, I’m a pretty fair pool player, but the first time I met Oscar, he mopped up the floor with me. Guy’s the best pool shark I’ve ever seen. Took my rent money and laughed all the way to the bank.

“He’s not the sociable type, mostly keeps to himself. But we kinda hit it off and got to know each other. Whenever I’d run into him, he’d kick my ass at pool, and then we’d share a few beers and shots of Jack. His treat. Booze always loosens up the tongue.” Tesler took a gulp of water. “He told me stories about his prison time, about the number of skulls he cracked open. I think he even scared the shit out of the guards. As it worked out, he ended up in a cage cuz his full-time job was breaking kneecaps for some loan shark and the cops finally nailed him. Been out of jail for a while.”

“Do you have any idea what prison he was in?” T.J. asked.

“Some joint in New York. Don’t know the name.” Tesler paused for a minute as if he’d lost track of where he left off in his story. “Anyway, one day he asks me if I’d like to make a quick buck—said it was the easiest job in the world. Being the kind of guy who doesn’t usually have two nickels to rub together, I was interested. He tells me about some lady he wants me to keep an eye on. I figured it was an old girlfriend and he wanted to find out who her new boyfriend was so he could cut his balls off. I didn’t ask no questions, and he didn’t tell me much about her.”

“What exactly did he want you to do?” Dupree asked.

“Wanted me to watch her every move. Follow her from morning to night and report back to him.”

“Did you have any idea who you were watching?”

“Not until she was killed and I saw her picture on TV.” He paused and shook his head. “Terrible thing. I puked for two days just thinking about it.”

“How did you communicate with Oscar?” T.J. asked.

“Mostly by telephone. One of those prepaid throwaways you buy at Walmart.”

“Do you remember what number you called?” Dupree asked.

“Only the area code: 914.”

“Tell us about the last time you spoke to him,” Dupree said.

“The night before she was killed, Oscar called and asked me to meet him at the Night Owl. By the time I got there, he was pretty shit-faced. He said something major was going down real soon. Said that he hit the big time, that he could afford to rent a nice place in Manhattan. It didn’t mean shit to me. I had no idea what he was talking about. He told me to wait until tomorrow night, park across the street from where she worked, and to call him the minute she left work. When I called him, he said that my work was complete and told me to get rid of the cell as soon as our conversation ended. He also warned me that if for some reason I didn’t dump the phone, or if I told anyone about our little deal, he’d come looking for me with a meat clever.”

“And all this time,” Dupree said, “you had no idea he was up to no good?”

“I knew that whatever he was doing wasn’t on the up and up and guessed somebody was getting their ass kicked, but it never dawned on me that Oscar would…”

“Can you give us a description of him?” Dupree asked.

“He shaves his head and usually wears a baseball cap. He has a ratty goatee and doesn’t trim it very often.” Tesler cracked his knuckles. Beads of perspiration sprouted on his forehead. “He’s a big bastard. Got a body like a professional wrestler. Real hulky.”

Tesler’s description peaked Dupree’s interest. Except for the goatee, which he could have shaved off just before murdering Dr. Crawford, Oscar could very well be the guy in the surveillance tapes.

“Anything unique about the way he looked?” T.J. asked. “Any tattoos, birthmarks, physical deformities, unusual clothing?”

“There’s two things I remember. First, he almost always wore a long leather coat—even when it was hotter than hell.” He pointed to the back of his head. “And the other thing is, Oscar had a weird looking birthmark on the back of his neck. Looked like the number eight.”

Dupree and T.J. exchanged glances.

“Are you sure you can’t remember his last name?” Dupree asked.

“’Fraid not. But maybe you should talk to Jake Sullivan, the Night Owl bartender. He seemed pretty chummy with Oscar.”

“We’ll do that. Do you have any idea where Oscar lives?” T.J. said.

“I told you everything I know. Now when the fuck can I go home and get some decent food?”

“I’ll get you out of here,” T.J. said. “But first we have to process some paperwork.”

“How long’s that gonna take?”

“Not long.”

“Do you want to go keep our other guest company,” T.J. asked Dupree, “or wait until I finish with Mr. Bad Ass?”

Tesler glared at T.J. but didn’t say a word.

“I’ll wait,” Dupree said. “Two heads are better than one.” She grinned. “Even when the second head is yours.”

“Cute. Real cute.”

Feeling zombie-like, her brain on overload, Dupree found her way to her desk. Her head was spinning with facts, statements, suppositions, and details of the interviews she’d had with numerous people over the last week. Complicated murder investigations, of course, were not uncommon, but there seemed to be so many angles to this one. It felt like a five-hundred piece puzzle. Except for Mrs. Crawford, everyone T.J. and she had spoken to was a suspect or accomplice at some level. Although on the surface, Dr. Mason appeared to be legitimate, Dupree’s cop-instincts—generally reliable—whispered in her ear that he might somehow be connected to the murder. Then there was Hyland Laboratories’
attempt to hire Maggie Hansen. The timing seemed rather convenient. Not to mention the fact that Hyland, manufacturer of the most widely prescribed chemotherapy drug in the world, had a great deal to lose if Dr. Crawford’s theories proved valid. And there were many other pharmaceutical companies that could also lose a significant amount of money as well. What drastic steps might they take to secure their bottom line? How far would they go? Dupree also could not overlook the bad blood between Dr. Crawford and Maggie Hansen, the affair Hansen had had with Jonathan Lentz, and Dr. Crawford firing Hansen. Dupree, of course, could not dismiss Lentz and Hansen’s rendezvous at Starbucks, or his sudden windfall to afford an expensive car. Every fact surrounding this odd couple seemed suspicious. Tesler claimed that Oscar had paid him to tail Dr. Crawford, but maybe Tesler’s role was more significant. Considering Tesler’s testimony, the images on the surveillance cameras showing a bald guy fitting Oscar’s description, and the odd figure eight birthmark, Oscar, no doubt, was the shooter. But not for one minute did Dupree believe that Dr. Crawford’s murder was a one-man operation. Lots of questions, but few answers.

Dupree could see T.J. still processing Tesler’s release, so she took advantage of the break in the action and went to see Brenda. As always, Brenda’s fingers were dancing on her keyboard, apparently unaware that Dupree was standing right next to her. Funny thing about Brenda, Dupree thought, one might guess that she was pissed off at the world by the way she beat on the keyboard. But Dupree knew better. Brenda had helped her numerous times and never once gave her a hard time. She was an integral part of the department.

Without pausing or even looking at Dupree, Brenda said, “Good afternoon, Detective. What can I do to make your day a little brighter?”

“Got a couple of hours to talk?”

Brenda gave her a consoling smile. “That bad, huh?”

“Not really. I’m just a little weatherworn. Once this investigation is over, I’m taking a vacation and going someplace nice.”

“Well, you sure deserve it,” Brenda said, swiveling her chair around. “How you put up with your male counterparts every day without slapping one of them upside the head is beyond me. What a collection of crybabies.”

“Men will be boys,” Dupree said. “I guess I stopped paying attention to their childish behavior a long time ago.”

“All I can say is that you’re a better person than me.”

Dupree let out a hearty laugh. “Not so sure about that.”

“Well,” Brenda said, “don’t think either of us can fix the problem here and now, so how can I help you today?”

“This is asking for a miracle, but is there any way to search the New York State prison system by first name only and look for someone who served time but is no longer incarcerated?”

Brenda placed her hands on her hips. “Girl, this here computer can do anything but bake fresh cornbread.” Brenda laughed out loud. “I only hope his name isn’t Joe or John.”

“Actually, it’s Oscar.”

“Oscar? Guess his parents didn’t much like him. Anything else you can tell me?”

“He’s likely Italian, was probably in a New York prison for assault and battery or aggravated assault, and he shaves his head.” Dupree thought for a moment. “Depending when his mug shot was taken, he might have had a full head of hair and a beard like Santa. We have him on surveillance tapes, but we can’t see enough of him for facial recognition.”

Brenda folded her arms. “This is going to take some time, Sugar.” She gazed up at the wall clock. “How about you come back in an hour?”

“Sure that’s enough time?”

Brenda nodded. “No problem.”

“You rock, Brenda.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I might come up with a goose egg.”

Dupree held up her hand with her fingers crossed. “Let’s hope not.

Dupree headed back to her desk and told T.J. about her conversation with Brenda.

“Good thinking,” T.J. said.

Dupree looked past T.J., deep in thought. She nervously fussed with her hair.

“You’re still concerned about that letter, aren’t you?” T.J. said.

“Sure am. I contacted the courier, hoping they’d have some info on the sender, but all they could tell me was her name: Mary Dupree.”

“I know it spooked you, Amaris, but you live in a secure building with twenty-four hour security. No way anyone’s going to get into your apartment.”

Dupree appreciated T.J.’s effort to ease her anxiety. But they both knew that a determined criminal could break into Fort Knox if motivated enough. After all, didn’t Oscar break into Dr. Crawford’s apartment? Didn’t her apartment have twenty-four hour security? She wanted to call him out on it. But why minimize his thoughtful attempt to support her? “Whoever sent that letter might have a different agenda than just breaking in. Besides, how did they know I have cats?”

“Don’t know. Just be cautious and mindful of your surroundings. Whoever sent the letter is just trying to distract you from the investigation.”

“Well,” Dupree said, “mission accomplished.”

She tried to conceal her fear, but figured her face told a different story.

“Ready to rough up Lentz?” T.J. said

“Looking forward to it.”

Dupree picked up an eight-by-ten manila envelope off her desk and tucked it under her arm. Trailing behind T.J. towards the interview room, Dupree tried to mentally prepare herself for what she suspected would be a significant interview.

T.J. reached for the doorknob and was about to turn it when Dupree saw him look at the manila folder under her arm. “What’s in the envelope?”

“Just trying to go two for two.”

T.J. opened the door shaking his head. “Huh?”

“You’ll see.”

T.J. shrugged and entered the room. Dupree followed close behind. They found Lentz right where they’d left him, but by the look on his face, Dupree was certain he was way past the point of moderate irritation.

“Are you detectives serious or what? You make me sit here like a criminal and I haven’t done a damn thing.”

“I apologize, Mr. Lentz,” Dupree said. “Detective work is unpredictable.”

“I couldn’t give a shit less. I want a lawyer, and I want one right
now
!”

“Sure thing,” Dupree said. “Do you have someone in mind, or should I contact the Public Defender’s office?”

“I have my own lawyer. Just get me a telephone.”

“No problem,” Dupree said. “But can you just give me a minute to share something with you?”

Lentz looked at his watch. “You’ve got one minute.”

Dupree held up the manila envelope. “Remember when I told you that a subpoena to release your bank account information and cell phone records would be coming soon?”

Dupree saw Lentz swallow hard, but he didn’t say a word. His eyes were locked on the envelope.