Hypocrisy (7 page)

“But you don’t have it with you right now?” Cardone chewed on his lip. “I’m afraid I am unable to let you into Dr. Crawford’s residence.”

He seemed delighted to turn down their request, his tone clearly patronizing. “Owner’s policy, not mine.”

“Then get the owner on the phone and let me speak to him,” T.J. demanded.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean and out of touch. I hope you understand.”

“Actually, we don’t understand at all,” T.J. barked. “We’re investigating a murder and it’s entirely possible that somewhere in Dr. Crawford’s apartment there might be a clue that could lead us to the murderer. Now you wouldn’t want to do
anything
to interfere with our efforts, would you?”

It seemed that Cardone was considering T.J.’s logic. “I’m terribly sorry, but I simply cannot disregard company policy or compromise the confidentiality of any resident.”

“Even if they’re fucking dead?” T.J. shouted.

Cardone backpedaled as if T.J. had pushed him. “There’s no need for cursing, Detective.”

T.J.’s outburst surprised Dupree. He had always been an aggressive interrogator, but Dupree had never seen him react with so much venom. She decided to try a different tactic. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Cardone. Is there anyone other than Dr. Crawford who has authority to access her apartment?”

He nodded. “Sure. Certain members of our staff—plumbers, electricians—people who provide repair services.” He paused. “And as superintendent, I have master keys for all the residences.”

“So what you’re saying basically is that it’s more important to repair a plumbing leak than to catch Dr. Crawford’s murderer. Is that right, Mr. Cardone?”

“Well, um, not exactly.”

“Mr. Cardone, I assure you, I give you my word that a judge will sign a search warrant in a day or so and I’ll be sure you get a copy. Somewhere out there in the city,” Dupree pointed to the front doors, “Dr. Crawford’s killer is roaming the streets, or maybe buying a plane ticket out of the country. Time is so critical. We don’t want to remove anything. We only want to see if there is something that might lead us to the killer. Maybe there is a message on Dr. Crawford’s answering machine. Maybe somebody’s
name is written on a piece of paper. You are welcome to accompany us and observe everything we do. And if you get any heat from extending us this courtesy, I will take full responsibility and relieve you of any liability.” Dupree firmly squeezed his arm. “Please Mr. Cardone, this is extremely important.”

Cardone looked at Dupree and then at T.J. Back and forth, he studied them. Then he looked off into the distance. “I’m truly sorry, but without a signed warrant…I cannot let you into Dr. Crawford’s apartment.”

It took T.J. a nanosecond to turn around and double-step it to the front door, long before the doorman could get there.

“Thank you for your time,” Dupree said, eliciting every ounce of willpower to remain civil.

The doorman tipped his hat and opened the door for Dupree. His face looked apologetic. T.J. was standing next to the entrance, staring at the sidewalk.

“Sorry I lost it in there,” T.J. said. “Guess I’m getting crotchety in my old age.”

“Actually, it’s nice to see that you have a pulse,” Dupree said, a big smirk spread across her face. “Maybe you’re just pissed cuz you owe me a drink.” Dupree elbowed T.J. in the ribs. “I think there’s a lemon drop martini in my future.” She laughed. “And none of that well crap either. Top shelf or nothing.”

CHAPTER SIX

Purposely, Dupree hadn’t called Hansen ahead of time to schedule an interview. In some instances, she’d learned, the element of surprise catches the interviewee off-guard, and that’s exactly what Dupree hoped to do with Maggie Hansen.

During the short ride from Park Slope to Prospect Heights, T.J. didn’t say much except respond to Dupree’s questions and comments. His quietness seemed out of character for him. For as long as she’d worked with him, he rarely had a problem speaking his mind. She guessed that he was still angry because Mr. Cardone would not give them access to Dr. Crawford’s place. Or, perhaps he was still pouting over Dupree’s earlier scolding. She could not understand why he couldn’t just let things go. Though often difficult, Dupree tried not to waste too much time on negative thoughts. Not that she never wanted to smash a bottle against the wall, or get in someone’s face and verbally chew them out. In fact, during one particular interrogation, the perp had riled Dupree so much that she’d grabbed him by his shirt collar, yanked him to his feet, and shoved him so hard, he’d lost his balance and fell on the floor. She’d ended up in the captain’s office where he proceeded to browbeat her for twenty, grueling minutes. But when the captain’s telephone rang, and T.J. announced that the perp Dupree had roughed up had given a full confession, the captain’s rant came to a halt.

Dupree glanced at T.J. “Is your ass still chapped or are you going to let it go?”

“The guy just pissed me off.”

“Look,” Dupree said. “We’ll likely have the signed warrant in a day or two, so there’s no need to get your undies in a twist.”

“I don’t wear undies.”

“WTMI.”

“Huh?” T.J. said.

“Way too much information.”

T.J. laughed. “All kidding aside, it’s way more comfortable to go commando style. Seriously. You ought to try it sometime.”

Feeling mischievous, Dupree gave him a quick glance, winked, and smiled. “I have. In fact, I’m going commando right now.”

Like a cartoon character, T.J.’s chin dropped.

If only I had a camera to capture the look on his face
.

Dupree followed 7
^th
Avenue North to Park Place, and headed east towards the heart of Prospect Heights. Known for its tree-lined streets, hundred year old brownstones, luxury condominiums, and nearly as many museums as Manhattan, Prospect Heights was an upscale area of Brooklyn notable for its cultural diversity.

After parking the car in the underground garage, T.J. and Dupree rode the elevator to the lobby, the only floor the garage elevator had access to. When they stepped off, the security staff—at least four or five of them—looked like members of a SWAT team. Obviously, whoever managed this building was serious about security and the privacy of the residents. Dupree approached the front desk and T.J. just stood in front of the elevator doors waiting.

She flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Dupree and that’s Detective Brown. We’re here to see Maggie Hansen in Unit 2311.” The security guard, grossly overweight, with a “comb-over” hairdo that would make a notable hair stylist commit suicide, studied her ID closely, moving his eyes back and forth from the badge to Dupree’s face. He glanced at T.J. “May I see your identification as well?”

T.J. strolled over and showed the man his ID. Again, the security guard thoroughly examined the badge and compared it to T.J.’s face.

“Is Ms. Hansen expecting you?” the fat man asked, his tone less than accommodating.

Dupree urgently wanted to say, “I certainly hope not.” But she didn’t think that would be an appropriate response. “No she’s not.”

“Let me buzz her and tell her you’re here.”

Just then, two of the other security guards appeared; both standing to the side of the fat man.

After about thirty seconds, Dupree feared that Hansen wasn’t home. But then, the security guard said, “Sorry to trouble you, Ms. Hansen, but there are two detectives here to see you. Should I let them come up or send them on their way?”

Dupree glanced at T.J., hoping he wouldn’t react to the security guard’s comment.

The security guard nodded. “Yes, Ms. Hansen, right away.”

“You’re all set, Detectives. Please take elevator #2.”

When Dupree and T.J. stepped onto the elevator and realized that there was actually an operator—something Dupree hadn’t seen in years—they looked at each other in amazement. Dupree guessed that T.J. was as surprised as she was.

“Floor twenty-three, please,” Dupree said.

The elevator zoomed up to the 23
^rd
floor without stopping once. The doors opened and the operator pointed. “Ms. Hansen’s residence is down the hall on your right. Have a pleasant day.”

T.J. tugged on Dupree’s arm. “How the hell did he know we were here to see Hansen?”

Dupree shrugged. “Is it my imagination, or is this place a little creepy?”

“Not the word I would use, but yes, it’s like something out of a Tim Burton movie.”

They found unit 2311 and Dupree softly knocked.

Nothing.

She knocked a little harder this time. The door swung open and there stood a young woman wearing baggy lounging pajamas. Her disheveled hair was loosely pulled back into a ponytail. She held a cup of what looked like coffee in her hand. Except for the out-of-style glasses worn low on her nose, she looked anything but how Dupree pictured a scientist. But after a closer appraisal, Dupree realized that Hansen could star in one of those commercials where the frumpy, plain-looking teacher takes off her geeky glasses, let’s down her hair, tosses it from side-to-side, and instantly looks like a movie star. With the right makeup and hairdo, Dupree thought, Hansen could be a knockout.

“Been expecting you,” the woman said, an unmistakable southern twang in her voice. Dupree guessed Virginia or the Carolinas. “Sorry I look so dreadful. Been a little negligent with my personal hygiene since I lost my job.” She slurped her coffee. “I’m Margaret Hansen. Most people call me Maggie.”

“I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown. May we speak with you for a few minutes?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Already with the attitude, Dupree thought. “Of course you have a choice. You can speak with us now, or we can get a
summons and you can come down to the precinct. Whichever you prefer.”

“I’m sorry for the sarcasm. Since I’ve been unemployed, I’ve been a little on edge. I hope you understand.”

“We do,” Dupree said. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

“I’ve got nothing but time.” Hansen gestured with her arm. “Come in and have a seat.”

Dupree looked around for a place to sit, but mounds of clothes covered the sofa, loveseat, and armchair. It looked like Hansen had heaped every piece of clothing she owned on her living room furniture. Hansen set down her coffee, lifted two armfuls of clothing from the loveseat, and moved them to the sofa.

“I’m really not a slob,” Hansen apologized. “I’m just going through all my closets and dresser drawers and getting rid of the stuff I no longer wear or no longer fits me. There’s a Salvation Army just around the corner.” She pushed a pile of clothes out of the way and sat on the sofa. “Of course, if I don’t find a job soon, I’ll be bringing all my clothes to a local consignment shop and eating egg salad sandwiches every day.”

Clearly, Dupree thought, Hansen was in no mood to entertain two cops.

Just then, a grey Siamese cat casually wondered into the living room, walked over to Dupree, and sniffed her legs.

Dupree reached down and scratched the cat’s head. It instantly started to purr.

“You must be a cat person,” Hansen said. “Mickey usually doesn’t warm up to strangers.”

“Got two cats of my own: Benjamin and Alexandra. Must be that Mickey’s picking up their scent.”

Mickey meandered over to Hansen and hopped up on her lap.

“So,” Hansen said, “I don’t believe you came here to talk about my lifestyle or my cat. I would guess that you want to talk about Dr. Lauren Crawford.”

Dupree nodded. “That’s correct. Is it okay for us to record this interview?”

Hansen smiled. “Interview? I was under the impression that you were going to interrogate me.”

“Call it what you will,” T.J. said. “We’re merely here to gather information.”

“Fair enough. Tell me what you want to know.”

“How long were you employed at Horizon?” Dupree asked.

“Nearly three years.”

“And during the three years, did you work directly for Dr. Crawford?” Dupree asked.

Hansen nodded. “I reported to her and only her.”

“Did you interact with Dr. Mason at all?” Dupree asked.

“Not really. He participated in our morning meetings and weekly brainstorming sessions to discuss the latest developments, but the bulk of my relationship with him was seeing him in the break room when I was having lunch or getting a cup of coffee.”

“As I understand it,” Dupree said, “Dr. Crawford and you parted company about a month ago, correct?”

“Thirty-four days ago, to be exact.”

“Can you tell us why Dr. Crawford let you go?” T.J. asked.

Hansen laughed. “No reason to walk on eggshells here. She didn’t ‘let me go’, she fired me. And you want to know why? Because I missed a deadline by one day.”

“Can you be more specific?” T.J. said.

“I was working on a report that compiled statistics on a specific clinical study, and Dr. Crawford asked that I have these spreadsheets and graphs completed in three days. I worked my ass off to get them done—coming into work early and staying late—but there were a few components missing from the statistics that prevented me from completing the assignment on time. Now bear in mind that this was through no fault of my own. It was merely a logistic problem. Dr. Crawford asked me to deliver
the report to her no later than May 25th at five p.m. and I completed them on May 26
^th
around noon. When I set the report on her desk and apologized for not meeting the deadline, she didn’t even make eye contact with me. She just kept her eyes focused on whatever she was reading and said, ‘Your work performance is unacceptable. This project is way too important for me to employ slackers. Gather your personal things and I want you out of here in thirty minutes’.