“Nothing’s trivial.” Dupree said.
“He’s a big, thick man. Over six-feet tall. He was wearing a long leather coat that hung below his knees. And he’s Caucasian.”
“A leather coat in the middle of summer, in New York City?”
“It sure is odd.”
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Dupree offered. “If the guy’s intention was to kill Dr. Crawford, why pick a public place and risk being seen?”
“That’s the big question, Amaris.”
“Thanks, John. Keep me in the loop on any new developments.”
After disconnecting the call, she glanced at T.J. “What’s your take?”
“I think we need to interview Dr. Crawford’s ex-boyfriend.”
“You read my mind.”
Finding Jonathan Lentz’s address required little effort. Dupree wasn’t sure if he would be home in the middle of the day, but T.J. and she drove to his apartment in Queens anyway. Even if they didn’t find him home, sometimes a suspect’s neighbors offered a wealth of information.
“Doesn’t seem like the type of neighborhood where Crawford’s ex-boyfriend would live,” T.J. said. He pointed to a pile of trash littering the sidewalk in front of Lentz’s building. “You’d think that a brilliant scientist like her would be dating someone from the Upper East Side.”
“Maybe she looked at people from the inside out and didn’t get all caught up in status.”
“Well,” T.J. said, “that would be a refreshing change from the norm.”
T.J. and Dupree parked in front of 3548 118th Avenue, double-stepped it up three flights of stairs, and found apartment 3D. The dimly lit hallway reeked of cat urine and the carpeting looked as if it hadn’t been vacuumed since the day it was installed.
“By the looks of this place,” T.J. observed, “Dr. Crawford definitely wasn’t caught up in status. This joint is a rat-hole.”
Dupree knocked on the door.
No answer.
She knocked harder.
“Who is it?” shouted a voice from the other side of the door.
“New York City police,” Dupree shot back.
The door opened slowly; the hinges screeching in protest. The man stood there with his robe not quite covering his private areas. His hair was a mess.
“Are you Jonathan Lentz?” T.J. asked.
“In the flesh.”
Literally, Dupree thought.
“I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown.” She pointed to his groin area. “You might want to put that thing away.”
“Sorry.” He pulled his robe tighter around his body and did his best to calm down his unruly hairdo. “Sorry about my appearance, Detectives. It’s been a rough night.” He gestured. “Come on in.”
Except for the unmade bed in the corner of the tiny studio, the place was surprisingly neat and orderly. Even with his hair looking like it hadn’t been washed or combed in days, the young man was as attractive as a Calvin Klein model. She suspected that he’d had his way with a stable of women.
“Have a seat, Detectives.”
They made themselves comfortable on the worn-out sofa. Jonathan stood in front of them with his arms folded low on his torso, almost as if he were hugging an ailing stomach. Dupree noticed his eyes toggling back and forth between her face and chest. She nonchalantly fastened the top button of her blouse. She reached in her purse, removed a digital tape recorder, and set it on the cocktail table. “Mind if we record this interview?”
“Nope.”
Lentz stuffed his hands deep into the robe’s pockets and sat on a loveseat.
“This is about Lauren Crawford, isn’t it?”
“Why do you ask?” Dupree said.
“I heard it on the morning news. She hadn’t been positively identified yet, but when I saw the dent in the rear door of her Camry, I knew it was her.”
Dupree was somewhat surprised that Dr. Crawford’s murder had already hit the media. Then again, there were many instances when journalists knew more than the cops did.
He pointed to an almost empty bottle of Dewars. “Drank myself to sleep.”
“Can you tell us where you were last night between eight p.m. and midnight?” Dupree asked.
“Well, I can tell you one thing for certain: I wasn’t with Lauren.”
“I’m not suggesting that you were, Mr. Lentz. I just need to know your whereabouts for our investigation.”
“Wanna know where I was? Waiting for Lauren in a little coffee shop in Jackson Heights called Better Blast Coffee. Got there at eight-ish and left around eleven-thirty. You can verify that with both Jasmine, the owner, or Tim, one of the baristas.”
“We understand that you two split up weeks ago,” Dupree said.
“We did. But once she stopped being so pissed off at me, we actually became friends.”
“Why was she angry with you?” T.J. asked.
He adjusted his body and combed his fingers through his unruly hair. “I had a little…fling.”
“So, why were you meeting her for coffee?” Dupree asked.
“She called me a few days ago and said she needed to speak to me about something very important. I said, ‘Okay, let’s talk.’ But she insisted that we meet face to face. She sounded really nervous—almost desperate. Her voice was shaky and barely louder than a whisper.”
“Obviously,” T.J. said, “the meeting never took place.”
Lentz’s chin rested on his chest and his eyes filled with tears. “No…it…didn’t.”
T.J. waited for him to regain his composure. “I’m sorry you’re upset, Mr. Lentz, but I’m sure you can appreciate why we need to ask you some questions.”
“When she said she wanted to see me, I was hoping she had second thoughts about us splitting up and maybe wanted to give it another go. We were supposed to meet at eight p.m. When she didn’t show up, I didn’t panic because she’d done this before. She’d get so caught up in her work that she’d completely lose track of time. I called her cell and left her three voicemails.”
He paused for a minute, his emotions again hard to control. “Can you imagine how I felt when she dumped me? I really loved her.”
“Didn’t love her enough to keep it in your pants,” Dupree said.
Lentz glared at Dupree. “I guess I have no defense for that accusation, except to say that guys will be guys.”
“Hm,” T.J. said. “I thought the expression was, ‘Guys will be pigs’.”
Lentz didn’t say a word.
“Tell us about the frequent bruises on Lauren’s wrists and ankles,” Dupree said. “What’s that all about?”
Dupree expected that the question would rile him, but it hardly fazed him.
“Without getting into any nitty gritty details, which is none of your damn business anyway, let’s just say that Lauren enjoyed some kinky sex games. And that’s all you need to know.”
“And did these games include bondage?” T.J. asked.
Lentz nodded. “Are we done?”
“For the time being,” Dupree said. “But as the investigation moves forward, we may want you to come down to the 40th precinct in the south Bronx to answer a few more questions.”
“Well I hope you two work weekends because I’m booked solid Monday to Friday. I work two jobs just trying to keep my head above water. Only reason I’m home today…well I don’t think I have to explain.”
Dupree handed Lentz her business card. “Call me day or night if there’s anything else you can remember that might help with the investigation.”
He snatched the business card and stuffed it in the robe pocket without looking at it. Just as the detectives were leaving, Lentz touched Dupree’s arm.
“I know that both of you probably think I’m a total, white-trash deadbeat and can’t begin to understand why a brilliant, educated, and sophisticated woman like Lauren would even give me the time of day. Well, appearances don’t always tell the whole story. I know I live in a crappy, rundown building in Loserville,
USA. But it hasn’t always been like that. Up until I lost my obscenely lucrative job at Lehman Brothers right after they went belly-up in 2008, I was flying high. Unless you’ve gone through a meltdown like this, you have no idea what it’s like to go from Armani suits and a 500SL to grease-stained overalls and a cardboard sign begging for loose change. There’s no dignity in being poor. I lost my home and forfeited all my worldly belongings. I slept in shelters, rat-infested alleys, and sometimes I hunkered down in the backseat of an unlocked car. I wolfed down half-eaten Big Macs and pissed in the streets. I collected unemployment for as long as I could. I figured the government at least owed me that. Never once did I apply for welfare or food stamps. I’m clawing my way back slowly, working two low-paying jobs. I don’t have much, but I have my integrity. I pay my rent and my belly is full. Lauren saw something in me, a quality hidden beneath the surface of a man wearing a silly paper hat and peddling hot dogs and pretzels from a little stainless steel cart. She saw my heart and she saw my soul and knew that I was more than just a corner vendor.”
Dupree and T.J. stood silently in the doorway. His story begged for a meaningful reply, yet neither detective knew what to say. All Dupree could muster was one quick remark.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Lentz. I’m sorry for your loss” She looked deep into his eyes, and felt that something wasn’t quite right.
CHAPTER FOUR
“You buy his hard-luck story?” Dupree asked. T.J. and she headed back to the precinct.
“I believe that he got caught up in the financial meltdown, lost his job, and now works a couple of scrub jobs, but the rest, I think, is classic horseshit. What’s your opinion?”
“I thought his performance earned him an Oscar.”
“I’ll check out his alibi at that Better Blast Coffee shop,” T.J. said.
Although T.J. always tried to portray himself as a thick-skinned, unflappable man, Dupree suspected that he, like her, was deeply moved by Mrs. Crawford’s painful situation. She had been a detective long enough to know that a cop just can’t get emotionally involved with a victim’s family, a suspect, or witness. It was the first commandment in law enforcement. Yet, more than once, she found herself too close to the wrong person.
“What’s next on our ‘To Do List’?” T.J. asked.
“First thing in the morning, we’re meeting with Dr. Mason, the director of research for Horizon.”
“When the hell did you set up that appointment?”
“I’m a multi-tasker, remember?”
“What time?”
“He said to drop by any time between eight a.m. and noon. After that, he’ll be out of town for several days.”
“Nine o’ clock okay with you?” T.J. asked.
“How about eight?” Dupree smiled. “And one more thing. If you’re not here on time, I’m going to talk to the captain about demoting you to a beat cop in Harlem.”
Dupree dropped off T.J. at the precinct. On her way back to her place, she called Brenda and asked her to run a background and criminal record check on Jonathan Lentz.
Dupree loved living in the heart of the city. Although most tourists referred to this throbbing area of sidewalk cafés, off-Broadway playhouses, and jazz clubs, as Greenwich Village, the locals just knew it as “The Village.”
As soon as Dupree entered the apartment, her two cats, Benjamin and Alexandra—Ben and Alex for short—greeted her at the door with a chorus of “meows.” She looked at their bowls of dry food and they were almost empty.
“Sorry guys. Been a rough day.”
To Dupree, New York was so much more than the Empire State Building, Central Park, and the Statue of Liberty. It was a thriving metropolis of culture, entertainment, and fashion. Where else could she buy a Gray’s Papaya hot dog, the best in the world? Or walk into Katz’s deli for a delicious pastrami or corn beef sandwich, piled high and as tender as prime rib? Dupree loved New York. The food. The people. The energy. The culture. But every so often, she needed an escape from the hectic pace of the city. So, she’d rent a remote cabin buried deep in the Adirondack Mountains, where she had to pump water from a well, do her business in a broken down outhouse, and survive without a refrigerator, stove, or even electricity. Completely alone and isolated from civilization, she’d sit by a warm fire and read a classic Fitzgerald or Hemingway novel by candlelight, and enjoy a peaceful weekend with no computers, cell phones or TVs. Once in a while, she’d curl up with a trashy novel, a vice she never shared with anyone. An occasional weekend in the mountains was how Dupree decompressed, how she reflected on her chaotic life and kept herself focused. Without a frequent escape from dead bodies and diabolical killers, she’d never be able to cope with the demands of her job.
People often asked Dupree how she could afford a million-dollar apartment in the heart of the Village on a homicide detective’s salary. She would generally say, “I can’t. That’s why I eat Ramen noodles every night.” At the reading of her mom’s will, when Dupree learned that her mom had willed the apartment and a modest savings account to her, Dupree was overwhelmed with guilt, shocked that the woman she’d so deeply wounded would leave everything to her. Dupree kept asking herself, “What did I do to deserve this?” Her answer was always the same: “Nothing.” The apartment served as a constant and nagging reminder that her mom, in spite of Dupree treating her so poorly, was a kindhearted, loving woman.
There was a time—it seemed in another life—when Dupree looked forward to preparing a nice dinner and sharing a bottle of wine with someone special. But it had been a long time since she’d been involved with anyone—at least on an intimate level. With her thirty-fifth birthday coming soon, it loomed as a poignant reminder that a stiff drink, dark chocolate, and chick-flicks had become substitutes for a comforting hug and passionate kiss.
Her cell phone rang.
She looked at the display and didn’t recognize the caller. “Detective Dupree.”
“Hi, Detective, this is Jonathan Lentz, Lauren Crawford’s ex-boyfriend. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Tearing her away from a bagel and cream cheese was an interruption she could forgive. “No, you’re not disturbing me at all. What can I do for you?”
“Well, you asked me to call if I remembered anything that might be significant.” His voice sounded raspy, as if he’d just woken up. “I don’t know if this means anything, but about a week ago when I spoke to Lauren on the telephone, she said that for the last few weeks she felt as if someone was watching her.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to Lauren, a creepy guy in a white Ford Fusion would frequently sit in his car across the street from her apartment and seemed to be watching her. On two occasions, she’d seen the same car parked across the street from where she worked.”
Dupree thought it peculiar that Lentz hadn’t mentioned something as significant as this when she’d interviewed him earlier. Then again, shock plays a lot of tricks on your brain. She recalled that Mrs. Crawford had also spoken of a mysterious stalker.
“Did she describe the man or happen to take down his license plate number?”
“She didn’t say. I told her to call the police and report it, but I don’t know if she ever did.”
“Is there anything else, Mr. Lentz?”
“Only that I hope you find the bastard who killed her and lock him up for life.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” She hung up, picked up her glass of wine and gulped a mouthful.
Before she barely had a chance to swallow, her cell rang again. “This is Detective Dupree.”
“Hey there Detective, it’s Brenda.”
Dupree looked at her watch. “Are you still working?”
“On my way out the door, but I thought I’d give you the info on Jonathan Lentz.”
“How utterly ironic,” Dupree said. “Would you believe that I just got off the phone with him?”
“Odd coincidence.”
“So, what’s the scoop, Brenda
?”
“He’s been a good boy for the last few months, but before that he was quite a character.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it all started in June of 2008. It seems that he likes to get into fist fights. Mostly in bars. Must be one of those guys who gets alcohol courage when he drinks—makes him want to kick some ass. He likes to hang with some pretty seedy characters. Real bad boys. He’s been arrested four times but never been convicted. Maybe he just likes to beat the crap out of people.”
“That’s interesting,” Dupree said. “He doesn’t seem the type.”
“Do they ever?”
“Good point. Anything else I should know?”
“You got it all, Sugar. Have a good night.”
“You as well.”
Dupree remembered Lentz’s narrative about losing his job at Lehman Brothers in 2008 and how he was clawing his way back to solvency. Curious, Dupree thought, that Lentz neglected to mention his colorful past.
Maybe he wasn’t the hard-working citizen he claimed to be.
CHAPTER FIVE
T.J. hopped in Dupree’s car with a groan and closed the door. He strapped on his seatbelt and reclined the seatback as far as it would go. On the radio, Lady Gaga was proclaiming that she was “Born this Way.” T.J. turned off the radio.
“Don’t like Gaga?” Dupree asked.
“Not this morning.”
“I can’t believe you actually got here on time.”
“Enjoy it,” T.J. said. “It may never happen again.”
“You look like you could use a gallon of strong coffee and a quart of Visine.”
“Shoot me. Please.” T.J. said. “Just put me out of my misery.”
Dupree merged into the flowing traffic and headed for the Horizon Cancer Research Center in the Bronx. “Rough night, hey?”
“The night was just fine.” T.J. said. “It’s the morning that got me.”
“Too much partying?”
“No. Nothing like that. I just don’t get enough sleep.”
“Try a couple of Excedrin PM’s and melatonin just before you go to bed. But be sure you turn the volume up on your clock radio or you’ll sleep till Christmas.”
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