Hypocrisy

by D. M. Annechino

  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?”

  “It’ll be a challenge,” Brenda said. “But let’s see what I can do.” She grinned. “It might cost you another latté and brownie.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Dupree said. “How about a box of chocolate truffles from Jacques Torres?”

  “You got yourself a deal, Sugar.”

  About to step away, Dupree’s cell phone rang. “Detective Dupree.”

  “Hi, Detective, this is Officer Moretti. We met at the crime scene where Dr. Crawford was murdered. You may not remember me, but—”

  “Sure I remember you, Tony. What’s up?”

  “That APB you issued on a Margaret Hansen? Gab and I just picked her up at JFK. Apparently, a very alert TSA agent spotted her going through security, detained her, and contacted headquarters.”

  “You just made my shortlist, Tony. And that’s a good thing. Where was she headed?”

  “To Grand Cayman Island.”

  “That’s no surprise.”

  “Want me to bring her to the 40th?”

  “That would absolutely make my day!”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Dupree dropped the cell in her jacket pocket. “You’re not going to believe this, T.J.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tony Moretti and Gab Hirsh, showed up a little after nine a.m. Dupree was chatting with T.J., asking him not to mention Lentz’s murder during their interrogation of Hansen, promising she’d explain her reasoning later. Obviously, due to the latest development, T.J. and Dupree could no longer stay with the plan to pay a sneak visit to Horizon, so she spoke to Captain Jensen and made arrangements for Parisi and Wells, along with three uniformed policemen, to go to Horizon and bring Mason, Adelman, and Gallo in for questioning as persons of interest. Dupree spotted the officers coming her way with Hansen wedged between the two of them. Hansen had a look on her face that could intimidate Mike Tyson.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Hansen,” Dupree said, her tone saccharine sweet.

  “Wish I could say the same. How long is this going to take?”

  “Oh, it shouldn’t take longer than twenty-five years to life,” Dupree said. She grabbed Hansen’s arm and looked at Moretti. “We’ll take it from here officer. Thanks.”

  Each holding one of Hansen’s arms, Dupree and T.J. escorted her to an interview room.

  “So what is it now?” Hansen asked. “Do I have an outstanding parking ticket?”

  “Where were you going when the officers picked you up?” Dupree asked.

  “Well, I was going to Grand Cayman for a long-overdue vacation, but thanks to you, I missed my flight.”

  T.J. laughed. “The only vacation spot in your future is a federal penitentiary.”

  Dupree bent forward, her face inches from Hansen’s. “We’ve got you cold for conspiracy to commit murder.”

  Hansen yawned. “And who did I supposedly conspire to murder?”

  “You know the answer to that question,” Dupree said, “But just to make it official, we’re charging you with conspiracy and accessory to commit murder for the death of Dr. Lauren Crawford.”

  “That’s absurd,” Hansen said, her face showing signs of concern. “Once again you two are on a fishing expedition but have no evidence.”

  “How’s this for evidence?” Dupree said. “We can prove that you deposited six-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars in an offshore account in the Grand Cayman Island. In fact, we know where you deposited the money and the account number.”

  “Six-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars?” Hansen laughed. “And where would an unemployed research scientist get that kind of money?”

  “Oh,” Dupree said, “I would guess that Oscar Cassano might be able to answer that question. After all, it’s his account but you’re listed as the custodian.”

  Hansen didn’t utter a sound.

  “How clever of you to pay Cassano a hundred-k in advance and then deposit the rest of the money in an offshore account,” Dupree said. “Too bad you’ll never get to spend it.”

  Now Dupree saw fear in Hansen’s eyes. She’d seen this look many times. It always came at the exact moment a murder suspect realized that there was no way out.

  “Do the names, Michael Adelman or Dominic Gallo ring a bell?”

  Hansen sneered in defiance. “If you’re going to arrest me, I want an attorney.”

  “That’s your right,” T.J. said. “But we haven’t arrested you. All we’re doing is talking.”

  “Talking? Is that was this is?”

  “You have a real opportunity here, Ms. Hansen,” Dupree said. “An opportunity we’re only offering once. If you want to keep denying your involvement, that’s up to you. But before you say another word, let me share a few facts with you. Conspiracy to commit murder comes with a twenty-five year to life sentence. Couple that with an accessory to murder charge and you can pretty much plan on being in a cage until your pretty blonde hair turns white. During your trial, when the D.A. informs the jury that Dr. Crawford was on the threshold of making one of the most extraordinary medical discoveries in history, and that her death, something you were a part of, could delay or postpone her research indefinitely, how do you think the jury is going to react? Think they’re going to be lenient and merciful, or would they want Dr. Crawford’s murderers to get the maximum sentence?

  “This is what we call, the moment of truth, Ms. Hansen. If you cooperate with us completely and give us a sworn statement naming the other parties and their role in the conspiracy, I believe we can talk the D.A. into reducing the charge to accessory to murder only. With a little luck and good behavior, you could be out of prison in five years.

  Dupree could see that Hansen was thoughtfully weighing her options.

  “So, Ms. Hansen, what’ll it be? If you still want an attorney, that’s your call. But as soon as we arrest you and read your Miranda rights, all bets are off. We’re going for your jugular.”

  “And one more thing to consider,” T.J. added. “Right now as we speak, Dr. Mason, Dominic Gallo, and Michael Adelman are having a meeting at the Horizon offices. In about thirty minutes, a truckload of cops are going to interrupt their little powwow and haul their asses into the police station. Like you, each of them will be offered the opportunity to plea bargain. The first one to go state’s evidence gets the reduced sentence. One deal and only one deal.”

  Hansen thought about that for a long time before she responded. “What guarantee do I have that if I cooperate you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”

  “Look, Ms. Hansen,” T.J. said. “This is what we do each and every day: make deals and plea bargain. What kind of credibility do you think we’d have if we didn’t stick by our word? What do you think the media would do if they knew that cops were coercing suspects into making confessions under false pretenses?” T.J. looked at his watch. “It’s now or never.”

  Ha
nsen nervously drummed her fingers on the table. Her eyes shot back and forth between Dupree and T.J. “It was Gallo and Adelman who approached me right after Dr. Crawford fired me. Dr. Mason had nothing to do with it. Adelman and Gallo were manipulating him and he was clueless. Gallo and Adelman wanted Dr. Crawford out of the way. Gallo knew that Jonathan was in desperate need of money and that he would do just about anything to line his pockets with hundred-dollar bills. Gallo also knew that Jonathan rubbed elbows with an unsavory crowd. So, Gallo paid him one-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars to find someone willing to steal Dr. Crawford’s computer.”

  “Steal her computer?” Dupree said. “Why did she end up dead?”

  “That’s where I came in. Once Jonathan found someone willing to steal her computer, it was my job to convince him to kill her.”

  “You hated Dr. Crawford so much that you would actually arrange her murder?” Dupree said.

  “It wasn’t about hate; it was about opportunity. Adelman gave me seven-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars to get the job done and didn’t care how much of the money I paid the killer. The guy was an idiot, so I took advantage of his stupidity and only paid him one-hundred-thousand.”

  “And the rest ended up in a Cayman bank?” Dupree said.

  Hansen nodded.

  “Wait a minute here,” T.J. said. “What the hell would lead you to believe that you could turn a common thief into a murderer? That just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Hey, you two are cops, so you should know something about the criminal mind. For the right payoff, a guy like Cassano would slit his own mother’s throat. When you’ve got the bad seed, you’re capable of anything. Besides, if Cassano had refused, we would have found someone else. New York is a haven for violent people looking for an opportunity to live the American dream.”

  Certain that Hansen sent the two letters, one with the catstew comment, and the other with ricin, Dupree found it difficult to sit across from her without reaching across the table and grabbing her by the throat. “So you arranged to have Dr. Crawford murdered for six-hundred-fifty K? That’s what you think a brilliant scientist’s life is worth?”