Hypocrisy

by D. M. Annechino

  She gestured. “Have a seat and we’ll talk about it,” Dupree said.

  Mason dragged the chair away from the table and sat down.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you,” Dupree said. “Your joint venture with Hyland is never going to happen.”

  “What?”

  “Adelman, Gallo, and Hansen will be spending the next two decades behind bars.”

  “Forgive me,” Mason said, “but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Dupree explained to Mason the details of the conspiracy to murder Dr. Crawford. She watched the color drain from his face.

  “Look, Detective, Michael Adelman and Dominic Gallo may be driven by success and financial reward, and Maggie Hansen might be an opportunist, but there is no way that any of them are capable of murder. I know these people well and they would never commit such a crime. Your accusations are preposterous.”

  “With all due respect, Doctor, quite to the contrary, we’ve got rock-solid evidence. Hansen gave us a full confession and by the time Detective Brown gets done with Adelman, we’ll have his confession as well.” Dupree fixed her eyes on Mason’s. “The big question here, Dr. Mason, is whether or not you’ll be joining them in prison.”

  “Are you accusing me of taking part in this horrific crime?”

  “Should we be?” Dupree said.

  “First of all, Detective, I respected Dr. Crawford in the highest regard. The world would be a much better place if there were more people like her. We had our little tiffs—mostly trivial disagreements, but the thought of harming her is incomprehensible to me. What would be my motive?”

  “Money can corrupt even the most moral and ethical people. If and when Dr. Crawford’s theories and treatments proved credible and were approved by the FDA, Horizon Cancer Research Center would have made millions and I’m certain you would have benefited handsomely.”

  “Well, Detective, before you make such a statement, perhaps you’d like to review my employment contract with Horizon.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Dupree asked.

  “My salary as Executive Director is one dollar a year.”

  “A dollar a year?”

  “Not exactly the golden goose,” Mason said.

  “Why did you agree to such a deal?” Dupree asked.

  “A couple reasons. First and foremost, I’m a retired oncologist. I’ve been treating cancer patients for over thirty years and I can tell you first hand, it’s a dirty business. I’ve seen my share of vibrant, seemingly healthy people reduced to skin and bones. And I’ve been forced to prescribe the most toxic meds in the world for people in so much pain they begged me to euthanize them. There are few things in life that would please me more than an effective treatment for cancer and the prospect of finding a cure.

  “Furthermore, I don’t need the money. My house is paid for and I have enough invested to last me three lifetimes, even if I live frivolously, which by the way, is a far cry from my frugal lifestyle.

  “Granted, there would be a payoff once the research is completed, everything approved by the FDA, and we begin production and distribution of the drugs. I’d get 5% of the bottom line. So, knowing that Lauren was the most qualified person in the world to finish the research and get the treatments approved, why, pray tell, would I want her out of the way?”

  Dupree didn’t have an answer. She looked at Parisi, who was little more than an ornament. “Would you mind providing a copy of your employment contract for us to see?”

  “Signed and notarized,” Mason said.

  Dupree and Mason were engaged in a stare down. “One more question,” Dupree said. “It is my understanding that Dr. Crawford didn’t want to gouge anyone with outrageous prices for the drugs and was adamant about making the treatments available to anyone who needed them, regardless of their financial situation. If you had proceeded and established a partnership with Hyland, wouldn’t Adelman insist that you price the drugs consistent with demand? Let’s be honest. Wouldn’t a dying cancer patient, riddled with pain, pay anything for a treatment that would extend their life, improve their quality of life, and possibly cure them? Wouldn’t they sell all their worldly belongings, and beg, borrow and steal every penny to pay for the treatments?”

  “Absolutely. Adelman would have liked to charge an exorbitant price for the treatments. He’s a businessman. However, in Lauren’s infinite wisdom, she set up a provision in Horizon’s operating charter that limited the price on any drug or treatment directly resulting from her research. Consequently, there is a cap on pricing.”

  Mason shook his head, staring past Dupree. “I’m having a hard time accepting this mind-boggling story. You think you’re a good judge of character and then find out…”

  “You’re free to go, Dr. Mason. Just remember to get me a copy of your employment agreement. And I’d also like to see Horizon’s Operating Charter.”

  Dupree looked at Parisi. “Would you be kind enough to escort Dr. Mason to the exit.” Dupree squeezed Parisi’s arm. “Thanks for all your help. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Well,” T.J. said, “this has been quite a morning.” Dupree and he were sitting in Captain Jensen’s office, waiting for him to return from a meeting with the police commissioner. Adelman and Gallo were on their way to the county jail where they’d be held until arraignment in the morning. Hansen was still in the precinct lockup awaiting a transfer to a women’s facility.

  “I think we’re going to make the captain’s day,” Dupree said. “If full confessions from Adelman and Hansen don’t moisten his loins, nothing will.”

  “Do you think Gallo will cave in?”

  “I guess it depends on how his attorney advises him,” Dupree answered. “Personally, it really doesn’t make much difference. He can proclaim his innocence till doomsday. But in the end, considering the solid evidence against him, there isn’t a jury in the world that’s going to let him off the hook. He’s dead meat.”

  “What do you think is going to happen with Horizon?” T.J. asked.

  “That’s a complicated issue. The only thing I know for sure is that someone has to follow through. Dr. Crawford’s research is far too important and consequential for it to just go away.”

  “How about Mason? Do you think he’s totally innocent?”

  “Well,” Dupree said, “we have nothing concrete, but I still think we need a covert operation to surveil his activities.”

  “I agree.”

  Dupree could barely keep her eyes opened.

  “So, Amaris, you’ve been talking about taking a vacation as soon as we closed this investigation. Got something planned?”

  “Thinking about flying to the west coast for a week or so.”

  “Do you have family or friends out there?”

  “No, but a couple of years ago, I attended a law enforcement conference in Sacramento and met a homicide detective working out of San Diego. She had solved two serial killer cases in less than two years and got major national press. In fact, she was the keynote speaker at the conference. Having so much in common—two women working in what is basically a man’s world—we bonded rather quickly. We’ve kept in touch via telephone, texting, and e-mails. Long story short, she’s been trying to get me to the west coast for a while now; wants me to meet her hubby and kids. So, I’ve been checking airfares and I may just surprise her.”

  “Are you talking about Sami Rizzo?”

  “You know who she is?”

  “Every cop in the free world knows who she is. She was in the spotlight for months.”

  “I know,” Dupree said. “She’s a rock star.”

  Just then, Captain Jensen entered his office, out of breath.

  “Am I late for the party?” the captain said, glancing at his wristwatch. He lumbered to his desk and moaned when he sat down. “Back’s not feeling great today. Can’t understand why I’m so tense.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Captain,” Dupree sai
d “You can make it feel a whole lot better by telling me that your interviews this morning yielded a strong lead. Commissioner Ryan just knocked the snot out of me. I guess Mayor Brooks is driving him nuts—calling five times a day to get a progress report on the Crawford murder investigation. Don’t know how much more I can take.” He adjusted himself in the chair and let out a painful moan. “Whoever coined the phrase, ‘shit flows downhill’, must have been in law enforcement.”

  Dupree and T.J. exchanged glances and smiled like Cheshire cats.

  “I think we’re going to make your back feel a whole lot better,” Dupree said.

  After updating the captain on the status of the soon-to-be-closed investigation, Dupree and T.J. finished some reports, neither having much to say. Dupree’s body was achy and drained of energy and her brain felt like scrambled eggs. She couldn’t wait to get home and submerge herself in a hot bath, drink a glass or two of wine, hop in bed, and sleep till noon. But before she could earn this privilege, she had two more tasks on her “To-Do” list.

  “Should we give Hansen the bad news?” Dupree asked, breaking the silence.

  “There’s no time like the present,” T.J. said.

  Before they even reached lockup, Hansen spotted them and came charging towards the front of the cell, holding onto the bars like a crazed gorilla.

  “Did you talk to the DA.?” Hansen said, almost panting.

  “We did indeed,” Dupree said.

  “And?”

  “You’re good to go. Conspiracy to commit murder will be reduced to accessory to murder.”

  Hansen’s face relaxed and she smiled victoriously. “Thank you.”

  T.J. looked at Dupree.

  “Don’t celebrate quite yet, Ms. Hansen,” Dupree said. “There’s still the matter of Jonathan Lentz’s murder that we have to discuss.”

  “What? Jonathan was murdered?”

  “Sad isn’t it?” Dupree said. “Why did you do it? Why did you bash his brains in? Was it because he gave up Gallo and that threatened your little scheme?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Hansen said.

  “Oh, I think you do.”

  “I haven’t seen Jonathan—”

  “Save it for the jury,” Dupree said. “You see, you were smart enough to wipe the champagne bottle clean but you forgot one important detail.”

  Hansen stood silently, her rosy cheeks turned chalk white.

  “The CSI team lifted your fingerprint off the handcuffs.”

  Dupree could tell by the look in Hansen’s eyes that she was frantically searching for a believable retort.

  “I don’t know who murdered Jonathan, honestly, but if the handcuffs you found were his, he and I used them many times. So, my fingerprints could have been on them for months.”

  “Nice try,” Dupree said. “But there is one more minor fact that’s going to cause you major heartburn.” Dupree paused, purposely wanting Hansen to agonize for a few minutes.

  “Well? What minor fact?”

  “Just that the young woman working the reservation desk at Shoreline Hideaways saw you getting into Mr. Lentz’s A8 and peeling rubber out of the driveway. And she can identify you. Once she picks you out of a lineup, let’s just say that your goose is cooked.”

  The veins in Hansen’s neck stood out on livid edges. “You tricked me, you motherfucking asshole!”

  “My, oh my,” Dupree said. “You really have quite the potty mouth. You can mother-f me as much as you like if it makes you feel better. But know this: you’re going to spend the next twenty-five years—and maybe more—in a cage. And that’s exactly where a monster like you belongs.”

  Dupree and T.J. turned to walk away, but Dupree stopped.

  “One more thing,” Dupree said. “I’ve never tasted cat stew, nor would I like to sprinkle ricin on top of it. But you do get an A+ for originality.”

  Hansen actually laughed. “Got to admit. It was pretty damn clever, no?”

  “Genius,” Dupree said. “You just added attempted murder to your murder charge.”

  Again Dupree and T.J. turned to leave.

  “Hey, Detective,” Hansen yelled. “How did you know it was me who sent the letters?”

  The corners of Dupree’s mouth turned up. “You just told me.”

  The look of horror on Hansen’s face was an image Dupree would not soon forget.

  On their way back to the office, T.J. said, “Nice double-reverse. When did you figure out that Hansen sent the letters?”

  “Didn’t know for sure. But shortly after you reminded me that she was the only one associated with the investigation who knew I had two cats, and the fact that she’s a scientist capable of making ricin, I figured it had to be her.”

  “I don’t get it,” T.J. said. “Why would Hansen send you the threatening letters?”

  “Why do any nutcases do what they do?”

  “But what was her motive? What did she hope to gain? She seems way too intelligent to do something so stupid.”

  “You’re trying to rationalize the thought process of an irrational woman,” Dupree said.

  “I don’t see her as that irrational.”

  “Really? Would a rational woman beat her boyfriend to death with a champagne bottle and leave her fingerprint on a pair of handcuffs? Or would she conspire to murder a brilliant research scientist? Would a rational woman implicated in a murder conspiracy send a homicide detective ricin and potentially place herself in the spotlight?”

  T.J. thought long and hard. “I see your point.”

  “Great. Glad you’re finally realizing that my instincts are usually right.” She winked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Dupree had one more piece of unfinished business, but decided to address it without T.J. She found him standing in front of the water cooler eating a Snicker’s bar.

  “Early dinner?” Dupree asked.

  “Something to tide me over.”

  She noticed that he glanced at the handbag hanging from her shoulder.

  “Where you headed?” he asked.

  “Just have to run a few errands.”

  “Need my assistance?”

  “Everything’s under control,” Dupree said. “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

  “I may already be gone, so give me a holler on my cell if I’m not here when you get back.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Through crawling traffic Dupree drove over the Brooklyn Bridge and headed for Mrs. Crawford’s home. When she got there, the street was congested with parked cars, so Dupree found a spot two blocks away.

  As in the past, roaming the streets of Brooklyn gave Dupree a feeling of nostalgia.

  Making her way to Mrs. Crawford’s, she passed home after home, one more magnificent than the other. One in particular caught her eye.

  She’d once lived in such a place. She remembered sitting on the front steps of her mom’s home without a care in the world, eating freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, washing them down with a glass of ice-cold milk. She could still smell the chocolaty scent coming from the oven as her mom baked the cookies to perfection. To this day, she’d never tasted a cookie quite as delicious as her mom’s.

  As Dupree climbed up the front steps of Leona Crawford’s home, she remembered her first meeting with the woman—the day she had crushed her heart when she’d told Mrs. Crawford that her daughter had been murdered. Nothing Dupree could say or do could ever begin to erase Mrs. Crawford’s unimaginable pain, but Dupree hoped she could at least give her a breath of relief today.

  Dupree knocked softly. Mrs. Crawford opened the door almost immediately. Quite to Dupree’s delight, the woman greeted her with a cordial smile. Her face revealed no obvious signs of distress.

  Mrs. Crawford stepped to the side and motioned with her arm. “Please come in, Detective. It’s so nice to see you again.” Mrs. Crawford extended her arm and held Dupree’s hand.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Mrs. Crawford said. “Can
I get you anything? Tea, coffee, a soda?”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Crawford.”

  “What brings you to Williamsburg?” Crawford asked. “I hope you came to deliver good news.”

  “I just wanted to let you know that we have arrested four people in connection with your daughter’s murder.”

  Crawford’s eyes opened wide. She looked up at the ceiling. “Praise be to God.”

  She grabbed a tissue, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. “That’s…that’s fantastic news, Detective.” Mrs. Crawford inhaled deeply. “I can’t even imagine one person wanting to harm my Lauren. But four? That’s unthinkable. Would it breach police policy if you told me who they are?”

  The police department hadn’t yet disclosed the names of the three people charged with conspiracy to commit murder, or the name of the actual killer, so technically, Dupree really wasn’t supposed to share the arrest information with anyone. But at this particular point in time, she didn’t care about protocol. All she cared about was trying to ease some of Mrs. Crawford’s anguish. Besides, what would Mrs. Crawford do with this information, call CNN?

  “I don’t know if this will shock you or not,” Dupree said, “but an ex-research scientist from Horizon, the CEO of a major pharmaceutical company, and a member of the FDA were all involved in the conspiracy. But the man who actually committed the crime was basically a hired gun.

  “Nothing you’re saying is shocking me, Detective. I am surprised that neither Dr. Mason nor Jonathan Lentz’s names came up. I never really trusted Dr. Mason. And I would suspect you know how I feel about Jonathan Lentz.”

  “We have no evidence to support the theory that Dr. Mason was involved. Lentz did play a small role, but really wasn’t part of the conspiracy. Unfortunately, he got caught in the middle of a tangled web and ended up a murder victim himself.”

  “That’s very sad.” Crawford wiped her eyes again. “I’m glad you found the monsters who took my Lauren. Nothing will bring her back. But at least I can sleep at night knowing that justice will be served.”