Hypocrisy Page 5

  T.J. continued. “How does the isopropyl alcohol get into the bloodstream?”

  “This may surprise you, but isopropyl alcohol is everywhere. It’s in shampoo, hairspray, mousse, cold cereals, cosmetics, bottled water, store-bought fruit juices, mouthwash, shaving cream, white sugar—even in carbonated beverages and decaf coffee.”

  Dupree’s head was spinning with all this technical information. She wondered whether this was a murder investigation or an anatomy class.

  “Dr. Crawford’s mother told us that her daughter actually spent some time working with Dr. Clark in Tijuana,” Dupree said.

  “That’s correct,” Mason said. “That’s how the Horizon Cancer Research Center was born. After witnessing many terminal patients outlive the prognosis given to them by American doctors—including Mrs. Crawford—Lauren concluded that Dr. Clark was on to something. But Lauren felt as though Clark hadn’t taken it far enough. As Lauren used to say, ‘Clark’s in the right church but the wrong pew.’ ”

  “Earlier in our conversation,” T.J. said, “you mentioned that Dr. Crawford was a few months away from submitting an application to the FDA. If Dr. Clark was plagued with legal issues and moved her operation to Tijuana, how did Dr. Crawford get the FDA’s blessing to continue research in the USA?”

  “It’s well documented that Dr. Clark was not very popular with the medical community or with anyone involved in traditional health care or research. In fact, the vast majority of medical professionals were convinced that she was not only a quack but a charlatan. They felt she preyed on people with hopeless diagnoses. But Lauren didn’t agree to work with Clark to act as judge and jury on her reputation or her motivation. In spite of the overwhelming evidence that Clark was a fraud, Lauren believed that her theories—however misdirected—were valid and worth pursuing further. Let’s not forget that Lauren had some pretty impressive credentials and some powerful backers. Billionaire, Dr. Sidney Goldman, donated a hefty sum of money to fund this research center. Not to mention the fact that he, personally, was very influential with the FDA.”

  “That’s quite a story,” Dupree said, glancing at her wristwatch. “What was it about Dr. Crawford’s research that distinguished it from Dr. Clark’s?”

  “Through clinical trials, Lauren discovered that combining the three homeopathic herbs with two modified chemotherapy drugs Clark was not using, she could completely stop the progression and spread of certain cancers. It wasn’t a cure—at least not yet—but an effective treatment regimen that extends the life of terminal cancer patients while maintaining their quality of life. No hair loss or digestive issues.”

  “Something certainly worth pursuing,” Dupree said. “Dr. Crawford’s death is quite a blow to this research center.”

  “Yes, Detective. It sets this whole project back two or three years. Maybe even scraps it.”

  “That would be terrible.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Two more questions and we’ll let you get on with your day,” Dupree promised. “First, any idea why Dr. Crawford parked her car in the ramp garage near Yankee Stadium? There’s plenty of parking right next to the building.”

  “Lauren was so absorbed with her research that she rarely got much exercise, so she purposely parked a few blocks away and walked to and from our facility.”

  Dupree could understand her motivation. It made perfect sense. “Last question—and this may sound odd—but do any of your employees shave their heads?”

  Mason stroked his chin in a contemplative way. “There are a couple guys on their way to baldness, but no one here is completely bald.”

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us,” Dupree said. She handed him a business card. “Please contact me if you think of anything else that might help our investigation.”

  “Sure thing, Detective.”

  Dupree and T.J. were about to exit Mason’s office when they heard him say, “Wait a minute. Something just occurred to me.”

  The two detectives did a perfectly synchronized about face as if they were performing a drill in boot camp.

  “I don’t know if this has any bearing on anything, but about a month ago, Lauren fired an employee named Maggie Hansen, one of our senior research scientists. She’s a southern gal with a little attitude. But other than Lauren, nobody at Horizon understood the research project as thoroughly as Maggie did. Now I’m not suggesting that this woman killed Lauren, she certainly didn’t seem capable of something like that, but there was quite a blowout when Lauren fired her. So much so, that Lauren had to call security to escort Maggie out of the building. As Maggie was leaving, she yelled something like, ‘You haven’t seen the last of me, bitch’. I don’t know if it means anything, but I thought you should know.”

  “Would you happen to have Maggie’s address?”

  Mason typed something on his computer, waited a minute, then wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Dupree. “I hope you find whoever is responsible for Lauren’s death. He not only killed her, but potentially killed millions of cancer patients worldwide.”

  “So what do you think?” Dupree asked T.J., as she slipped the key into the ignition.

  “Well, it seems that whoever murdered Dr. Crawford had it timed perfectly.” T.J. flipped down the visor and checked his bloodshot eyes. “If what Dr. Mason said is true—that Dr. Crawford rarely worked from home—then somebody was tipped off that she would not only be carrying her computer and external hard drive, but that they would contain every piece of research data downloaded from the secure server.”

  “A little too coincidental,” Dupree said. “Someone on the inside has dirt under their fingernails.”

  “Dr. Mason?”

  “Well, he sure is in the thick of things. And he did mention that he has an equity position in Horizon. We need to complete a thorough background check on him. I’d like to know if there are any criminal records, malpractice lawsuits, ugly divorces, or significant debt. And I really would like to know who he hobnobs with. Maybe this Maggie Hansen can fill in a few blanks.”

  “Before we track her down,” T.J. suggested, “why don’t we check out Dr. Crawford’s place first? We’re driving to Brooklyn anyway and Park Slope borders Prospect Heights.”

  “Nice thought, but the search warrant hasn’t come through yet. So unless you’re into breaking and entering…”

  “Hey, it’s worth a try, no? Let’s kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Okay,” Dupree said. “I’ll bet you a cold brew or cocktail of your choice that we don’t get into Dr. Crawford’s apartment without a warrant.”

  “I’ll take that bet.”

  Dupree grabbed a folder from the backseat and leafed through the pages. She entered Dr. Crawford’s address into the police department issued GPS. As soon as the woman’s voice started barking driving instructions, she merged into traffic. The voice on the GPS directed Dupree to the Sheridan Expressway south to the Bruckner Expressway.

  It was a cloudy day in New York and the humidity seemed like it was flirting with 100%. Dupree wanted to remove her suit jacket, but felt certain her silk blouse was soaked with perspiration. Sweat stained armpits weren’t exactly the image she wished to portray. And of course, there was also the ongoing desire to conceal her bountiful “gifts” from God.

  When they arrived at the apartment building, a freakishly tall doorman, dressed in a navy blue uniform and an official-looking hat that made him appear to be an admiral in the Navy, hustled toward the front door and opened it for the detectives. He seemed about ten pounds away from looking like a stick person.

  “Good afternoon folks.” He gave them a thorough onceover and Dupree figured he was trying to remember if they looked familiar. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Dupree flashed her badge. “We’re New York City homicide detectives and we need entry into Dr. Lauren Crawford’s residence.” She glanced at her folder. “Apartment 22C.”

  His pleasant and welcoming look turned
sour. “Such a terrible tragedy. Dr. Crawford was a lovely person.” His eyes glazed over with tears. “Let me put you in touch with the building superintendent.”

  The doorman strolled over to a small table, picked up a telephone, and dialed a number. Dupree strained to hear the doorman’s half of the conversation but could only make out every third or fourth word. He returned with the same sour face.

  “Mr. Cardone will be down in a few minutes.” He pointed to an ornate bench with a padded seat cover that looked like velvet. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  As the doorman walked away from them, Dupree whispered in T.J.’s ear, “Looks like a piece of furniture from Buckingham Palace.”

  “Someone working here must be related to Prince William,” T.J. added.

  About to sit down, the elevator opened and a well-dressed, distinguished looking mid-fifties’ man made his way toward them. His full head of black hair didn’t have a trace of gray—not even at his temples. Grecian Formula had done a fine job, Dupree thought.

  “My name is David Cardone,” he said in a formal fashion. “I’m the building superintendent. What can I do for you, Detectives?” He didn’t offer a handshake and had an air of arrogance about him that made Dupree feel that he had much more important things to do than speak to a couple of nosey detectives.

  Dupree wondered why the superintendent seemed so inhospitable. They were cops, not auditors from the IRS.

  Dupree and T.J. showed him their badges and police IDs. “We’re conducting a homicide investigation and need access to Dr. Lauren Crawford’s apartment,” Dupree said.

  “What a shocking incident,” Cardone said, shaking his head. “Dr. Crawford was one of my favorite tenants. At Christmastime she would give gifts to our entire staff and somehow she never forgot a staff member’s birthday. Such a tragic loss.” For an instant, Cardone’s demeanor softened, but his face quickly returned to an unfriendly scowl.

  “It would help us a great deal if you would let us into her residence,” T.J. said, repeating the request.

  “Of course. I’d be more than happy to assist you. May I see your search warrant, please?”

  Dupree and T.J. eyeballed each other.

  “You do have a warrant don’t you?” Cardone asked.

  “We’ve already requested one,” Dupree said. “And the judge should sign it in the next day or so. However—”

  “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 7th 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?”