Hypocrisy (2 page)

“I’m on it, Detective. It’s a pleasure finally meeting you.” He smiled. “I’ve heard from several people that you have an interesting nickname.”

“I’ve got lots of nicknames, Moretti. Most inappropriate to repeat.”

“Why do they call you the Velvet Hammer?”

“When you get to know me better—assuming you do—I think you’ll figure it out.”

Dupree’s cell phone rang. “Detective Dupree speaking.”

“Hey Amaris, it’s Brenda, your favorite support analyst. Got something for you. The I-HEAL plates are registered to Dr. Lauren Crawford. Don’t know what kind of doctor she is, but the address on her registration is in Brooklyn. In the Park Slope area. 1550 Plaza Street West, Unit 22C. Date of birth is September 22, 1968. I took the liberty of downloading her driver’s license photo and sent a copy to your e-mail address.”

“Hang on for a sec.” Dupree fished through her purse and located her iPhone. After a few clicks, the photo of Dr. Crawford appeared on the screen.

“Got anything else for me?” Dupree asked.

“I searched our database and as far as I can tell, she’s a model citizen. Never even got a parking ticket.”

“Next of kin?” Dupree asked.

“I checked the County Clerk’s birth records and got the name of her mother and father. Dug a little deeper and found out that her father died a few years ago, but her mom is still alive—lives at 213 Penn Street in Williamsburg.”

“Thanks, Brenda. Please text me both addresses. I should be back to the precinct in a couple hours.” After studying the driver’s license photo Brenda had sent her, and comparing it to the victim, Dupree confirmed that the murdered woman was Dr. Crawford.

Butler was busy examining the interior of the car, searching for any foreign object—a piece of thread, a stray hair, any clue that might lead them to the killer.

“I’m out of here,” Dupree said.

“Had enough fun for one day?”

“You guys can handle it from here.” Dupree’s lips tightened to a thin line. “I’ve got to track down T.J. and go break a mother’s heart.”

CHAPTER TWO

“So, where the hell have you been?” Dupree asked T.J. She leaned against her desk and folded her arms across her chest like a teacher waiting for a student to explain why he was late for class.

“It was a rough night—didn’t get much sleep.”

“You’ve been a slacker lately.”

“I’m really sorry, Amaris.”

T.J. stood a head taller than Dupree; his skin the color of creamed coffee. He’d never talked to her about it, but she’d heard that he was a gym-rat, one of those workout fanatics who would rather pump iron for two hours than do just about anything else. He could also shoot hoops like a young Michael Jordan. Although she’d never seen him with his shirt off, clearly he maintained a toned and muscular body. Always clean shaven, she’d never seen him with any facial hair—not even stubble. And he kept his hair short and neatly styled.

Dupree’s cell phone rang. She looked at the display and saw Butler’s name.

“Did you solve the case already, John?”

“Afraid not. But we did get a positive DNA match on one of the blood samples.” He paused. “Unfortunately, it’s for the victim, not the perp.”

“Is it Lauren Crawford’s blood?”

“Affirmative.”

“How were you able to match the DNA so quickly?” Dupree asked.

“Don’t know why, but Crawford’s DNA was cataloged in the National Database.”

“Good work. Anything else to report?”

“Officer Moretti was able to get copies of the surveillance tapes at the ramp garage. We’re reviewing them as we speak to see if they got a shot of the perp’s face. If so, we’ll put it through face recognition and hopefully ID this creep.”

“Keep me in the loop, John.”

“Sure thing.”

Dupree combed her fingers through her long wavy hair.

“Positive ID?” T.J. asked, his dark eyes locked on Dupree’s face.

“Yep.”

Without saying another word, Dupree grabbed her purse and keys and headed toward the door. She looked over her shoulder at T.J., expecting him to follow her, but he stood there gulping the last mouthful of coffee. “Do you need an embossed invitation or would you rather take the day off and go fishing?” She hated being a bitch, but sometimes…

He threw his cup in the garbage pail and followed Dupree out the door.

As much as Dupree loved the energy and pulse of Manhattan, Brooklyn felt more like home. She’d lived there until she’d turned seventeen, a monumental crossroad that redefined her life and overshadowed her fond childhood memories. That’s when she and her mother stopped talking. Every time she drove the busy streets of Brooklyn, she felt overwhelmed with nostalgia and sweet memories turned sour. Except for police-related work, this was no longer her turf.

“There it is,” T.J. said, pointing to a beautiful all-brick home.

After parking the car, they walked up the short flight of stairs leading to the front porch and entrance of Ms. Crawford’s home. Two English Ivy plants hung from hooks on either side of the front door. A wooden bench—similar to those you see in a park—sat in the corner of the porch. She didn’t want to be reminded, but the architecture resembled her mother’s home. The home her mother decided to sell shortly after Dupree, a reckless teen, got pregnant and abandoned all sense of reason. Owning the home free and clear, Dupree’s mom was able to pay cash for a comfortable one bedroom apartment on 5
^th
Avenue in Manhattan.

Before Dupree could knock, the door swung open. The woman, presumably Dr. Crawford’s mother, was likely in her sixties, but didn’t look a day over fifty. Dupree didn’t know if it was Neutrogena, Nivea, or the juice from aloe vera plants, but whatever regimen Ms. Crawford followed to look so young was working well.

“I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown. Are you Ms. Crawford?”

“My dear husband’s long gone, but I still prefer
Mrs
. Crawford if you don’t mind.”

“May we have a word with you?” Dupree asked.

Mrs. Crawford studied the detectives’ faces with striking intensity. Her eyes darted back and forth as if she were trying to read their minds. “You’re here to deliver some bad news about my daughter, aren’t you?”

The question caught Dupree off guard. “May we come in and talk?”

Mrs. Crawford stepped to the side and invited them in. “Please have a seat.”

Dupree and T.J. sat next to each other on the light brown sofa. Mrs. Crawford sat adjacent to them on a straight back chair.
Dupree removed a digital recorder from her purse and set it on the cocktail table. “Do you mind if we record this conversation?”

“Do whatever you must.”

Dupree noticed a small table covered with a lace doily. On top of the table she saw about a dozen framed photographs. One of them—a full-face portrait one might have taken for a graduation—caught Dupree’s eye. Dupree pointed at the portrait. “Is that a photograph of your daughter?”

Mrs. Crawford nodded. “The day she graduated from Harvard with a Ph.D. in physiology. Third in her class. She also holds double Master’s Degrees in chemistry and biology. My Lauren is a real brainiac.” Mrs. Crawford folded her hands on her lap and studied the portrait of her daughter. “How did you know I have a daughter?”

For an instant, Dupree lost her voice.

Mrs. Crawford looked at Dupree with troubled eyes. “Say what you have to say, Detective.”

Dupree eyed T.J. who hadn’t uttered a sound since entering the home. “I’m so, so sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter was…murdered last night.”

Dupree expected an explosive response. Most of the time, next of kin reacted with violent outbursts, gut wrenching screams, and uncontrollable sobbing. But everyone processed devastating news differently. One time, a young mother whose daughter had been kidnapped, raped, and strangled, began swearing and swinging her fists at Dupree. But Mrs. Crawford seemed remarkably composed. Too composed. With some people, Dupree had learned, the immediate shock and unwillingness to accept the fact that a loved one was killed suppresses the reality of it all. But then, weeks, sometimes months later, a residual shockwave crashes over the victim’s survivors and the agony begins.

With her eyes full of tears, hands trembling, Mrs. Crawford asked, “How did my Lauren…die?”

Loathing the words as they slipped off her tongue, Dupree whispered, “A gunshot wound.”

“Where did you find her?”

“In the backseat of her car.”

“Was she…assaulted?

Dupree knew what she meant. “We don’t believe she was sexually assaulted, Mrs. Crawford, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“God have mercy,” Mrs. Crawford said. Tears dripped down her cheeks.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Dupree said.

Mrs. Crawford’s tears turned to heartbreaking sobs. She covered her face with her hands.

At this particular point in time, Dupree hated her job. She’d rather be working in a Pennsylvania coal mine or scrubbing toilets—anything other than this. “We don’t have to continue with this conversation, Mrs. Crawford. We can do it another time.”

“Do you think it’s going to be easier for me in a week? A month? Ten years from now?”

Dupree and T.J. remained silent and waited for her to regain her composure.

Mrs. Crawford stood with great effort and shuffled towards the table covered with photographs. She picked up the portrait of her daughter, pressed it to her chest, and eased herself onto the chair. For a few moments, the grief-stricken woman stared at her daughter’s photograph.

“Now I understand why Lauren was concerned for her welfare,” Mrs. Crawford whispered. “She’d always had the keenest sixth sense.”

“She
knew
she was in danger?” Dupree almost shouted.

“For a while she had this eerie feeling that someone was following her.”

“Someone in particular?” T.J. asked.

Mrs. Crawford shook her head. “Not exactly. It was just one of those unexplainable inklings. I told her to leave the research
and get a traditional job; something out of the limelight. But that was the shortest conversation in history. I don’t think even a death threat could have stopped her from continuing with her research.”

“You mentioned that your daughter earned a Ph.D. and two master’s degrees?” Dupree said. “What did she do for a living?”

“I’ll try to tell you the whole story, but first I need to use the bathroom.” Mrs. Crawford stood, her body teetering slightly. Afraid she might fall, Dupree ambled over to her and held onto her arm. “Are you okay?”

“Not at all.”

“Want me to walk you?” Dupree asked.

“I can manage,” Mrs. Crawford said and shuffled down the hall.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Dupree could hear Mrs. Crawford’s pitiful sobs.

“I hate this,” Dupree said. “Really friggin’
hate
this!”

“It’s not the most pleasant part of our job.”

Dupree listened carefully but could no longer hear Mrs. Crawford crying. She looked around the living room. It so reminded her of her mother’s home. The windows and baseboards were trimmed with thick mahogany-colored gumwood, appearing to be about an inch thick and six inches wide. Hefty beams spanned the ceiling, and exquisite crown moldings trimmed the angle between the ceiling and the walls. The hardwood floors were stained a few shades lighter than the rest of the wood trim and were finished to a lustrous shine. Mounted above the wood-burning fireplace, a thick wooden mantle was covered with what appeared to be antique vases, figurines, and a pendulum clock.

Mrs. Crawford returned and set a box of tissues on her lap. Her eyes were red and swollen. She removed several tissues and blotted her eyes. “Thanks so much for waiting. My bladder isn’t
what it used to be.” She tapped her temple with her index finger; her face had a look of total confusion. “Where were we?”

“You were going to tell us about your daughter’s career,” T.J. reminded her.

“Oh, yes, Lauren’s career. She’s worked for several high profile companies doing all kinds of research—technical research that’s way over my head. But a few years ago, my doctor diagnosed me with stage III pancreatic cancer. And the prognosis offered little hope. If you know anything at all about this terrible disease, you know that it’s almost always fatal. I underwent the traditional treatment that included aggressive chemotherapy, which has to be what hell is like. I lost about thirty pounds, had no appetite, spent hours near a bathroom because the waves of nausea were unpredictable and overwhelming. And of course, I lost all of my hair. Even my eyebrows.

“After all my pain and suffering, the doctors said that the cancer wasn’t responding to the chemo, so they pretty much gave up on me and told me I had about six months to live. To be honest, I actually felt relieved. I had been through so much pain and psychological distress that I welcomed death. I now know firsthand why so many sickly people want to die. You reach a point where your quality of life is so dreadful, death seems a better alternative.”

Mrs. Crawford paused again and took a long swallow of water. Her eyes glistened with tears.

The woman’s story mesmerized Dupree. And it brought back painful memories of her own. After a long, agonizing fight with breast cancer, Dupree’s mom had lost the battle. She remembered how her mom had given up, how she’d gone from a vibrant woman to skin stretched over bones, how her face was permanently etched with a look of total despair, how her rosy cheeks were replaced with ash-white skin. During her mom’s long illness, nineteen-year-old Dupree tried to mend their broken relationship, a tragedy for which she felt totally responsible. But her mom
was so medicated with morphine, Dupree never knew for sure if her mother comprehended her apology or if she’d earned her mom’s forgiveness. Her mom’s death was the catalyst that had given her the will and desire to straighten out her life. Wide-eyed with anticipation, Dupree waited for Mrs. Crawford to continue.

“Just at the point where I’d given up all hope, Lauren told me that she’d done a lot of research and discovered that the Century Nutrition Clinic in Tijuana had experienced some remarkable success treating terminal cancer patients with homeopathic herbs and low dose chemotherapy. Now keep in mind that this clinic only treats cancer patients who are incurable and have nothing to lose by trying alternative treatments. Well, to make a long story short, the doctors in America gave me six months to live—and that was nearly three years ago. Bear in mind that more patients have died than survived—I was one of the lucky ones, but all things considered, Lauren believed that Dr. Hulda Clark, the woman who founded the clinic and developed the treatments, was onto something revolutionary. But ironically, Clark herself died from cancer in 2009. Dr. Orlando Garcia, Clark’s second in command, continued her work but with limited funds. Consequently, future advancement of Dr. Clark’s theories would be unlikely.