Hypocrisy (8 page)

“I was absolutely stunned. Speechless. When I tried to reason with her, she wanted no part of it. I got loud. She got loud. And the next thing I know, two security guards accompanied me to my office, watched me pack up my personal belongings, and then escorted me to the front door. I felt like a criminal.”

“Did you threaten her in any way?” Dupree asked.

“I called her a bitch and yelled something, but honestly don’t remember what I said. I was a little shell-shocked.”

“The way I understand it,” Dupree said, “you said, ‘You haven’t seen the last of me, bitch’. Do you remember saying that?”

“Look, I don’t know what the hell I said. But what I do know is that yes, she was a bitch, and no, I didn’t kill her.” Hansen paused for a minute, her hands trembling. “You know the worst part? I had just turned down a job offer from Hyland Laboratories that would have
doubled
my salary.
Doubled
my salary! What did my selfless loyalty get me? If I don’t find a job soon, I’ll be living in the streets in six months.” Hansen let out a heavy sigh. “You want to know why I passed on this opportunity with Hyland? Because I truly believed in what Dr. Crawford was trying to do. I had heard so many wonderful things about her, that she was very generous and a genuinely nice person. And that may be the case in her personal life. But I can tell you this—and you can verify my story with anyone who worked for her—in the work environment, she was a different animal. An unforgiving tyrant. A woman so driven by her passion to find a new treatment for cancer that she
operated Horizon like a fucking concentration camp. Everybody, and I mean everybody—even Dr. Mason—trembled in their boots when she walked by.” Hansen was noticeably upset. “I moved here from my hometown in Virginia, left my family and lifelong friends to work with Dr. Crawford. And where am I now? Alone and soon I’ll be standing in the breadline.”

Dupree eyeballed T.J. and she could tell by the look on his face that he too remembered that Dr. Mason had told them that Hyland Laboratories attempted to partner with Horizon, but Dr. Crawford had vetoed the idea.

“Tell me, Ms. Hansen,” T.J. said, “can you think of anyone who would want to physically harm Dr. Crawford?”

“Well, I think most of her employees had fantasies about flattening the tires on her car. But murder her?” Hansen paused again and looked past the detectives at something in the distance. “All I can say is that this woman was on the threshold of discovering something revolutionary. Something that would turn the whole medical industry on its ear. Lots of people in healthcare stood to gain a great deal if Dr. Crawford’s theories proved true. But there were also those who would lose—and lose big time.”

“Can you explain why?” Dupree asked, reasonably sure she knew what Hansen would say.

“Cancer research, cancer treatment, cancer prevention is a multi-billion dollar enterprise. Do you have any idea how many people are employed just because there is no real cure for cancer? Do you have any idea how much the pharmaceutical industry makes treating cancer patients with chemotherapy drugs? Can you even begin to imagine how many hundreds of research centers there are worldwide just like Horizon that are funded by the American Cancer Society, the National Cancer Institute, other non-profit organizations, and private investors? How about radiology, oncology, surgery? If Dr. Crawford’s clinical research validated her theories, if she had developed an effective treatment
for cancer, the entire landscape of cancer research and treatment would dramatically change. I don’t buy into conspiracy theories. But when the stakes are this high, anything is possible.”

There was a long stillness as both detectives processed Hansen’s little speech.

“Do you really believe that there are people or organizations in healthcare that would actually try to suppress the cure for cancer?” T.J. asked.

“In my opinion, money and power could have corrupted even Gandhi and Mother Teresa.”

Dupree glanced at T.J. and noticed a strange look on his face.

“One more question and we’ll be out of your hair,” Dupree said. “I don’t mean to insult you but I have to ask if you’ve ever been arrested.”

Hansen laughed. “I don’t even kill spiders.”

“Me neither,” Dupree said. “I let my cats take care of them.”

Dupree reached into her purse and handed Hansen a business card. “If anything at all comes to mind—no matter how seemingly insignificant—please give me a call. We appreciate you taking the time to speak with us.”

Hansen opened the door for the detectives. Dupree stopped and turned around. “One more thing. Did Dr. Crawford and you have any prior conflicts?”

Hansen hesitated for a long time. “I don’t know if I would call our little spats conflicts, but to put it crudely, let’s just say that Dr. Crawford regularly chewed on my ass.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

After interviewing Hansen, Dupree and T.J. compared notes.

“Peculiar gal,” T.J. said. “Not how I pictured a scientist. And that accent just doesn’t fit.”

“That was my immediate thought as soon as she opened her mouth,” Dupree agreed.

“Interesting coincidence that Hyland Laboratories not only tried to partner with Horizon, but also tried to recruit Hansen,” T.J. said.

“I think it’s more than just interesting.”

“I can’t envision Hansen involved in a conspiracy to commit murder,” T.J. said. “Just doesn’t seem the type.”

“Neither was Ted Bundy.”

“Not quite a fair comparison.”

“All I’m saying,” Dupree said, “is that if you want someone dead, you don’t have to look like a murderer to commit murder. You just need a motive and a set of balls.” Dupree’s thumbs went to work on her iPhone.

“And you’re point?”

“Given the right circumstances, good people will do bad things.”

“Seriously?” T.J. said. “You actually believe that Hansen is capable of such a thing?”

“My point is that as harmless as Hansen may seem, it is
possible
that she somehow is complicit in Dr. Crawford’s murder.
Remember the Carson homicides? How certain were we that this fragile, old lady wasn’t capable of hurting a flea? Turned out that this sweet woman who looked like she could win first prize for grandmother of the year, hacked up her neighbors with an axe, just because their German shepherd kept digging up her tulips. If messing with your neighbor’s flowers can get you chopped up into little pieces, maybe getting fired can make you hungry for revenge as well.”

“Revenge, yes,” T.J. said. “But murder?”

Dupree talked while she still typed on her iPhone. “Been around dead bodies long enough to know that nothing would surprise me.”

“Okay,” T.J. said. “Let’s get real crazy here. We know that the bald guy videotaped on the surveillance cameras at the crime scene was the killer. So, let’s assume that Hansen hired him to murder Dr. Crawford. Do you know what kind of money we’re talking?”

“Hey,” Dupree said, “Hansen lives in a pretty posh condo. Just because she’s crying poverty doesn’t mean it’s true. Besides, how do we know that the bald guy didn’t have something to gain from murdering Dr. Crawford and taking her computer? And…could be that Hansen wasn’t flying solo.”

“Good point,” T.J. admitted. “First thing tomorrow after our morning briefing, I’ll get a complete background check on Maggie Hansen. Criminal records. Employment history. Credit reports.”

“And if we find anything suspicious,” Dupree said, “I’ll contact Judge Marshall and I’m sure I can twist his arm for a subpoena to check her banking records. I’d like to know if there are any unusual transactions.”

Dupree started the car and drove towards the condo exit, still holding her phone while driving.

“Interesting that Dr. Mason also pointed out that certain people or corporations would benefit from stealing Dr. Crawford’s research records and putting her in an early grave,” Dupree said.

“True,” T.J. agreed. “But more often than not, homicides usually come down to the most obvious possibility. This whole case might be something as simple as a mugging, sexual assault, or a carjacking gone badly.”

“I think it’s something bigger,” Dupree said. “Something much bigger.” She handed the iPhone to T.J. “Don’t you just love smartphones? The Internet at your fingertips 24/7.”

T.J. seemed not to understand why Dupree gave him her phone. Then he looked at the screen. “Holy shit.”

“Hyland Laboratories,” Dupree said, “the company that allegedly offered Hansen a job and tried to partner with Horizon, is the number one manufacturer of Camadyacin, the most widely used chemotherapy drug in the world.”

Dupree eased her car into the heavy traffic and stopped at a red light. “So, where are you buying me that cocktail?”

Dupree sat across from T.J. and tasted her drink. She clicked her glass against his bottle of Heineken. “Thanks for the drink. They taste so much better when someone else picks up the tab.”

She hated the bar scene, all of the games and the lies and the antics. Lonely women searching for “Mr. Right,” and hopeful men looking for “Ms. Right-Now.” Why would any woman search for a quality man in a bar? Then again, she’d read somewhere that in this day and age, more women than men were on the prowl for one-night stands. It was probably an article in
Cosmo
. Maybe all the steamy romance novels she’d read and the romantic comedies she’d watched on TV with storybook endings were nothing more than fairytales.

Sitting across from T.J., nursing her drink, Dupree once again realized how very little she knew about him personally. Sure, she had heard the gossip about his supposed unsavory reputation
with women, and his daily accounts of conquests. But she had no idea
who
he was, where he came from, or what made him tick. Strange, she thought. How is it possible to work with someone closely day after day for half a year and not really know them?

“I owe you an apology,” Dupree said. “You probably think I’m a fourteen-carat-jerk for lecturing you when we went to interview Dr. Mason, and I’m sorry. I have no right to judge your lifestyle or any part of your personal life. But when it interferes with our job duties, I can’t turn my head the other way. Someday I’m going to need you to watch my back and you’re not going to be there. If this was an isolated incident or a once-in-while-thing, I could let it go, but—”

“I’m not going to bullshit you, Amaris. I have no argument and no defense for my irresponsible actions. I’m truly sorry.” He took a long swig of his beer.

Dupree studied T.J. with probing eyes. He waved to the cocktail waitress and she promptly came to their table. T.J. looked at Dupree.

“Another?” he asked.

Normally, she was a one-drink-gal, but felt a little wound up today. She nodded. “I can handle one more.”

For over an hour, the two detectives talked about their homicide investigation, trying to fit all the pieces in place and noting where pieces were missing. Dupree, quite to her surprise, was nursing her third lemon drop; T.J. gulped the last mouthful of his fourth beer. Dupree hadn’t been this tipsy in years and she actually enjoyed the feeling. It was refreshing to let down her guard. Refreshing and dangerous.

“So, T.J., don’t you think it’s about time we get to know each other?”

He looked confused. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been working together for six months.”

“And that in itself means we know each other? I mean
really
know each other?”

“Where are you going with this, Amaris?”

“I’m only trying to point out that our entire relationship is superficial; business only. I know little if anything about you, and you know less about me.”

“That’s horseshit.”

“Want to bet another cocktail?”

“You’re on.”

“Okay, smart ass,” Dupree said. “Let’s play twenty questions.” She tapped her index finger on the side of her temple. “When is my birthday?”

He chewed on his lip. “It’s coming soon. In August.”

“August what?”

He shrugged. “Sometime between the 1
^st
and the 31
^st
.”

“Strike one,” Dupree said. “Do I have any siblings?”

“Um, I think so.” More lip chewing. “You’ve got a brother and sister?”

“Good guess. I’m an only child. Strike two.” She hesitated for a minute, not sure if she should ask this question. But her head was spinning and her tongue flapping freely, so why stop now? “Have I ever been married?”

T.J. rested his chin on folded hands. “Okay, you made your point. I owe you another drink.”

No way could Dupree deal with drink number four. “I’ll take a rain check on that, thank you.”

“Come on,” T.J. taunted. “You can handle one more.”

She’d parked her car in the underground garage in her apartment building, and she and T.J. had walked to Wicked Willy’s in the Village. So having to drive wasn’t an issue for Dupree. However, the compelling question was whether or not she could
walk
back to her apartment without stumbling like a brown-bag
juicehead. But in spite of the alarm going off in her brain, she abandoned her common sense.

“Okay.
One
more and I mean it.”