Hypocrisy

by D. M. Annechino

  Dupree walked over, picked it up, and carefully examined the front of the envelope. It had been delivered to her through a company called Express Delivery Service. It was addressed to: Detective Amaris Dupree. Across the bottom of the envelope in big, bold letters it said: URGENT MATERIAL ENCLOSED.

  Obviously, the courier had delivered it to the front desk in the lobby and when one of the staff members saw that it appeared to be urgent, instead of calling her in the middle of the night, someone had slipped it under her door. About to zip it open, she noticed the sender’s name in the upper left hand corner.

  She froze.

  Shocked, alarmed, and utterly perplexed, Dupree gawked at the name with teary eyes. Her hands were trembling so severely, she almost lost her grip on the envelope.

  The sender’s name was Mary Dupree, her dead mother.

  Disoriented and overwhelmed with alarm, she wrapped a robe around her shivering body, put on a pair of slippers, and took the elevator to the lobby, envelope in hand. Mirrors were mounted on the back wall of the elevators, and when Dupree saw her reflection, she did her best to tame her wild hair, but it proved hopeless.

  Charlie was working the overnight shift, sitting behind the front desk reading a Sports Illustrated magazine—swimsuit edition. She immediately caught his eye.

  “Is everything okay, Ms. Dupree?” he said as he dropped the magazine and stood up.

  She pointed to the envelope. “Know anything about this, Charlie? Someone stuffed it under my door.”

  He ran his finger down the front page of the log book they used to track all visitors and deliveries. “Well, it was delivered a little before eleven p.m., which is very unusual. Most couriers stop their deliveries at nine p.m. This envelope was delivered just before I started my shift. I hope it was okay for us to put it under your door. Someone from the earlier shift must have done it. I’d be happy to do a little checking and let you know for sure.

  “That’s not necessary, Charlie. Thank you. Did the delivery guy sign the log book?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Can I have his name, please?”

  Charlie studied the log as if he were examining Dead Sea scrolls. “It’s hard to read but it looks like Juan Vargas.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  Once back in her apartment, Dupree fell into her leather recliner holding the mysterious envelope in her hand. She wanted to open it, but didn’t have the courage. What if it was a toxic poison? After much thought, she felt her paranoia was a little over the top and decided to open it. If it was a harmful substance, it wasn’t going to leap out of the envelope like a poisonous snake.

  She slipped on a pair of Playtex gloves, and slowly zipped open the envelope. Very carefully, she looked inside and found a plain white envelope. She held it up to the light and could see something inside, which appeared to be a three-by-five piece of paper or index card. She shook the envelope and could not see any foreign substance inside.

  Dupree tore the end of the envelope, careful not to disturb or damage its contents, reached in, and pulled out a piece of paper folded in half. She could see something written on the paper. She held it in her hand for several minutes, feeling silly that a little piece of paper could make her so anxious. Then, she opened the note and gasped.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After a horribly restless night, and a pounding headache this morning, Dupree couldn’t take her mind off of the unexplained envelope. Either someone from her past—a criminal she had put behind bars—or someone associated with the Crawford murder was trying to intimidate and distract her. She didn’t want to admit it, but whoever sent the letter had accomplished their goal. She’d placed the envelope and note inside a plastic bag and set it on her nightstand. She glanced at the note and couldn’t help reading it one more time.

  Ever eat cat stew?

  The mere thought of it both frightened and infuriated her. And of course, seeing Mary Dupree as the sender spooked her almost as much as the note inside the envelope.

  Her cop instincts made her feel strongly that the envelope had something to do with the Crawford investigation. It now seemed obvious that the momentum of the investigation was leading T.J. and her closer to the killer.

  Time for her to get her act in gear. She took a ten-minute shower, dressed, fussed with her hair the best she could, kissed both of her kitties on the head, and headed out the door with the plastic bag and its contents.

  In desperate need of high-test coffee, Dupree decided to swing by Starbucks on her way to the precinct; caffeine always worked better than pain killers. In Manhattan, there were three possible choices for parking a car: finding a free spot on the street, which was as rare as a royal flush, stuffing quarters into a metered street spot, or using a private parking lot that charged a minimum of ten bucks and hour. Dupree was in no mood to cruise up and down the street, so she pulled into a small lot and the attendant was happy to hand her a parking ticket.

  As she approached the entrance to Starbucks, only a short walk from where she’d parked, Dupree thought about scrapping the idea altogether and settling for some nasty cop-coffee when she saw ten or more people in line waiting to place an order. Just as she was ready to turn around, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two vaguely familiar faces. Sitting at a table for two, tucked away in the corner, holding hands like two high school sweethearts, she saw Jonathan Lentz and Maggie Hansen. Their body language and facial expressions were clearly those of two people who were more than just friends.

  Interesting.

  She thought about confronting them, if for no other reason than to see the looks of horror on their faces and to hear their lame excuses about why they were together. But that would not be wise. What would it accomplish? She decided to contact each of them individually and ask them to come to the precinct to answer a few more questions. That’s when she’d blindside them. The element of surprise always gave cops an edge. At this juncture, Dupree wasn’t quite sure how she’d handle the situation, what questions she’d ask. They hadn’t broken any laws and had the right to be in a relationship. Considering that Lentz lived in Queens and Hansen in Prospect Heights, it seemed odd to Dupree that their rendezvous was in the Village. Under the circumstances, meeting someplace away from their turf made sense.

  Dupree did an about face and scurried to her car before Lentz and Hansen had a chance to see her. She grudgingly paid the attendant ten dollars for the five minutes she’d parked there. Ready to drive off, she thought it might be a good idea to hang around and wait for them to leave. After all, the parking lot still owed her fifty-five minutes. Who knows? Maybe they’d do something to spark her curiosity. Not wanting to leave T.J. wondering why she hadn’t yet made it to the precinct, Dupree called him on his cell.

  “Got everything under control there, partner?” Dupree said. She thought about telling him about the letter but decided to wait until they were face to face.

  “Did you get caught in traffic or meet an old boyfriend?” T.J. said.

  “Neither. I stopped at Starbucks for a latté and stumbled upon something interesting.”

  “Do tell.”

  She told him about seeing Lentz and Hansen.

  “Ain’t that a kick in the pants,” T.J. said.

  “I’m going to stick around until they leave. I want to see if they part company with a peck on the cheek or they lock lips. You mind waiting for me?”

  “Got plenty to keep me busy,” T.J. said. “I’ll keep Tesler on ice until you get here.”

  “Great. Talk to you soon.”

  Dupree eased back and rested her head against the headrest. When she felt her eyes drooping, she decided to sit upright to help her stay alert.

  After sitting in her car for nearly thirty minutes, getting constant dirty looks from the parking attendant, Dupree spotted Lentz and Hansen strolling out the front door of Starbucks, holding hands. She scooched down in the driver’s seat and watched them walk to the far side of the same lot where she had parked. The lovebir
ds approached a white car. A giant-size SUV obstructed Dupree’s view, so she could not see what type of vehicle they were driving. She could just barely see the top of Lentz’s head disappear and assumed he’d gotten into the car.

  Dupree waited patiently for them to back out so she could get a better look at the car. And them. But one minute led to two and after five minutes, she could only assume that they were making out or engaged in a deep conversation. What else could they be doing? Finally, she saw the white car slowly inching its way out of the spot. Once backed out, Dupree could see that Lentz was the driver and Hansen was sitting in the passenger seat. Dupree checked out the back of the car, shocked to see that Lentz was driving an Audi A8. And it looked showroom new. Dupree didn’t know a lot about cars, but she suspected that this particular model came with a hefty price tag.

  Lentz headed for the exit. Dupree removed the digital recorder from her purse, turned it on, and recited the license plate number. With intentions of following them, she eased her car forward, but just before she had a chance to turn towards the exit, a four-door F-150 crew cab sitting next to her backed out of his spot, preventing Dupree from driving towards the exit. He moved the big truck so slowly and cautiously it seemed as if he was driving a ten-wheel dump truck. By the time the man maneuvered the big truck and pointed it where he wanted to go, Lentz and Hansen were gone.

  Damn!

  As Dupree pulled out of the driveway and merged into traffic, the Audi nowhere in sight, she thought about the hard luck story Lentz had shared with T.J. and her.

  Not bad for a schmuck working two jobs, living in a crappy apartment in Queens, and barely making ends meet.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  David Taylor, CEO of Ritter-Stone Pharmaceuticals, gathered with his colleagues behind closed doors in Taylor’s expansive den. He’d always felt that calling his thirty foot by forty foot retreat a den, seemed overtly understated. The room was rich with custom designed furniture, solid cherry covered walls, hand-carved crown moldings, and it was exquisitely decorated. It was a haven where a busy executive could sit in front of a crackling fire on a cool evening with the latest edition of Forbes magazine, pour himself a snifter of Louis XIII cognac, light up a Montecristo cigar, and unwind from the demands of his stressful career. This fourteen thousand square foot mansion was one of six homes he owned around the world. But of all his homes, even the villa in Tuscany, this was his favorite; a tranquil, remote hideaway.

  “How was your flight, Ed?” Taylor asked Mason.

  “No complaints. How could anyone take issue with flying first class? Of course, I wasn’t thrilled with flying a helicopter from San Juan here. But it sure beat one of those puddle jumpers. I appreciate the accommodation.”

  “That’s the one drawback with Anguilla. Unless you come to the island by boat, you can only fly directly from Puerto Rico in a turbo-prop plane. Not the most comfortable way to travel.”

  “Anguilla is a beautiful island,” Mason said. “From the air, it looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting.”

  “Indeed,” Taylor said.

  He pointed to the other two men seated at the long table. “That’s Warren Price, CEO of Global Pharmaceuticals, and next to him is Clarence Sadowski, CEO of Fowler-Paine.”

  “It’s my pleasure to meet you gentlemen,” Mason said.

  “First of all,” Taylor said, “let me extend our deepest sympathy for the tragic death of Dr. Crawford. I was stunned when I heard of her murder.”

  “She was a real pioneer,” Sadowski said. “Light years ahead of anyone else in medical research.”

  “Her death,” Price said, “must have placed your entire operation in a tailspin.”

  “You have no idea,” Mason said. “Forgive the vulgarity, but Horizon went from a well-oiled machine to a cluster-fuck.”

  “Well, hopefully,” Taylor said, his eyes locked on Mason, “we can come to terms and help put Horizon back on track.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Mason said.

  The room was quiet for a few moments.

  “With all due respect,” Mason said, “and no reflection on anyone here, I feel pigeonholed, like I no longer have the option to select a partner based on due diligence and objective evaluation. I’m not suggesting that you gentlemen and your respective companies would not be extraordinary partners. Only that I’m really backed in the corner and the clock is ticking.”

  “We appreciate your situation,” Taylor said. “But we also have a major concern. If we agree to a partnership, the last thing we want is competition. How can we be sure that whoever stole Dr. Crawford’s computer hasn’t already hired an I.T. whiz to access the hard drive and retrieve all the data? In this day and age, even the most secure encryption system can be hacked.”

  “Every encryption system has vulnerabilities,” Mason agreed. “However, Dr. Crawford’s computer employs a unique failsafe. If anyone enters the wrong codes or makes an attempt to override the passwords, the hard drive will crash, and none of the data will be recoverable. Dr. Crawford was obsessed with protecting every piece of her data, no matter how inconsequential. She insisted that every computer in the research center be set up with this system.”

  “That’s reassuring, Ed,” Taylor said, “but it’s still something for us to be concerned about.”

  “Let’s get down to brass tacks and try to strike a deal,” Price said.

  “Before we do,” Taylor said, “I have to confirm something with you, Ed. A while back, Hyland Laboratories was trying to negotiate a deal with Horizon. As I understand it, Dr. Crawford vetoed this joint venture. Is that correct?”

  Mason blinked with surprise. “I don’t know who your sources are, but I applaud them. Only Michael Adelman, CEO of Hyland, Dr. Crawford, and I were involved in these talks. No one else at Horizon or Hyland was privy to this information.”

  “In the new millennium,” Taylor said, his tone somewhat arrogant, “no communication is so private that it can’t be compromised.”

  For several minutes, a lull fell over the room.

  “So tell me gentlemen,” Mason said. “If we agree that a joint venture makes sense for both of us, what can you contribute to Horizon?”

  “Prior to this meeting,” Taylor said, “my colleagues and I spent a great deal of time determining what our role might be and what kind of deal we feel would be equitable for both Horizon and us. No matter how promising, at this juncture no one knows for sure if Dr. Crawford’s theories will prove true. There is a great deal of risk for us. That said, we’re still prepared to invest a considerable amount of money to fund this project.”

  “And what do you deem a considerable amount of money?” Mason asked.

  “Our three companies combined are willing to invest twenty-million dollars in this project. We also want to move the facility to a different location with state of the art equipment. We all feel strongly that we should hire at least another twenty five people. We want to accelerate the research, get the approval of the FDA, and begin marketing and distribution in less than two years. In return for our financial and professional support, we want fifty-one percent control of Horizon.”

  “Your proposal far exceeds my expectations,” Mason admitted. “But I just don’t know if I can give anyone controlling interest in this project. In all fairness, as generous as it sounds, I have to speak to Michael Adelman from Hyland before I make a decision.”

  “We understand, Ed. You have to make the best choice for Horizon. But maybe we can sweeten the deal and move forward. Would you mind giving me a few minutes to speak with my colleagues?”

  “Not at all.”

  Taylor pointed to the door. “You can make yourself comfortable in the living room while we talk. It won’t take very long.”

  Mason left the den and waited patiently in the living room. After what seemed like only five minutes, Taylor opened the door and invited him back in.

  “If we can come to terms,” Taylor said, “our attorneys can draft the contracts in a few days. In
the meantime, as a good faith gesture, my colleagues and I are willing to wire one-million dollars into any account you designate.” Taylor wagged his index finger at Mason. “Let me be clear. This is in no way a bribe or meant to be anything underhanded. Even if you decide not to partner with us, you still keep the money.” Taylor winked. “Consider it an incentive.”

  Mason’s mouth hung open. “I don’t know what to say, David. Your willingness to—”

  “Just say that we have a deal so we can wrap this up and kick things into high gear.”

  “As tempting as your generous offer is, in clear conscience, I can’t accept any money directly. Ethically, it would really bother me.”

  “I understand,” Taylor said. “In fact, I really admire your integrity. Not too many people on this planet would turn down a million dollars—no strings attached.”

  Mason stood and extended his hand toward Taylor. “Right after I meet with Michael Adelman, I’ll make a decision.”

  Taylor offered his hand. “I look forward to working with you, Ed.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  By the time Dupree arrived at the precinct, her aching temples had settled down. She found T.J. sitting at his desk, with his face buried in paperwork. Nonchalantly, she opened her desk drawer and slid the envelope inside. She intended to drop it off at the lab as soon as she spoke to T.J. about it.

  “Good morning,” Dupree said.

  T.J. looked up at her. “How was your latté?”

  “Place was too busy. Besides, I didn’t want the lovebirds to see me.”