Brenda clicked on page two of the spread sheet and pointed again to the computer screen. “Three of the Oscars live in New York City.”
“Are there mug shots in the database?” T.J. asked.
“I’m getting to that. Keep your pants on.”
She opened several pages, hit the right keys, and like magic, all eleven images appeared on the screen. One by one Brenda reviewed their rap sheets. She pointed to the screen. “This guy here.” Brenda zoomed in on his name. “Oscar Cassano might be of particular interest.”
Brenda zoomed in on Cassano’s rap sheet and criminal record. “He’s been a busy boy. In and out of prison for a good part of his adult life and even spent a year in a juvenile detention center when he was a teenager. Every offense involved violence. His last stint was supposed to be in Auburn State Prison. But he was terrorizing a few new inmates—beat the tar out of one of them—so they shipped him off to Attica. And I don’t think I have to tell you that that prison is a supermax facility.”
“I thought that only lifers or criminals convicted of murder were sent to Attica,” T.J. said.
“Actually,” Dupree answered, “It’s not normal procedure, but in rare cases the courts will send a particularly violent criminal there even if he hasn’t committed murder.” Dupree turned towards Brenda. “How much time did he serve and when was he released?”
Brenda studied the monitor and scrolled down the page. “Served five years and they released him about two years ago.”
“Do we have his last known address?” Dupree asked.
Brenda pointed to the screen. “2020 Webster Avenue, east of Walnut in Yonkers.”
T.J. tapped Dupree on the shoulder. “I don’t have the best memory, but didn’t Ivan Tesler say that our boy Oscar here used to be a regular at a bar on Walnut?”
Dupree nodded. “A watering hole called the Night Owl.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, partner?” T.J. said.
“Yes. Let’s pay Mr. Cassano a surprise visit.”
“So you want me to drive?” T.J. asked.
“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”
Dupree stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her slacks. “As always, Brenda, you are my hero. Thanks for all your help.”
“That’s what they pay me for, Sugar. Good luck.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The ride to Yonkers took less time than Dupree expected. She turned onto Webster Avenue and Dupree perused up and down the street but found only one tight parking spot barely big enough for a compact car. She pulled next to a blue Nissan Ultima and slowly cranked the wheels as she backed her way into the spot.
T.J. laughed. “You’re shitting me, right? You’d be lucky to squeeze a Smart Car into that spot, let alone this boat.”
“You just watch me.” Having lived in the city all her life, and with street parking at a premium, Dupree had had lots of practice squeezing into small spots. Without having to abort the mission or start over, she carefully parked the car two inches away from the curb without touching a bumper.
“I gotta tell you, Amaris. I’m impressed. I’d have bet a king’s ransom you couldn’t do it.”
“Never, ever bet against a determined woman.”
“How do you want to play this?” Dupree asked. “If our guy is home, I don’t think he’s coming with us without a fight.”
“You go around to the back and I’ll knock on the front door,” T.J. suggested.
They stepped out of the car and made their way toward the duplex. 2020 Webster Avenue stood on the left. Just as Dupree was about to move down the long driveway, T.J. stopped her. “No heroics, there, Annie Oakley.”
Dupree winked. “Got it covered.”
Dupree made her way toward the back of the duplex. To avoid being seen by Cassano, she hugged the structure as she moved, ducking under the windows.
Once near the back door, Dupree drew her weapon and stood with her back pressed against the building, just to the side of the entrance. Standing there, she listened for any sound coming from the front of the house—any sign that T.J. had engaged the perp. As she stood there, a little shaky, she noticed that the backyard looked as if it had been professionally manicured. The lawn—freshly cut—looked like carpeting. Vibrantly-colored flowers lined the perimeter, and perfectly trimmed hedges bordered the neighbor’s yard. Not what she expected. Then again, maybe Cassano rented the place and his landlord was fussy about the way his property looked.
“Amaris?” T.J.’s voice echoed from around the corner of the house and startled Dupree.
“I’m here.”
T.J. appeared just as he holstered his weapon. “Either he’s not home or he doesn’t like company. What now?”
“The Night Owl is a few blocks away and it used to be Cassano’s hangout. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find him there.”
“Or,” T.J. said, “maybe Jake Sullivan, the bartender, knows where we can find him.”
Dupree spotted a small, gravel-covered lot next to the Night Owl. Not that Yonkers was the most upscale community in the New York City area, but it seemed more like a beer joint one might find in a rural town outside of Amarillo, Texas. The ramshackle structure looked in desperate need of a bucket of paint and a window washer.
Dupree chuckled when she saw a mural painted on the side of the building. A giant owl was roosting on a Harley Roadster, giving the thumbs-up sign with its wing. Of course, considering the obvious mentality of the clientele who would patronize such a place, it seemed entirely possible that the owl was flipping everyone off.
They stepped inside the tavern. Dupree noticed the occupancy sign over the front door limiting the number of patrons to fifty, but based on a quick scan and headcount, she guessed that there were no more than fifteen patrons milling about. A few occupied the bar area. Two guys, dressed like hardcore bikers, played pool, and a couple other guys were shooting darts. Clearly defiant against the public no-smoking regulations, half the patrons were puffing on cigarettes and the two pool players sucked on cigars. The buzz of barroom chatter hushed to a whisper once the patrons spotted them. They gawked at the detectives, evidently aware they were cops.
Dupree and T.J. moved toward the bar. The bartender, tall and wiry with a long ponytail hanging to the center of his back, immediately greeted them.
“Hi, folks. I’m Jake. A little out of your element, no?” He chuckled. “What can I get for ya? A pitcher of Kool-Aid, a Perrier—maybe a Shirley Temple?”
“I think we’re just fine.” Dupree elbowed T.J. “Do you have the phone number for the Department of Public Health programmed in your cell?”
T.J. pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I think I do.”
“Hey, now,” Jake said, “let’s not get carried away. I was just messing with you. I know you’re not regulars so I figured you must be the law.”
“Apparently,” Dupree said, “you have no respect for the law or this place wouldn’t have a cloud of blue smoke hovering in the air. Now, Jake, can we have a little chat or would you like us to make the call?”
“Please don’t do that,” Jake pleaded. “How can I help ya?”
Dupree looked around and could see that everyone in the bar was paying very close attention to their conversation. She spoke softly. “We understand that you’re close friends with Oscar Cassano. Does he come in here often?”
Jake didn’t answer immediately. But the question clearly rattled his nerves. “Sorry, I never heard of the guy.”
“Really?” Dupree said. “Interesting you should say that because another patron of yours told us that he used to play pool with Cassano in here regularly.”
T.J. placed his elbows on the bar and peered at Jake. “He claims Cassano and you are bosom buddies.”
“Look it, I said I don’t know anybody by the name of Cassano and I don’t.”
“We’re wasting our time with this joker.” She looked at Jake. “We’ll be back in a little while. Don’t go anywhere.”
Dupree and
T.J. turned and moved towards the front door.
“Wait!” Jake yelled.
“Is your memory working better now?” T.J. asked.
“Okay, okay,” Jake said. “I am pretty good friends with Oscar.”
“Then why did you deny it?” Dupree asked.
“Cassano is trouble. Big trouble.”
“Explain,” T.J. said.
“I heard some guys talking about something big going down and it involved Cassano.”
“That doesn’t tell us shit. Be more specific,” Dupree said.
“All I know is that it had to do with a robbery.”
“So you knew Cassano was going to be involved in a crime and did nothing?” T.J. said “I didn’t want to get involved.”
“Well, then,” Dupree said, “the way I see it, you are involved. You’re an accessory to a felony.”
“Please,” Jake said. “I had no idea—”
“I think you better come with us,” T.J. said.
The color drained from Jake’s face. “If you take me with you, I’ll have to throw everyone out and lock the doors. If the owner finds out, I’m out of a job. Isn’t there anything I can do to make things right?”
Dupree eyed T.J. “What do you think, partner? Should we give this schmuck a break?”
“Nah. There’s nothing he can do for us. We should cuff him and drag his ass to the police station.”
“Please,” Jake said, his hands shaking uncontrollably. “The next time Oscar comes in, I’ll call you right away. I swear. I mean, he’s the one you really want, right?”
T.J and Dupree didn’t say a word, acting as if they were considering his offer. Dupree reached in her handbag, removed a business card, and set it on the bar. “Two things. First, if we find out that Oscar showed up and you didn’t call us? I guarantee you’ll regret it. Second, I want you to display no smoking signs near the front door, behind the bar, in the bathrooms, and near the pool table. And if anyone—and I mean anyone—lights up, throw them out on their ass. Understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Now gather up your barflies and tell them the smoking party is over.”
On their way back to the precinct, traffic was impossible. Dupree tried a different route, but it seemed that half the city was trying it as well.
“Think Jake will come through?” Dupree asked.
“Not a chance.”
“What’s the expression? Thick as thieves?”
T.J. laughed. “Guess there’s a code of ethics among criminals.”
“It was worth a try,” Dupree said. “I’m thinking we should stake out Cassano’s place. What do you think?”
“Tonight?”
Dupree nodded. “Bring a thermos of coffee. It may be a long night.” Just then, her cell phone rang. She reached in her purse and pulled it out. When she glanced at the display, Dupree recognized the phone number and turned on the speaker. “What’s the good word, Brenda?”
“Did Captain Jensen call you yet?”
“I talked to him yesterday and gave him an update on the investigation, but haven’t spoken to him today. Why?”
“There’s a nice surprise waiting for you on your desk.”
“A box of Godiva dark chocolate truffles? You shouldn’t have, Brenda.”
“Better than chocolate.”
“The only thing better than chocolate is—”
“How about the bank records and cell phone activity for Jonathan Lentz?”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“How the hell did they get the bank and mobile carrier to release the records so quickly?”
“Hey, Sugar, this is the new millennium, the world of electronics, e-mail, and text messaging. You hit a few keys on your computer, contact the right people, twist a few arms, and voila, it’s like magic.”
“Your name is going to the top of my Christmas list.”
“Hey, all I did was give you a head’s up.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“I’m on my way out. See you in the a.m., Amaris.
Dupree dropped the cell in her purse. “Time to get back to work.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dupree and T.J. got back to the precinct a little after four p.m. There were a few lingering detectives—mostly finishing paperwork—and half a dozen administrative people. But for the most part, the majority of staff members were gone for the day. Dupree had learned early on that the life of a detective was not a nine-to-five job. She could remember investigating particularly difficult cases and working fifteen or twenty hours a day. Having an almost obsessive desire to crack a case, along with what felt like gallons of strong coffee, seemed to be the only two things that kept her going. It was cause for a celebration on the rare occasion she got more than five hours shuteye. For the most part, she functioned on power naps and closing her eyes for ten minutes while sitting on the toilet.
After Dupree had parked the squad car, she’d made a beeline for the precinct employee entrance, leaving T.J. several paces behind her. She could feel the adrenalin pumping as she made her way to her desk, anxious to review Lentz’s bank statements and cell records. Lying on her chair, she saw the bright green envelope with the word, “CONFIDENTIAL” printed across the top in big, bold letters. Below that it read, TO: Detective Amaris Dupree. FROM: Amy Sutherland. Dupree didn’t know Amy but at this particular point in time, she loved her!
T.J. finally caught up to her. “Where’s the fire?”
“I’m just dying to see Lentz’s bank statement and cell phone records.”
“Well,” T.J. said, “let’s use one of the interview rooms so we can have some privacy.”
Interview room 2 was unoccupied, so the two detectives walked in and sat side by side. Dupree used her index finger as if it were a letter opener and tore open the envelope. Inside, she found a cover letter from Amy Sutherland, a copy of the subpoena signed by Judge Marshall, and six 8 ½ by 11 pages, four with a list of cell calls Lentz had received and made, and two with a recap of all his banking transactions for the last sixty days.
“That’s strange,” Dupree said. “We got Lentz’s records but not Hansen’s.”
“I’ve seen that happen before,” T.J. said. “I’m sure they’ll come through in a day or two.”
She handed T.J. the bank statement. “Check this out while I look at the phone records.”
Both detectives, neither saying a word, examined the documents as if they were cramming for a final exam in astrophysics. After several minutes, T.J. was first to break the silence.
“This ought to perk up your ears.” He pointed to Lentz’s bank statement. “On July 1, Lentz deposited one-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars in a savings account.”
“So, he deposits a hundred-fifty K the day after Dr. Crawford was murdered?” Dupree said. “Very interesting coincidence. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Let’s check out his cell records and see if anything jumps off the page,” Dupree suggested.
“Our boy called an 888 number in Silver Spring, Maryland a bunch of times.” She ran her finger down the list and counted. “Twenty-three calls to be exact. In less than thirty days.”
“Did he receive any calls from that number?”
“Nope. Even if he had, that particular 888 number might show up as a different number. It’s like making a call from your office. The caller ID for the person you’re calling is going to show the main trunk number, not the specific extension.” She studied the received calls more carefully. “Here we go. Ready for this? Lentz received fourteen calls from a particular number with a 301 area code. Guess where.”
“Silver Spring?”
“Bingo,” Dupree said.
“So, apparently, Lentz and someone in Maryland were phone buddies.”
Dupree removed her iPhone from her purse. “Let’s conduct a little experiment.” She turned on the speaker and first dialed the 888 number Lentz had called twenty-three times. “Better to call from my cell than from an
office phone. I’ve got it programmed to display ‘PRIVATE’ on the caller ID display so it doesn’t disclose my cell phone number.”
They listened to the phone ring three times.
“Thank you for calling the Food and Drug Administration. You may find additional information by visiting our web site at www.fda.gov. Please listen carefully—”
Dupree disconnected. “Tell me that doesn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.”
“I don’t even know what to think at this point,” T.J. said. “Why would Lentz call the FDA so many times?”
“Let’s see if we can find out.” Dupree punched in the number beginning with area code 301, from where Lentz had received fourteen calls. “If it’s a business number, I would guess that it’s an automated answering system.”
One ring. Two rings.
“You have reached the office of Dominic Gallo, deputy director for the Center for Drug Evaluation and Research. At the tone, please leave a detailed message and a contact telephone number, and I will return the call as soon as I am available—”
Dupree glanced at T.J. and could tell by the dumbfounded look on his face that the voice message had stunned him as much as her.
“Didn’t Dr. Mason tell us that Dominic Gallo was the guy from the FDA working with Dr. Crawford?” T.J. asked.
“Sure was.”
“Are your wheels spinning as fast as mine?” T.J. said.
“Mr. Lentz has been a busy boy and has a lot of explaining to do.”
“If they were up to no good—and it’s obvious they were—why would Gallo be stupid enough to make all these calls from his office phone and leave a trail?”
“Well,” Dupree said, “either he never expected that anyone would connect the dots, or he made a serious technical error. Sometimes smart people do dumb things. If they didn’t, our job would be a lot harder.”
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