“Just until we transfer you to the county jail,” T.J. said.
The detectives stood up and each held one of Cassano’s arms. They led him through the door and down the hall to his jail cell.
“Let me know what the DA says,” Cassano requested.
“You’ll be the first,” Dupree said. “Oh, one more thing. We’re going to need a blood sample.”
“Why?”
“Silly question, Mr. Cassano.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Afraid not.”
As soon as Cassano was out of earshot, T.J. said, “Nice touch about the document case.”
“Just wanted to pucker up his ass.”
“You certainly did.”
Dupree and T.J. walked side-by-side toward their desks. They glanced at each other and spoke one word at exactly the same time.
“Hansen?”
Just then, Captain Jensen doubled-stepped it to Dupree’s desk. “We need to talk.”
Rarely had Dupree seen Jensen so wired. He looked like a junkie two days into rehab.
She picked up her purse.
The captain pointed at T.J. “Why don’t you join us, Detective?”
Dupree and T.J. followed Captain Jensen to his office. Once inside, Jensen closed the door. Dupree spotted John Butler sitting in an armchair. By the stern look on Butler’s face, Dupree knew that the captain hadn’t invited them to his office for afternoon tea.
Jensen nodded toward Butler.
“This little powwow is about the second envelope I received, isn’t it?” Dupree asked.
Butler nodded. “There’s bad news and worse news.”
Dupree, nerves frazzled, almost shouted, “Are you going to keep me in suspense or tell me what the fuck is going on?”
“First,” Butler said, “with the exception of the captain, two FedEx employees, and the FedEx driver, there are no viable fingerprints on the envelope. The small envelope inside was filled with ricin.” He hesitated. “There was also a note.”
“And what did it say?” Dupree asked.
Butler looked at Jensen and he nodded. “For extra flavor, sprinkle some of this on your cat stew.”
Dupree could hardly breathe. It felt as if her lungs were filled with concrete. She glanced at T.J. and his cheeks were flushed red. “Isn’t ricin the poison a few politicians received in the mail?”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Butler said. “One of the most toxic substances on Earth.
Inhaling just a few crystals…well, let’s just say that it’s some nasty shit.”
A lull came over the room.
“Where the hell would some nutcase get their hands on ricin?” Dupree asked.
“Ricin is made from castor beans and the process is very complicated. If you Google, ‘How to make ricin’, you’ll find dozens of instructions, but few, if any, would actually work.
“So, it would appear,” Dupree said, “that whoever sent these envelopes not only wants to mess with my head, they also want to kill me.”
“Why don’t I assign two patrolmen to watch your building,” Jensen said. “One to watch the lobby and the other stationed outside your door.”
“I can handle myself, Captain.”
“This is no time for your ego to cloud your thinking, Amaris,” T.J. said.
“I’ll be okay. Really.”
“Well,” Jensen said, “it’s your call. But if you change your mind or feel threatened in any way, don’t be a hero.”
Dupree and T.J. left Jensen’s office and returned to their desks.
“You’re not going to nag me to accept the captain’s offer, right, T.J.?”
“No guarantees. But I’ll do my best to zip my lips.”
“I keep thinking about the cat stew note,” Dupree said, “trying to figure out if anyone associated with the investigation knows I have cats.”
“Didn’t you mention to Hansen that you had two cats the first time we spoke to her?”
“I think you’re right,” Dupree said. “Let me make a call and see if the warrant to search Hansen’s place is ready to go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Boy,” T.J. said, “is there anything Judge Marshall won’t do for you?”
“I’m sure that someday I’ll find out.”
“What’s the plan?” T.J. asked.
“Let’s swing by the court house, pick up the warrant, and head over to Hansen’s.”
Traffic was congested on their way to Prospect Heights.
“Why don’t you just use the siren and beacon?” T.J. suggested.
“Wouldn’t that be abusing my authority?”
“C’mon, Amaris, it isn’t like you’re lifting some pot from the evidence room.”
“Good point, but—”
“Do you always play by the book?”
“Thus far, I haven’t found a reason not to. But you never know what tomorrow might bring. And remember: I do use my cell when I’m driving.”
Finally, after a grueling ride, Dupree and T.J. arrived at Hansen’s building. She wasn’t sure why, but during the drive, she and T.J. hardly spoke. A noticeable air of tension hovered over them. Under normal circumstances, she might not give this a second thought. But with all they had uncovered over the last couple of days, it seemed that T.J. and she had plenty to discuss. She wanted to let it rest, but an uncontrollable urge got the best of her.
“Talk to me, T.J. What the hell is going on?”
“Did I miss something?”
“Don’t play that game with me,” Dupree said. “It’s been like a morgue in this car for over an hour. I had to check a couple of times to be sure you were still breathing. What gives?”
“Well, you haven’t been much of a conversationalist either,” T.J. shot back.
“I’m really sorry. Guess I’m just a little preoccupied with cat stew and ricin.” Dupree’s voice was a little shaky.
T.J. glanced at her. “Am I an insensitive clod or what? I’m so sorry. I wasn’t even thinking about—”
“You’re not insensitive. But you are a little self-absorbed right now. What is it?”
“I just have a lot on my mind.”
Dupree backed into a parking spot, unbuckled her seatbelt, and turned off the ignition. “Is it Haley?”
“It’s always Haley, Amaris. Thoughts of her…”
She grasped his forearm. “We’re both dealing with a lot of shit right now, but we’re so close on this investigation, we just can’t afford to get distracted.”
“You’re absolutely right,” T.J. agreed. “I know that for a long time I haven’t been much of a partner. You had every right to blow me in to the captain, but you didn’t. You stood by me. I really appreciate that. Then, you finally kicked me square in the ass and woke me up. Haven’t you seen a change in me?”
“Of course I have, T.J. You’ve been right on top of everything.” She squeezed his forearm again. “I just want you to know that you can talk to me. Spill your guts. Dump on me. Tell me what you’re feeling. You talk and I’ll listen. Sometimes it really helps to let it all out. Believe me, I know what it’s like to keep everything bottled up inside, waiting for your head to explode. It’s not a place where I want to be. And I know it’s not a good place for you either.”
Silence again. But a different kind of quiet.
“I guess I’m feeling really guilty,” T.J. admitted.
“About what?”
“I’m finally ready to move on.”
“And by ‘move on’, you mean?”
“I think I can actually leave the past in the past and start living again.”
Dupree could see his eyes glazing over. “That’s not a bad thing, T.J.”
“Haley’s always going to be there, somewhere in my thoughts. I’ll never erase the image of her lying on that bed…”
Dupree knew better than to say anything.
“But I can’t live like this any longer. I don’t want to be haunted by something I can’t change. I have to g
et beyond this or there’s absolutely no possibility that I’ll ever have a meaningful relationship again.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You already did.” He reached over and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Let’s get down to business.”
Dupree was a little stunned by T.J.’s actions. Was it merely a friendly gesture? Or more?
They dodged traffic crossing the street, heading towards Hansen’s building. Once across, Dupree grabbed T.J.’s arm just as they were about to enter. “Something just occurred to me,” Dupree said. “Butler said that the process to make ricin from caster beans was very complicated, right?”
“He did.”
“Well, wouldn’t you think that a research scientist knowledgeable in chemistry might figure out how to extract ricin from castor beans?”
“Holy shit.”
As soon as they entered the building, the grossly overweight, shabbily groomed security guard Dupree remembered walked over to them.
He pointed at them. “You’re those detectives aren’t you?”
Dupree showed him her badge. “Yes, we are those detectives.”
She and T.J. moved past him as if he didn’t exist and headed for the elevator.
“Excuse me,” the security guard yelled. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Well,” T.J. said, “when we get on this elevator, we’re probably going up.”
“Who exactly are you looking for?”
“That’s exactly none of your business,” T.J. answered.
The security guard gave them a seething look. “Now you two just wait one…
darn…minute. You’ve got no right to barge in here like you own the place.”
Dupree pulled the search warrant out of her inside jacket pocket and waved it in front of his face. “Actually,” she glanced at his name tag, “Ralph, we do kind of own the place.”
“Well, can you at least tell me who you want to see?”
T.J. pushed the ‘up’ button and the doors opened immediately. “Do you have a master key to all the residences?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t you come with us?” T.J. said. “And you can find out first hand who we want to see.”
Dupree could see that Ralph would rather jump off a cliff than join them, but he didn’t protest. Unlike the friendly, animated elevator operator Dupree and T.J. had encountered during their first visit, this one was expressionless, talked in a monotone voice, and his face was as milky white as an Albino wolf.
“Floor, please.”
“Twenty-three,” Dupree said.
The turbocharged elevator climbed up in less than ten seconds.
As the doors opened, Ralph’s face lit up. “Now I remember! You’re here to see Margaret Hansen, aren’t you?”
“Sh,” Dupree said. “We want to surprise her.”
Ralph led them to unit 2311.
About to knock on the door, Dupree said, “Wait a minute before you leave. If she’s not home, we need you to unlock the door.”
T.J. knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
T.J. pointed to the ring of keys hanging off Ralph’s belt. “Please let us in.”
Ralph sorted through his keys, found the master, unlocked the door, and slowly pushed it open.
“We’ll take it from here,” Dupree said. “You can go about your business. We’ll let you know when we’re done.” Dupree took out her cell. “May I have your phone number, Ralph?”
“212-555-9153.”
Dupree saved the number.
They entered the apartment and closed the door. “Let’s get busy,” Dupree said. “I’ll start in the bedroom, you check out the kitchen.”
Remembering the messy condition of Hansen’s apartment the first time she’d spoken to the suspect, Dupree was surprised at its tidiness. The bedroom looked like a centerfold ad for Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Before Dupree began going through dresser drawers, searching closets, and inspecting the items scattered on the nightstands and vanity, five cardboard boxes neatly stacked in the corner caught her eye.
She reached for the box on top of the pile and tried to lift it, but the box felt way too heavy.
“Hey, T.J.,” she yelled. “Can you help me for a sec?”
When T.J. walked into the bedroom, Dupree pointed to the box. “Mind helping me with this?”
Each of them lifted opposite sides of the box and set it on the floor.
T.J grunted. “What the hell’s in there, gold bricks?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
T.J. disappeared through the doorway. With her hands resting on her hips, she examined the outside of the box. The top was neatly sealed with packing tape, and written on one side in black marker were the initials, “S.A.” Below the initials was a phone number: 212-555-9983. Curiosity got the best of her, so Dupree took out her cell and keyed in the number.
One ring. Two rings. Then, a recorded message. “Thank you for calling the Salvation Army. To schedule a pickup, please press one. For a list of area drop-off locations, press two. For a…”
“Salvation Army?”
She fished around the bottom of her handbag until she found her Swiss Army knife. She carefully cut the packing tape and opened the top of the cardboard box. Filled to capacity, she found neatly folded men’s clothing. As she dug through the box, examining its contents, Dupree saw sweaters, jeans, polo shirts, a leather jacket, a pair of Nike sneakers, and an assortment of other items. Almost everything in the box was in good condition. Not the type of clothing one would normally donate to a charity.
Anxious to check the contents of the other four cardboard boxes, she reached for the top box. Quite to her surprise, her adrenalin rescued her muscles, and she managed to gingerly lift the box and set it on the floor without T.J.’s help. Although larger, the last two stacked boxes were much lighter.
With all five cardboard boxes on the floor, one-by-one, Dupree rummaged through the contents. All were full of neatly-folded men’s clothing. Just then T.J. appeared.
“Any luck?”
“I haven’t searched the room yet. Been busy with these boxes.”
“And?”
“They’re full of men’s clothing. All in pretty good shape.” She told him about the initials on the side of the boxes and the phone number she’d called.
“But why would she donate five boxes of men’s clothing to the Salvation Army?”
“They must be Lentz’s clothes,” Dupree said.” “If our boy can afford an Audi, maybe he went out and bought a new wardrobe.”
“Or, maybe he doesn’t need his clothes anymore.” T.J. offered.
“I have a really bad feeling about this,” Dupree said. “Either Lentz never had time to unpack, which seems odd. Or something is very wrong. Let’s call in an APB on his Audi and see if we can locate him. I’ll contact Brenda and get it handled.”
For the next two hours, Dupree and T.J. combed the entire apartment, but found nothing to support the theory that Hansen was indeed the woman who spoke to Cassano and made arrangements for him to steal Dr. Crawford’s computer, or possibly murder her.
“Are we done?” T.J. asked, his tone almost a plea.
“Let’s sit down for a few minutes,” Dupree said. “I just want to be absolutely sure we didn’t overlook anything.”
Dupree sat on the sofa and T.J. eased into a side chair. On the cocktail table—covered with outdated magazines—Dupree noticed a copy of Gone with the Wind. She picked it up and looked at the cover. “My absolute favorite book.”
“What is it?” T.J. said. “Green Eggs and Ham?”
“Cute, T.J. Real cute.” She turned it toward him so he could see the title. “They don’t make classics like this anymore.”
“Thank God.”
“Seriously? You don’t like Gone with the Wind?”
“Never read it but saw the movie. An instant cure for insomnia. I�
��m more of a Stephen King kind of guy. Just love the Shining.”
Dupree noticed a bookmark wedged between the pages about halfway through the book. Out of curiosity, she turned to that page just to see how far Hansen was into the story. The bookmark was a business card. She looked at the card, then looked at T.J.
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” T.J. said.
She held up the card. “This is Michael Adelman’s business card.”
“Hyland’s CEO?”
Dupree nodded. “Yep. And guess where Hyland’s home office is located.”
T.J. thought for a moment. “Albany?”
“You win the prize.” She turned the card over and looked at the back side. “Check this out.”
T.J. got up and joined Dupree on the sofa.
They both looked at the back of the business card. Written very neatly was the following:
650K
OFC – C27-4150-6930
GCI Trust Ltd. 345-555-2100
“I think we just hit pay dirt,” Dupree said. “You call Captain Jensen and ask him to issue an APB on Hansen and to coordinate surveillance on her apartment. I think one patrolman at each end of the hallway, two in the underground garage, two watching the front entrance, and one in the lobby without a uniform. Tell the captain to distribute a photo of Hansen to security at JFK, LaGuardia, Newark, and Grand Central Station. He can use either the photo on her driver’s license or a still shot from when we interviewed her. I’ll call Ralph, the security guard, and alert him to expect several patrolmen.”
“No worries that Ralph might tip her off if he sees her?” T.J. said.
“I’ll have a little chat with him about the consequences of harboring a fugitive. Once the patrolmen get here, let’s get back to the precinct. I want to recap everything we know to be certain we haven’t missed anything.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got all the bases covered,” T.J. said.
“Just trying to put this investigation to rest so I can take a vacation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time Dupree and T.J. got back to the precinct, it was almost six p.m. The buzz of daytime activity had settled down, but as always, detective work was a twenty-four-hour a day job, so many of Dupree’s fellow detectives and support staff were still milling about.
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