Dupree glanced at T.J. “Is your ass still chapped or are you going to let it go?”
“The guy just pissed me off.”
“Look,” Dupree said. “We’ll likely have the signed warrant in a day or two, so there’s no need to get your undies in a twist.”
“I don’t wear undies.”
“WTMI.”
“Huh?” T.J. said.
“Way too much information.”
T.J. laughed. “All kidding aside, it’s way more comfortable to go commando style. Seriously. You ought to try it sometime.”
Feeling mischievous, Dupree gave him a quick glance, winked, and smiled. “I have. In fact, I’m going commando right now.”
Like a cartoon character, T.J.’s chin dropped.
If only I had a camera to capture the look on his face.
Dupree followed 7th Avenue North to Park Place, and headed east towards the heart of Prospect Heights. Known for its tree-lined streets, hundred year old brownstones, luxury condominiums, and nearly as many museums as Manhattan, Prospect Heights was an upscale area of Brooklyn notable for its cultural diversity.
After parking the car in the underground garage, T.J. and Dupree rode the elevator to the lobby, the only floor the garage elevator had access to. When they stepped off, the security staff—at least four or five of them—looked like members of a SWAT team. Obviously, whoever managed this building was serious about security and the privacy of the residents. Dupree approached the front desk and T.J. just stood in front of the elevator doors waiting.
She flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Dupree and that’s Detective Brown. We’re here to see Maggie Hansen in Unit 2311.” The security guard, grossly overweight, with a “comb-over” hairdo that would make a notable hair stylist commit suicide, studied her ID closely, moving his eyes back and forth from the badge to Dupree’s face. He glanced at T.J. “May I see your identification as well?”
T.J. strolled over and showed the man his ID. Again, the security guard thoroughly examined the badge and compared it to T.J.’s face.
“Is Ms. Hansen expecting you?” the fat man asked, his tone less than accommodating.
Dupree urgently wanted to say, “I certainly hope not.” But she didn’t think that would be an appropriate response. “No she’s not.”
“Let me buzz her and tell her you’re here.”
Just then, two of the other security guards appeared; both standing to the side of the fat man.
After about thirty seconds, Dupree feared that Hansen wasn’t home. But then, the security guard said, “Sorry to trouble you, Ms. Hansen, but there are two detectives here to see you. Should I let them come up or send them on their way?”
Dupree glanced at T.J., hoping he wouldn’t react to the security guard’s comment.
The security guard nodded. “Yes, Ms. Hansen, right away.”
“You’re all set, Detectives. Please take elevator #2.”
When Dupree and T.J. stepped onto the elevator and realized that there was actually an operator—something Dupree hadn’t seen in years—they looked at each other in amazement. Dupree guessed that T.J. was as surprised as she was.
“Floor twenty-three, please,” Dupree said.
The elevator zoomed up to the 23rd floor without stopping once. The doors opened and the operator pointed. “Ms. Hansen’s residence is down the hall on your right. Have a pleasant day.”
T.J. tugged on Dupree’s arm. “How the hell did he know we were here to see Hansen?”
Dupree shrugged. “Is it my imagination, or is this place a little creepy?”
“Not the word I would use, but yes, it’s like something out of a Tim Burton movie.”
They found unit 2311 and Dupree softly knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked a little harder this time. The door swung open and there stood a young woman wearing baggy lounging pajamas. Her disheveled hair was loosely pulled back into a ponytail. She held a cup of what looked like coffee in her hand. Except for the out-of-style glasses worn low on her nose, she looked anything but how Dupree pictured a scientist. But after a closer appraisal, Dupree realized that Hansen could star in one of those commercials where the frumpy, plain-looking teacher takes off her geeky glasses, let’s down her hair, tosses it from side-to-side, and instantly looks like a movie star. With the right makeup and hairdo, Dupree thought, Hansen could be a knockout.
“Been expecting you,” the woman said, an unmistakable southern twang in her voice. Dupree guessed Virginia or the Carolinas. “Sorry I look so dreadful. Been a little negligent with my personal hygiene since I lost my job.” She slurped her coffee. “I’m Margaret Hansen. Most people call me Maggie.”
“I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown. May we speak with you for a few minutes?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Already with the attitude, Dupree thought. “Of course you have a choice. You can speak with us now, or we can get a summons and you can come down to the precinct. Whichever you prefer.”
“I’m sorry for the sarcasm. Since I’ve been unemployed, I’ve been a little on edge. I hope you understand.”
“We do,” Dupree said. “We won’t take up much of your time.”
“I’ve got nothing but time.” Hansen gestured with her arm. “Come in and have a seat.”
Dupree looked around for a place to sit, but mounds of clothes covered the sofa, loveseat, and armchair. It looked like Hansen had heaped every piece of clothing she owned on her living room furniture. Hansen set down her coffee, lifted two armfuls of clothing from the loveseat, and moved them to the sofa.
“I’m really not a slob,” Hansen apologized. “I’m just going through all my closets and dresser drawers and getting rid of the stuff I no longer wear or no longer fits me. There’s a Salvation Army just around the corner.” She pushed a pile of clothes out of the way and sat on the sofa. “Of course, if I don’t find a job soon, I’ll be bringing all my clothes to a local consignment shop and eating egg salad sandwiches every day.”
Clearly, Dupree thought, Hansen was in no mood to entertain two cops.
Just then, a grey Siamese cat casually wondered into the living room, walked over to Dupree, and sniffed her legs.
Dupree reached down and scratched the cat’s head. It instantly started to purr.
“You must be a cat person,” Hansen said. “Mickey usually doesn’t warm up to strangers.”
“Got two cats of my own: Benjamin and Alexandra. Must be that Mickey’s picking up their scent.”
Mickey meandered over to Hansen and hopped up on her lap.
“So,” Hansen said, “I don’t believe you came here to talk about my lifestyle or my cat. I would guess that you want to talk about Dr. Lauren Crawford.”
Dupree nodded. “That’s correct. Is it okay for us to record this interview?”
Hansen smiled. “Interview? I was under the impression that you were going to interrogate me.”