“I don’t understand,” Cardone said. “No one has been in there since Dr. Crawford’s murder.”
“I’m going to disagree with you on that one,” Dupree said. “The place is completely trashed.”
“I don’t know how this happened,” Cardone said. “If it’s as bad as you say, whoever broke in must have made a racket.”
“Based on the condition of the place,” Dupree said, “I’d say that your assumption is correct.”
“But this doesn’t make any sense,” Cardone said. “First of all, nobody gets into any residence without a key. Our deadbolts are nearly impossible to jimmy. And second, Dr. Crawford’s neighbors, two senior citizens who have zero tolerance for noise, complain about everything. I don’t know how Dr. Crawford’s apartment could have been ransacked without her neighbors hearing anything.”
“I guess we’ll have to speak to the neighbors and see what they have to say.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Detective Dupree. You see, the Johnsons left early this morning for a European vacation and won’t return for five weeks.”
“Terrific,” Dupree said.
Just then, the doorman opened the front door for John Butler and two other CSI agents.
“Nice to see you could make it,” Dupree said. She turned toward Cardone. “This is John Butler, one of our forensic experts. He and his team are going to need access to Dr. Crawford’s apartment so they can dust for fingerprints and search for anything unusual.”
“You can take it from here, John,” Dupree said. “T.J. and I have bigger fish to fry.”
“Must be time for your midday snack,” Butler said. “You two have the good life.”
“That we do,” T.J. said. He turned towards Dupree. “What’s your pleasure, partner? Sushi? Italian? Thai?”
“Let’s try that new seafood restaurant in the Village.”
“Perfect!”
Just as Dupree and T.J. were about to leave, Dupree remembered something. “Mr. Cardone, I noticed surveillance cameras in the hallway not far from Dr. Crawford’s residence. Can we get a copy of the videotapes for the last forty-eight hours?”
“That’ll take a little maneuvering, but sure. I’ll get them ASAP.”
“If John Butler’s still here,” Dupree said, “just give them to him. If he’s not, you still have my phone number, correct?”
“Sure do, Detective. As soon as I give your colleagues access to Dr. Crawford’s apartment, I’ll contact the security company and see how quickly I can get you the videotapes.”
“Tell them it’s a police matter and it’s urgent,” T.J. said.
Dupree and T.J. headed for the front entrance and the doorman promptly opened the door. Dupree looked at Butler. “Call me if you stumble on anything worthwhile, John.”
He saluted her like a boot camp recruit. “Roger that, Sir.”
“Butler’s a real ball buster, isn’t he?” T.J. said.
“Yeah, but you gotta love the guy,” Dupree answered. “He knows his job inside and out.”
Dupree and T.J. waited in the idling car with the air conditioner on full blast. Knowing that Brenda would be calling any minute with info on the Ford Fusion plate number, Dupree thought it best that they just sit tight.
“Feels like it’s flirting with triple digits today,” T.J. said.
“One-oh-two to be exact. The humidity isn’t making it any better.”
“Do you have plans for the holiday?” T.J. asked.
At first, Dupree didn’t answer. She just studied her fingernails. “Every year on July 4th, I participate in the Making Strides for Breast Cancer five-mile walk in Central Park—in memory of my mother.”
“I thought all the Making Strides events across the country were coordinated for May or September,” T.J. said. “Why the hell would they schedule the walk in the middle of summer?”
“I think it’s because Rita Sinclair, founder of the Sinclair Memorial Hospital, which specializes in treating breast cancer, opened the facility on July 4th. I guess it’s in commemoration of her. Besides, it kicks off at six a.m., long before the crushing heat sets in. It’s more of a casual walk than a marathon. And there are a dozen booths set up along the way providing water, Gatorade, and dampened washcloths. Far as I know, no one’s ever died from the walk, so unless someone has a heat stroke, the local American Cancer Society will continue organizing the event for July 4th.”
“I’m impressed, Amaris. Quite the noble gesture on your part.”
“It’s not really that noble.” She chewed on her lip. “It’s the one day a year I get the double whammy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I told you my mother died of breast cancer. But what I didn’t tell you is that my daughter was born on the 4th of July eighteen years ago. The 4th has never been a good day for me. Obviously. In fact, after I complete the walk, I usually stay home by myself and spend the day crying, drinking, and feeling sorry for myself, asking the same haunting question: Why did I give up my baby? I keep praying that by some miracle, she’ll find me or I’ll find her. But for all I know, she may not even know I exist.”
“I’m so sorry, Amaris. I wish there was something I could do.”
Neither spoke for a few minutes. Something struck Dupree that had never crossed her mind before. What if—she could barely reflect on the thought—her daughter wasn’t even alive? A chill shivered through her body as if her blood had turned to ice. She couldn’t even imagine such a devastating possibility. Still, she couldn’t dismiss it.
“How about you?” Dupree asked. “Big plans for the 4th?”
“Nothing special. Just driving to Jersey for a barbeque. My parents have a little bash every 4th of July.”
“Sounds great.” Dupree wished that she had a family to bond with on the holidays.
“Here’s a thought,” T.J. said. “Why don’t you drive to Jersey with me and join the party? I’d love for you to meet my family. I’m not leaving until noon so it would give you plenty of time to finish the Making Strides walk and freshen up. How about it?”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Would you really rather be alone?”
“Actually, I would.” She thought about that for a minute, tempted to accept his offer, but was afraid at some point she’d completely breakdown and didn’t want to subject anyone to her private pity party.
“Okay, partner, I won’t push it. But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
Just then, her phone sang, “Set Fire to the Rain,” by Adele.
“Hi, Brenda. What’s cooking?”
“I ran the plate number through DMV and the registered owner is Ivan Tesler. His last known address is—”
“Hang on Brenda, let me get something to write on.” Dupree pointed to the glove box. “There’s a pad and pen in there,” she said to T.J. “Hand them to me, please.”
“Okay, Brenda, shoot.”
“The DMV records show him at 751 Cedar Street, Unit 3, in Yonkers. I also checked with the Tax Assessor’s office and he doesn’t have an account with them so he’s probably a renter.”
“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
“Hey, Girlfriend, that’s what I do. You didn’t ask for this, but I ran his name through the New York and FBI criminal records database, and also through the AFIS archives. He’s been a busy boy. Been arrested and charged with assault, breaking and entering, auto theft, resisting arrest, and petty larceny. But get this: he’s never been convicted.”
“Must have a hell of an attorney.”
“Or he’s connected to somebody powerful.”
“I appreciate your help, Brenda. Have a nice 4th.” For the first time since beginning the investigation, Dupree felt as if she’d uncovered a significant lead. But she tried to harness her enthusiasm. How many times in the past had a supposed good lead taken her to a dead end street?