“Once I cleared out the cobwebs, I felt a strong pull towards law enforcement. So, I got a degree in criminology, landed a job as a beat cop, and eventually made it to detective. Maybe that’s why I’m so intense when I’m interrogating suspects. When I look into their eyes, I ask myself, ‘was it you?’”
Dupree still didn’t know what to say. In a situation like this, what could she say? Right now, all she wanted to do was hold T.J. tightly and cry with him.
“Working as a cop, trying to make some sense of it all, hoping to make a difference, just didn’t seem enough. I needed to do more. So, a few months back, shortly after we became partners, I volunteered to work at the Rape Crisis Center in Harlem. I’m not really qualified to be a counselor, but they’re so desperate for help they accepted my application. I helped them out on an ‘on-call’ basis. As it turned out, they always called me for graveyard shifts—midnight to four a.m. Needless to say, working the demanding schedule as a detective and then dealing with the Crisis Center, my body and brain were on total meltdown. That’s why I was always coming in late and walked around like a zombie.
“When you finally called me out on my poor performance, I realized that I couldn’t continue this pace or I’d jeopardize my career. So, I stopped volunteering.”
Dupree’s stomach twisted into a knot. Guilt ridden, feeling as if it was her fault that he quit volunteering for something he felt so passionately about, she thought she would throw up. “T.J., I… I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not about you; it’s about me. I’m glad you kicked me in the ass. I was headed on a crash course and needed someone to shake some sense into me. You did exactly that, and that’s what partners are supposed to do.”
“Is there any way you can work just a few hours a week?” Dupree asked, feeling stupid as soon as she asked the question.
“It wasn’t just the impossible schedule that got to me. Can you even begin to imagine what it’s like to spend sixteen to twenty hours a week dealing with rape victims?” He fixed his eyes on Dupree’s. “Each woman I spoke to reminded me of Haley, made me relive the nightmare. Had I not resigned, I would have ended up in Bellevue.”
If ever there was an awkward silence, Dupree thought, this was it.
“So, Amaris, maybe now you understand why I didn’t carry my weight for such a long time, why I played the role as some carefree playboy. It was my way of hiding the truth. I’m sorry. I placed you in an impossible situation.”
“T.J., I have no words to express—”
“I understand.”
“Does anyone else in the department know about this?”
“Other than my parents, you’re the only soul on Earth.”
Having shared the intimate details of their lives, Dupree felt a visceral connection to T.J.—something she’d never felt before. Maybe now, their partnership would reach a new level of mutual trust and respect.
“Well, there you have it, Amaris. The whole agonizing story. Unabridged and unedited.”
For the remainder of the ride, the few words they shared were strictly incidental.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dupree and T.J. finally arrived at Ivan Tesler’s apartment. Dupree looked up and down the street but didn’t see a white Ford Fusion. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home. Most of the big homes in this neighborhood had multiple apartments and some of the garages were behind the structures, hidden from the street.
To the left of the front door, Dupree saw an intercom system with four call buttons and the name of each resident glued to the side of each button.
“Interesting,” Dupree said. “There’s no name next to unit 3.”
She pushed the button.
Nothing.
She pushed it a second time.
“Who is it?” The man’s voice crackled through the small speaker.
“New York City Police. We’re looking for Ivan Tesler.”
No response.
Dupree pushed the call button again. “Hello.”
Still no answer.
“I’ll stay here,” Dupree said, “You go around back.”
T.J., showing his athleticism, didn’t even use the steps. He held onto the wobbly railing with one hand, braced himself, and like a gymnast, sailed over the railing and landed a perfect 10 on the driveway. Watching T.J. hit the asphalt, thinking about the ACL he had torn, Dupree didn’t quite understand why he’d risk another knee injury. He took off, sprinting toward the back of the home. When she heard T.J. yelling, she hopped down the front steps and jogged to the driveway. T.J. was nowhere in sight. Dupree drew her handgun, pulled back the slide, and cautiously moved towards the backyard.
“T.J.,” she yelled, picking up the pace.
“Back here!” he shouted When Dupree reached the end of the driveway, she cautiously came around the corner. About twenty feet away, she saw a man lying face down on the grass, just past the end of the sidewalk. T.J. straddled the man’s body and was in the process of cuffing him. Dupree eased off the trigger and holstered her handgun.
“What have we got here?” Dupree asked, slightly out of breath. She recognized Tesler from his rap sheet.
“I caught him hopping out of the back window and tackled him just before he made it to the fence.”
T.J. stood the man upright. “Detective Dupree, meet Ivan Tesler—in the flesh.”
The man was tall and lean, his hair greasy. It hung in his eyes and over his ears. Pockmarks covered his cheeks. Tesler’s jeans looked like they’d never been washed and printed on the front of his grease-stained T-shirt were the words, “Bad Ass Motherfucker.”
“It doesn’t bode well that you tried to run away,” Dupree said.
“Why are you pigs always hassling me?”
“Maybe because your rap sheet is thicker than a New York City telephone book.”
“What the hell is a rap sheet?”
With that statement, Dupree guessed that Tesler probably wasn’t a scholar.
T.J. pushed the man forward. “Let’s take a ride, Bad Ass.”
“Hey you,” Dupree said, “Why the hell did you jump over the porch railing? Weren’t you afraid of reinjuring your knee?”
“The Navy doesn’t agree, but my orthopedic surgeon says my knee is one-hundred percent.”
“Well, you sure proved that.”
With Ivan Tesler restlessly fidgeting in the back seat, his wrists still handcuffed, Dupree and T.J. headed back to the 40th precinct. Their car was not equipped with a protective cage separating the front and back seats, so for most of the ride, T.J. sat sideways and kept his eyes on Tesler. Although neither of the detectives talked much during the ride—they didn’t want to unintentionally disclose anything about the investigation—Tesler had no problem expressing his irritation.
“Are we almost there?” Tesler repeatedly asked. “I really have to take a piss.”
“Go ahead. Let it go,” T.J. had answered. “The upholstery is Scotch-Guarded. Just don’t shit your pants.”
Dupree just shook her head.
She couldn’t wait to get Tesler in an interrogation room. Although she had no strong evidence to link Tesler to Dr. Crawford’s murder, at the least, he was indirectly involved. Why else would he have been following her?
Just as Dupree was searching for a parking spot, Adele once again was singing “Set Fire to the Rain” on Dupree’s cell phone.
“Go ahead, John, make my day.” She did her best Dirty Harry impersonation.
“Sorry, Clint, but I’ve got nothing for you. We dusted every flat surface, doorknob, door jamb, counter top, drawer handle—everything in the entire place—and other than Dr. Crawford’s and Jonathan Lentz’s prints, we found nada.”
“Terrific,” Dupree said. She could understand why Lentz’s fingerprints showed up, but it seemed odd that nobody else’s did. Based on what she already knew about Dr. Crawford and the fact that she probably didn’t do much entertaining, finding no other prints seemed reasonable. She glanced at Tesler, not wanting him to hear any more of her conversation with Butler. He was dancing around in the backseat as if he’d drunk a pot of espresso. Obviously, he really had to pee. “Where are you, John?”