“Is this where you guys go through your good-cop, bad-cop routine?”
“Actually,” Dupree said, “we’re both bad asses, just like you. We just don’t have T-shirts to brag about it. Now answer the question: why did you run?”
“Cuz I’m sick and tired of cops hassling me. Every time a bike gets stolen in the neighborhood, you come knocking on my fucking door.”
“Maybe that’s because your criminal history is a city block long. You aren’t exactly a Boy Scout,” Dupree said.
“I ain’t never been convicted of nothing.”
“Well,” Dupree said, “that’s about to change.”
Tesler sat forward and grinned. “You guys are fishin’ in the wrong pond. I ain’t done nothing.”
“What kind of car do you drive?” T.J. asked.
“A Ford Fusion. Always buy American. Don’t want any part of Jap or Nazi cars.”
Dupree opened the folder. “What’s your license plate number?”
“I ain’t got it memorized. But I’d be happy to go look and get back to you.”
“What do you do for a living?” Dupree asked.
“I’m an unemployed brain surgeon.”
Dupree looked at T.J. “We’re wasting our time with this nitwit. Let’s just throw him in a cell, go have some dinner, and come back in the morning. I think he needs some time to think.”
“But tomorrow is the 4th of July,” T.J. said
“You’re right. I guess we’ll come back in a couple of days.”
T.J. and Dupree stood. Before they even took a step, Tesler said, “You can’t just leave me here. You ain’t charged me with nothing and you got no grounds to arrest me. I know my rights.”
“Your rights?” Dupree said. “Then I guess you know that we can hold you for up to seventy-two hours.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!”
“Let me enlighten you, Mr. Bad Ass,” T.J. said. “When you jumped out the back window, you went from person of interest to suspect in the matter of a felony. In other words, we own your ass for another seventy hours, and we don’t have to charge you or arrest you. If you’d like to call your attorney, we’d be happy to arrange that.”
T.J. picked up the handcuffs lying on the table, stepped behind Tesler, and handcuffed him.
“Wait!” Tesler yelled.
“It’s too late,” Dupree said. “This is not like baseball; you don’t get three strikes.”
“We don’t need some jive-ass-punk busting our balls,” T.J. added. “We’ve got better things to do.”
They stood Tesler upright.
“I’m sorry! I’ll cooperate. I swear.”
“I’m not convinced,” Dupree said. She tightened her grip on Tesler’s bicep. “What do you think, T.J.? Should we give this pinhead another chance?”
“I’d rather have dinner and come back on the 5th.”
Dupree pretended she was carefully weighing the two options. “Are you going to answer some questions, or would you rather spend the next three days locked in a cage?”
“I just want out of here, so ask me what you need to and I promise I’ll lay straight with you.”
“Okay,” T.J. said. “Let’s test that promise. How do you earn a living?”
“I don’t have a regular day job. I go to garage sales and estate sales. I don’t buy nothing expensive. But if I can pick up a lamp for ten bucks and sell it for fifteen, I’m happy. I paid my dues though. Lost my ass on lots of stuff. But then I learned what things I can turn for a profit and what ends up in the trash. It’s a real art. I’m sure you heard the saying, ‘One man’s junk is another’s treasure’.”
“So,” Dupree said, “buying and selling odds and ends generates enough income to pay your rent, buy food and clothes, drive a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car, and pay for insurance?”
“Except for buying the car, I live a pretty simple life. I have a little money set aside and that gets me through the rough times.”
“And of course,” T.J. said, “as a model citizen, you file a tax return every year and pay your fair share to the feds and the state, right?”
Tesler didn’t utter a sound.
“You know what I think?” T.J. said. “I don’t believe that one truthful word came out of your mouth all day. So, I’m going to ask you one very simple question, and I want you to think long and hard about the answer, because if any more bullshit comes out of your mouth, you’re going to get acquainted with the inside of a prison cell for a long time.”
Dupree had witnessed T.J.’s interrogation tactics many times. It amazed her how he could turn a hard-ass suspect into a sniveling crybaby.
“Okay, Mr. Bad Ass, here’s the question: Who hired you to tail Dr. Lauren Crawford?”
Tesler’s body froze; his eyes were wide and he was blinking furiously. Dupree watched him closely and could see his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he forced one swallow after another.
“Um… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never heard of no Dr. Crawford.”
Tesler was noticeably anxious, frightened actually. Dupree wasn’t sure if he was rattled because of the legal consequence or something more sinister.
“Well, partner,” T.J. said to Dupree, “I think we’re done for the day.”
“What about me?” Tesler asked. “Are you releasing me?”
T.J. laughed out loud. “Oh, we’re going to release you all right.” He looked at the wall clock. “In about sixty-eight hours when you’ve had some time to ponder your pathetic future, we’re going to release you to an IRS special agent. And when they’re finished with you, they’ll toss you to the New York State Department of Taxation.”
T.J. stood, slammed his palms on the table, his face inches away from Tesler’s. “When the tax folks are finished reaming your ass, believe me, you’ll never be constipated again. Say goodbye to your apartment, furniture, whatever money you’ve got socked away, and that nice shiny car. But here’s the best part. After they’re done with you, we get to charge you as an accessory to murder.”
Tesler popped up like a jack-in-the-box, almost stumbling backwards. “Accessory to murder? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“We know that you were tailing Dr. Crawford,” Dupree said. “And reporting back to the killer. That connects you to the crime as an accessory.”
T.J. eyed Dupree. “What do you think? Ten, fifteen years?”
“Actually, considering the stature of Dr. Crawford and the incredible loss to the scientific and medical community, I think the D.A. will go for twenty-five to life.”
“We’ll send in an officer and he’ll show you to your new quarters. See you in a couple days.”
As soon as they stepped into the hall, Dupree softly clapped her hands. “Bravo, partner. I think you just earned a nomination for an Academy Award.”
“Don’t nominate me yet. Not until we get a name out of Mr. Bad Ass.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As if God Himself had waved His hand and ended the oppressive heat wave, the morning of the Making Strides for Breast Cancer walk was nearly perfect. The temperature hovered at seventy degrees, the humidity surrendered to dry, refreshing air, a light breeze blew out of the northeast, and the sky was blue and cloudless. The relief from the gripping heat could change in a heartbeat, but Dupree hoped it would remain comfortable at least until she crossed the finish line.
The crowd, spirited and energized, appeared to be the biggest Dupree had ever seen. She stood in front of the portable stage, side by side with other supporters, and watched cancer survivors one by one hold a microphone, take center stage, and tell a brief story about their journey from cancer to remission. As each survivor ended her speech, the roar of the crowd and robust applause was nearly deafening. The height of the frenzy came when a man stood on stage and reminded everyone that breast cancer did not play favorites. When he announced that he’d been cancer free for nine years, the crowd howled with cheers.