“Do you have any idea what prison he was in?” T.J. asked.
“Some joint in New York. Don’t know the name.” Tesler paused for a minute as if he’d lost track of where he left off in his story. “Anyway, one day he asks me if I’d like to make a quick buck—said it was the easiest job in the world. Being the kind of guy who doesn’t usually have two nickels to rub together, I was interested. He tells me about some lady he wants me to keep an eye on. I figured it was an old girlfriend and he wanted to find out who her new boyfriend was so he could cut his balls off. I didn’t ask no questions, and he didn’t tell me much about her.”
“What exactly did he want you to do?” Dupree asked.
“Wanted me to watch her every move. Follow her from morning to night and report back to him.”
“Did you have any idea who you were watching?”
“Not until she was killed and I saw her picture on TV.” He paused and shook his head. “Terrible thing. I puked for two days just thinking about it.”
“How did you communicate with Oscar?” T.J. asked.
“Mostly by telephone. One of those prepaid throwaways you buy at Walmart.”
“Do you remember what number you called?” Dupree asked.
“Only the area code: 914.”
“Tell us about the last time you spoke to him,” Dupree said.
“The night before she was killed, Oscar called and asked me to meet him at the Night Owl. By the time I got there, he was pretty shit-faced. He said something major was going down real soon. Said that he hit the big time, that he could afford to rent a nice place in Manhattan. It didn’t mean shit to me. I had no idea what he was talking about. He told me to wait until tomorrow night, park across the street from where she worked, and to call him the minute she left work. When I called him, he said that my work was complete and told me to get rid of the cell as soon as our conversation ended. He also warned me that if for some reason I didn’t dump the phone, or if I told anyone about our little deal, he’d come looking for me with a meat clever.”
“And all this time,” Dupree said, “you had no idea he was up to no good?”
“I knew that whatever he was doing wasn’t on the up and up and guessed somebody was getting their ass kicked, but it never dawned on me that Oscar would…”
“Can you give us a description of him?” Dupree asked.
“He shaves his head and usually wears a baseball cap. He has a ratty goatee and doesn’t trim it very often.” Tesler cracked his knuckles. Beads of perspiration sprouted on his forehead. “He’s a big bastard. Got a body like a professional wrestler. Real hulky.”
Tesler’s description peaked Dupree’s interest. Except for the goatee, which he could have shaved off just before murdering Dr. Crawford, Oscar could very well be the guy in the surveillance tapes.
“Anything unique about the way he looked?” T.J. asked. “Any tattoos, birthmarks, physical deformities, unusual clothing?”
“There’s two things I remember. First, he almost always wore a long leather coat—even when it was hotter than hell.” He pointed to the back of his head. “And the other thing is, Oscar had a weird looking birthmark on the back of his neck. Looked like the number eight.”
Dupree and T.J. exchanged glances.
“Are you sure you can’t remember his last name?” Dupree asked.
“’Fraid not. But maybe you should talk to Jake Sullivan, the Night Owl bartender. He seemed pretty chummy with Oscar.”
“We’ll do that. Do you have any idea where Oscar lives?” T.J. said.
“I told you everything I know. Now when the fuck can I go home and get some decent food?”
“I’ll get you out of here,” T.J. said. “But first we have to process some paperwork.”
“How long’s that gonna take?”
“Not long.”
“Do you want to go keep our other guest company,” T.J. asked Dupree, “or wait until I finish with Mr. Bad Ass?”
Tesler glared at T.J. but didn’t say a word.
“I’ll wait,” Dupree said. “Two heads are better than one.” She grinned. “Even when the second head is yours.”
“Cute. Real cute.”
Feeling zombie-like, her brain on overload, Dupree found her way to her desk. Her head was spinning with facts, statements, suppositions, and details of the interviews she’d had with numerous people over the last week. Complicated murder investigations, of course, were not uncommon, but there seemed to be so many angles to this one. It felt like a five-hundred piece puzzle. Except for Mrs. Crawford, everyone T.J. and she had spoken to was a suspect or accomplice at some level. Although on the surface, Dr. Mason appeared to be legitimate, Dupree’s cop-instincts—generally reliable—whispered in her ear that he might somehow be connected to the murder. Then there was Hyland Laboratories’ attempt to hire Maggie Hansen. The timing seemed rather convenient. Not to mention the fact that Hyland, manufacturer of the most widely prescribed chemotherapy drug in the world, had a great deal to lose if Dr. Crawford’s theories proved valid. And there were many other pharmaceutical companies that could also lose a significant amount of money as well. What drastic steps might they take to secure their bottom line? How far would they go? Dupree also could not overlook the bad blood between Dr. Crawford and Maggie Hansen, the affair Hansen had had with Jonathan Lentz, and Dr. Crawford firing Hansen. Dupree, of course, could not dismiss Lentz and Hansen’s rendezvous at Starbucks, or his sudden windfall to afford an expensive car. Every fact surrounding this odd couple seemed suspicious. Tesler claimed that Oscar had paid him to tail Dr. Crawford, but maybe Tesler’s role was more significant. Considering Tesler’s testimony, the images on the surveillance cameras showing a bald guy fitting Oscar’s description, and the odd figure eight birthmark, Oscar, no doubt, was the shooter. But not for one minute did Dupree believe that Dr. Crawford’s murder was a one-man operation. Lots of questions, but few answers.
Dupree could see T.J. still processing Tesler’s release, so she took advantage of the break in the action and went to see Brenda. As always, Brenda’s fingers were dancing on her keyboard, apparently unaware that Dupree was standing right next to her. Funny thing about Brenda, Dupree thought, one might guess that she was pissed off at the world by the way she beat on the keyboard. But Dupree knew better. Brenda had helped her numerous times and never once gave her a hard time. She was an integral part of the department.
Without pausing or even looking at Dupree, Brenda said, “Good afternoon, Detective. What can I do to make your day a little brighter?”
“Got a couple of hours to talk?”
Brenda gave her a consoling smile. “That bad, huh?”
“Not really. I’m just a little weatherworn. Once this investigation is over, I’m taking a vacation and going someplace nice.”
“Well, you sure deserve it,” Brenda said, swiveling her chair around. “How you put up with your male counterparts every day without slapping one of them upside the head is beyond me. What a collection of crybabies.”
“Men will be boys,” Dupree said. “I guess I stopped paying attention to their childish behavior a long time ago.”
“All I can say is that you’re a better person than me.”
Dupree let out a hearty laugh. “Not so sure about that.”