Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

The doorman strolled over to a small table, picked up a telephone, and dialed a number. Dupree strained to hear the doorman’s half of the conversation but could only make out every third or fourth word. He returned with the same sour face.

“Mr. Cardone will be down in a few minutes.” He pointed to an ornate bench with a padded seat cover that looked like velvet. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

As the doorman walked away from them, Dupree whispered in T.J.’s ear, “Looks like a piece of furniture from Buckingham Palace.”

“Someone working here must be related to Prince William,” T.J. added.

About to sit down, the elevator opened and a well-dressed, distinguished looking mid-fifties’ man made his way toward them. His full head of black hair didn’t have a trace of gray—not even at his temples. Grecian Formula had done a fine job, Dupree thought.

“My name is David Cardone,” he said in a formal fashion. “I’m the building superintendent. What can I do for you, Detectives?” He didn’t offer a handshake and had an air of arrogance about him that made Dupree feel that he had much more important things to do than speak to a couple of nosey detectives.

Dupree wondered why the superintendent seemed so inhospitable. They were cops, not auditors from the IRS.

Dupree and T.J. showed him their badges and police IDs. “We’re conducting a homicide investigation and need access to Dr. Lauren Crawford’s apartment,” Dupree said.

“What a shocking incident,” Cardone said, shaking his head. “Dr. Crawford was one of my favorite tenants. At Christmastime she would give gifts to our entire staff and somehow she never forgot a staff member’s birthday. Such a tragic loss.” For an instant, Cardone’s demeanor softened, but his face quickly returned to an unfriendly scowl.

“It would help us a great deal if you would let us into her residence,” T.J. said, repeating the request.

“Of course. I’d be more than happy to assist you. May I see your search warrant, please?”

Dupree and T.J. eyeballed each other.

“You do have a warrant don’t you?” Cardone asked.

“We’ve already requested one,” Dupree said. “And the judge should sign it in the next day or so. However—”

“But you don’t have it with you right now?” Cardone chewed on his lip. “I’m afraid I am unable to let you into Dr. Crawford’s residence.”

He seemed delighted to turn down their request, his tone clearly patronizing. “Owner’s policy, not mine.”

“Then get the owner on the phone and let me speak to him,” T.J. demanded.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean and out of touch. I hope you understand.”

“Actually, we don’t understand at all,” T.J. barked. “We’re investigating a murder and it’s entirely possible that somewhere in Dr. Crawford’s apartment there might be a clue that could lead us to the murderer. Now you wouldn’t want to do anything to interfere with our efforts, would you?”

It seemed that Cardone was considering T.J.’s logic. “I’m terribly sorry, but I simply cannot disregard company policy or compromise the confidentiality of any resident.”

“Even if they’re fucking dead?” T.J. shouted.

Cardone backpedaled as if T.J. had pushed him. “There’s no need for cursing, Detective.”

T.J.’s outburst surprised Dupree. He had always been an aggressive interrogator, but Dupree had never seen him react with so much venom. She decided to try a different tactic. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Cardone. Is there anyone other than Dr. Crawford who has authority to access her apartment?”

He nodded. “Sure. Certain members of our staff—plumbers, electricians—people who provide repair services.” He paused. “And as superintendent, I have master keys for all the residences.”

“So what you’re saying basically is that it’s more important to repair a plumbing leak than to catch Dr. Crawford’s murderer. Is that right, Mr. Cardone?”

“Well, um, not exactly.”

“Mr. Cardone, I assure you, I give you my word that a judge will sign a search warrant in a day or so and I’ll be sure you get a copy. Somewhere out there in the city,” Dupree pointed to the front doors, “Dr. Crawford’s killer is roaming the streets, or maybe buying a plane ticket out of the country. Time is so critical. We don’t want to remove anything. We only want to see if there is something that might lead us to the killer. Maybe there is a message on Dr. Crawford’s answering machine. Maybe somebody’s name is written on a piece of paper. You are welcome to accompany us and observe everything we do. And if you get any heat from extending us this courtesy, I will take full responsibility and relieve you of any liability.” Dupree firmly squeezed his arm. “Please Mr. Cardone, this is extremely important.”

Cardone looked at Dupree and then at T.J. Back and forth, he studied them. Then he looked off into the distance. “I’m truly sorry, but without a signed warrant… I cannot let you into Dr. Crawford’s apartment.”

It took T.J. a nanosecond to turn around and double-step it to the front door, long before the doorman could get there.

“Thank you for your time,” Dupree said, eliciting every ounce of willpower to remain civil.

The doorman tipped his hat and opened the door for Dupree. His face looked apologetic. T.J. was standing next to the entrance, staring at the sidewalk.

“Sorry I lost it in there,” T.J. said. “Guess I’m getting crotchety in my old age.”

“Actually, it’s nice to see that you have a pulse,” Dupree said, a big smirk spread across her face. “Maybe you’re just pissed cuz you owe me a drink.” Dupree elbowed T.J. in the ribs. “I think there’s a lemon drop martini in my future.” She laughed. “And none of that well crap either. Top shelf or nothing.”

Purposely, Dupree hadn’t called Hansen ahead of time to schedule an interview. In some instances, she’d learned, the element of surprise catches the interviewee off-guard, and that’s exactly what Dupree hoped to do with Maggie Hansen.

During the short ride from Park Slope to Prospect Heights, T.J. didn’t say much except respond to Dupree’s questions and comments. His quietness seemed out of character for him. For as long as she’d worked with him, he rarely had a problem speaking his mind. She guessed that he was still angry because Mr. Cardone would not give them access to Dr. Crawford’s place. Or, perhaps he was still pouting over Dupree’s earlier scolding. She could not understand why he couldn’t just let things go. Though often difficult, Dupree tried not to waste too much time on negative thoughts. Not that she never wanted to smash a bottle against the wall, or get in someone’s face and verbally chew them out. In fact, during one particular interrogation, the perp had riled Dupree so much that she’d grabbed him by his shirt collar, yanked him to his feet, and shoved him so hard, he’d lost his balance and fell on the floor. She’d ended up in the captain’s office where he proceeded to browbeat her for twenty, grueling minutes. But when the captain’s telephone rang, and T.J. announced that the perp Dupree had roughed up had given a full confession, the captain’s rant came to a halt.

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.”