Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

Dupree started the car and drove towards the condo exit, still holding her phone while driving.

“Interesting that Dr. Mason also pointed out that certain people or corporations would benefit from stealing Dr. Crawford’s research records and putting her in an early grave,” Dupree said.

“True,” T.J. agreed. “But more often than not, homicides usually come down to the most obvious possibility. This whole case might be something as simple as a mugging, sexual assault, or a carjacking gone badly.”

“I think it’s something bigger,” Dupree said. “Something much bigger.” She handed the iPhone to T.J. “Don’t you just love smartphones? The Internet at your fingertips 24/7.”

T.J. seemed not to understand why Dupree gave him her phone. Then he looked at the screen. “Holy shit.”

“Hyland Laboratories,” Dupree said, “the company that allegedly offered Hansen a job and tried to partner with Horizon, is the number one manufacturer of Camadyacin, the most widely used chemotherapy drug in the world.”

Dupree eased her car into the heavy traffic and stopped at a red light. “So, where are you buying me that cocktail?”

Dupree sat across from T.J. and tasted her drink. She clicked her glass against his bottle of Heineken. “Thanks for the drink. They taste so much better when someone else picks up the tab.”

She hated the bar scene, all of the games and the lies and the antics. Lonely women searching for “Mr. Right,” and hopeful men looking for “Ms. Right-Now.” Why would any woman search for a quality man in a bar? Then again, she’d read somewhere that in this day and age, more women than men were on the prowl for one-night stands. It was probably an article in Cosmo . Maybe all the steamy romance novels she’d read and the romantic comedies she’d watched on TV with storybook endings were nothing more than fairytales.

Sitting across from T.J., nursing her drink, Dupree once again realized how very little she knew about him personally. Sure, she had heard the gossip about his supposed unsavory reputation with women, and his daily accounts of conquests. But she had no idea who he was, where he came from, or what made him tick. Strange, she thought. How is it possible to work with someone closely day after day for half a year and not really know them?

“I owe you an apology,” Dupree said. “You probably think I’m a fourteen-carat-jerk for lecturing you when we went to interview Dr. Mason, and I’m sorry. I have no right to judge your lifestyle or any part of your personal life. But when it interferes with our job duties, I can’t turn my head the other way. Someday I’m going to need you to watch my back and you’re not going to be there. If this was an isolated incident or a once-in-while-thing, I could let it go, but—”

“I’m not going to bullshit you, Amaris. I have no argument and no defense for my irresponsible actions. I’m truly sorry.” He took a long swig of his beer.

Dupree studied T.J. with probing eyes. He waved to the cocktail waitress and she promptly came to their table. T.J. looked at Dupree.

“Another?” he asked.

Normally, she was a one-drink-gal, but felt a little wound up today. She nodded. “I can handle one more.”

For over an hour, the two detectives talked about their homicide investigation, trying to fit all the pieces in place and noting where pieces were missing. Dupree, quite to her surprise, was nursing her third lemon drop; T.J. gulped the last mouthful of his fourth beer. Dupree hadn’t been this tipsy in years and she actually enjoyed the feeling. It was refreshing to let down her guard. Refreshing and dangerous.

“So, T.J., don’t you think it’s about time we get to know each other?”

He looked confused. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been working together for six months.”

“And that in itself means we know each other? I mean really know each other?”

“Where are you going with this, Amaris?”

“I’m only trying to point out that our entire relationship is superficial; business only. I know little if anything about you, and you know less about me.”

“That’s horseshit.”

“Want to bet another cocktail?”

“You’re on.”

“Okay, smart ass,” Dupree said. “Let’s play twenty questions.” She tapped her index finger on the side of her temple. “When is my birthday?”

He chewed on his lip. “It’s coming soon. In August.”

“August what?”

He shrugged. “Sometime between the 1 stand the 31 st.”

“Strike one,” Dupree said. “Do I have any siblings?”

“Um, I think so.” More lip chewing. “You’ve got a brother and sister?”

“Good guess. I’m an only child. Strike two.” She hesitated for a minute, not sure if she should ask this question. But her head was spinning and her tongue flapping freely, so why stop now? “Have I ever been married?”

T.J. rested his chin on folded hands. “Okay, you made your point. I owe you another drink.”

No way could Dupree deal with drink number four. “I’ll take a rain check on that, thank you.”

“Come on,” T.J. taunted. “You can handle one more.”

She’d parked her car in the underground garage in her apartment building, and she and T.J. had walked to Wicked Willy’s in the Village. So having to drive wasn’t an issue for Dupree. However, the compelling question was whether or not she could walk back to her apartment without stumbling like a brown-bag juicehead. But in spite of the alarm going off in her brain, she abandoned her common sense.

“Okay. One more and I mean it.”

“You order for both of us. I need to make a little trip.” T.J. excused himself and weaved his way through the crowd toward the bathroom.

While waiting for T.J. to return, Dupree studied the bustling crowd, disappointed at herself that she would go against the grain of her strong feelings, sit in this meat market with T.J., and drink herself into oblivion. Fifteen years ago, yes. But that was another life; one she’d tried to forget. What was she trying to prove?

T.J. returned promptly and his beer was waiting for him. “So, partner, now that you’ve made your point and proven that I know nothing about you personally, isn’t it time I get to know the real Amaris Dupree?”

“Only if I get to know the real Theodore Jamal Brown.”

“Deal.”

“One condition,” Dupree said. “If we’re going to share life stories, no holding back or filtering. Balls to the walls or nothing.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” T.J. said.

Dupree had never shared her dark and dubious life story with anyone. Bits and pieces to select people, yes, but never the unabridged version. Maybe speaking the words to another human being would actually be good therapy.

“My saga is a not-so-uncommon story,” Dupree said. “Good kid gone bad. My dad left my mother and me when I was only three years old. Never saw him again. Mom did a great job of managing the household and teaching me strong values. We lived in a beautiful red brick home in Brooklyn. I wasn’t a bad kid, but something happened when I reached my teens. It was as if some demon possessed me on my thirteenth birthday.” Dupree paused and took a sip of her drink. “How my mother dealt with me without sending me to a boot camp for out-of-control kids is still a mystery.” She paused for a few seconds, not sure she should continue. But the numbing effect of the alcohol was making her feel uninhibited. T.J. seemed to recognize the awkwardness of the situation, but didn’t utter a sound. She noticed that he hadn’t taken his eyes off her face.

“Well,” Dupree continued. “Things heated up just before my seventeenth birthday. My mother and I were at odds every single day. So, I did the only logical thing. I got pregnant by my drug-dealing, pot-smoking, loser boyfriend, left my mother high and dry, and moved in with the father of my baby. We lived in a slummy apartment in the projects and ate food you wouldn’t feed to a hyena. But I never got into the drug scene. Somehow, I found the strength to stay clean. My boyfriend begged, pleaded for me to have an abortion. That’s when I knew he and I had no future together. No way was I going to kill my baby.