Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

He saluted her like a boot camp recruit. “Roger that, Sir.”

“Butler’s a real ball buster, isn’t he?” T.J. said.

“Yeah, but you gotta love the guy,” Dupree answered. “He knows his job inside and out.”

Dupree and T.J. waited in the idling car with the air conditioner on full blast. Knowing that Brenda would be calling any minute with info on the Ford Fusion plate number, Dupree thought it best that they just sit tight.

“Feels like it’s flirting with triple digits today,” T.J. said.

“One-oh-two to be exact. The humidity isn’t making it any better.”

“Do you have plans for the holiday?” T.J. asked.

At first, Dupree didn’t answer. She just studied her fingernails. “Every year on July 4 th, I participate in the Making Strides for Breast Cancer five-mile walk in Central Park—in memory of my mother.”

“I thought all the Making Strides events across the country were coordinated for May or September,” T.J. said. “Why the hell would they schedule the walk in the middle of summer?”

“I think it’s because Rita Sinclair, founder of the Sinclair Memorial Hospital, which specializes in treating breast cancer, opened the facility on July 4 th. I guess it’s in commemoration of her. Besides, it kicks off at six a.m., long before the crushing heat sets in. It’s more of a casual walk than a marathon. And there are a dozen booths set up along the way providing water, Gatorade, and dampened washcloths. Far as I know, no one’s ever died from the walk, so unless someone has a heat stroke, the local American Cancer Society will continue organizing the event for July 4 th.”

“I’m impressed, Amaris. Quite the noble gesture on your part.”

“It’s not really that noble.” She chewed on her lip. “It’s the one day a year I get the double whammy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I told you my mother died of breast cancer. But what I didn’t tell you is that my daughter was born on the 4 thof July eighteen years ago. The 4 thhas never been a good day for me. Obviously. In fact, after I complete the walk, I usually stay home by myself and spend the day crying, drinking, and feeling sorry for myself, asking the same haunting question: Why did I give up my baby? I keep praying that by some miracle, she’ll find me or I’ll find her. But for all I know, she may not even know I exist.”

“I’m so sorry, Amaris. I wish there was something I could do.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes. Something struck Dupree that had never crossed her mind before. What if—she could barely reflect on the thought—her daughter wasn’t even alive? A chill shivered through her body as if her blood had turned to ice. She couldn’t even imagine such a devastating possibility. Still, she couldn’t dismiss it.

“How about you?” Dupree asked. “Big plans for the 4 th?”

“Nothing special. Just driving to Jersey for a barbeque. My parents have a little bash every 4 thof July.”

“Sounds great.” Dupree wished that she had a family to bond with on the holidays.

“Here’s a thought,” T.J. said. “Why don’t you drive to Jersey with me and join the party? I’d love for you to meet my family. I’m not leaving until noon so it would give you plenty of time to finish the Making Strides walk and freshen up. How about it?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Would you really rather be alone?”

“Actually, I would.” She thought about that for a minute, tempted to accept his offer, but was afraid at some point she’d completely breakdown and didn’t want to subject anyone to her private pity party.

“Okay, partner, I won’t push it. But if you change your mind—”

“I won’t.”

Just then, her phone sang, “Set Fire to the Rain,” by Adele.

“Hi, Brenda. What’s cooking?”

“I ran the plate number through DMV and the registered owner is Ivan Tesler. His last known address is—”

“Hang on Brenda, let me get something to write on.” Dupree pointed to the glove box. “There’s a pad and pen in there,” she said to T.J. “Hand them to me, please.”

“Okay, Brenda, shoot.”

“The DMV records show him at 751 Cedar Street, Unit 3, in Yonkers. I also checked with the Tax Assessor’s office and he doesn’t have an account with them so he’s probably a renter.”

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

“Hey, Girlfriend, that’s what I do. You didn’t ask for this, but I ran his name through the New York and FBI criminal records database, and also through the AFIS archives. He’s been a busy boy. Been arrested and charged with assault, breaking and entering, auto theft, resisting arrest, and petty larceny. But get this: he’s never been convicted.”

“Must have a hell of an attorney.”

“Or he’s connected to somebody powerful.”

“I appreciate your help, Brenda. Have a nice 4 th.” For the first time since beginning the investigation, Dupree felt as if she’d uncovered a significant lead. But she tried to harness her enthusiasm. How many times in the past had a supposed good lead taken her to a dead end street?

From her past experiences, Dupree estimated that the ride from Park Slope to Yonkers could take as long as two hours.

“Ready for a long trek?” Dupree said to T.J. who had already reclined his seatback.

“Not really, but do I have a choice?”

“Sure. You can catch a cab. Or better yet, thumb a ride.”

“Funny girl. Have you ever thought about being a stand-up comedian?”

“No, but I guess I might consider it when my twenty years are up.”

T.J. brought the seatback to its upright position. “Seriously? You’re going to go the twenty-years-and-out route? Taking your measly pension and running with it? I figured you for a lifer.”

“That’s the current plan but you never know what tomorrow might bring. Circumstances change. Objectives change. Life situations change.” Dupree glanced at T.J. and noticed a stern look on his face. “And how about you? What’s your plan?”

He seemed nervous, fidgety.

“Everything okay?” Dupree asked.

“Ever since we met for a few drinks and you told me your story, I’ve had a strong urge to share mine with you.”

It seemed like an inappropriate time, but who was she to judge T.J.’s motives? Dupree reached over the center console and squeezed his arm. “Hey, I’ve got broad shoulders and empathetic ears. Besides, we’ve got a long ride, so if you feel like talking, I feel like listening.”

“Where do I start?”

“Makes no difference. Just start.”

She could see that his mind was racing, maybe searching for the right words.

“I grew up in Long Branch, New Jersey, not far from the Atlantic. I can’t give you a hard-luck story about a poverty-stricken childhood, or a detailed account of my rebellious teenage years. You see, Amaris, I lived an abundant life. My father was a doctor—a cardiologist to be more specific—and my mom was a high school guidance counselor. I wanted for nothing. In fact, my parents spoiled me rotten.

“Although they pushed me hard to attend college, I made up my mind to join the Navy when I graduated from high school. My big dream was to become a Navy Seal. I passed all of the fitness and underwater tests, and aced the written exam. Once I was accepted into the program, they shipped me to the Naval Special Warfare Center, Coronado, near San Diego. That’s when I found out what it’s like to be in hell. From beginning to end, the training lasts for twenty-five weeks. Most guys drop out within the first four weeks, when your shoulders feel like they’ve been pulled out of their sockets, when your knees make popping sounds you never heard before, when your muscles ache and throb so fiercely, you live on pain pills.”