Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

Each of them lifted opposite sides of the box and set it on the floor.

T.J grunted. “What the hell’s in there, gold bricks?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

T.J. disappeared through the doorway. With her hands resting on her hips, she examined the outside of the box. The top was neatly sealed with packing tape, and written on one side in black marker were the initials, “S.A.” Below the initials was a phone number: 212-555-9983. Curiosity got the best of her, so Dupree took out her cell and keyed in the number.

One ring. Two rings. Then, a recorded message. “ Thank you for calling the Salvation Army. To schedule a pickup, please press one. For a list of area drop-off locations, press two. For a …”

“Salvation Army?”

She fished around the bottom of her handbag until she found her Swiss Army knife. She carefully cut the packing tape and opened the top of the cardboard box. Filled to capacity, she found neatly folded men’s clothing. As she dug through the box, examining its contents, Dupree saw sweaters, jeans, polo shirts, a leather jacket, a pair of Nike sneakers, and an assortment of other items. Almost everything in the box was in good condition. Not the type of clothing one would normally donate to a charity.

Anxious to check the contents of the other four cardboard boxes, she reached for the top box. Quite to her surprise, her adrenalin rescued her muscles, and she managed to gingerly lift the box and set it on the floor without T.J.’s help. Although larger, the last two stacked boxes were much lighter.

With all five cardboard boxes on the floor, one-by-one, Dupree rummaged through the contents. All were full of neatly-folded men’s clothing. Just then T.J. appeared.

“Any luck?”

“I haven’t searched the room yet. Been busy with these boxes.”

“And?”

“They’re full of men’s clothing. All in pretty good shape.” She told him about the initials on the side of the boxes and the phone number she’d called.

“But why would she donate five boxes of men’s clothing to the Salvation Army?”

“They must be Lentz’s clothes,” Dupree said.” “If our boy can afford an Audi, maybe he went out and bought a new wardrobe.”

“Or, maybe he doesn’t need his clothes anymore.” T.J. offered.

“I have a really bad feeling about this,” Dupree said. “Either Lentz never had time to unpack, which seems odd. Or something is very wrong. Let’s call in an APB on his Audi and see if we can locate him. I’ll contact Brenda and get it handled.”

For the next two hours, Dupree and T.J. combed the entire apartment, but found nothing to support the theory that Hansen was indeed the woman who spoke to Cassano and made arrangements for him to steal Dr. Crawford’s computer, or possibly murder her.

“Are we done?” T.J. asked, his tone almost a plea.

“Let’s sit down for a few minutes,” Dupree said. “I just want to be absolutely sure we didn’t overlook anything.”

Dupree sat on the sofa and T.J. eased into a side chair. On the cocktail table—covered with outdated magazines—Dupree noticed a copy of Gone with the Wind . She picked it up and looked at the cover. “My absolute favorite book.”

“What is it?” T.J. said. “ Green Eggs and Ham ?”

“Cute, T.J. Real cute.” She turned it toward him so he could see the title. “They don’t make classics like this anymore.”

“Thank God.”

“Seriously? You don’t like Gone with the Wind ?”

“Never read it but saw the movie. An instant cure for insomnia. I’m more of a Stephen King kind of guy. Just love the Shining .”

Dupree noticed a bookmark wedged between the pages about halfway through the book. Out of curiosity, she turned to that page just to see how far Hansen was into the story. The bookmark was a business card. She looked at the card, then looked at T.J.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” T.J. said.

She held up the card. “This is Michael Adelman’s business card.”

“Hyland’s CEO?”

Dupree nodded. “Yep. And guess where Hyland’s home office is located.”

T.J. thought for a moment. “Albany?”

“You win the prize.” She turned the card over and looked at the back side. “Check this out.”

T.J. got up and joined Dupree on the sofa.

They both looked at the back of the business card. Written very neatly was the following:

“I think we just hit pay dirt,” Dupree said. “You call Captain Jensen and ask him to issue an APB on Hansen and to coordinate surveillance on her apartment. I think one patrolman at each end of the hallway, two in the underground garage, two watching the front entrance, and one in the lobby without a uniform. Tell the captain to distribute a photo of Hansen to security at JFK, LaGuardia, Newark, and Grand Central Station. He can use either the photo on her driver’s license or a still shot from when we interviewed her. I’ll call Ralph, the security guard, and alert him to expect several patrolmen.”

“No worries that Ralph might tip her off if he sees her?” T.J. said.

“I’ll have a little chat with him about the consequences of harboring a fugitive. Once the patrolmen get here, let’s get back to the precinct. I want to recap everything we know to be certain we haven’t missed anything.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got all the bases covered,” T.J. said.

“Just trying to put this investigation to rest so I can take a vacation.”

By the time Dupree and T.J. got back to the precinct, it was almost six p.m. The buzz of daytime activity had settled down, but as always, detective work was a twenty-four-hour a day job, so many of Dupree’s fellow detectives and support staff were still milling about.

“Before we lock ourselves in the conference room,” Dupree suggested, “let’s see if Brenda’s still here.” She held up Michael Adelman’s business card. “We can guess what 650K refers to, and if we call the phone number on the back of this card, I’d bet it’s for GCI Trust Ltd. The eleven digit number, no doubt, is a bank account number. But I’d also like to know what OFC and GCI stand for.

“Well, if anyone can figure it out, Brenda can,” T.J. said. “And if we’re lucky, she might even have the DNA results from Cassano’s blood and some info on Hansen’s cell phone records.”

As they neared Brenda’s cubicle, Dupree could see the top of Brenda’s head rocking from side to side. Brenda was wearing pink earbud headphones plugged into her iPhone. Quietly laughing, Dupree and T.J. stood there watching Brenda’s head weaving and bobbing while she hummed a tune Dupree didn’t recognize. Finally, Brenda turned her head and jumped.

She yanked the headphones out of her ears. “You two scared the waffles right out of me. Are you detectives or stalkers?”

“Well,” T.J. said, “when you put on a show like that, how could we resist?”

“Just grooving with the brothers.” She turned off the music and swiveled towards Dupree and T.J. “I suppose you two are here on a fact-finding mission. Or did you just pop over to chitchat?”

“Tell you what,” Dupree said. “If you’ve got something for us to sink our teeth into, I’ll bring you a latté and a brownie first thing in the morning.”

“So you think I’m that easy, huh?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Are we talking girl brownie or boy brownie?”

“Whatever you prefer.”

Dupree could tell by the confused look on T.J.’s face that he didn’t get the brownie joke. “Think about it, T.J.,” Dupree said. “It’ll hit you.”