computer and external hard drive, but that they would contain every piece of research data downloaded from the secure server.”
“A little too coincidental,” Dupree said. “Someone on the inside has dirt under their fingernails.”
“Dr. Mason?”
“Well, he sure is in the thick of things. And he did mention that he has an equity position in Horizon. We need to complete a thorough background check on him. I’d like to know if there are any criminal records, malpractice lawsuits, ugly divorces, or significant debt. And I really would like to know who he hobnobs with. Maybe this Maggie Hansen can fill in a few blanks.”
“Before we track her down,” T.J. suggested, “why don’t we check out Dr. Crawford’s place first? We’re driving to Brooklyn anyway and Park Slope borders Prospect Heights.”
“Nice thought, but the search warrant hasn’t come through yet. So unless you’re into breaking and entering…”
“Hey, it’s worth a try, no? Let’s kill two birds with one stone.”
“Okay,” Dupree said. “I’ll bet you a cold brew or cocktail of your choice that we don’t get into Dr. Crawford’s apartment without a warrant.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
Dupree grabbed a folder from the backseat and leafed through the pages. She entered Dr. Crawford’s address into the police department issued GPS. As soon as the woman’s voice started barking driving instructions, she merged into traffic. The voice on the GPS directed Dupree to the Sheridan Expressway south to the Bruckner Expressway.
It was a cloudy day in New York and the humidity seemed like it was flirting with 100%. Dupree wanted to remove her suit jacket, but felt certain her silk blouse was soaked with perspiration. Sweatstained armpits weren’t exactly the image she wished to portray. And of course, there was also the ongoing desire to conceal her bountiful “gifts” from God.
When they arrived at the apartment building, a freakishly tall doorman, dressed in a navy blue uniform and an official-looking hat that made him appear to be an admiral in the Navy, hustled toward the front door and opened it for the detectives. He seemed about ten pounds away from looking like a stick person.
“Good afternoon folks.” He gave them a thorough onceover and Dupree figured he was trying to remember if they looked familiar. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Dupree flashed her badge. “We’re New York City homicide detectives and we need entry into Dr. Lauren Crawford’s residence.” She glanced at her folder. “Apartment 22C.”
His pleasant and welcoming look turned sour. “Such a terrible tragedy. Dr. Crawford was a lovely person.” His eyes glazed over with tears. “Let me put you in touch with the building superintendent.”
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—noteven 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
“A little too coincidental,” Dupree said. “Someone on the inside has dirt under their fingernails.”
“Dr. Mason?”
“Well, he sure is in the thick of things. And he did mention that he has an equity position in Horizon. We need to complete a thorough background check on him. I’d like to know if there are any criminal records, malpractice lawsuits, ugly divorces, or significant debt. And I really would like to know who he hobnobs with. Maybe this Maggie Hansen can fill in a few blanks.”
“Before we track her down,” T.J. suggested, “why don’t we check out Dr. Crawford’s place first? We’re driving to Brooklyn anyway and Park Slope borders Prospect Heights.”
“Nice thought, but the search warrant hasn’t come through yet. So unless you’re into breaking and entering…”
“Hey, it’s worth a try, no? Let’s kill two birds with one stone.”
“Okay,” Dupree said. “I’ll bet you a cold brew or cocktail of your choice that we don’t get into Dr. Crawford’s apartment without a warrant.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
Dupree grabbed a folder from the backseat and leafed through the pages. She entered Dr. Crawford’s address into the police department issued GPS. As soon as the woman’s voice started barking driving instructions, she merged into traffic. The voice on the GPS directed Dupree to the Sheridan Expressway south to the Bruckner Expressway.
It was a cloudy day in New York and the humidity seemed like it was flirting with 100%. Dupree wanted to remove her suit jacket, but felt certain her silk blouse was soaked with perspiration. Sweatstained armpits weren’t exactly the image she wished to portray. And of course, there was also the ongoing desire to conceal her bountiful “gifts” from God.
When they arrived at the apartment building, a freakishly tall doorman, dressed in a navy blue uniform and an official-looking hat that made him appear to be an admiral in the Navy, hustled toward the front door and opened it for the detectives. He seemed about ten pounds away from looking like a stick person.
“Good afternoon folks.” He gave them a thorough onceover and Dupree figured he was trying to remember if they looked familiar. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Dupree flashed her badge. “We’re New York City homicide detectives and we need entry into Dr. Lauren Crawford’s residence.” She glanced at her folder. “Apartment 22C.”
His pleasant and welcoming look turned sour. “Such a terrible tragedy. Dr. Crawford was a lovely person.” His eyes glazed over with tears. “Let me put you in touch with the building superintendent.”
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—noteven 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
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