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.”
CHAPTER SIX
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.”
T.J. laughed. “All kidding aside, it’s way more comfortable to go commando style. Seriously. You ought to try it sometime.”
Feeling mischievous, Dupree gave him a quick glance, winked, and smiled. “I have. In fact, I’m going commando right now.”
Like a cartoon character, T.J.’s chin dropped.
If only I had a camera to capture the look on his face .
Dupree followed 7 th Avenue North to Park Place, and headed east towards the heart of Prospect Heights. Known for its tree-lined streets, hundred year old brownstones, luxury condominiums, and nearly as many museums as Manhattan, Prospect Heights was an upscale area of Brooklyn notable for its cultural diversity.
After parking the car in the underground garage, T.J. and Dupree rode the elevator to the lobby, the only floor the garage elevator had access to. When they stepped off, the security staff—at least four or five of them—looked like members of a SWAT team. Obviously, whoever managed this building was serious about security and the privacy of the residents. Dupree approached the front desk and T.J. just stood in front of the elevator doors waiting.
She flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Dupree and that’s Detective Brown. We’re here to see Maggie Hansen in Unit 2311.” The security guard, grossly overweight, with a “comb-over” hairdo that would make a notable hair stylist commit suicide, studied her ID closely, moving his eyes back and forth from the
“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.”
CHAPTER SIX
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.”
T.J. laughed. “All kidding aside, it’s way more comfortable to go commando style. Seriously. You ought to try it sometime.”
Feeling mischievous, Dupree gave him a quick glance, winked, and smiled. “I have. In fact, I’m going commando right now.”
Like a cartoon character, T.J.’s chin dropped.
If only I had a camera to capture the look on his face .
Dupree followed 7 th Avenue North to Park Place, and headed east towards the heart of Prospect Heights. Known for its tree-lined streets, hundred year old brownstones, luxury condominiums, and nearly as many museums as Manhattan, Prospect Heights was an upscale area of Brooklyn notable for its cultural diversity.
After parking the car in the underground garage, T.J. and Dupree rode the elevator to the lobby, the only floor the garage elevator had access to. When they stepped off, the security staff—at least four or five of them—looked like members of a SWAT team. Obviously, whoever managed this building was serious about security and the privacy of the residents. Dupree approached the front desk and T.J. just stood in front of the elevator doors waiting.
She flashed her badge. “I’m Detective Dupree and that’s Detective Brown. We’re here to see Maggie Hansen in Unit 2311.” The security guard, grossly overweight, with a “comb-over” hairdo that would make a notable hair stylist commit suicide, studied her ID closely, moving his eyes back and forth from the
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