The sound of squealing tires brought Dupree’s thoughts back to the business at hand. She saw two black and whites and a black Chevy Suburban come to a screeching halt. More troops were on the scene hoping to find a clue—any clue—that might give them a lead. Dupree’s partner, however, still hadn’t shown up.
When T.J. and Dupree became partners six months ago, she felt an immediate connection, and guessed one reason was because they had something in common: They were both minorities in the homicide division, taking refuge in the same foxhole. T.J. was the only African-American and Dupree the only woman. Cops, by nature, were notorious pranksters and “The White-Boys-Club” targeted T.J. and Dupree often. Their pranks were always edged with racism and sexism. One time, on T.J.’s birthday, he found a beautifully wrapped present on his desk. Inside was a copy of Little Black Sambo with a note that said, “Couldn’t find a copy of Tar Baby, so we thought this would do.” At Christmastime, her first year as a detective, Dupree found mistletoe hanging above her chair decorated with tampons. The note scribbled on her notepad said, “Merry Christmas. You’ve always got the rag on so we didn’t want you to run out.”
But Dupree and T.J. didn’t take the abuse from their fellow detectives without recourse. For Wells’s fifty-fifth birthday, he got a sample bottle of Viagra. And Parisi, noted for his inability to unscrew the cap off a bottle of ketchup, wasn’t pleased when he received a four-pack of Ensure Muscle Milk for Christmas.
She got along well with T.J.; he was a good cop with great instincts, but their partnership lacked intimacy. Sure, on a professional level, they were totally connected. They were two forces pulling in the same direction. But on the personal side, they were strangers. Their relationship just didn’t fit the mold for two cops who spent fifty or sixty hours a week together.
A short, squatty policeman, barely tall enough to meet the minimum height requirement for a cop, approached Dupree. He offered his hand. “Tony Moretti.”
“I’m Detective Dupree. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
He firmly grasped her hand and cranked on her arm as if he were pumping water from a well. “Just transferred from the 122nd in Staten Island.”
“Lucky you. Welcome to the real world.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Moretti asked.
Dupree perused the concrete ceiling, turning her head a hundred-eighty degrees. “Find out who monitors security for this garage and get me copies of all the surveillance tapes for the last 24 hours.”
“I’m on it, Detective. It’s a pleasure finally meeting you.” He smiled. “I’ve heard from several people that you have an interesting nickname.”
“I’ve got lots of nicknames, Moretti. Most inappropriate to repeat.”
“Why do they call you the Velvet Hammer?”
“When you get to know me better—assuming you do—I think you’ll figure it out.”
Dupree’s cell phone rang. “Detective Dupree speaking.”
“Hey Amaris, it’s Brenda, your favorite support analyst. Got something for you. The I-HEAL plates are registered to Dr. Lauren Crawford. Don’t know what kind of doctor she is, but the address on her registration is in Brooklyn. In the Park Slope area. 1550 Plaza Street West, Unit 22C. Date of birth is September 22, 1968. I took the liberty of downloading her driver’s license photo and sent a copy to your e-mail address.”
“Hang on for a sec.” Dupree fished through her purse and located her iPhone. After a few clicks, the photo of Dr. Crawford appeared on the screen.
“Got anything else for me?” Dupree asked.
“I searched our database and as far as I can tell, she’s a model citizen. Never even got a parking ticket.”
“Next of kin?” Dupree asked.
“I checked the County Clerk’s birth records and got the name of her mother and father. Dug a little deeper and found out that her father died a few years ago, but her mom is still alive—lives at 213 Penn Street in Williamsburg.”
“Thanks, Brenda. Please text me both addresses. I should be back to the precinct in a couple hours.” After studying the driver’s license photo Brenda had sent her, and comparing it to the victim, Dupree confirmed that the murdered woman was Dr. Crawford.
Butler was busy examining the interior of the car, searching for any foreign object—a piece of thread, a stray hair, any clue that might lead them to the killer.
“I’m out of here,” Dupree said.
“Had enough fun for one day?”
“You guys can handle it from here.” Dupree’s lips tightened to a thin line. “I’ve got to track down T.J. and go break a mother’s heart.”
CHAPTER TWO
“So, where the hell have you been?” Dupree asked T.J. She leaned against her desk and folded her arms across her chest like a teacher waiting for a student to explain why he was late for class.
“It was a rough night—didn’t get much sleep.”
“You’ve been a slacker lately.”
“I’m really sorry, Amaris.”
T.J. stood a head taller than Dupree; his skin the color of creamed coffee. He’d never talked to her about it, but she’d heard that he was a gym-rat, one of those workout fanatics who would rather pump iron for two hours than do just about anything else. He could also shoot hoops like a young Michael Jordan. Although she’d never seen him with his shirt off, clearly he maintained a toned and muscular body. Always clean shaven, she’d never seen him with any facial hair—not even stubble. And he kept his hair short and neatly styled.
Dupree’s cell phone rang. She looked at the display and saw Butler’s name.
“Did you solve the case already, John?”
“Afraid not. But we did get a positive DNA match on one of the blood samples.” He paused. “Unfortunately, it’s for the victim, not the perp.”
“Is it Lauren Crawford’s blood?”
“Affirmative.”
“How were you able to match the DNA so quickly?” Dupree asked.
“Don’t know why, but Crawford’s DNA was cataloged in the National Database.”
“Good work. Anything else to report?”
“Officer Moretti was able to get copies of the surveillance tapes at the ramp garage. We’re reviewing them as we speak to see if they got a shot of the perp’s face. If so, we’ll put it through face recognition and hopefully ID this creep.”
“Keep me in the loop, John.”
“Sure thing.”
Dupree combed her fingers through her long wavy hair.
“Positive ID?” T.J. asked, his dark eyes locked on Dupree’s face.
“Yep.”
Without saying another word, Dupree grabbed her purse and keys and headed toward the door. She looked over her shoulder at T.J., expecting him to follow her, but he stood there gulping the last mouthful of coffee. “Do you need an embossed invitation or would you rather take the day off and go fishing?” She hated being a bitch, but sometimes…
He threw his cup in the garbage pail and followed Dupree out the door.