“He did.”
“Well, wouldn’t you think that a research scientist knowledgeable in chemistry might figure out how to extract ricin from castor beans?”
“Holy shit.”
As soon as they entered the building, the grossly overweight, shabbily groomed security guard Dupree remembered walked over to them.
He pointed at them. “You’re those detectives aren’t you?”
Dupree showed him her badge. “Yes, we are those detectives.”
She and T.J. moved past him as if he didn’t exist and headed for the elevator.
“Excuse me,” the security guard yelled. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Well,” T.J. said, “when we get on this elevator, we’re probably going up.”
“Who exactly are you looking for?”
“That’s exactly none of your business,” T.J. answered.
The security guard gave them a seething look. “Now you two just wait one… darn… minute. You’ve got no right to barge in here like you own the place.”
Dupree pulled the search warrant out of her inside jacket pocket and waved it in front of his face. “Actually,” she glanced at his name tag, “Ralph, we do kind of own the place.”
“Well, can you at least tell me who you want to see?”
T.J. pushed the ‘up’ button and the doors opened immediately. “Do you have a master key to all the residences?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t you come with us?” T.J. said. “And you can find out first hand who we want to see.”
Dupree could see that Ralph would rather jump off a cliff than join them, but he didn’t protest. Unlike the friendly, animated elevator operator Dupree and T.J. had encountered during their first visit, this one was expressionless, talked in a monotone voice, and his face was as milky white as an Albino wolf.
“Floor, please.”
“Twenty-three,” Dupree said.
The turbocharged elevator climbed up in less than ten seconds.
As the doors opened, Ralph’s face lit up. “Now I remember! You’re here to see Margaret Hansen, aren’t you?”
“Sh,” Dupree said. “We want to surprise her.”
Ralph led them to unit 2311.
About to knock on the door, Dupree said, “Wait a minute before you leave. If she’s not home, we need you to unlock the door.”
T.J. knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Still nothing.
T.J. pointed to the ring of keys hanging off Ralph’s belt. “Please let us in.”
Ralph sorted through his keys, found the master, unlocked the door, and slowly pushed it open.
“We’ll take it from here,” Dupree said. “You can go about your business. We’ll let you know when we’re done.” Dupree took out her cell. “May I have your phone number, Ralph?”
“212-555-9153.”
Dupree saved the number.
They entered the apartment and closed the door. “Let’s get busy,” Dupree said. “I’ll start in the bedroom, you check out the kitchen.”
Remembering the messy condition of Hansen’s apartment the first time she’d spoken to the suspect, Dupree was surprised at its tidiness. The bedroom looked like a centerfold ad for Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Before Dupree began going through dresser drawers, searching closets, and inspecting the items scattered on the nightstands and vanity, five cardboard boxes neatly stacked in the corner caught her eye.
She reached for the box on top of the pile and tried to lift it, but the box felt way too heavy.
“Hey, T.J.,” she yelled. “Can you help me for a sec?”
When T.J. walked into the bedroom, Dupree pointed to the box. “Mind helping me with this?”
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.