Dupree kept asking herself, who had the motive and will to murder Dr. Crawford? Was it her ex-lover? Revenge? A robbery gone bad? Or did it have something to do with her cancer research? Dupree now realized that the possibilities were many.
“Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Crawford,” Dupree said. “We’ll be sure to update you on any new developments.”
Mrs. Crawford’s eyes again filled with tears. “I will keep you in my prayers, Detective Dupree.”
CHAPTER THREE
Dupree did not aspire to breaking the law. However, talking on her cell while driving was a habit she just couldn’t break. She turned on the speaker so T.J. could hear both sides of the conversation. “Don’t disappoint me, Butler. I need some good news.”
T.J. had lectured her more than once for not using a hand’s free device. But no matter how compelling his argument, Dupree didn’t care. Maybe, she thought, a hint of her rebellious teenage years still lingered.
“I hate to ruin your day—I really do,” Butler warned, “but we examined every surveillance tape and there’s not one single frame we can use for facial recognition.”
“That’s not what I want to hear,” Dupree said. “You’re jeopardizing your rank as my number one go-to-agent. And I know you don’t want that.”
“Heavens no.”
“So, now that we know what you don’t have. Tell me what you do have.”
“If you study the perp’s body language,” Butler said, “it’s obvious that he knew the exact location of every video camera. When he stepped off the elevator, he immediately turned up the collar on his leather coat, stared at the floor, and all we could see was his baseball cap. He turned left when a camera was on the right, and turned right when it was on the left. But it does appear that he’s either bald or he’s completely shaved off his sideburns, which seems a little strange for a guy with hair.”
“So, the only thing you can tell me is that you think the guy is bald?”
“When he maneuvered into the backseat of Dr. Crawford’s car, his collar turned down just enough for us to see a small tattoo or birthmark on the back of his neck about the size of a quarter. Unfortunately, the surveillance system in the ramp garage must have been manufactured during the Renaissance, because the resolution is horrible. Even with our sophisticated video equipment, we can’t really get a clear close-up of whatever that mark is on his neck. And once they were in the backseat, the glare from the window made it impossible to see what was going on.”
“What else do you have for me?”
“Well, there’s more, but it’s trivial.”
“Nothing’s trivial.” Dupree said.
“He’s a big, thick man. Over six-feet tall. He was wearing a long leather coat that hung below his knees. And he’s Caucasian.”
“A leather coat in the middle of summer, in New York City?”
“It sure is odd.”
“Here’s what I don’t get,” Dupree offered. “If the guy’s intention was to kill Dr. Crawford, why pick a public place and risk being seen?”
“That’s the big question, Amaris.”
“Thanks, John. Keep me in the loop on any new developments.”
After disconnecting the call, she glanced at T.J. “What’s your take?”
“I think we need to interview Dr. Crawford’s ex-boyfriend.”
“You read my mind.”
Finding Jonathan Lentz’s address required little effort. Dupree wasn’t sure if he would be home in the middle of the day, but T.J. and she drove to his apartment in Queens anyway. Even if they didn’t find him home, sometimes a suspect’s neighbors offered a wealth of information.
“Doesn’t seem like the type of neighborhood where Crawford’s ex-boyfriend would live,” T.J. said. He pointed to a pile of trash littering the sidewalk in front of Lentz’s building. “You’d think that a brilliant scientist like her would be dating someone from the Upper East Side.”
“Maybe she looked at people from the inside out and didn’t get all caught up in status.”
“Well,” T.J. said, “that would be a refreshing change from the norm.”
T.J. and Dupree parked in front of 3548 118th Avenue, double-stepped it up three flights of stairs, and found apartment 3D. The dimly lit hallway reeked of cat urine and the carpeting looked as if it hadn’t been vacuumed since the day it was installed.
“By the looks of this place,” T.J. observed, “Dr. Crawford definitely wasn’t caught up in status. This joint is a rat-hole.”
Dupree knocked on the door.
No answer.
She knocked harder.
“Who is it?” shouted a voice from the other side of the door.
“New York City police,” Dupree shot back.
The door opened slowly; the hinges screeching in protest. The man stood there with his robe not quite covering his private areas. His hair was a mess.
“Are you Jonathan Lentz?” T.J. asked.
“In the flesh.”
Literally, Dupree thought.
“I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown.” She pointed to his groin area. “You might want to put that thing away.”
“Sorry.” He pulled his robe tighter around his body and did his best to calm down his unruly hairdo. “Sorry about my appearance, Detectives. It’s been a rough night.” He gestured. “Come on in.”
Except for the unmade bed in the corner of the tiny studio, the place was surprisingly neat and orderly. Even with his hair looking like it hadn’t been washed or combed in days, the young man was as attractive as a Calvin Klein model. She suspected that he’d had his way with a stable of women.
“Have a seat, Detectives.”
They made themselves comfortable on the worn-out sofa. Jonathan stood in front of them with his arms folded low on his torso, almost as if he were hugging an ailing stomach. Dupree noticed his eyes toggling back and forth between her face and chest. She nonchalantly fastened the top button of her blouse. She reached in her purse, removed a digital tape recorder, and set it on the cocktail table. “Mind if we record this interview?”
“Nope.”
Lentz stuffed his hands deep into the robe’s pockets and sat on a loveseat.
“This is about Lauren Crawford, isn’t it?”
“Why do you ask?” Dupree said.
“I heard it on the morning news. She hadn’t been positively identified yet, but when I saw the dent in the rear door of her Camry, I knew it was her.”
Dupree was somewhat surprised that Dr. Crawford’s murder had already hit the media. Then again, there were many instances when journalists knew more than the cops did.
He pointed to an almost empty bottle of Dewars. “Drank myself to sleep.”
“Can you tell us where you were last night between eight p.m. and midnight?” Dupree asked.
“Well, I can tell you one thing for certain: I wasn’t with Lauren.”
“I’m not suggesting that you were, Mr. Lentz. I just need to know your whereabouts for our investigation.”
“Wanna know where I was? Waiting for Lauren in a little coffee shop in Jackson Heights called Better Blast Coffee. Got there at eight-ish and left around eleven-thirty. You can verify that with both Jasmine, the owner, or Tim, one of the baristas.”