Hypocrisy (9 page)

“You order for both of us. I need to make a little trip.” T.J. excused himself and weaved his way through the crowd toward the bathroom.

While waiting for T.J. to return, Dupree studied the bustling crowd, disappointed at herself that she would go against the grain of her strong feelings, sit in this meat market with T.J., and drink herself into oblivion. Fifteen years ago, yes. But that was another life; one she’d tried to forget. What was she trying to prove?

T.J. returned promptly and his beer was waiting for him. “So, partner, now that you’ve made your point and proven that I know nothing about you personally, isn’t it time I get to know the
real
Amaris Dupree?”

“Only if I get to know the
real
Theodore Jamal Brown.”

“Deal.”

“One condition,” Dupree said. “If we’re going to share life stories, no holding back or filtering. Balls to the walls or nothing.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” T.J. said.

Dupree had never shared her dark and dubious life story with anyone. Bits and pieces to select people, yes, but never the unabridged version. Maybe speaking the words to another human being would actually be good therapy.

“My saga is a not-so-uncommon story,” Dupree said. “Good kid gone bad. My dad left my mother and me when I was only three years old. Never saw him again. Mom did a great job of managing the household and teaching me strong values. We lived in a beautiful red brick home in Brooklyn. I wasn’t a bad kid, but something happened when I reached my teens. It was as if some demon possessed me on my thirteenth birthday.” Dupree paused and took a sip of her drink. “How my mother dealt with me without sending me to a boot camp for out-of-control kids is
still a mystery.” She paused for a few seconds, not sure she should continue. But the numbing effect of the alcohol was making her feel uninhibited. T.J. seemed to recognize the awkwardness of the situation, but didn’t utter a sound. She noticed that he hadn’t taken his eyes off her face.

“Well,” Dupree continued. “Things heated up just before my seventeenth birthday. My mother and I were at odds every single day. So, I did the only logical thing. I got pregnant by my drug-dealing, pot-smoking, loser boyfriend, left my mother high and dry, and moved in with the father of my baby. We lived in a slummy apartment in the projects and ate food you wouldn’t feed to a hyena. But I never got into the drug scene. Somehow, I found the strength to stay clean. My boyfriend begged, pleaded for me to have an abortion. That’s when I knew he and I had no future together. No way was I going to kill my baby.

“There I was, not even seventeen years old, out in the streets with all my worldly belongings stuffed in a backpack, a three month old baby in my womb, and thirty-five dollars in my pocket. I thought about going home, feeling certain that my mother would have taken me in without a second thought. But I was too proud and too foolish to do the right thing.”

Dupree’s eyes began to gloss over.

“You don’t have to continue, Amaris. Really.”

“I’ve come this far. Besides,” she forced a smile, “think you’re getting off the hook so easily? When I’m finished, it’ll be your turn.”

“I lived in the streets for four terrifying days. How I survived without getting gang-raped or even murdered amazes me to this day. Back then, New York wasn’t like it is today. With no money left and no options, I went to a local police station. I knew if I told them about my mother, they’d put me in a patrol car and take me home. So I lied about my situation and even gave them a fake name. But I did tell them I was pregnant. They asked lots
of questions and I gave them bullshit answers. But they bought it. Next thing I know, they drove me to a shelter for pregnant teenagers. Saint Catherine’s Home. The people who ran that place were remarkable people. No questions. No demands. No judgments.

“They told me they would provide care for me while I was pregnant. But once I had the baby, I could no longer live there. One of their counselors asked me what my plans were for my baby. I thought long and hard and asked them if I should keep it or give it up for adoption. This was not a decision anyone could make for me. So, right after I found out I was carrying a little girl, I decided that she could have a better life if a loving couple raised her as their own.”

Now the cascade of tears began. Dupree covered her face with both hands.

“Why don’t we go outside and get some fresh air?” T.J. suggested.

“I don’t need fresh air. I
want
to finish my story.”

T.J. folded his arms across his chest and eased back.

“I agreed to give up my daughter for adoption through an anonymous program. The adoptive parents would pay all my medical bills and pay for me to get into a decent apartment. Because it’s illegal in New York to accept money from adoptive parents, we actually structured their payment to me as a loan that I agreed to pay back. I never met the adoptive parents and agreed that once the adoption took place, I would forfeit all my rights to ever see my daughter again. The counselors at Saint Catherine’s tried desperately to talk me out of this decision, but my mind was made up. I was certain that my daughter would have a better life without me in it. Of course, because I was not of legal age, I needed my mother’s consent. I won’t even begin to tell you the details of that conversation, but even though it broke her heart, she signed the release.

“When my daughter was born, the nurse asked me if I’d like to hold my baby. I wanted to.
Really
wanted to. Just once
I wanted to see her face and take a mental snapshot I could remember forever. But I thought it best not to touch her. I was afraid that once I held her in my arms, I’d never let her go. I did get a glimpse of her face and tiny hands and feet when they were cleaning her. But once they wisked her away, that was the last time I ever saw her.”

Dupree’s eyes again filled with tears.

“I don’t know what she looks like, where she lives, or if she even knows I exist. I tried to make contact with the adoptive parents through the adoption agency, but of course the records were confidential and they could not disclose any information. I placed personal ads in the
New York Times
periodically for the last ten years, hoping that by some miracle my daughter would see the ad and connect the dots. But—”

It took a few minutes for Dupree to regain her composure. Her cheeks were wet with tears and she guessed that she looked a sight with her mascara trailing down her face. She noticed that people passing their table looked at her, shaking their heads, probably thinking that T.J. and she were a couple and T.J. was having the “big talk.”

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” T.J. said.

“You really want to hear more?”

He nodded. “Did you ever consult an attorney to find out if you have any legal recourse?”

“Spoke to a few who specialized in adoptions, but they discouraged me even more.”

“How about a P.I.?”

“Hired two of them and spent a lot of money for nothing.”

T.J. looked as if he was searching his brain for more questions.

“Now that my daughter is an adult, my only hope is that she makes an effort to contact me. But again, she may not even know I exist.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, neither making eye contact.

“So, tell me, Amaris, did you ever reconcile with your mother?”

Dupree focused on her empty cocktail glass, her hands curled into fists. “The next time I saw my mother, I was nineteen and she was lying in a hospital bed, dying of breast cancer in a hospice facility. You want to talk about guilt? I apologized for hurting her so badly and for giving up her only grandchild. And I made a commitment to her. I promised that I would turn my life around and would make her proud of me. She was too weak to respond, but she squeezed my hand. Ten minutes later…she passed.”

“I’m so sorry,” T.J. said. He reached across the table and laid his hand on top of hers. “It looks to me like you kept your promise.”

“I worked two jobs, buried myself in student loans, and five years later, I earned a master’s degree in criminology from Saint John’s University. I made the police force when I was twenty-five, busted my ass for six years, and then made detective. That was five years ago. The rest is history.”

“That is quite a story. The only word that comes to mind is ‘wow’.”

“Well, T.J., you now know more about me than any living human.” For the first time since she began her story, she could feel the tension slowly draining from her body. “I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Can we postpone your autobiography for another time? I’m mentally exhausted.”

He looked relieved that she made this request. “I was hoping you’d ask that. I really don’t know if I could handle it right now myself.”

His comment sparked Dupree’s curiosity, leading her to believe that his story might be as colorful as hers. “Let’s get out of here.”

T.J. paid the tab and they went outside into the sultry evening air. As always, 5
^th
Avenue was humming with activity. They moved slowly, side by side, neither uttering a sound.

Dupree stopped and pointed to a high rise building. “That’s it. The place I call home.”

“Nice digs. Way cool to live in the heart of the Village.”

“Thanks to my mother.” Dupree felt a little awkward, like T.J. and she had just gone on a first date. “I’d invite you up, but my eyes are drooping.”

“Maybe another time,” T.J. said.

“Goodnight, T.J. Thanks for being such a good listener.” She inched toward him and kissed him on the cheek.

“Sweet dreams, Amaris. See you in the morning.”

As she walked towards the main entrance to her apartment building, she stopped, turned her head, and watched T.J. walk away. She felt a bit awkward after kissing his cheek and hoped he didn’t think it meant more than an innocent gesture.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Severely hung over, choking down some cop-coffee as quickly as the hot beverage would allow, Dupree entered the main meeting room. Quite to her surprise, T.J. and John Butler, Dupree’s favorite CSI agent, were sitting next to each other, coffee in one hand, bagel in the other. Maybe her little chat with T.J. had gotten through to him. She hadn’t seen him in the precinct this early in months.

Dupree glanced at T.J. and immediately felt uneasy, as if it was the morning after a one-night-stand, regret dominating her thoughts. She almost felt embarrassed that she’d shared her entire history with T.J., unedited and without reservation. She suspected that their relationship would never be quite the same from this day forward. Now that he knew so many intimate details about her, how could it ever be the same?

Trying to shake off her feeling of anxiety, Dupree offered a salute with her mug of coffee. “Mornin’ guys. I thought all cops ate donuts for breakfast.”

“Not when the captain brings in fresh bagels,” Butler said.

“What’s the occasion?” Dupree asked.

“I think he got laid last night,” T.J. said. “How’s your head this morning?”

“Need you ask? Next time I stop for one drink with you, I’m sticking with tonic water.”

“T.J. tells me you two had quite a night,” Butler said.

Quite a night
?

Given T.J.’s alleged reputation with women, it suddenly occurred to Dupree that Butler might be thinking that the two of them had hooked up last night. Trying to make light of Butler’s comment, Dupree forced a smile. “Let’s just say that I haven’t been that toasted since my high school prom.”

“So I’ve heard.” Butler looked at his watch and stood. “I’d love to chat with you two fine detectives, but I have to earn my keep. I’m meeting with the M.E. in a few minutes to discuss the autopsy results for Dr. Crawford. Talk to you later.”

“Wish I could join you, but T.J. and I have a crazy-busy day. Call me as soon as you finish with the M.E.”

“Will do.”

As soon as Butler left the room, Dupree looked at T.J. “Please tell me that you didn’t—”

“Give me a little credit, Amaris. I’ll take your story to the grave.”

“Thank you.

T.J opened a manila folder. “Got some interesting information for you this morning. Some boring but some that might perk you up.”

“I’m listening,” Dupree said.

“I thoroughly checked out Dr. Mason and he’s a model citizen. Lives in a spectacular home in the Hamptons, he pays his taxes on time, belongs to Gulfstream Country Club, been married twice, he’s a widower, has no kids, and no criminal record. He retired from his private practice a couple years ago and joined Dr. Crawford at the Horizon Cancer Research Center.”

“I hope that’s the boring part because I’m yawning here,” Dupree said.

“Here’s the fun stuff,” T.J. said. “Little Miss Maggie Hansen—our straight-laced scientist? She may not kill spiders, but has no problem kicking the shit out of humans.”

“Say again.”

“First off, back in her college days, she got into an argument with her roommate and beat her silly. Roomie ended up in the hospital, and Hansen was arrested and charged with assault. For whatever reason, Hansen’s roommate didn’t press charges, so she got off with a slap on the hand. But get this: the fight was over a guy.”

“I’m not getting the connection,” Dupree said.

“Well, fasten your seatbelt because I’m not done yet. On a hunch, I called Dr. Mason this morning and caught him just as he was leaving the office. He said he had to catch a flight and didn’t have time to talk. But I convinced him to give me a few minutes. So, I asked him why Crawford fired Hansen. He confirmed that the employment records clearly state that she was fired because she did not meet the deadline to complete the critical report Hansen told us about. But here’s the kicker. Remember Jonathan Lentz, Dr. Crawford’s ex-boyfriend? It seems that while he was dating Dr. Crawford, he and Hansen had a little fling. Lentz and Hansen met at a holiday get together at Dr. Mason’s home. Apparently, Lentz and Hansen really hit it off. Ultimately, their little affair caused great conflict between Hansen and Dr. Crawford. So much so that Dr. Crawford eventually ended her relationship with Lentz.”