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seat,” the receptionist said, pointing to a small reception area. “I’ll buzz Dr. Mason.”
    Once they were seated, Dupree, talking slightly louder than she intended to, said, “She seems quite taken with you.”
    “I hadn’t noticed.”
    “Seriously? You must be sleeping on your feet. She was almost drooling.”
    “I think you’re reading way too much into it. Besides, I’m not the least bit interested.”
    Curious, Dupree thought. During the six months she’d worked with T.J., she’d heard plenty about his sordid romantic life and his involvement with “loose” women; how he’d jump at the chance to exploit any opportunity. Of course, Dupree was not naïve. Locker-room-cop-talk—especially when it centered on a detective’s sexual escapades and latest triumphs—was almost always more fiction than fact. If what she’d heard about T.J. was, in fact, true, it did seem peculiar that he showed no interest in the obviously-smitten receptionist.
    They sat in silence for a minute. Dupree fussed with her hair, watching members of the staff hustling about. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. She glanced at T.J. and his eyes were at half mast. She elbowed him in the arm. He opened his eyes and looked around as if he had no idea where he was.
    “Seriously, T.J. Are you kidding me or what?”
    “I’m really sorry, but—”
    “Call me a nagging bitch if you like, but being sorry doesn’t quite cut it. I don’t know what’s up with you lately, but you’d better get your head out of your ass. I don’t give a flying fuck what you do on your off-time. Drink yourself into oblivion. Shoot heroine. Screw yourself silly. Whatever turns your crank. But when you’re carrying a shield and sidearm, you’re on the clock, and you’re my partner, I need you on-board one-hundred percent.”
    A short stocky man with thinning silver hair approached the two detectives. Dupree gave him a onceover and noticed a slight limp. In spite of that, he moved with purpose in his step.
    “Hi,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Mason. Sorry you had to wait.”
    The detectives stood and introduced themselves.
    “Follow me,” Dr. Mason said. “We can go into my office and hopefully find some privacy.” As they walked, the doctor talked. “This place is always humming, but since Dr. Crawford’s terrible death, it’s been a madhouse. Excuse the cliché, but we’re operating like a ship without a rudder.”
    They passed cubicle after cubicle, computer after computer, lots of equipment foreign to Dupree. Along the back wall was an area enclosed in glass that ran the whole width of the floor. All the employees inside wore space age uniforms. Dupree felt like she was taking a tour of NASA.
    Dr. Mason led them into his office and asked them to have a seat. Checking out the office without making it too obvious, Dupree was surprised at its simplicity. But the distinct smell of stale cigarette smoke and the overflowing ashtray absolutelystunned her. The administrative leader of an organization involved in cancer research was a smoker ? It was hard for Dupree to wrap her head around that one.
    “Please tell me that you have a suspect in Dr. Crawford’s murder,” Mason said.
    “At this point,” Dupree answered, “there’s no hard evidence pointing to anyone in particular. But as things unfold over the next few days, as we fit the pieces together and conduct more interviews, I think we’ll come up with a few possibilities.”
    “What can I do to help?” Mason offered.
    “First off,” Dupree said, “do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Dr. Crawford? Any enemies here at the lab? Conflicts with other staff members? Vendettas? Professional jealousy, perhaps? Was there somebody who could gain something from Dr. Crawford’s death?”
    “Lauren ran a tight ship and she kept the staff toeing the line. I’m sure she offended people sometimes with her abruptness and obsession with perfection. She was a stickler for details and