Page 12 of The Writer

“Exactly.”

“The perfect crime,” says the interviewer.

“There were no witnesses. People fall from ladders all the time.”

“Not once did she report her husband’s activity to the police. That’s why the jury convicted. Maybe if she’d filed a complaint, gone on the record, and proved the system failed her, the jury would have shown some leniency.”

“If she had filed a report, created that paper trail, the police would have had reason to suspect her when her husband died. The fact that she didn’t report the crime is the reason she would have gotten away with it,” Denise says.

“If not for the guilt.”

“If not for the guilt.”

“Why do I get the feeling that if you were in Michelle Bacot’s shoes, you’d be a free woman today?” the interviewer says.

“If I had been in Michelle Bacot’s shoes, not only would I be free, my daughter would be sitting here next to me, not an ounce of guilt between us.”

Cordova stops the video, and a heavy silence falls over the room. He slips his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I checked with Murdock at CSU. They covered every inch of that apartment and found no sign of an intruder. The only prints on the main bedroom’s terrace door belong to the Morrows. No unknowns in or out on security footage. Neighbors and doorman saw nothing. Break-in appears staged. Sometimes you gotta call it what it is.”

Saffi’s gaze goes back to the monitor as she takes this all in. Finally she says to Declan, “Remember how I told you to handle this with kid gloves?”

“Yeah.”

“Be ready to take the gloves off.”

CHAPTER TEN

DECLAN AND ADA Saffi go in; Cordova stays in the observation room. He’s got a few more calls to make and doesn’t want to crowd the room. Backed into a corner, Morrow is liable to clam up, and that won’t do anyone any good.

Declan doesn’t expect the truth—they never tell the truth—but he and Saffi know she’ll feed them a story, and once they have her on record with a story, they can punch holes in it.

Declan closes the interview room’s door and holds up his half-empty coffee cup. “Are either of you thirsty?”

Hoffman glares at him for several seconds, then turns to Saffi. “Do you have any idea how many civil rights your detective has violated in the past two hours? Before we leave here, Iwant to see him up on disciplinary or my first stop tomorrow morning will be a filing against this precinct!”

Hoffman has actually found time to change. He’s in a fresh Armani suit, a pale blue shirt with a white collar, and a sleek dark tie perfectly knotted.

Saffi brings in several folders, including the one containing the insurance information. She drops them on the table and sits. “Calm down, Geller, your nostrils are flaring. It’s not a good look for you.”

Carmen Saffi is anything but a pushover.

Holding back the smirk that desperately wants to come out, Declan tells Hoffman, “I’m doing you a damn favor. I’m here because your client asked for me. I’ve been off the clock since six. Saffi or my LT want someone else on this, I got no problem going home and getting some sleep.”

“Sit, Declan.” Saffi waves at the empty chair beside her. “It’s a little too late at night for a pissing match. Both of you need to put it to rest so we can get to the bottom of all this.”

Geller’s frowning. “My client didn’t ask for you.”

Declan takes out his phone and scrolls through his texts with Cordova until he finds the 911 call. He hasn’t heard it yet but presses Play anyway. Denise Morrow’s whispered voice fills the room:

“My… my husband… somebody stabbed him! God, he’s… somebody stabbed him. I think they might still be here!”

“Ma’am, can you confirm your location? I have two eleven Central Park West.”

“Yes.”

“What apartment?”

“Tower number two.”

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