Page 30 of The Writer

“She’s not a cheater, Detective. And with that guy? Please. If she wanted to, she could do much better.” Susan grabs a notepad from the center of the table, writes something, and slides the pad back to Declan. “Denise doesn’t cook, but she’s a foodie. This is a list of her favorite restaurants. When she gets stuck on a book and needs to think, she likes to walk to the theater district and take in a show. According to her website, she’s seenWickedforty-one times. If you want to talk to people who know her, people who regularly see her and see who she’s with, I’d start with these places or down on Broadway.”

Declan picks up the list. He knows most of the restaurants. A good meal at any one of them costs what he makes in a week.

Cordova flips one of the books over and sets it in the middle of the table. Denise Morrow’s photo stares at them. “If she wanted to, does she have it in her to kill her husband?”

A sly smile crosses Susan’s lips. “She’s insanely smart. Graduated at the top of her class. If she wanted to kill her husband, she absolutely could, but you wouldn’t find her hovering over the body like you did, with his blood all over her and the weapon right there. That’s amateur. She’d be in Barbados orsomething when he died. Have an airtight alibi. Nothing pointing to her. She’d make it impossible to pin it on her.”

Apparently Morrow’s number one fan hasn’t heard yet—it wasn’t his blood. And the knife wasn’t the murder weapon. Her favorite author’s alibi has firmed up a bit.

Gesturing at the books, Susan continues. “Denise has picked apart some of the most complicated murders in the world,dissectedthem. She breaks them down and describes them in simple terms. She dissects motive. Everything the killer did right and wrong. Where the investigation went right and wrong. Prosecution. Every mistake by everyone involved. She hits from every angle. That’s not an easy thing to do. The rumor is, for every case she writes about, she studies hundreds more. If she wanted to kill someone—went into it with that kind of knowledge behind her—do you honestly think she’d get caught?”

Declan snickers; he can’t help it. “You make her sound like some kind of super-sleuth. I’d love to see her work our caseload.”

“She’d clear your desk in a week.” Susan waves out at the bullpen. “She’s smarter than all of you.”

There’s a heavy knock on the door, and Lieutenant Daniels sticks his head in, looks at Declan and Cordova. “You two are on deck—female found in a dumpster off West Eighty-Third. Sounds like a stab ’n’ grab.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THIS CLOSE TO the park, Eighty-Third is mostly residential. Old-money brownstones with less than half converted to multifamily. Only a handful of businesses—dry cleaner, sandwich shop, day care, a corner bodega. Unlike the corner grocery a block from Declan’s apartment, the bodega here has no bars on the windows. No advertisements for lottery tickets, discount Marlboros, or two-for-one burritos. This shop’s large picture window has a colorful display of fall fruit with carefully placed leaves of red, yellow, and bright orange. The alley Declan enters is sandwiched between the bodega and an antique-furniture store, and with the ivy growing across the brick, it looks more like the mouth to some secretgarden than a spot to hide the area trash. The crime scene tape and two patrol cars blocking the street appear out of place—if it weren’t for those squad cars and the medical examiner’s van, you’d think you were on the set of some rom-com.

“Killer’s gotta be a newbie,” Declan says to Cordova as they duck under the tape. “The pros know better than to dump a body south of One Hundred Fifteenth. Rich folk don’t stand for that.”

“They’re not above watching the show, though.” He gestures at the windows on the opposite side of the street. “Got eyes everywhere.”

Sergeant Hernandez is halfway down the alley, barking orders to a group of four uniforms. He spots Declan and Cordova and comes over. “Twice in one week, Detectives. This isn’t good for property values.”

Declan smirks. “Maybe it’s time to talk to your broker about lightening your portfolio.”

Hernandez is right, though. They’re only a few blocks from the Beresford. That’s two dead in less than a week. The last murder in this area before that must have been six months ago.

Cordova is still looking up at the windows. Hernandez follows his gaze. “I’ve got unis knocking on all those doors. I’ll let you know if they get anything useful. This alley is accessible the way you came in and it opens up on Eighty-Second too, so two points of ingress.”

“Any cameras?”

“Still checking.” He turns and points at the dumpster. “Yourgirl’s in there. Sanitation guys found her. Decomp is pretty bad. I’d put her at maybe five or six days.”

That seems like a long time. “How often do they empty the dumpster?”

“Normally every Monday and Thursday. They said it got skipped on Monday because a delivery truck had the alley all blocked up. They don’t wait around when that happens.”

Declan looks at Cordova. As usual, he’s wearing a suit and tie. Shoes shined to flawless perfection. Declan is in jeans and a gray henley. An old pair of Reeboks. He nods at the dumpster. “I don’t suppose you want to flip for it?”

“Not a chance.”

Hernandez puts two fingers in his mouth, whistles, and points at one of the uniformed officers, a kid Declan doesn’t recognize. “You still got that Tyvek handy?”

The kid fishes around in a black duffel, finds a package, and tosses it to them.

Declan snatches the protective suit from the air, quickly slips it on over his clothing, tugs up the zipper, and puts on the gloves. “You’re buying lunch,” he tells Cordova, then steps over to the dumpster and switches on his recorder. “Transcriber, this is Detective First Class Declan Shaw of the NYPD Twentieth. It is Thursday, November sixteenth, 2023. The time is eleven twenty-three. Current location, an alley on Eighty-Third, between—” He shouts over his shoulder, “Anyone know the exact address?”

“Between fifty-nine and sixty-three,” Hernandez tells him.

Declan repeats that. He peers over the edge of the dumpster, clears his throat. “We’ve got a female, Caucasian, possiblyLatino, tough to say with decomp. Late twenties. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Defensive wounds on her right hand. Thick slice down her palm. Looks like she made a grab for the knife and caught the blade. She’s about halfway down. I think…” Declan shakes his head and frowns at Hernandez. “They didn’t find her like this, did they? Did someone dig her out?”

Hernandez points to a pile of garbage stacked against the wall next to the dumpster. “Sanitation guys recognized the smell. They took out enough trash to confirm it was a person, not an animal, and called 911.” He points his thumb back down the alley. “I’ve got them in a patrol car if you want to talk to them.”

“Where’s their truck?” He doesn’t remember seeing one on the way in.

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