Page 35 of The Writer

He leads Declan to the garage’s third floor and a black BMW 7 Series surrounded by uniformed officers and CSU techs. There’s something sitting on the car’s trunk. Declan can’t tell what it is until he gets closer, then his heart gives a hard thump. “Is that…”

Cordova beams and points to one of the officers, a young guy with red hair and freckles. “Billy there found it.”

Billy shrugs and glances up at an exposed heating duct above the car. “It was right up top, wrapped in newspaper. Saw the corner sticking out. Hard to miss in here.”

The garage ceilings are low—seven, maybe seven and a half feet. Low enough for Declan to reach without a ladder. He brushes the bottom of the open duct with his fingertips as he steps up to the car, his pulse thundering in his ears. Sitting in the center of a crumpled page from theNew York Timessports section is a knife. Not just any knife, but one with a blade that’s five inches long and one inch wide with a serrated edge. The blade is stained with what appears to be dried blood; the newspaper is too.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Declan hears the words come from his mouth, but the blood is pounding in his ears so hard that his own voice sounds muffled. “The knife that killed David Morrow?”

“It’s got to be. Hoffman must have walked it out in the coat just like we thought.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. Holy shit.”

An elevator about ten feet away dings and the doors slide open. Geller Hoffman gets out. He’s changed out of his jam-jams and into a pair of khaki pants and a white button-down. One hand is pressing his cell phone to his ear and the other is pointing at Cordova. “Don’t you dare touch my car. I spoke to the issuing judge and—” When he spots the knife resting on his trunk, the color leaves his face. His finger shifts from Cordova to the blade. “What the hell is that?”

“What do you think it is?” Cordova asks.

It doesn’t take long for Hoffman to recover, and when he does, his angry stare moves to Declan. “You motherfucker. You seriously think you can plant evidence here too…on me?I will not only take your badge, I’ll see to it you’re sharing a cell with Ruben Lucero. You think I don’t know what you did on that case? No way you’re pulling that bullshit with me.”

When he starts for the car, Cordova waves at two of the uniformed officers. “Hold him back. Park him somewhere. He doesn’t go anywhere.”

Cordova’s phone rings. ADA Saffi. He answers on speaker, tells her to hold on a second, and shuffles to the far end of the garage with Declan so Hoffman can’t hear. He quickly details what they found and where they found it. He’s doing his best to stay calm, but he sounds like a kid who just discovered the latest Xbox under the Christmas tree.

“You almost fucked us going to Thomas,” Saffi says. “You know that, right?”

“Berman and Hoffman golf together. Hell, they’re both members of the Metropolitan Club. You think Berman would’ve played this on the up-and-up if we went to him?”

“Berman’s an officer of the court. Same with Hoffman. Same with me. Just putting the message out there that you don’t trust him could burn you on this case. He’s obligated to stay objective. You don’t so much as hint that you don’t trust him. He can fuck you six ways to Sunday without violating the sanctity of the court. Trust that Berman will do his job, and let him do it.” She goes quiet for a second, then adds, “Besides, he thinks Hoffman is a tool. Just because they travel in the same circles doesn’t mean he likes him.”

Declan knows Cordova did the right thing. Saffi probably does too, but part of her job is to read them the riot act. CYA.

Saffi draws a deep breath that’s audible over the call and says,“Judge Thomas conferenced with me and Berman and he amended his warrant after learning Hoffman was an attorney. He’s going to appoint a special master.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s an unrelated attorney who will be present for the search of Hoffman’s apartment and any personal belongings. They’ll basically ensure you’re not looking at anything that violates attorney-client privilege.”

“How long’s that going to take?”

“Till tomorrow. Day after at the latest.”

Declan nods. They can make that work. “We’re fine. We take Hoffman in and we can hold him for seventy-two hours. We keep him on ice until we’re inside.”

“You’re not charging Hoffman with the knife. You’re certainly not booking him.”

“What?”

“You didn’t find the knife in his car—you found it in a public space.”

“Right above his car,” Cordova points out. “In a gated garage that can be accessed only by residents with a key card or code.”

“A public space anyone can access by walking in behind a resident’s car. Look, we’re not giving the press something else that has the potential to blow up, not after all that nonsense with Morrow. Process the knife. Let’s make sure we’ve really got what we think we’ve got this time. Seal off his apartment and his car; Judge Thomas agreed to that much. Hoffman can slum it at the Four Seasons for a few days. Once the special master is in place, you can comb it from top to bottom.”

“What about his office?” Declan asks.

Saffi goes quiet.

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