Page 37 of The Writer

Cordova shuffles through some printouts on his desk and hands a page to Declan. “That’s the lugs and GPS data from her iPhone. While she’s standing outside that alley, her phone is back at her office on Eighty-First.” He taps the screen. “What she’s got there is a secondary phone.”

“Burner?”

“Probably.”

“You know anybody who carries a burner who isn’t doing something they shouldn’t be?”

“Nope.”

Declan takes another bite of his muffin. “What about the other end of the alley? Whoever killed her was either waiting in that alley or came in from the other side.”

“Probably left that way too, little good that does us. Closest camera on that side is at the corner with zero line-of-sight on our alley. Uniforms found a few other private cameras on businesses off Eighty-Third, but nothing with eyes in our direction. We find a person of interest, we might catch them on the sidewalk coming or going, but that’s about it. Won’t do us much good until we know what to look for.”

“Has IT looked at Morrow’s laptop yet?”

“Yeah, it was a bust. They said it was only three months old.” Cordova loads up Denise Morrow’s website, clicks to the FAQ section, and points at a line about two-thirds down.

“She buys a new laptop whenever she starts a new book?”

Cordova nods. “Says she superstitious. Thinks it’s good luck. Aside from her new book and some research material, IT didn’t find much else. Even her Google searches came up dry. Mainly searches about cats and Lucero. Nothing useful.” He starts rooting around in his desk. “I’ve got a list here somewhere. Mainly just—”

“Declan! Get your ass in here!” Lieutenant Daniels’s voice booms through the bullpen from his open office door loudly enough to rattle the surrounding glass. “Cordova, you too!”

Declan curses softly. “You think Saffi called him and threw us under the bus with that warrant business?”

“I don’t think she’d—”

“Now!” Lieutenant Daniels bellows even louder.

When they enter his office, he tosses a newspaper over his desk, hitting Declan square in the chest. It’s open to Page Six and a photo of Declan and Denise Morrow sitting at the Flaming Sun, drinks between them.

Declan swallows. “I was—”

Daniels cuts him off. “Denise Morrow and her attorney filed a complaint against you this morning. They’re pressing for a restraining order. She claims you’re following her. She said you threatened her. Told her not to write a book on Maggie Marshall. She said you told her you’d take her down for murder long before she gets a word in print.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I don’t give a shit what you said.” Daniels’s face is bright red. “We got her attorney piggybacking on that, saying you’re planting evidence, trying to frame him. Got that little shit bastard lighting up phones in IAU and with the captain upstairs. You already got Harrison all over you about that Maggie Marshall bullshit—you don’t think Hoffman will take that to the networks? You back him into a corner, and he’ll claw his way out any way he can. If he gets Harrison to talk to the press… phew.” He picks up a blue paper clip, taps it on the desk. “Harrison gets on camera just hinting at what he’s accusing you of, and the two of them will bury you. Harrison will do it out of spite.” Daniels grabs the paper and tosses it toward Cordova. “Where the hell were you?”

Cordova raises both hands defensively but doesn’t say anything.

“This is on me,” Declan tells them. “I wanted to rattle her, that’s all. Jarod didn’t know.”

From the bullpen outside the lieutenant’s door, someone shouts, “LT! CSU on line three for you.”

Daniels snatches up the receiver and points at both of them. “Stay here. We’re not done. Daniels,” he says to whoever’s calling him.

His face was red before he picked up the phone. As he listens, he goes three shades redder; every line hardens. When he hangs up, he stares at Declan. “The attorney’s prints aren’t on the knife. Neither are Denise Morrow’s. Care to guess whose are?”

“Whose?”

“Yours.”

THEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Log 10/19/2018 06:36 EDT

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