Page 42 of The Writer

“Show him,” Harrison says.

She turns and sets the phone down next to the knife block. Same set. Wüsthof. Little red logo on each handle. Declan points at the picture. “See all those empty slots? That’s how it came. Half empty.”

“Yeah, well, where’s this one?” Harrison taps the description. “You see a five-inch serrated utility knife here? I don’t. She don’t.”

Declan rolls his eyes. “It’s gotta be in the sink.” He steps around them, reaches into the sink, pulls out the stopper to drain the rest of the water, and then starts taking out the remaining dishes and piling them on the counter. His pulse quickens as he gets closer to the bottom.

“Where is it, Detective?” Harrison asks again. “Where’s your knife?”

When Declan doesn’t find it in the sink, he starts tugging open drawers. It’s not in any of them either. He can’t remember the last time he used it. It’s been a while. “If it’s the same one, she stole it,” he mumbles more to himself than anyone. “Must have broke in here and took it.”

Harrison laughs at that. “Denise Morrow broke into this shithole, stole your knife, and used it to kill her husband?”

Declan knows how ludicrous that sounds, but nothing else makes sense. He opens his mouth to argue, but Cordova tells him to keep quiet. “Not without a union rep,” he insists. “Not with this guy.”

That only makes Declan angrier. He pushes by all of them and goes to his apartment door. He opens it and studies the frame, hoping to find scuff marks, but there are none. Nothing on the locks to indicate they were picked or tampered with either. “She’s out to get me, and her lawyer’s in on it. Hoffman planted that knife where we’d find it! Must have. We know he walked it out of the apartment. They’re both trying to frame me. Maybe he was in here—”

Harrison cuts him off. “Or you took the murder weaponfrom the apartment yourself and tried to frame her attorney. We have no proof it was in that coat. We all know what she was writing about. Maybe you did too. Maybe you went there to put an end to it and the husband got in the way, that’s why she was mumbling your name on the 911 call.”

Declan’s blood begins to boil. “If I killed someone, I wouldn’t use my own knife, and I’d sure as shit wipe off my prints! I’m not an idiot. This is bullshit. I want all of you out of here!”

Harrison fixes him with a calm, determined stare. “Let me ask you a question, Detective. If we run your blood against what was found on Morrow’s door, what are we going to find?” He nods at the cut on Declan’s hand. “Why don’t you tell me how that happened?”

Cordova jumps in before Declan can respond. “I think we need a union rep before anybody says anything else. Right, Declan?”

Declan wants to punch Harrison in the face, bust the man’s nose open and watch him bleed, but he forces himself to nod. “Yeah, I want my rep.”

Harrison doesn’t seem to mind. “You’re right. Let’s have this conversation in an interview room back at the Twentieth. On the record. I’d hate for any of this to get misinterpreted. Wouldn’t want to see a fine, upstanding detective such as yourself say or do something you might regret later.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ROY HARRISON IS sitting across the table, a smug look on his face. Declan glares at him and can’t hold back anymore. “This jerk-off has been gunning for me for months! Ever since he decided I planted evidence in the Lucero case, he’s been riding me. Why don’t you ask him where Denise Morrow got half the shit in her book? Ask him how long he’s known her. Take a walk down to evidence—his phone number is in Morrow’s notes. Maybe instead of throwing the spotlight on me, you all should be looking at him. Maybe pull his financials.” Declan points a finger at him. “She pay you, Roy? She pay you to hand her dirt on me?Manufacturedirt on me?”

Harrison doesn’t even flinch. “So I’m framing you too, is that it? I’m gonna need to write all this down just to keep track—yougot me, a bestselling author, her attorney… anyone else? Anyone else sabotaging your illustrious career?” He leans forward. “You’re in the spotlight because you’re a fuckup, Shaw. You’ve always been a fuckup. You’re on my radar because you’re aglaringfuckup. You can point fingers all you want, but the truth is you dug the holes, all of them. You can’t help yourself, because you’re not just a bad cop, you’re a general piece of shit. We all know you planted evidence to secure a conviction on Lucero. You doing it again here isn’t exactly a stretch. Frankly, based on your history, I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

“I took a poly on Lucero and passed.”

“Anyone with half a brain can fool the box.”

“Yeah? Then maybe you should take one. Tell us what you fed to Morrow.”

“I didn’t give anything to Denise Morrow. She called me once. Asked about you. I told her I couldn’t comment on an open investigation.” His eyes narrow. “Unlike you, I actually follow the rules.”

“Bullshit.”

Declan’s union rep is sitting beside him, but aside from introducing himself, the little bald man in the pin-striped shirt has barely said two words. Other than insisting on being in the meeting, Carmen Saffi hasn’t said much either, but now she finally breaks in. “Detective, answer a very simple question for me so we can all get out of here. Where were you when David Morrow was killed on”—she glances down at her notepad—“the night of Friday, November tenth, between eight thirty and nine thirty?”

Oh, that’s easy, Declan thinks.I was standing on the edge of the subway platform in the station under the Museum of Natural Historythinking about throwing myself in front of the B train. You know, the station where Charlie Medcalf offed himself a few months back? Yeah, that’s where I was.

When Declan doesn’t answer, Saffi says, “Cordova said when he called you, it took you only a few minutes to get to the Morrow apartment at the Beresford. You must have been close.”

Shit.

Declan hopes his rep will say something, but the man stays quiet. He’s waiting for an answer just like the others. “I went for a walk in the park. Out near the museum. Helps me think. Wind down.”

“You went… for a walk?” Harrison says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Saffi shuts him up with a harsh look. “Can anyone else corroborate that?”

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