Page 50 of The Writer

When I first heard the name Declan Shaw, I wanted him to be good. For Maggie’s sake, for the sake of justice, for the sake of the man Shaw put away for her death.

But that damn book.

I knew things would go sideways the moment I learned about that damn book.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“FORGET THE BOOK,” Cordova tells Declan as they pull up outside Mia Gomez’s building off Washington. “What’s done is done. There’s nothing you can do about it. Just let it go.”

“Fucking Harrison,” Declan grumbles. “Had to be.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Harrison fed her intel on an open investigation. Speculative intel; he doesn’t even have proof.” He turns to Cordova. “I didn’t plant that book. You know that, right?”

The look Cordova gives him is quick, but it’s enough. A brief flash of pity. His partner catches himself, twists toward the window, and resets before saying, “Look, she’s trying to rattle you, Dec. Harrison too.Don’t let them.” He nods up at the building. “We need to focus. Bring this case home. If David Morrow wassleeping with Mia Gomez, we’ve got motive on the wife. That means Denise Morrow will go away for a very long time. We prove Hoffman helped her, and we’ve got conspiracy. Tie him or both of them to the Gomez murder on top of the husband, and it’s game over. They’re both gone. Whatever she tries to tell people about you will be meaningless. She’ll have zero credibility. Harrison won’t hitch his wagon to that, no way. He’ll drop it. He’d be an idiot not to.”

“Nobody’s saying Harrison’s not an idiot.” Declan looks down at his hands. “Some people will believe damn near anything. Even people who should know better.”

He knows it’s a dig, but he can’t help it. If his own partner doesn’t believe him, how the hell can he expect anyone else to?

Declan gets out, slams the car door, and stomps up the steps of the converted brownstone. He starts mashing buttons on the intercom until a woman’s voice says, “Yes?”

“NYPD, ma’am. I need you to buzz me in.” Declan pulls out his badge and holds it up to the small camera mounted above the door.

When nothing happens, he shakes the badge, holds it closer.

The magnetic lock disengages with a loudclick. Declan tugs the door open and waits for Cordova to catch up. “What apartment?”

Cordova checks his notebook. “Three B.”

There’s no elevator, not in a building this size. While Declan makes quick work of the steps, Cordova is huffing by the time he reaches the top.

Apartment 3B isn’t hard to find—they had uniforms seal off the door a week ago when Mia Gomez’s body was found. A precaution, standard procedure. It wasn’t considered a crimescene so nobody has been inside, but the yellow tape stands out like a sore thumb against the dark wood. “I don’t suppose you brought her key?”

Cordova shakes his head. “It’s with her purse back in evidence. I didn’t know we were coming out here tonight.”

It’s likely someone is watching them. Probably the woman who buzzed them in, her eye pressed against the peephole of one of the other doors.

No matter.

Declan takes out his wallet and removes the lockpicks he keeps behind his driver’s license. He has the dead bolt open in under a minute and uses the sharp edge of one of the picks to slice the tape.

When he opens the door, a foul odor wafts out. “Oh, man, I hope she didn’t have a pet.”

They step inside, close the door behind them, and take in the space. Maybe nine hundred square feet. Not small by New York standards, but not large either. There is a living room with a kitchenette off to the side and two bedrooms in the back, all decorated tastefully in neutral colors. Gomez used one bedroom as an office. In the other one, her bed is neatly made, covered in a white duvet. There’s a bathroom sandwiched between. Prints are spaced evenly along the walls, most depicting famous locations—the Eiffel Tower, the Golden Gate Bridge, a few buildings from here in the city. On a table under the wall-mounted television, Declan finds several photos of Mia Gomez in happier times. She has an infectious smile and a carefree look about her. An attractive young woman living her best life in the city, until she wasn’t.

“Found the source of the smell.” Cordova is in the kitchen,picking through some canvas shopping bags on the counter. “Looks like she went grocery shopping and didn’t get the chance to put anything away. Got a receipt here, it’s time-stamped seven forty-two p.m. On the night she was killed.”

“How far are we from that alley?”

“Maybe a five-minute walk.”

Declan considers that. “So she goes shopping, comes home, and something pulls her away before she gets the chance to unpack.”

“Something or someone,” Cordova says. “Keep an eye out for her cell phone. Maybe she left it here.”

Declan steps into the office. With the exception of a pair of headphones and a few cords, her desk is bare. “Got a power adapter but no computer in here.” Under the desk, there’s a pedal plugged into a USB hub. “What did you say she did for a living?”

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