Page 57 of The Writer

“What exactly are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is that’s the guy,” Lucero says, tapping the glass between him and Cordova’s phone. “That’s the guy I saw following her.”

“Geller Hoffman?”

“Think I thought to ask him his name? Think I’d be in hereif I had? Fuck no.” He slouches back in his seat. “The first guy you showed me? I told him all this when he come up here. He didn’t do a damn thing about it. Left me to rot. Fuckers. All of you.”

Cordova swipes back to the photograph of Lieutenant Daniels. “You told this guy?”

Lucero nods. “Damn right I did.”

CHAPTER FORTY

THE SUN IS down when Cordova steps back outside, and the air has taken on a definite chill. He’s halfway to his car when his phone rings.

Lieutenant Daniels.

How the hell?

Does Daniels know he’s here? Did some guard call and tip him?

He clears his throat and answers. “Lieutenant.”

“Do you have eyes on your partner?”

Cordova glances around the prison parking lot. His first thought is maybe Declan followed him and Daniels tracked them both, then he realizes how paranoid that is. Declan knows better, and Cordova drove up in his personal car andhe’s on his personal phone—no tracking either of those without a warrant. “I haven’t seen him since we left your office. I told him to do what you said and take the day off.”

“And where are you?”

Cordova doesn’t miss a beat. “Chasing a lead, but it didn’t pan out.” He reaches his car, climbs inside, and closes the door. “Something happen?”

There’s a long pause. He waits for the LT to call him out or ask for more, but Daniels doesn’t. Instead, he says something far worse. “A witness came forward. She says she was out walking her dog the night David Morrow was murdered and saw Declan enter the Beresford through the Eighty-Second Street entrance. She didn’t think much of it until she saw him on the news, then she came down here to report it. She lives in the Beresford and knows everyone, so seeing him there was memorable.”

“What time did she see him?”

“Quarter to nine.”

Cordova swallows. The medical examiner put David Morrow’s time of death between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. Then he remembers something. “You can’t get to the Morrows’ apartment from Eighty-Second Street; you have to use the entrance off Central Park West. The building has some crazy design to help ensure privacy for its residents, so each lobby leads to only a few apartments. I went over all of this with the building’s super and the head of security.”

“I talked to the witness myself. She swears it was him. She picked Declan right out from that photo we have in the lobby too.”

This just keeps getting worse.“Want me to get over there and check the cameras?”

“I had Lomax call the building’s security chief,” Daniels says. “The camera at that entrance has been down for about three weeks. Vandalized. There’s no footage.”

Both men go quiet for a very long time. Cordova knows where this conversation is heading—Declan’s blood was found on scene, the murder weapon came from his apartment and had his prints on it, Denise Morrow named him in the 911 call and claimed he was in her apartment, the book she’s writing about him gives him motive, and now there’s an unrelated witness, which is possibly the most damning item because this woman has no skin in the game. Cordova runs his hand through what’s left of his thinning hair. “What do you want me to do?”

“If you bring him in, we can do this quietly. Get him on the record with his union rep and ADA Saffi. Let Carmen decide if she wants to pursue charges.”

“Can you keep Harrison out of it?”

Daniels doesn’t reply.

“Look, Harrison gets wind of it, he’ll leak it to the press. You know he will. The press gets this, and Declan’s career is over. It won’t matter how it plays out.”

Daniels says, after a long moment, “Maybe it’s time for that too.”

“I’ll call you back.”

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