Page 62 of The Writer

Cordova and Daniels go back nearly sixteen years. If Daniels found something, he’d tell him, right?

Right?

Maybe not if it implicated Declan. IAU wouldn’t let him. But how would a tip on Geller Hoffman be tied to Declan?

Then it clicks, and the second it does, Cordova wants the thought out of his head. Wants it gone. But it digs in its claws.What if Declan heard about Hoffman too? What if he uncovered something that proved it was true after they put away Lucero? What if Declan buried it? What if he learned they’d put away the wrong man?

That might explain why his partner was standing on that subway platform.

Guilt.

It would explain why Daniels has gone quiet, why he’s working with IAU. As LT, he ran point on that case. He was just as responsible for putting away Lucero as Cordova and Declan.

Cordova scratches his temple. Could Geller Hoffman have killed Maggie Marshall?

Cordova can’t picture it. Not the man he knew from court, from the press.

But Hoffman has the bloody clothes. The murder weapon. All evidence points at him for Gomez and more.

Cordova looks at the photo of Mia Gomez after they pulled her from the dumpster, her body ravaged by stab wounds. If Geller Hoffman killed her…if he did that…

Could the man who didthatkill Maggie Marshall?

Yes.

Cordova needs to talk to Hoffman. Tonight. Now.

Because there’s another angle to this. If Daniels put the pieces together with IAU, there’s a very good chance he and Harrison have teamed up to put it all on Declan.

Declan keeps insisting he’s being framed.

Maybe he’s right about that too.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

IT’S A LITTLE after midnight when Cordova steps through the automatic doors of Central Park Tower. Two security guards are on duty. He shows them his badge, tells them he’s there to see Geller Hoffman, and adds that if either calls up to warn the attorney, he’ll bring them up on interference charges. Then he feels like an ass because when he gets to the elevator, he has to ask them to give him access to the eightieth floor because he doesn’t have a key card and the damn thing won’t move without one. Cordova tips an imaginary hat when the elevator doors finally close between them with a softswoosh.

The lobby is all glass, marble, modern furniture, and strategicup-lighting, and the eightieth floor is no different. There’s a small sitting area off the elevator, mirrors on the walls, and a striking view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Defending the city’s worst criminals clearly pays well.

Hoffman’s apartment is at the end of the hall, flanked by two others. The crime scene tape placed there the day they found the knife above Hoffman’s car in the garage is long gone. ADA Saffi never did get a special master appointed. When the prints and knife came back as Declan’s, when the shit hit the fan and the case fell apart, she dropped it, no doubt on orders from higher up.

The last time Cordova was here, he got no farther than this hallway.

This time he knocks on Hoffman’s door.

He knocks loud.

When that brings nobody to the door, he presses the doorbell a few times.

When that doesn’t work, he tries the knob and finds it unlocked.

He gives it a twist and pushes the door open slightly. An alarm panel on the left issues a soft chirp but doesn’t sound. The alarm isn’t activated.

“NYPD!” Cordova calls out. “Geller Hoffman, this is Detective Jarod Cordova. Are you home?” As far as he knows, Hoffman is unmarried and lives alone.

Cordova opens the door a little wider and steps into the foyer. “Geller Hoffman? NYPD.”

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