Page 70 of The Writer

Declan nods solemnly. “Okay.”

Harrison’s gaze drills into him. He’s not buying any of it. “Your word’s not enough. Your word isn’t shit.”

Remaining calm, Declan says, “Cordova pulled the camerafootage from the subway platform. You can too. You’ll find I got there a few minutes after eight and I didn’t leave until Cordova called me and told me to get to the Beresford.”

There’s a knock at the door. A uniformed officer sticks his head in, studies the group, and locates Lieutenant Daniels. “Cordova is on six for you. He says it’s important.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

DANIELS SLIDES THE LANDLINE to the center of the conference table and mashes down the button for line six. “Jarod, I’m here with Harrison, Saffi, Declan, and his rep. You’re on speaker.”

Cordova shuffles the phone, then says,“Are you sure you want to do this with…”

Daniels’s eyes shift to Roy Harrison, who raises both palms but says nothing.

Daniels looks at Declan, then at the phone. “No secrets, Detective. I want it all out on the table. Roy Harrison backed a new search warrant with the judge when Saffi submitted it. He’s one of the reasons we were able to have a special masterassigned so quickly and get into Geller Hoffman’s office. He deserves to hear this too.”

“Understood,”Cordova says.

Declan didn’t expect that. Why would Harrison help? What did he hope they’d find in Geller Hoffman’s office?

“The special master is going through Hoffman’s files marking what we can look at and what we can’t,”Cordova says.“The way she explained it, anything specific to Denise Morrow’s defense is off-limits, although I’ve got a feeling she may no longer need a defense. Declan either, for that matter. We started with Hoffman’s safe. This guy’s been playing all of us.”

“Explain.”

Cordova says,“Well, for starters, he’s got an opened unit of blood in here. There’s no name on the bag, just an ID number, but I bet it will tie back to Declan. It came from Mercy, where Declan said he made regular donations. I’ll have the lab run it, but if it’s a match to Declan, it will explain how his blood got on the Morrows’ door.”

Declan can feel Harrison’s eyes burning into him, but he doesn’t look up; his gaze remains fixed on the phone as Cordova continues.

“He has a file on Declan as thick as my arm. Bank statements. Credit cards. Residential history. Juvenile records, foster care. His full NYPD jacket is here—someone will need to explain how he got that—with every reprimand, psych eval, and note from the time he was a rookie until about six months ago.”

Declan doesn’t look away from the phone, but from the corner of his eye he spots Saffi frowning at both Daniels and Harrison; either of them could have slipped his file to Hoffman.

“Declan, what size shoe do you wear?”Cordova asks.

“Eleven.”

“You missing any shoes?”

Declan thinks on that for a few seconds. All his shoes are in a pile at the bottom of the closet near his apartment’s front door. When he doesn’t answer, Cordova goes on.

“Got a pair of men’s size eleven Merrell Moab black tennis shoes here in a large zip-lock bag. I don’t think he was trying to keep them fresh by wrapping them up. They look like yours.”

Harrison smirks. “You know your partner’s footwear, Detective?”

“I spend a lot of time with the guy, and I’m paid to notice things; comes with the job. If you can’t close your eyes right now and rattle off what the people in that room are wearing, you should take a refresher at cop camp, Roy.”

Daniels glances at Harrison, then looks back at the phone. “What else is in there?”

“We got a bag with hair. An empty prescription bottle with Declan’s name on it—cholesterol meds. A beer bottle in another bag. If I had to guess, he paid someone to raid Declan’s apartment or trash and take anything that could be used as identification at some point.”

“That’s a leap,” Harrison mutters.

“If you have another reason for this man to have these items in his possession, I’m all ears,”Cordova replies.“We also found Mia Gomez’s missing cell phone and a burner. Mia’s battery is dead, but when we fired up the burner, it contained a single text message sent to Gomez’s number. It said ‘Meet me,’ followed by an address near the alley where she was killed. Time stamp on that was eight oh two p.m., which ties in.”

“Holy hell,” Saffi says in a low voice. When she looks at Declan, her eyes are wide. “I’m sorry. I should have believed you when you said someone was setting you up.”

The conference-room door slams with a loud bang, and Harrison is gone.

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