Page 72 of The Writer

When they reach the Beresford’s service entrance, Declan opens the door for her and they step inside.

In one corner, a technician is on a ladder repairing the broken security camera. Cordova is sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, a banker’s box resting on his lap. His eyes are heavy from lack of sleep but he perks up at the sight of them and motions them over. He sets the box on a small table and removes the lid. “This is everything we pulled from Hoffman’s safe.”

Both Saffi and Declan know better than to touch anything, but they lean over and study the contents. Declan lets out a soft whistle. “That motherfucker.”

Cordova produces a latex glove from his pocket, slips it on his right hand, and removes a large plastic bag containing the shoes he mentioned. He holds them up. “Look familiar?”

Declan’s eyes go wide. He lifts his leg and points at the shoe on his foot—it’s identical. “We spend so much time on our feet, I burn through shoes. I usually buy a few pairs of these whenever they’re on sale. I probably have two or three boxes on the shelf in my closet. He must have snagged them from there.” The blood from Mercy is in the box. And his file. Beer bottle in another zip-lock. The bag of hair. A wad of it, like he plucked whatever was on Declan’s hairbrush in his bathroom. “What do you think he planned to do with that?”

Cordova shakes his head. “Who knows.”

The box also contains one of Declan’s shopping lists. The last time he saw it, it was stuck on his fridge with a magnet. “He plan to buy my groceries?”

“I’m thinking he wanted a handwriting sample,” Cordova says.

“Jesus.”

Saffi takes it all in. She’s obviously reeling. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Geller Hoffman is a murderer, and not just of Mia Gomez but possibly of young girls. What if Maggie Marshall wasn’t the start of all this? What are we going to find when we run Hoffman’s DNA against other open cases? Cold cases?” She shakes her head. “As a defense attorney, he knew exactly how the system worked. This box isn’t something a first-timer puts together—this is practiced behavior.”

Cordova meets her eyes. “I think we’ve got him for David Morrow too.”

Saffi tries not to look at Declan when she replies, but she can’t help herself. “He told Denise he had a partner. Are you saying he didn’t?”

“He wanted her to think he had someone in her apartment when he made her put on those clothes, but that seems unlikely,” Cordova says. “I think he killed Mia Gomez, killed David Morrow right after, then cleaned up, changed, and went to the bookstore. There was no partner. Certainly not a cop.” He puts everything back in the box.

“There’s zero sign of him on security footage,” Saffi points out. “First visual on Hoffman is long after the murder, when the rest of you are already on scene.”

“If he came through the Central Park West entrance, correct.”

“You said there was no other way to get to the Morrows’ apartment.”

Cordova calls over to the maintenance man on the ladder. “Hey, how do we get to tower number two from here?”

The man has a new camera in one hand and a wire nut in the other. Without turning, he says, “You can’t get there from here. Go back out and around to the Central Park West entrance. No other way to get there.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve worked here for eleven years. I’m sure.”

Cordova thanks him and reaches back into the box. He removes blueprints so old, they look hand-drawn. A path has been marked with a yellow highlighter. “You’re gonna love this,” he tells Declan and Saffi, then he closes the box, picks it up, puts the blueprints on top, and starts for the service elevator at the far end of the room.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

IN THE SERVICE ELEVATOR, Cordova hands the banker’s box to Declan. “Hold this.” Then he presses the button for the fourth floor.

When the doors open on the dingy hallway, Saffi looks out at abandoned furniture, bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, cobwebs and blankets of dust, and promptly sneezes three times.

Declan pretends he’s never seen the space before. “What the hell is this?”

He starts to exit the elevator, but Cordova puts his arm out. “There’s something I need to show you first.” He holds back the elevator door, kneels down, and, using the flashlight on hisphone, lights up the floor. There are several footprints in the dust, trails leading to and from the elevator. He reaches a hand back to Declan. “Let me see the shoes.”

Declan takes the shoes out of the banker’s box and hands them to him.

Cordova flips them upside down so they can all see the tread pattern. “Your shoes are a match for the tracks. I imagine Hoffman figured we’d eventually find this and wanted to be sure it tied back to you, not him.”

Saffi leans over Cordova’s shoulder to get a better look. “The little bastard must have stuffed something inside to get them to stay on his feet.”

Declan thinks of the shoes on his feet now—they’re a match too. Cordova and Saffi are looking at the tracks he made last night when he came to visit Denise. But since he told Cordova that he has multiple pairs of the same shoes, he’s covered. Another one of Denise’s ideas. Making that statement in front of a representative of the court drives it home. If Saffi is questioned, she’ll have no choice but to back him. He puts the shoes back in the box and points to a different set of tracks beside the first, even fresher. “Are those you?”

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