Page 73 of The Writer

Cordova nods. “It will be difficult to preserve this, so I filmed everything before you got here. Let’s try and stay on my tracks, though. Walk single file. Hoffman’s dead, but we’ll still want CSU to document what they can.”

They exit the elevator with their phone flashlights on, the beams playing over the old walls. There is writing everywhere:

DALE WAS HERE, 1935.

SHAKE A LEG!

THE ONLY GOOD RODINGTON IS A DEAD RODINGTON!

HENRY, CLASS OF ’41!

Dozens of names and lots of comments, some pleasant, some not. Hundred-year-old graffiti.

Saffi studies an intricate ink drawing of a woman penned on the bare plaster between disintegrating strips of wallpaper before playing her flashlight beam up and down the narrow hallway. “What is all this?”

Cordova holds up the blueprints. “Servants’ tunnel. The original building was riddled with them. Far as I can tell, most were absorbed into the apartments—they took a wall down, found the extra space, and incorporated it into the room. Some, though, are still intact. Like this one.” He holds a finger up. “Do you feel a breeze?”

Saffi looks around, then nods. “Not much, but yeah.”

“These tunnels also serve as ventilation. Heat rises, so it enters the tunnels through vents on each floor and escapes the building through the roof. Maintenance used to close the rooftop vents during the colder months to help retain the heat, but I think that process has been forgotten over the years, and now they’re open year-round. The residents all have their own HVAC, so nobody notices. If you listen carefully, you can hear the air move.”

Declan has been in these tunnels a dozen times and didn’t know that. Where the hell did Cordova learn about it? He’s right, though. They all go quiet, and there’s a faint whistling sound around them. They’re standing in a giant air duct.

Cordova bends down and shines his flashlight beam on the tracks. “See how they’re fading? Even with the limited airflow, these tracks will be gone soon. Another week and we wouldn’t have found them at all.” He straightens. “Try to stick to the right and follow me. We’re not going far.”

He leads them down the narrow hall to the door withEXITpainted on it in faded red letters. He presses the weighted latch; the door opens, and they enter the fourth-floor foyer. Cordova closes the door behind them, and it vanishes into the millwork with a soft click. Not one single seam or visible hinge. Saffi is in awe. “This is right out of a movie.”

Declan tries to brush the dust from his shirt and jeans, a look of disgust on his face. “Yeah, Norman Bates would love it.” He looks around the small lobby. “Where exactly are we?”

“Still on the fourth floor of the Beresford but in a different section.” He presses the elevator button. “Something everybody has been telling us is impossible to do without leaving the building.” The elevator arrives, and he presses the button for the tower. “Hoffman intricately planned out every second of this.”

A moment later, they’re standing in the tower apartment’s foyer. “No camera up here,” Cordova reminds them. “With the camera disabled in the Eighty-Second Street entrance and his knowledge of the building’s design, he was able to come and go as he pleased without anyone noticing. He gets up here and knocks—”

Saffi completes the thought for him. “David Morrow lets him right in. No reason not to. They were friends, right? By the time Hoffman has the knife out, it’s too late.”

Declan sets the box down on the floor and leans against the wall, building on all of this, even though he knows it’s utter bullshit. “He kills Mia Gomez first, right? He had to because he left the knife he used up here next to David’s body. So he kills her, probably changes out of the bloody clothes and bags them in that hidden hallway, comes up here, and kills David. Then he stages the scene with my blood, jimmies the lock a bit so it looks like a break-in, and leaves. He cleans himself up somewhere, then heads to the bookstore to confront Denise Morrow with his ultimatum. Maybe he changed clothes a second time to ensure he didn’t have any trace on himself. If he did that, he could have dumped everything anywhere between here and Tribeca. He had plenty of time for all that.”

“That fits,” Saffi says. “Covers all evidentiary bases.”

Cordova is nodding slowly. “No crime is perfect, but that’s damn near close.”

Declan looks at the Morrows’ door. “So do we tell her?”

Saffi considers that, then shakes her head. “I need to talk to my boss. Maybe the mayor. We still have her lawsuit to contend with. She’s more concerned with her reputation than the money, so maybe we can issue a formal public apology, and that would make it all go away. It’s best we keep everything under wraps for now, at least until we figure out how to approach it.” She glances at the clock on her phone and winces. “I need to go. Can the two of you get Daniels up to speed?”

Declan rubs his scruffy chin and pats his filthy shirt and jeans. “Can we stop at my apartment before heading backto the precinct? I need to shave and shower, change my clothes.”

“Romeo here didn’t go home last night,” Saffi says flatly.

Cordova glances at Declan, then looks down at his own rumpled suit. “Maybe we should hit my place too. We’ll call Daniels from the car.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Excerpt fromThe Taking of Maggie Marshallby Denise Morrow

LIFE IN PRISON for Ruben Lucero is difficult. It is difficult for anyone, but particularly for Lucero. As a convicted sex offender with a fixation on teenage girls—childrenin the eyes of most—he is considered the lowest of low. The guards torment him. He was beaten within hours of entering the general population and suffered a gash in his lower abdomen when someone attacked him in the showers with a weapon fashioned from a toothbrush. While in the prison infirmary, he was attacked again. Someone sodomized him in the middle of the night with what is believed to be a mophandle while two other inmates held him down. A month after arriving at Dannemora, he had chalked up three stays in the infirmary and a combined seven days in solitary, isolation being the only place the guards could guarantee his safety.

I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for Ruben Lucero; I only want you to understand what life in prison is like for him. Something as simple as showering or eating a meal can easily turn deadly. And while most prisoners find safety with one of the groups or gangs, no group or gang is willing to accept Lucero, not even when offered payment. Nobody is willing to protect him.

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