Page 77 of The Writer

Cordova picks up the landline and dials his lieutenant again. Again, he gets voicemail. He slams the receiver back in the cradle and is about to dial one more time when it rings. “What?”

“Jarod?” It’s Oscar Martinez from the ME’s office.

“Sorry, Oscar. It’s been… a day.” He doesn’t tell him about Declan; he can’t.

“Did you get my email?”

“Your…” Cordova hasn’t checked his email. “Hold on a second.” He scans the various messages, finds one from Martinez, and opens it. Attached is a picture of a man’s bare chest. “What exactly am I looking at?”

“That’s Geller Hoffman. COD is certainly asphyxiation, but I can’t explain that mark on his chest. I don’t know what it is. There’s nothing in the database. I can’t pin it down.”

“What mar—” Then Cordova sees it. A small, round bruise about the size of a dime in the center of Hoffman’s chest, between the attorney’s flabby pecs.

“I believe it’s a compression bruise,” Martinez says.

“From something pressing down?”

“Yeah. Or it could be nothing. Might be completely unrelated. I’ve got no reason to connect it, it just seems… off. You know?”

Cordova does know. Everything about this damn case is off.

“I wanted you to see it,” Martinez says. “If you find something that’s round and about three-eighths of an inch wide, I might be able to match it up.”

Cordova thanks him and hangs up. He prints out the picture, tacks it up on the evidence board under the photograph of Hoffman, then steps back to take it all in.

He thinks of the napkins back at the Six, how he and Declan had written everything out and how Declan tore them apart and mixed up the pieces.

Three-card monte.

Was that Declan being a cop and sharing an actual realization, or was that Declan being Denise Morrow’s lover, her pawn, and telling Cordova what she wanted him to hear?

How long had they been sleeping together?

Was she pulling the strings?

Had to be.

Nothing else fit.

This woman has been three steps ahead of them from thejump. That means she was playing him, and Declan too—maybe even Geller Hoffman—and nothing on the evidence board is really what it appears to be.

Things get worse when Cordova glances up at the television they keep in the office and sees ADA Saffi and her boss standing on the courthouse steps, hands at their sides, heads hanging, a picture of contrition and self-loathing. The wordsFamed author Denise Morrow cleared of all chargesscroll across the bottom of the screen. A photograph of Morrow is superimposed over the top corner.

He fumbles with the remote and turns up the sound as Saffi speaks.

“While we’re still working diligently to uncover all the facts, it is the opinion of our office that local defense attorney Geller Hoffman was responsible for the deaths of Mrs. Morrow’s husband, a woman named Mia Gomez, and possibly others. Any involvement by Mrs. Morrow appears to be the result of a detailed blackmail scheme hatched by Hoffman. She was acting under duress. We would like to extend our deepest apologies to Mrs. Morrow for any inconvenience our office put her through as a result of the misdirection perpetrated by Mr. Hoffman. His duplicity was far-reaching and skillfully deployed. If not for the untiring efforts of the NYPD, it might not have been uncovered.”

“In other words, ‘Please drop your lawsuit, Mrs. Morrow,’” Cordova mutters. “‘We’ll give you the key to the city if you do. Don’t make us write that check.’”

From somewhere in the swarm of media people, a male voice shouts, “What about Detective Declan Shaw?”

Rather than addressing the reporter, Saffi looks directly intothe camera. “Detective Shaw is as much a victim in all this as Mrs. Morrow. Hoffman painted a target on his back, and he was relentless in his efforts to discredit a fine officer. More on that will follow in the coming days.” She looks out over the large group for a moment, then adds, “Thank you all for coming out. There will be a formal written statement later today detailing—”

Another voice interrupts her. “Can you comment on the death of Ruben Lucero?”

The words come and go so quickly, Cordova isn’t sure he heard them correctly, but the text at the bottom of the screen changes from the message about Denise Morrow toConvicted killer Ruben Lucero found dead in his prison cell.

Saffi turns to the DA at her side; he gives her a slight nod. She clears her throat and continues. “We learned of this only moments before coming out here, but apparently someone gained access to Lucero’s cell and beat him with a sock containing several cans of soup pilfered from the kitchen. When Lucero was discovered, a doctor was summoned from the infirmary and rushed to his cell. He informed the duty officer and the warden that Lucero had been dead for at least an hour, possibly longer, and had suffered multiple blunt-force traumas. The improvised weapon was left behind and is currently being processed. I expect the warden will release additional information as it becomes available.”

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