Page 87 of The Writer

“GTS is an NYPD subcontractor. I’ve seen those initials on a million reports over the years,” Cordova continues. “Court transcripts, crime scene dictations, interviews, depositions. Private material.Privileged material.That got me thinking. What if a person somehow gained access to those transcriptions? Not just the public material, but all of it? What if that person found a way to get copies of whatever they wanted? Impossible, right? A company like GTS, they keep sensitive data like that behind a firewall as thick as a concrete bunker. They’ve got safeguards to prevent access. They’d have to, right? Top-of-the-line encryption. Hacker-proof.” Cordova shifts his weight back to his other foot. “I’m not a big tech guy, but over the years, something about all that high-tech wizardry has jumped out at me. All that security is no different than the lock on the front door of a house—it can be the best, most impenetrable lock on the planet, but it does no good if the wrong person has a key.” He smirks. “You of all people get that, right? You said Geller Hoffman broke in here while you were sleeping. But didn’t he have a key?”

“Nobody gaveyouone. You’re trespassing,” she tells him.“And I want you to leave. My neighbors are back from Switzerland. If I scream, they’ll hear me.”

Cordova waves the .38 in the air. “I imagine they’ll hear the gunshot too. Neither of those things will change the outcome.”

Denise Morrow says nothing to that.

Cordova lets the silence linger for a second, then goes on. “Mia Gomez started in data entry and worked her way up. Her coworkers tell me she practically ran the shop. They all trusted her. She was the fastest transcriptionist they’d ever had. She was promoted to account exec, but she’d still help out when the transcriptionists fell behind. They’d give her their usernames and passwords and she’d catch them right up.” Cordova reaches into his pocket and takes out a folded sheet of paper. “I found this in her apartment. She had log-in credentials for more than half the employees, including three of her bosses. I don’t think there was a single file on GTS servers she couldn’t access. Imagine that. Information like that”—he whistles softly—“that kind of information is gold. Particularly if you know how to peddle it.If you know who needs it.Imagine if you were a criminal defense attorney who had the means to view that kind of information without having to go through the discovery process. You’d see the prosecution’s case laid bare, and you could completely undermine it. Or,” Cordova continues, “what if you were an author who wanted details for your books, details nobody else could possibly have?”

A flicker of fear passes across Denise Morrow’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “Authors spend a lot of time playing the what-if game, Detective. That doesn’t make any of it true. Truth is only what you can prove.”

Cordova nods. She’s not wrong about that. “Did you know Mia Gomez owned a boat?”

She says nothing.

“A thirty-five-foot Sea Ray Sundancer. She docked it at Dyckman Marina out on the Hudson. Slip twenty-eight B. Bought it nine months ago for two hundred thirty-two thousand six hundred dollars. Paid cash. Named itPlay on Words. Gotta love that. I drove up and took a look. Nothing but teak and smooth lines. The kind of thing that screamsmoney. I could never afford something like that on a cop’s salary, so I pulled Mia Gomez’s financials. I’m not sure how she could afford it either. She made a hundred and three thousand dollars last year at GTS, and that’s her best year in the four I looked at.”

“Maybe she came into an inheritance.”

“Yeah.” Cordova licks his lips. “That must be it. Wonder who left it to her.”

Cordova steps over to the bookcase and, without lowering the gun, runs his finger along the spines of her books. “I called Mia Gomez’s boss at GTS and read off your titles, told her what cases they were about. I asked her if Mia Gomez had access to transcriptions from any of those cases. I heard her click away on her computer, and you know what she said?”

Denise Morrow remains quiet.

“She didn’t say anything. Then I read off the names of several of Geller Hoffman’s high-profile cases. I heard her click away again, and then she said she wouldn’t be able to answer my questions without a warrant. Not exactly a ‘Yes, Ms. Gomez had access,’ but she certainly sounded nervous.” Cordova lowers his voice and says, “I’m sure if I pull your finances or Hoffman’s,I won’t find the payments to Mia Gomez. I imagine they’re buried so deep, even you can’t find them, but we both know they’re there. You’ve been paying Mia Gomez for years.” He nods at the books. “Probably for every one of these. So what happened? She got greedy, right? They always do. Left you and Hoffman no choice but to take her off the board.”

Morrow says nothing, and although she looked rattled when she first saw him, the fear is gone now. It’s like she feeds on it. Like it makes her stronger. Cordova is still pointing the gun at her, but she crosses the room to him. She closes the distance until they’re less than a foot apart. She reaches up with tentative fingers and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

“I’M NOT WEARING a wire,” Cordova tells her, but she doesn’t stop.

When his belly is exposed, she pats him down with the thoroughness of a practiced prison guard, starting with his arms, then moving on to his shoulders, torso, and legs. She turns him around and untucks his shirt in the back and doesn’t hesitate to check between his legs. Although he’s holding the gun, she doesn’t make a grab for it. She finds his phone in his back pocket, powers it off, and tosses it on the couch near hers. Then she steps back. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“An exchange of information. A chat. That’s all,” he tells her. “I want to understand why Declan had to die.”

“He was a dirty cop.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

This seems to frustrate her. She frowns and begins ticking off points on her fingers. “He broke Lucero’s arm taking him into custody. He browbeat him trying to get a confession. When the evidence wasn’t there for a conviction, he signed into police lockup as your lieutenant, pulled that book from Maggie’s possessions, and planted it in—”

Her voice cuts off with the sharpness of a whip and for several seconds she looks at the floor, her mouth moving silently as she processes the thought that just entered her head. She looks back at Cordova, and her words come out slowly as she absorbs the truth: “It wasn’t Declan, was it?It was you.”

Cordova sighs. He’s never told anyone. He’s never spoken the words aloud. Not until now. “That monster would have walked.”

“So you planted evidence.”

“I rewrote the narrative.”

“Lucero died in prison. You put him there with false evidence. If this gets out, you’ll be charged with homicide.” For the first time, she looks confused. “Why are you admitting this?”

“Because I want you to understand I’m not here to arrest you. I’m done playing cat and mouse. You win. I can’t touch you,” he says. “You know something about me; I know something about you. I’m retiring soon and I just want to fill in the blanks so I can put this to bed.”

She doesn’t believe him and he doesn’t expect her to. Most likely she believes he’s recording this or has someone listening. He doesn’t, though. He only wants answers. He scratches the side of his chin. “I know you and Declan were sleeping together. I know he thought the two of you were going to run off somewhere. That man hasn’t left the five boroughs in his entire life, and last month he got a passport. He must have been in love to torch his career, even if he knew he’d be exonerated in the end. What did you promise him? Where were you planning to go?” When she doesn’t answer, he waves his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t really matter. We both know it was bullshit. You used him, and when you were done, you made him go away. Damn peanut allergy.” He shakes his head. “You know, I didn’t find a single EpiPen in his apartment. What’d you do? Fuck him and then round them all up while he was sleeping it off? Must have killed you to slink around that filthy place picking through drawers and cabinets. You keep your apartment immaculate.”

Denise smiles smugly. “You dusted his apartment for prints, right? How many of those prints were mine?”

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