Page 9 of The Writer

“She hasn’t shed a tear. Her makeup looks damn near perfect.”

“They make waterproof makeup. You haven’t heard the 911 call yet. She sounds plenty upset there. That’s what the jury will hear. What they’ll remember when they go to deliberate. She’ll get some expert to testify she was in shock when we got here. They’ll explain it all as some form of break, detachment.”

“Whose side you on?” Declan frowns.

“I’m just pointing out what we’ll be up against as this thing progresses.”

Declan isn’t in the mood to go down the what-if rabbit hole. Cordova tends to approach these things like he’s playing chess—he maps out his opponents’ next three moves and thinks through some counter. The problem with that is most of those moves never happen and he ends up wasting time and energy on nothing. Best to keep him on task. “What did the doorman say? You pull the cam footage?”

Cordova nods and flips a page in his notebook. “This is one of the most private buildings in New York. It’s technically three different buildings, three separate sections, each with its own lobby. You can’t get from one section to the other from the inside; you have to go down to street level, exit, and reenter at the appropriate lobby. The lobby you entered when you arrived serves only a handful of apartments, and her nearest neighbors are in Switzerland until the end of the month. David here got home at four forty p.m. Nobody else comes up until the wife gets home at nine twenty p.m.” Cordova’s face goes grim. “She dials 911 at nine thirty-one p.m., eleven minutes after she passed through the lobby, and first responders arrive at nine thirty-seven p.m. That’s a full seventeen minutes of the wife’s time unaccounted for. It takes two minutes tops to get here from downstairs. If she killed him and staged all this, she had fifteen minutes.”

“That’s plenty of time,” Declan tells him. “Her story just doesn’t jibe. Even if someone got in here and she stumbled into a robbery gone wrong, no way she waits eleven minutes to call for help, says the perp is still inside, then sits here and waits for us to show… come on. This is about as clear as it gets. She got home, killed him right here, mucked up the door and lock, opened the terrace door, and dialed. That’s the only thing that makes sense.” Declan gestures to the bookshelf. “You know what she does for a living, right? True-crime author. Hell, with that pedigree, she should’ve done a better job of staging.”

Cordova takes a long, hard stare down the length of the apartment, past the open kitchen and living room, toward the bedrooms in the back. Muted light streams in from floor-to-ceilingwindows that offer sweeping views of Central Park. “Place like this goes for… what? Ten million? Fifteen? That her motive, money? They have no real debt, remember.”

Behind them, the apartment door swings open. A wiry little man pushes past Hernandez and steps inside. His ratlike eyes quickly take in Declan and Cordova, the body on the floor. Then he actually has the balls to remove his coat and hang it on the rack. Hernandez grabs him by the shoulder and tells him, “You can’t be in here!”

He twists out of Hernandez’s grip. “I got a call—”

Declan gets between him and the body. “And you are?”

“Geller Hoffman. I’m… a friend.”

Declan has never met the man, but he knows the name. Hoffman is one of the city’s most prominent defense attorneys. The squirrelly little fucker is notorious for putting criminals back on the street, providing they can afford him. Just last week, he made headlines for defending John Cornelli in a racketeering case brought by the feds. The mobster should have gone away for ten years, minimum. Instead, he got six months in a federal country club. Cordova knows who he is too; it’s all over his face. “Who called you?”

Hoffman gestures toward the flashing panel on the wall. “The alarm company. I’m on the Morrows’ security list. When Denise and David didn’t answer, they tracked me down.” He takes another step forward and freezes. “Christ, is that David?”

Cordova points. “I need you to step back.”

Hoffman doesn’t move. “Where the hell is Denise? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Declan tells him. “They’re processing her down the hall.”

Hoffman’s eyes narrow.“Processing her?”

Before anyone can stop him, he goes stomping through the apartment, shouting her name.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BY THE TIME Declan catches up with Geller Hoffman, he has the guest room door open, and his face is bright red. “What the fuck are you people doing?”

Naked, with her back to them, Denise Morrow is standing next to the bed, her arms outstretched. The two female CSU techs are hovering around her. Diaz is running a swab down the length of Morrow’s arm, and the other is busy brushing the woman’s hair, capturing trace. The bed is covered in gear—open cases, a black light, various solutions. Morrow’s clothing has been bagged and tagged along with multiple samples. At the sight of Hoffman, Officer Hunter quickly rounds the bed and stands between him and Morrow, onehand extended, palm up, the other resting on the butt of her gun. “Back up! Now!”

Hoffman turns to Declan. “Who gave you permission to do this?”

“She didn’t decline,” Declan fires back.

“Did she specifically say yes?”

“You need to get back into the hall before you get yourself arrested for interference.”

He ignores him. “Denise, did you give them permission to touch you?” She doesn’t answer, so he steps around Officer Hunter and goes to her. When he sees her face, he appears horrified. “She’s practically catatonic! What the hell is wrong with you people? Somebody get her some clothes!”

Hunter looks at Declan, who nods. From one of the black cases on the bed, she retrieves a package of hospital scrubs.

Hoffman snatches them from her hand. “All of you, out. Now.” When nobody moves, he twists and stares down Declan. “Has she been charged with a crime?”

“Not yet.”

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