Page 5 of The Writer

The doorman at the Central Park West entrance spots Declan coming up the sidewalk, catches sight of the badge on his belt, and has the door open before he’s even under the canopy. “You know where you’re going?”

“Tower apartment.” Declan steps by him, crosses the ornate lobby, and presses the elevator call button as his phone starts ringing again. This time, it’s not his partner.

“Assistant District Attorney Carmen Saffi,” Declan says. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re responding on the Beresford call, right?”

How the hell did she hear so fast? “Just entered the lobby. Heading up.”

“Any press there yet?”

“For a B and E? Why would the press show for that?”

“They will. I need you to handle this with kid gloves, Detective,” Saffi says. “She’s a friend of the mayor.”

You mean a donor to the mayor’s campaign,Declan thinks.Isn’t that what you meant to say?

The elevator doors slide open and Declan steps inside, presses the button for the tower. “Kid gloves, got it.”

“I’m serious, Declan. There’ll be a lot of eyes on this. We don’t want a negative narrative.”

“In the elevator, Saffi. I’m losing you. Try back in—” He hangs up.

When the doors open, Declan steps out into a wall of cops. Six uniforms standing in a cramped foyer with their thumbs up their asses staring at a closed door at the opposite end of the hall. Cordova somehow beat him here. His back is turned, phone attached to his ear. Tense.

Sergeant Jorge Hernandez spots Declan and frowns. “You fall asleep in an alley, Dec? You look like shit.”

Declan runs his fingers through his tousled dark hair. His hand is shaking again. He shoves it in his pocket. “Next time you call, I promise to wear your favorite lipstick. You wanna tell me why I’m here?”

Hernandez nods at the far end of the hall. “Woman in the tower apartment comes home to find her door jimmied and her husband dead. Calls 911. Says whoever did it might still be in the apartment. My guys show, and she fires a round at them when they try to come through the door. Tells them nobody comes in but you—‘Detective Declan Shaw, Detective Declan Shaw.’ She says it over and over again. Fucking loony tunes. She’s lucky nobody returned fire.”

Hernandez and Declan came up patrol together. When Declan went for his detective shield, Hernandez opted to go for his stripes. Unlike Declan, he’s married with four kids at home. Rumor has it his wife is pregnant with number five. Even though no one’s come out and said anything yet, the whole force knows. Hernandez has a terrible poker face, is a shitty liar, and is the last person you’d ask to keep a secret.When he’s holding something back, Declan has no trouble reading him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Hernandez purses his lips. “Something about this ain’t right.”

“She fired at responding officers. No shit, something ain’t right.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Hernandez tells him. “The shot was a reflex thing. My guys ID’d themselves, then came through the door hard and loud and startled her. I think her finger was just on the trigger. She jerked; it went off. High and wide. She wasn’t aiming at them. But that’s not what I mean.” He gestures at one of the patrol officers. “Marco, give Detective Shaw your vest and radio. Apparently, he’s forgotten how to properly respond to a crime scene.”

“I’m off the clock,” Declan mutters, donning the gear. “If her shooting at you isn’t the problem, what is?”

“You’ll see.”

This isn’t Declan’s first rodeo. He knows what Hernandez is getting at. “Husband’s dead, you think she did it, and the B and E is bullshit? Insurance grab or something?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice drops low: “She’s covered in blood. You just find a body, you don’t look like that.”

Cordova, still on the phone, is pacing now, his face red. When he catches sight of Declan, he gives him a frustrated nod, turns away, and mutters something that sounds a lot likeRoy Harrison,that IAU prick. Declan doesn’t want to know what that’s about. Internal Affairs climbed on their backs after Maggie Marshall, and it doesn’t matter that they haven’t found anything; those fuckers won’t let go. Harrison has IAU digging through all Declan and Cordova’s closed cases, looking for who the hell knows what.

Declan shakes it off and steps up to the apartment door, Hernandez behind him. He reaches for the borrowed microphone clipped to his shoulder, locks it in the transmit position, then says, “You copy?”

Hernandez adjusts his earbud and nods. “Loud and clear.”

“Be ready to come in behind me.”

Hernandez frowns at the officers crammed in the foyer who are caught up in nervous chatter. “How ’bout a little quiet, gentlemen? Look sharp.”

Cordova ends his call; the others go silent.

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