Page 10 of The Writer

CHAPTER TEN

DECLAN AND ADA Saffi go in; Cordova stays in the observation room. He’s got a few more calls to make and doesn’t want to crowd the room. Backed into a corner, Morrow is liable to clam up, and that won’t do anyone any good.

Declan doesn’t expect the truth—they never tell the truth—but he and Saffi know she’ll feed them a story, and once they have her on record with a story, they can punch holes in it.

Declan closes the interview room’s door and holds up his half-empty coffee cup. “Are either of you thirsty?”

Hoffman glares at him for several seconds, then turns to Saffi. “Do you have any idea how many civil rights your detective has violated in the past two hours? Before we leave here, I want to see him up on disciplinary or my first stop tomorrow morning will be a filing against this precinct!”

Hoffman has actually found time to change. He’s in a fresh Armani suit, a pale blue shirt with a white collar, and a sleek dark tie perfectly knotted.

Saffi brings in several folders, including the one containing the insurance information. She drops them on the table and sits. “Calm down, Geller, your nostrils are flaring. It’s not a good look for you.”

Carmen Saffi is anything but a pushover.

Holding back the smirk that desperately wants to come out, Declan tells Hoffman, “I’m doing you a damn favor. I’m here because your client asked for me. I’ve been off the clock since six. Saffi or my LT want someone else on this, I got no problem going home and getting some sleep.”

“Sit, Declan.” Saffi waves at the empty chair beside her. “It’s a little too late at night for a pissing match. Both of you need to put it to rest so we can get to the bottom of all this.”

Geller’s frowning. “My client didn’t ask for you.”

Declan takes out his phone and scrolls through his texts with Cordova until he finds the 911 call. He hasn’t heard it yet but presses Play anyway. Denise Morrow’s whispered voice fills the room:

“My… my husband… somebody stabbed him! God, he’s… somebody stabbed him. I think they might still be here!”

“Ma’am, can you confirm your location? I have two eleven Central Park West.”

“Yes.”

“What apartment?”

“Tower number two.”

“I’ve got officers en route. Is your husband responsive?”

“Responsive?”

“Awake? Breathing?”

“I think they’re still here!”

“If you feel you’re in danger, you should exit the apartment immediately and wait in the lobby or on the street for officers to arrive.”

“No! I can’t leave my husband.”

“Is he responsive?”

“I have a gun. I can’t leave him.”

“Ma’am, if you’re in danger, you need to get out.”

Sudden intake of breath. “Detective Declan Shaw.”

“Excuse me?”

“Declan Shaw! Detective Declan Shaw!”

Declan’s not sure what to make of that. When he looks up from the phone, Denise Morrow is staring at him; the others are too. Before he can say anything, Morrow speaks in a low voice:

“I don’t even remember making that call.”

And this is where ADA Saffi shines—in the disarm. She reaches across the table and places her hand on Morrow’s. “Of course not. Who could expect you to in a situation like that? I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Let’s just take this one step at a time, okay? We’re right here with you. You found your husband when you came home?”

Denise Morrow nods.

“Where were you prior to that?”

“Tribeca. I was giving a talk at a bookstore.”

“Which bookstore?”

“Mysterious Bookshop on Warren Street. If you call Otto, he can confirm.”

“Otto?”

“He owns the store.”

Hoffman says, “Otto says there were sixty people in attendance, not including employees. I confirmed with him about twenty minutes ago.”

“You called him? This late?”

“With good reason.”

Declan can tell Saffi doesn’t like that. The last thing they need is Hoffman getting ahead of potential witnesses. Sixty percent of any good prosecution is controlling the narrative, and the other forty is dumb luck. She lets it go for now and asks Morrow, “What time did you leave for the bookstore?”

“Seven fifteen.”

“Did you drive?”

“No, I took a cab.”

“And your husband was…”

Morrow purses her lips. “David was in the kitchen making a sandwich when I left.”

“Did you lock the door when you left?”

“Always.”

“In a building like that?”

“Especially in a building like that. The Andersons in fourteen C were broken into last year. Two years before that, there was a home invasion in eight A. I love the Beresford, it’s an incredible place to live, but it makes you a target. And I’ve had fans appear out of nowhere too. They just show up on my doorstep. So we always keep the door locked.”

“Anyone recently just show up?”

Morrow considers this, then shakes her head. “The last one was about four months ago. A sweet senior lady. About six months before that, there was a young guy. They were harmless. I signed their books, let them take a few photos, and they left, so—”

Hoffman interrupts. “My client’s talk was widely advertised. There’s a good chance whoever broke in knew she’d be out and expected the apartment to be empty. David… David surprised them.”

Saffi doesn’t acknowledge that, most likely because she knows it’s bullshit and doesn’t want to go down that rabbit hole. She returns her attention to Morrow. “You caught a cab to the bookstore at seven fifteen p.m. What time did you arrive there?”

“About twenty minutes to eight.”

“Did you keep the receipt?”

“I don’t keep paper. I used my credit card, though. Easy enough to confirm.”

Hoffman raises a hand. “For the record, we’re not authorizing you to check credit card records. You want that, you’ll need a warrant.”

Morrow frowns at him. “Geller, don’t be difficult. I have nothing to hide. Let them check it if they want to.”

“Yeah, Geller,” Declan says. “Why make it hard for us? She has nothing to hide.”

Saffi clears her throat, keeps her focus on Morrow. “What time did your talk begin?”

“Eight o’clock. I was up there for about thirty minutes, and I signed books and answered questions until nine. I didn’t want to be out too late, so I left right after that.”

“Another cab?”

She nods. “I was home in maybe fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Hank, our doorman. I went up and…” She goes quiet, closes her eyes, and draws in a deep breath. Nearly twenty seconds slip by before she speaks again. “Sorry… I just… until just now, I couldn’t really recall this.”

“It’s okay, take your time,” Saffi tells her. “Let it come back.”

Morrow licks her lips and slowly continues. “When I went to unlock the door, my key didn’t work right. It got stuck. Then I saw the scratch marks around the lock and realized something was wrong. I… I twisted my key a few times until it finally grabbed and I opened the door. Something felt… wrong. I don’t know how to explain it. The air just felt heavy. I knew David was home, but the space felt unoccupied. That’s crazy, right? It sounds crazy when I say it out loud. And listen, I don’t go in for that supernatural nonsense. That’s not what I’m saying. There was just something wrong—that’s the only way to put it. David is… was… cautious, and he kept a gun in his nightstand and another near the front door, hidden in the bottom of a vase of silk flowers. I dumped the flowers from that vase and grabbed the gun the moment I came through the door. I didn’t see David, not right away.”

“We found blood on the door frame. Was that there when you went in?”

Morrow’s gaze drops to the table. Her brow furrows slightly as she struggles to recall. “Not that I remember, but everything is very… hazy. At that point, I was so worried about David, I didn’t notice much of anything.” She shakes her head. “I should have been paying more attention.”

“It’s okay,” Saffi says quietly, then prompts the woman to continue: “So you entered the apartment…”

Morrow nods. “I found David at the end of the hall leading off our foyer. He wasn’t moving. I… I went to him and… he was covered in blood. Blood was everywhere. Then I remember I heard a sound deeper in the apartment, a thump. Like someone was walking in the dark and hit something.” She raps the table with her knuckles. “I think that’s when I called 911.”

“You think you did or you know you did?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you check David for a pulse? See if he was breathing?”

“I don’t remember.”

The room goes quiet for a long moment. Saffi reaches across the table, lines up the corners of the folders in a neat stack. Pulls them closer. She opens the top folder and reads something, shielding the text with her hand, then closes it. When she leans back to Morrow, the concern that filled her eyes earlier is gone, replaced with a flash of ice. Declan has seen that look before and never wants to be on the receiving end of it. It’s go time. “Mrs. Morrow, security footage has you arriving home at nine twenty p.m. You didn’t dial 911 until nine thirty-one. That’s eleven minutes. It takes a minute or two to get to your apartment from the lobby. The actions you just described account for maybe another minute. What were you doing for the remainder of that time?”

Morrow says nothing.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Saffi says.

“Nothing. I told you everything I remember. I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

Saffi leans closer to her. “I think we need to cut the bullshit, so I’m going to ask you a very simple question: Did you kill your husband?”