Page 18 of The Writer
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DECLAN GLARES AT the television in the squad room, unable to look away. If he could somehow reach up through the screen, grab Geller Hoffman by his perfectly knotted tie, and yank him through, he would. Hoffman is standing on the courthouse steps (no doubt on a milk crate or two) preaching to the throngs of press and court lookie-loos like some messiah come down from the mountaintop to spread the word. Denise Morrow is at his side, no longer in the orange jumpsuit. Now she’s wearing a conservative tan dress and an equally conservative off-white coat with a subtle floral print near the knee-length hem. Her makeup has been expertly applied, accentuating her dark brown eyes. Her chestnut hair is swept back in a loose ponytail. This carefully crafted look is meant to disarm and draw you in. And it is working, even as Hoffman rattles on; every eye is on her.
“Now that we’ve moved beyond this nonsense,” Hoffman continues, “maybe the police will spend some time searching for the person who actually killed my client’s beloved husband. Unfortunately, the incompetence they and the prosecutor’s office have demonstrated doesn’t exactly inspire faith.”
“Oh, fuck him,” Declan mutters, clicking off the television. “She fired a round at the responding officers. We should charge her with that. Keep her behind bars until we sort this out.”
Cordova is at his desk, his eyes closed, thinking. He’s leaning so far back in his rickety old wooden chair, it’s in danger of toppling over. “She fired a round in self-defense at someone attempting to enter her home moments after she found her husband dead. If ADA Saffi was even willing to go that route, Hoffman would tear it apart. What you just saw is us losing the public’s trust. We don’t tread lightly, he’ll crucify us in the press. You read the email from CSU?”
“Baby steps. My mind is still trying to process the term beloved husband . The press knows about the cock socks, right?”
“The what?”
“Baby bags. Raincoats. Jimmy caps.”
Cordova opens his eyes and stares.
“The condoms we found,” Declan explains. “Jesus, Jarod, expand your vocabulary. Feed your brain. It helps keep you sharp.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
“Is anyone talking about infidelity?”
“Depends on the network. If they’re Team Morrow, they’ve decided David had a perfectly logical explanation for carrying condoms. The conspiracy theorists are claiming we planted them. I’m guessing Hoffman put that out there.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.” Declan nods at Cordova’s computer. “What’s in the CSU email?”
“They found wool on David Morrow’s clothing. Trace amounts in his hair, on his skin, and in the blood surrounding his body.”
“Wool? From what?”
“They don’t know.”
“Could be transfer from someone he sat next to on the subway. Someone in a wool coat.”
“Maybe.”
“Hoffman will say it’s transfer from the real killer.”
“Maybe.” Cordova leans back, closes his eyes again. Goes quiet.
Declan has worked with the man long enough to know what’s going on in his head. “You don’t think she did this, do you?”
He doesn’t open his eyes. “I think we need to consider that possibility. Maybe she found him, just like she said.”
“Yeah, she’s as innocent as O.J.”
“Maybe we missed something.”
Declan steps over to his desk and shuffles through the mess on top. He finds the blueprints of the Beresford and tosses them in front of Cordova. “We spent, what? Two hours going over these with Saffi? Three main lobbies at ground level, all leading to separate sections of the building. It’s not really one building, it’s more like three buildings with zero access to each other. To get to the Morrow apartment, you have to go through the entrance on Central Park West and take the main elevator. There’s also one service elevator for that part of the building. That’s it. Doorman and cameras put only Denise Morrow there. Even if someone managed to get in or out from the terrace, like she claimed, they’d have to pass through the Central Park West entrance or scale the building from the outside. That’s fucking crazy, but we checked it anyway because, contrary to what Hoffman would like everyone to believe, we’re fucking thorough. Traffic cams on Central Park West give us full visual of the exterior. There’s no Spider-Man on the footage. No nobody. Hoffman can claim we haven’t looked for other suspects all he wants, but the truth is we have looked and there are none. Maybe we release that to the press.”
“We’re not releasing anything to the press. That’s what Hoffman wants. Give a guy like that the chance to try a case in the court of public opinion, and he’ll run over us. There’s no rules there, only sensationalism.”
Cordova’s mobile rings. It’s Roy Harrison, IAU. “Let it go to voicemail,” Declan says.
“He’ll just come down here.”
“He needs the exercise. What does he want, anyway? You never told me why he called you at the Morrows’.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was something . You looked pissed.”
“He was just fishing on Maggie Marshall. Same old, same old.”
“Why call you at the Morrow place?”
Cordova purses his lips, says nothing.
“Jarod… what’d he say?”
With a sigh, Cordova tells him. “He said, ‘What are the odds of your partner planting evidence on this one?’”
Cordova has barely gotten the sentence out when Harrison sends a text: A picture of a condom wrapper. The same kind they found on David Morrow. He shows it to Declan.
“What a dick.”
“Yeah.” Leaning forward, Cordova loads up the security footage from the Beresford. “I’m going over this again. If Hoffman is right about anything, it’s that we’ve got holes. We missed something.” He nods at Declan’s computer on the desk facing his. “IT sent over everything they could pull from David Morrow’s phone. Why don’t you try and track down his girlfriend? Emails. Texts. Call logs. There’s got to be something there.”