Page 23 of The Writer
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DECLAN STANDS UNDER the scalding-hot water of the shower for nearly thirty minutes, scrubbing first with a washcloth, then a thick-bristled brush he keeps under the sink. When he finally gets out, his skin is bright pink and raw, but at least the smell is gone. After helping the medical examiner retrieve the body of Mia Gomez, he personally supervised the CSU’s removal of every item from that dumpster. As he’d suspected, there was no sign of Mia’s phone or the murder weapon. The press arrived about two hours in, and they were still there when he left.
Declan crosses his small apartment and turns on the television just in time to catch a glimpse of himself, covered in grime, on the news. He shuts it off and drops down on his couch with his laptop and a cold beer in front of him. He plucks the USB drive from the corner of his cluttered coffee table and loads up Morrow’s book. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
One hour and two beers later, he mutters “Fuck me” for the third time.
Hell, she knows more about the case than he does.
It’s probably seventy degrees in his apartment, and Declan is sweating.
She opens with the final day of Ruben Lucero’s trial. The guilty verdict and the sentencing: life with no chance of parole. Declan’s not much of a reader, but it seems like this is a smart move on Morrow’s part because all the major players in the case are there—Maggie Marshall’s parents, Declan, Cordova, Lucero’s coworkers from the park, a handful of techs from CSU, a couple of whom worked the case on their own personal time to ensure it was tight. Even Oscar Martinez from the medical examiner’s office was there that final day. His testimony comparing the shape of Lucero’s hand to the bruising on Maggie’s neck helped push the jury over the top. Denise Morrow worked her way around the room as the judge talked and, like a voice-over in a movie, introduced the reader to everyone. She provided casual descriptions that included just enough for the reader to get a feel for each person but not enough to be overbearing, not enough to color the image in the reader’s mind. When she got to Declan, it was like she was in his head. Honest to God, it was like she read his mind, particularly right before the jury gave the verdict. She captured his inner turmoil, the pressure, the feeling of every eye in that place staring at the back of his head, but the final lines of that chapter really grab Declan by the throat.
There was something else there. Ruben Lucero’s gaze was firmly fixed on Detective Shaw, rather than the judge or even the jury, as the verdict was read. I watched Detective Declan Shaw, and it wasn’t anxiety I saw behind his eyes, it wasn’t fear of a potential innocent verdict—by that point, we all knew the jury had been swayed. What I saw eating away at him from the inside could only have been guilt. I’d soon learn Detective Declan Shaw had a very good reason for feeling guilty. That, too, as much as everything else, was fact.
Declan picks up his phone and starts to dial Cordova, then drops the phone and takes another sip of beer instead. Then he does what he should have done when he first opened the file—he runs a keyword search for anatomy .
There’s no mention until chapter thirteen, then it’s everywhere. Like a dog on a scent, Morrow chases, corners, latches on. It starts with the same text message he’d found at the evidence locker:
Why didn’t they find Lucero’s prints on Understanding Anatomy and Physiology? His prints were on all the other books. Why not that one? Explain that!
Denise Morrow went on to say she didn’t know who’d sent the message initially, and when she finally learned who was behind it, she understood the secrecy and agreed to protect the person’s anonymity. She claimed this was her first source, but she’d picked up others. She said she had no trouble finding people who believed Detective Declan Shaw had just as much to hide as Ruben Lucero, maybe more.
Fuck.
Declan looks down at his phone again. Cordova’s number is still on the screen. This time he does dial.
“What the hell you thinking?” Cordova barks after Declan tells him what he found. “Unless that book has ties to the death of her husband, you shouldn’t be digging around in it. Might as well draw a bull’s-eye on your chest. IT pulls the logs from Morrow’s computer, they’ll see you digging around in there.”
“It’s a copy. Nobody knows. Calm down.”
Cordova is quiet for several seconds, then says, “What number did the text come from?”
Declan loads the picture he took back at the evidence locker and reads the number to him.
“I’ll see if I can get someone to run it quietly.”
“Maybe I should do it,” Declan says. “Barksdale in IT owes me.”
“I’ll do it. You don’t want to be anywhere near this. Not with Harrison sniffing around.”
Declan takes another sip of beer. “You think he sent it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“She was talking to him too.”
“How do you know?”
“I found a phone number for him in her notes.”
Cordova sighs. Finally he says, “You let me deal with this and Harrison. You stay on Morrow. She goes to jail for killing her husband, nobody will care about that damn book.”
Cordova hangs up.
The apartment seems oddly quiet.
When Declan drops his phone back on the coffee table, he spots the list of restaurants Susan Reynolds gave them, Denise Morrow’s favorites.
Cordova is right—there is more than one way to shut this down.