Page 25 of The Writer
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DECLAN TAKES A CAB to Geller Hoffman’s place because it’s faster than the subway. The attorney lives on the eightieth floor of Central Park Tower, a pricey high-rise off Fifty-Seventh that claims to be the world’s tallest residential building. It’s located in a part of the city known as Billionaires’ Row. Hoffman has money, no doubt about that, but a billionaire he is not. Declan stares up at the superstructure hoping that whatever warrant Cordova pulled will allow them to dig into the shit-knocker’s finances.
“Dec! Over here!” Cordova shouts from the sidewalk. He’s standing at the mouth of the parking garage, waving.
Declan walks over and frowns. “What are you doing down here? Who’s up in the apartment?”
“So we get here,” Cordova tells Declan as he leads him into the garage, “and Hoffman answers the door in a robe and slippers, not exactly dressed for company. I show him the warrant and he starts spouting ‘privilege’ this and ‘privilege’ that. Claims us serving a warrant on him knowing that he represents a person of interest in an open murder investigation is a violation of his client’s rights. Tells us we step into his apartment and he’ll have the whole case thrown out.”
Declan finds that funny. “I love how Denise Morrow is a person of interest when he needs her to be, but when you put a television camera in his face, she’s the victim.”
Cordova ignores that. “I call Saffi and tell her what’s going on, and she goes off on this rant because I pulled the warrant through Judge Thomas instead of Berman even though it’s Berman’s case—”
“Wasn’t that the reason you went to Thomas? Keep it impartial?”
Cordova ignores that too. “She asks if I told Thomas the warrant was on an attorney.”
“And you obviously didn’t. Look,” Declan says, “that’s how the game works, right? Did Thomas ask you if you were serving on an attorney?”
“Nope.”
“Then you’re in the clear. Plausible deniability, my friend. There’s no rule that says we have to go to Berman; it’s just courtesy bullshit.”
“Saffi tells me to start with his car while she calls the judge and figures out how to proceed. She says to get it all on camera, don’t touch anything that could contain client data—no file boxes, no briefcase, nothing like that, but the car itself is fair game.”
Declan kicks a loose pebble of concrete. “Your real problem is Hoffman. While you’re down here dicking around his wheels, he’s up there burning evidence, flushing evidence, eating evidence… he’s doing whatever he can before you come through his door.”
Cordova grins. “I don’t care what he does. You won’t either when you see this.”
He leads Declan to the garage’s third floor and a black BMW 7 Series surrounded by uniformed officers and CSU techs. There’s something sitting on the car’s trunk. Declan can’t tell what it is until he gets closer, then his heart gives a hard thump. “Is that…”
Cordova beams and points to one of the officers, a young guy with red hair and freckles. “Billy there found it.”
Billy shrugs and glances up at an exposed heating duct above the car. “It was right up top, wrapped in newspaper. Saw the corner sticking out. Hard to miss in here.”
The garage ceilings are low—seven, maybe seven and a half feet. Low enough for Declan to reach without a ladder. He brushes the bottom of the open duct with his fingertips as he steps up to the car, his pulse thundering in his ears. Sitting in the center of a crumpled page from the New York Times sports section is a knife. Not just any knife, but one with a blade that’s five inches long and one inch wide with a serrated edge. The blade is stained with what appears to be dried blood; the newspaper is too.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Declan hears the words come from his mouth, but the blood is pounding in his ears so hard that his own voice sounds muffled. “The knife that killed David Morrow?”
“It’s got to be. Hoffman must have walked it out in the coat just like we thought.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. Holy shit.”
An elevator about ten feet away dings and the doors slide open. Geller Hoffman gets out. He’s changed out of his jam-jams and into a pair of khaki pants and a white button-down. One hand is pressing his cell phone to his ear and the other is pointing at Cordova. “Don’t you dare touch my car. I spoke to the issuing judge and—” When he spots the knife resting on his trunk, the color leaves his face. His finger shifts from Cordova to the blade. “What the hell is that?”
“What do you think it is?” Cordova asks.
It doesn’t take long for Hoffman to recover, and when he does, his angry stare moves to Declan. “You motherfucker. You seriously think you can plant evidence here too… on me? I will not only take your badge, I’ll see to it you’re sharing a cell with Ruben Lucero. You think I don’t know what you did on that case? No way you’re pulling that bullshit with me.”
When he starts for the car, Cordova waves at two of the uniformed officers. “Hold him back. Park him somewhere. He doesn’t go anywhere.”
Cordova’s phone rings. ADA Saffi. He answers on speaker, tells her to hold on a second, and shuffles to the far end of the garage with Declan so Hoffman can’t hear. He quickly details what they found and where they found it. He’s doing his best to stay calm, but he sounds like a kid who just discovered the latest Xbox under the Christmas tree.
“You almost fucked us going to Thomas,” Saffi says. “You know that, right?”
“Berman and Hoffman golf together. Hell, they’re both members of the Metropolitan Club. You think Berman would’ve played this on the up-and-up if we went to him?”
“Berman’s an officer of the court. Same with Hoffman. Same with me. Just putting the message out there that you don’t trust him could burn you on this case. He’s obligated to stay objective. You don’t so much as hint that you don’t trust him. He can fuck you six ways to Sunday without violating the sanctity of the court. Trust that Berman will do his job, and let him do it.” She goes quiet for a second, then adds, “Besides, he thinks Hoffman is a tool. Just because they travel in the same circles doesn’t mean he likes him.”
Declan knows Cordova did the right thing. Saffi probably does too, but part of her job is to read them the riot act. CYA.
Saffi draws a deep breath that’s audible over the call and says, “Judge Thomas conferenced with me and Berman and he amended his warrant after learning Hoffman was an attorney. He’s going to appoint a special master.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an unrelated attorney who will be present for the search of Hoffman’s apartment and any personal belongings. They’ll basically ensure you’re not looking at anything that violates attorney-client privilege.”
“How long’s that going to take?”
“Till tomorrow. Day after at the latest.”
Declan nods. They can make that work. “We’re fine. We take Hoffman in and we can hold him for seventy-two hours. We keep him on ice until we’re inside.”
“You’re not charging Hoffman with the knife. You’re certainly not booking him.”
“What?”
“You didn’t find the knife in his car—you found it in a public space.”
“Right above his car,” Cordova points out. “In a gated garage that can be accessed only by residents with a key card or code.”
“A public space anyone can access by walking in behind a resident’s car. Look, we’re not giving the press something else that has the potential to blow up, not after all that nonsense with Morrow. Process the knife. Let’s make sure we’ve really got what we think we’ve got this time. Seal off his apartment and his car; Judge Thomas agreed to that much. Hoffman can slum it at the Four Seasons for a few days. Once the special master is in place, you can comb it from top to bottom.”
“What about his office?” Declan asks.
Saffi goes quiet.
“Carmen? Can we search his office?”
“Thomas said Hoffman’s office is off-limits unless you find something in the car or apartment. Then he’ll revisit.”
“This is bullshit,” Declan mutters.
“This is how the game is played. Let me know what you turn up on the knife.”
She hangs up, and the two of them stare at Cordova’s phone.
Across the garage, Hoffman is watching them. Not only has his color returned, but his ratty grin is back. Declan says, “If he kept the coat, it will be in his office. He must have known this would happen.”
“Why would he even keep it? It’s probably in a landfill or a burn barrel somewhere.”
Declan shakes his head. “No. He’d hold on to it. Keep it close, like that knife. He’d want to have insurance in case Denise Morrow turns on him.”
Cordova considers that, then gestures around the garage. “The knife was here. Maybe the coat is too.”
Declan looks at his watch. It’s twenty minutes to midnight. “How big is this garage?”
“Eight levels,” Cordova tells him. “More than three thousand parking spaces with four storage closets on each floor. Rooms with HVAC too.”
Big.
“It’s not too late to go into construction,” Declan mutters in a low voice that sounds so much like his father’s, the man might be standing behind him.
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just something that came up over dinner.” Declan looks back toward Hoffman’s car. “I’ll radio for more uniforms. We’ll start on this level and work our way out. Any luck, we’ll finish by Christmas.”
Cordova nods. “I’ll have CSU run the knife tonight, get whatever they can pull from it. The newspaper and that duct too.”