Page 29 of The Writer
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ROY HARRISON IS sitting across the table, a smug look on his face. Declan glares at him and can’t hold back anymore. “This jerk-off has been gunning for me for months! Ever since he decided I planted evidence in the Lucero case, he’s been riding me. Why don’t you ask him where Denise Morrow got half the shit in her book? Ask him how long he’s known her. Take a walk down to evidence—his phone number is in Morrow’s notes. Maybe instead of throwing the spotlight on me, you all should be looking at him. Maybe pull his financials.” Declan points a finger at him. “She pay you, Roy? She pay you to hand her dirt on me? Manufacture dirt on me?”
Harrison doesn’t even flinch. “So I’m framing you too, is that it? I’m gonna need to write all this down just to keep track—you got me, a bestselling author, her attorney… anyone else? Anyone else sabotaging your illustrious career?” He leans forward. “You’re in the spotlight because you’re a fuckup, Shaw. You’ve always been a fuckup. You’re on my radar because you’re a glaring fuckup. You can point fingers all you want, but the truth is you dug the holes, all of them. You can’t help yourself, because you’re not just a bad cop, you’re a general piece of shit. We all know you planted evidence to secure a conviction on Lucero. You doing it again here isn’t exactly a stretch. Frankly, based on your history, I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”
“I took a poly on Lucero and passed.”
“Anyone with half a brain can fool the box.”
“Yeah? Then maybe you should take one. Tell us what you fed to Morrow.”
“I didn’t give anything to Denise Morrow. She called me once. Asked about you. I told her I couldn’t comment on an open investigation.” His eyes narrow. “Unlike you, I actually follow the rules.”
“Bullshit.”
Declan’s union rep is sitting beside him, but aside from introducing himself, the little bald man in the pin-striped shirt has barely said two words. Other than insisting on being in the meeting, Carmen Saffi hasn’t said much either, but now she finally breaks in. “Detective, answer a very simple question for me so we can all get out of here. Where were you when David Morrow was killed on”—she glances down at her notepad—“the night of Friday, November tenth, between eight thirty and nine thirty?”
Oh, that’s easy , Declan thinks. I was standing on the edge of the subway platform in the station under the Museum of Natural History thinking about throwing myself in front of the B train. You know, the station where Charlie Medcalf offed himself a few months back? Yeah, that’s where I was.
When Declan doesn’t answer, Saffi says, “Cordova said when he called you, it took you only a few minutes to get to the Morrow apartment at the Beresford. You must have been close.”
Shit.
Declan hopes his rep will say something, but the man stays quiet. He’s waiting for an answer just like the others. “I went for a walk in the park. Out near the museum. Helps me think. Wind down.”
“You went… for a walk?” Harrison says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Saffi shuts him up with a harsh look. “Can anyone else corroborate that?”
“I was alone, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m sure some of the cameras picked me up.”
“Just strolling in the park,” Harrison mutters.
“Enough,” Saffi snaps.
There’s a knock at the door. A CSU tech comes in carrying a plastic case.
Saffi’s eyes remain fixed on Declan. “I think we all want to clear this up, right? Maybe someone did steal that knife from your place. Just because your prints are on it doesn’t mean you were at the scene. I’m willing to keep an open mind. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m offering you a choice. You let me take a blood sample right now, with your consent, something we can compare to the blood found on Morrow’s door before you arrived on scene. We do it here nice and quiet, find out what your blood type is, and maybe rule you out. Or…” She bites her lip. “Or IAU holds you on suspicion, gets a warrant, and pulls your blood anyway.” She goes quiet for a second. “Declan, it’s your call, but option B comes with a paper trail and a lot more noise.”
“You got nothing to hide, right?” Harrison winks. The condescending prick actually winks. “You want to turn off the spotlight, here’s how you do it.”
They sit there in silence for nearly a minute. Finally, Declan’s rep leans over and whispers, “You want my advice, I think you should do it.”
Declan does not want his advice. He liked the man better when he kept his mouth shut.
Saffi is staring at the cut on Declan’s hand, scabbed over now. “How did that happen?”
Rusty pipe back at the subway station. Caught a sharp corner when I was practicing my death dive.
“Sliced it on the back of one of those benches in the park. A screw or something was sticking out.” Hell, even Declan doesn’t believe that, but he can’t tell them the truth. He rolls up his sleeve and tells the tech, “Go ahead.”
The tech gives Saffi a quick look and she nods.
He’s fast. Rubber tourniquet, quick needle prick. Less than a minute later, the tech is holding a small vial of Declan’s blood and Declan is pressing a cotton ball to his arm. With an eyedropper, the tech retrieves a small amount of blood from the vial and places four drops into separate wells on a plastic card about three inches square. “Takes about a minute,” he says softly, staring down.
Declan has no idea what he’s looking at, but two of the red dots go clear, the others remain dark red.
The tech says, “He’s A positive.”
Harrison doesn’t miss a beat. “Like the blood on the door frame at the Morrow place.”
Declan lifts the cotton ball on his arm. The bleeding has stopped. He tosses it aside. “The blood we found on Denise Morrow matched her husband too, until it didn’t.”
Saffi is staring at the tray. She says, “He’s right. Run it for DNA.”
The tech nods, packs up, and is gone a moment later.
“She’s framing me,” Declan tells them again.
“Of course she is.” Harrison flicks the corner of the plastic tray, setting it spinning, and sits back. “Maybe she was hiding under the park bench when you cut your hand. Her and Hoffman.”
Saffi ignores him and leans closer to Declan. “Where would she get your blood?”
Declan knows exactly where. “I donate every month—at Mercy. Same hospital where her husband worked.”
Harrison huffs. “Even if that’s true, it’s not like they write your name on the bag. It’s coded. Secured.”
“She’s got money,” Declan says. “You gonna tell me she couldn’t get it if she wanted to? This is a waste of time. A distraction. She’s playing with all of us.”
Harrison stubs a bony finger down on the table in front of Declan and growls at Saffi, “I want him charged. I want his badge and gun and him in a cell.”
“You don’t have the authority, you arrogant shit!” Declan fires back.
Saffi briefly squeezes her eyes shut and rubs her temples. “Enough, both of you. Nobody’s getting charged. Not yet.” She turns to Harrison. “This is no different than charging Morrow’s attorney. We jump the gun again, and the press skewers us. That’s bad for everyone.” She turns to Declan. “Until this is sorted out, I’m going to recommend to your lieutenant that you’re removed from this case.” Maybe she’s trying to sound soothing but it comes off as patronizing.
“Wait a minute, I—”
“You need to step back, Declan. All this is fodder for Denise Morrow’s defense. It’s reasonable doubt. You’re not helping anyone by staying in it. You want to put her away, you need to distance yourself. Let the rest of us work.”
“Let the real cops work,” Harrison mutters.