Page 3 of The Writer
CHAPTER THREE
DECLAN’S PHONE RINGS.
In the instant it takes for his brain to process that, the train screams by at a mind-bending speed followed by a rush of air that nearly sucks him from the platform in a whirlwind of dust. It’s his grip on the pipe that keeps him from tumbling over the edge and maybe under the ass end of one of the cars, maybe not, certainly not into the sweet spot at the train’s nose, and that deduction—which he comes to in a millisecond—is enough for Declan to push off from the pipe, swing back, and drop awkwardly to the ground against a support pillar.
The train vanishes.
The sound fades.
Drenched in sweat, Declan sucks in a sharp breath. Every fiber of his body is screaming. Protesting. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to jump tonight, it’s the fourth, and he knows the next train will arrive in under seven minutes. He’ll regroup and get it right. Declan is many things, but a failure isn’t one of them.
His phone gives another shrill ring and vibrates in his pocket. He fumbles it out and glances at the display—his partner, Jarod Cordova.
Declan clicks Decline.
At sixty, Cordova is twenty-four years older than Declan and three short years from forced retirement. While most cops slip into low gear for this phase of their career, Cordova seems to view the ticking clock as some sort of personal challenge—how many jackets can he close before they slap an imitation-gold Apple watch on his wrist and buy him a one-way ticket to Boca Raton? Because their current workload isn’t enough for him, he’s gotten in the habit of taking cold-case files home and working them in his spare time. These late-night calls usually mean he’s at his kitchen table elbow-deep in yellowed paperwork and wants to talk something out.
Nope.
Not tonight.
Declan’s got a full dance card.
Five minutes until the next train.
He’s brushing the dust from his jeans when his phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text:
Pick up, you shit!
When the phone starts to ring again, he has half a mind to chuck it against the far wall but decides not to. Sometimes it’s better to rip off the Band-Aid. He thumbs the side button. “Look, man, I’m a little into something right now. Can this wait?”
Cordova’s scratchy voice comes back at him. “Where are you?”
“Busy.”
“Busy where? You near the Upper West Side?”
Declan glances around the empty subway station. At the dirt and grime. The streaks on the ground around him left by his shoes, his fingers. There’s a poster on the wall opposite for a new shark exhibit coming to the museum next month. The date grabs him— next month .
He swallows.
“Declan, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Call came in. Sounds like a B and E gone bad.”
The clock at the far end of the platform reads 9:52 p.m. “Sounds like someone else’s problem.”
“Got at least one dead with shots fired at the responding officers. Your name came up.”
“Came up how?”
“I don’t know the details, but LT wants us there. How fast can you get to two eleven Central Park West? The Beresford.”
Four minutes until the next train.
He doesn’t have to do this.
He doesn’t have to do a damn thing but get back up on the edge of the platform and count to a little over two hundred and—
Cardova says, “You need me to send a car for you?”
Somewhere behind Declan, a woman giggles; the sound echoes off the subway tiles. A moment later, two twenty-somethings come down the steps from the street. Pretty girl in a slinky black dress leaning heavily on a guy in a sports coat, jeans, and Birkenstocks, both of them drunk. Probably looking for a little privacy. Evidently, neither one is happy to see him standing there, because they quickly turn around and stumble back up the steps.
Life goes on.
Declan blows out a defeated breath and looks down at the scrape on his hand. Pink and ugly, but no longer bleeding. “I’m in the park. I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Take the Central Park West entrance. You want the tower apartment. I’ll meet you. Move.”