Page 30 of The Writer
CHAPTER THIRTY
“AND YOU DIDN’T hit him?” Cordova looks stunned. “Hell, I think even I would have hit him.”
When they walk into Your Six, a local cop bar, the place is well on its way to packed. That’s the thing about cop bars—a shift is always ending somewhere. Couple that with it being Friday night, and they’ll be looking at standing room only within an hour. Declan chases two rookies away from the far end of the bar and plunks down in his regular seat. He leans back against the wall and studies the crowd. “At some point, Harrison had to be a good cop, right? You don’t come out of the academy dreaming of IAU; you get lured there.”
Cordova takes the stool next to him and shoves away a bowl of peanuts, sending it halfway down the bar. Declan is allergic, and the last thing either of them wants is a trip to the ER. “What, like Anakin Skywalker going to the dark side?”
“Yeah.”
Cordova shakes his head. “No. I think he was always a dick. IAU just gave him purpose.”
The bartender shuffles over and sets two beers and two shots in front of them. Declan catches her before she goes. “Hey, Maddie, you know how to make a grasshopper?”
Maddie is pushing sixty and she’s about fifty pounds overweight, but she’s still quick on her feet and quicker with a zinger. “What, is it 1955 up in here? You want I should offer free polio vaccines to whoever hasn’t got one yet too?”
“You know how to make one or not?”
Maddie rolls her eyes at him. “One grasshopper coming up. I’ll throw in a Shirley Temple for your partner.”
She returns with a grasshopper in a martini glass a few minutes later, and when she’s gone, Cordova asks, “Do I want to know?”
“You do not.” Declan reaches for his shot and holds it up. “To civil service and the hazards of police work, both in-house and out.”
They both drink and set the glasses down next to the beers.
Cordova’s face goes pale. “Oh, hell.”
Declan has seen the man put away half a dozen shots before getting sick. He’s about to rib him when he realizes it’s not the shot—Cordova is watching the television on the wall above Declan’s head. When Declan swivels around, he catches the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen— Dirty cop behind the murder of local celebrity’s husband? Denise Morrow is sitting on a couch with Geller Hoffman, deeply concerned looks painted across both their faces as Barbara Leyland, the talking head from Channel 2, leans closer, stroking her chin.
“Maddie, turn that up!”
While pulling a beer from the tap with one hand, Maddie fumbles under the bar with the other, finds the remote, and raises the volume.
Denise Morrow says, “You have to understand, I was in shock, I didn’t remember half of this until a day or two later, and even then it only came back in pieces.”
Hoffman pats the top of Morrow’s hand. “We were told Denise suffered from post-traumatic amnesia, or PTA. Seeing her dead husband, knowing someone was still in her apartment… all of that was too much, and her brain basically locked down Denise’s consciousness.”
“To protect her?” Barbara Leyland prompts.
“Exactly. She remained conscious, awake, but on some form of autopilot. People in that state are known to act in bizarre, uncharacteristic ways. It’s like sleepwalking or being under deep hypnosis. Denise was capable of simple cognitive actions, responding to verbal cues, but only in a detached manner.”
Barbara Leyland nods slowly, like this is the most fascinating thing she has ever heard, then turns back to Denise Morrow. “If we play your 911 call, are you going to be okay?”
Denise swallows. “Yes.”
Leyland nods to someone off camera, and Morrow’s voice comes from the speaker, complete with a fancy animated graphic line bouncing with the audio and captions beneath it.
Denise Morrow: My… my husband… somebody stabbed him! God, he’s… somebody stabbed him. I think they might still be here!
911 operator: Ma’am, can you confirm your location? I have two eleven Central Park West.
Morrow: Yes.
Operator: What apartment?
Morrow: Tower number two.
Operator: I’ve got officers en route. Is your husband responsive?
Morrow: Responsive?
Operator: Awake? Breathing?
Morrow: I think they’re still here!
Operator: If you feel you’re in danger, you should exit the apartment immediately and wait in the lobby or on the street for officers to arrive.
Morrow: No! I can’t leave my husband.
Operator: Is he responsive?
Morrow: I have a gun. I can’t leave him.
Operator: Ma’am, if you’re in danger, you need to get out.
Morrow: [ Sudden intake of breath .] Detective Declan Shaw.
Operator: Excuse me?
Morrow: Declan Shaw! Detective Declan Shaw!
The three of them are silent for a beat, then Barbara Leyland says, “The police say you asked for Detective Shaw.”
Hoffman says, “Does it sound like she’s asking for him to you, Barbara?”
“It doesn’t,” the reporter says. “She sounds… afraid.”
Hoffman nods. “At this point, my client was fully under the influence of PTA. Incapable of proper communication. She was trying to tell them Declan Shaw was in her apartment, had killed her husband, but she couldn’t get those specific words out. The best she could do was his name, and they misinterpreted.”
“You actually ran him off,” Barbara says, her eyes wide. “You managed to get a gun and run him off before he could hurt you too.”
Denise Morrow looks down at her hands. “I… I think that’s what happened, but I honestly don’t remember. When I try to recall, I only get flashes, these quick images.”
“But you remember Detective Declan Shaw being in your apartment.”
Another quick nod from Morrow, then she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “It was like remembering a dream. Trying to hold water in my fist. As I came out of… the fog… as I found myself back in reality, those memories seemed so distant. Then Declan Shaw was there, standing next to me, he came through the door like nothing had happened and…”
“And my client became lost, confused, rightfully so,” Hoffman explains. “This is also characteristic of PTA. In that moment, she didn’t know if her memories were real, if the Declan Shaw in front of her was real or if it was all a product of her mind. Had she been clearheaded enough, she certainly would have alerted the other officers. It wasn’t until days later, after she was released, that I was able to get her the help she needed. That’s when the memories were retrieved. That’s when we finally knew the truth.”
“Seeing David like that…” Denise chokes back tears and squeezes her eyes shut.
Barbara Leyland started her television career on The Young and the Restless, playing the overly dramatic teenage daughter of one of the show’s regulars. Declan knows that because Leyland talks about it every chance she gets. She tells people she knew even then she wanted more, knew she didn’t want to be just another pretty face on television. She wanted to make a difference; she was born to be a reporter, not a character… blah-blah-blah. Her expression now brings to mind her early days in front of the camera. It looks as if it has been rehearsed in front of a mirror, practiced with a coach, perfected with multiple takes. She’s dripping sympathy as she reaches over and clasps Morrow’s hand. “David, your husband.”
Denise nods. “Seeing David like that, it couldn’t possibly be real—that’s what I told myself. That meant none of the rest was real either. I honestly expected to wake up any moment.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
Morrow shakes her head. “I didn’t. I still haven’t. It’s… it’s been horrible.”
Barbara Leyland bites her lip, allows all that to sink in, then says, “I have to ask because everyone in our audience is asking themselves this—why would this detective want to kill your husband?”
“He wasn’t after David,” Denise Morrow says in a voice so quiet, she sounds like a little girl. “I think he wanted to kill me and David just got in his way.”
“Because of your new book?”
Denise Morrow nods. “A book about him .”
Declan grabs the grasshopper and throws it at the television. The martini glass cracks against the wall to the left of the screen, coating the paneling in green. “This is bullshit!”
“Hey!” Maddie shouts. “None of that nonsense in here!” She scoops up the remote and changes the channel to a hockey game—the Rangers are down by one to the Devils.
That’s when Cordova’s phone rings.
ADA Saffi.