Page 35 of The Writer
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY we’re going after her again. Not with this circumstantial bullshit,” Lieutenant Marcus Daniels tells them, shaking his head. “You got video of her attorney handing her a shopping bag. Good for you. A condom wrapper? Please.” He blows out a harsh breath. “I don’t know if you have time to catch the news between your various fuckups, but the press is all over you, and ain’t none of it good. Hoffman is screaming dirty cop to anyone in the media willing to listen. The Times called twice today trying to get me to comment. That means they’ve got a story brewing too. I spent half of yesterday getting chewed out by the DA. When he was done with me, the mayor got on my ass. Apparently, Hoffman is a big donor, has the mayor on speed dial. Hoffman gave him a courtesy call to let him know he was prepping to sue the city on his client’s behalf for false arrest. Plans to file Monday. Damage to her reputation, potential disruption in earnings—he’s claiming her publisher threatened to hold publication of her latest book, and that’s a seven-figure ding to her income by itself. If it happens and you’re wrong about her, the city could be on the hook.”
“I’m not wrong,” Declan insists.
Daniels’s face goes bright red. “You don’t get to be wrong, and you don’t get to be right! You’re not on this case!” He stands and slaps the rumpled Page Six story spread out on his cluttered desk. “What part of Stay away from her are you having trouble understanding? Do I need to take your gun and badge? Lock your ass up? What?”
“Hoffman and Morrow killed the husband, then they lured Gomez into an alley and killed her too.” Declan jabs his finger at Mia Gomez in the photo. “They left that woman’s body in a dumpster. She was twenty-eight years old. You really want to stand in the way of taking them down? You gonna let the DA or the mayor tell you not to do your job?”
It’s a low blow, but Declan doesn’t have a choice.
Daniels looks like he might explode. He grips the edge of his desk and goes quiet for a very long time. Eventually, he asks, “Did you dust the condom wrapper for prints?”
Shit. Declan was really hoping he wouldn’t ask that.
Cordova, who’s been sitting quietly in a chair through all of this, says, “We pulled two latents—both from Mia Gomez.”
“Not the husband.”
“We found the box in her dresser drawer. CSU says perforation marks on one of the condoms found in David Morrow’s pocket matches the marks on the last one in that box. That means the ones he had on him were torn from the condoms in Mia Gomez’s possession. That’s just as solid as a print. It puts him there. We’ve got CSU dusting every inch of her place right now. We’ll find more.”
That last part is a lie.
Cordova is buying time.
CSU finished with the apartment an hour ago, and none of the prints they found matched David Morrow.
Daniels drops back in his seat. “Look, if the husband was dipping his wick, I get why the writer would want him dead, and that woman too, but I see no reason for her attorney to go along with any of this. You don’t take part in a double homicide because your client asks you nicely.”
“Hoffman’s not just her attorney. From what we’re hearing, he’s a friend… maybe more.”
Daniels takes another look at the picture from Page Six. “Her and Hoffman?”
Cordova nods.
“Christ.”
“This is why you have to let us stay on it,” Declan says.
Daniels’s face hardens again. “Cordova stays on it. You’re taking the day off. I catch you anywhere near this case, and you’re going to find yourself with a lot of free time.”
“LT, I—”
Daniels starts angrily ticking off points on his fingers. “We got your blood at the crime scene. Morrow mentioned you by name on the 911 call—claims this is all you. The murder weapon came from your apartment, has your prints on it. You got some bullshit alibi—out walking in the park. You going to tell me where you really were?”
Declan goes quiet. He can’t tell him. No way.
“Didn’t think so.” Daniels jerks his thumb toward Cordova. “This guy is the only reason you’re not on leave right now. He’s been vouching for you from the jump, but you know what? That only goes so far. When I look at all this, when I look at you, I see a mediocre cop with motive. I got Harrison in my ear telling me you’re just covering your tracks. Something you’re apparently damn good at. I got the Times trying to get me on the record about the dirty cop on my watch. If you think I’m gonna fall on my sword protecting you, you’re more delusional than I thought. Harrison says he expects to finish his investigation by Monday. If he concludes you planted evidence on Lucero, I’m throwing your ass to the wolves. You’re done.”
“I didn’t plant evidence, I didn’t kill David Morrow,” Declan says firmly. “This is all her.”
Daniels’s phone rings and he snatches it up. “What?”
As he listens, he drags his hand over his bald head, closes his eyes, and leans back in his chair. He hangs up the phone without so much as a goodbye. When he leans forward again, his eyes snap open and burn into Declan. “Hoffman sent a copy of the lawsuit to the mayor’s office, the chief of detectives upstairs, and Harrison in IAU.” He swallows, shakes his head in disbelief. “One hundred million dollars. That’s what she’s suing for.”
Declan’s heart cracks against his ribs with the violence of a gunshot. “That’s crazy!”
For nearly a minute, Daniels stares at him. When he finally speaks, he manages only five words: “Get out of my office.”