Page 40 of The Writer

CHAPTER FORTY

THE SUN IS down when Cordova steps back outside, and the air has taken on a definite chill. He’s halfway to his car when his phone rings.

Lieutenant Daniels.

How the hell?

Does Daniels know he’s here? Did some guard call and tip him?

He clears his throat and answers. “Lieutenant.”

“Do you have eyes on your partner?”

Cordova glances around the prison parking lot. His first thought is maybe Declan followed him and Daniels tracked them both, then he realizes how paranoid that is. Declan knows better, and Cordova drove up in his personal car and he’s on his personal phone—no tracking either of those without a warrant. “I haven’t seen him since we left your office. I told him to do what you said and take the day off.”

“And where are you?”

Cordova doesn’t miss a beat. “Chasing a lead, but it didn’t pan out.” He reaches his car, climbs inside, and closes the door. “Something happen?”

There’s a long pause. He waits for the LT to call him out or ask for more, but Daniels doesn’t. Instead, he says something far worse. “A witness came forward. She says she was out walking her dog the night David Morrow was murdered and saw Declan enter the Beresford through the Eighty-Second Street entrance. She didn’t think much of it until she saw him on the news, then she came down here to report it. She lives in the Beresford and knows everyone, so seeing him there was memorable.”

“What time did she see him?”

“Quarter to nine.”

Cordova swallows. The medical examiner put David Morrow’s time of death between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. Then he remembers something. “You can’t get to the Morrows’ apartment from Eighty-Second Street; you have to use the entrance off Central Park West. The building has some crazy design to help ensure privacy for its residents, so each lobby leads to only a few apartments. I went over all of this with the building’s super and the head of security.”

“I talked to the witness myself. She swears it was him. She picked Declan right out from that photo we have in the lobby too.”

This just keeps getting worse. “Want me to get over there and check the cameras?”

“I had Lomax call the building’s security chief,” Daniels says. “The camera at that entrance has been down for about three weeks. Vandalized. There’s no footage.”

Both men go quiet for a very long time. Cordova knows where this conversation is heading—Declan’s blood was found on scene, the murder weapon came from his apartment and had his prints on it, Denise Morrow named him in the 911 call and claimed he was in her apartment, the book she’s writing about him gives him motive, and now there’s an unrelated witness, which is possibly the most damning item because this woman has no skin in the game. Cordova runs his hand through what’s left of his thinning hair. “What do you want me to do?”

“If you bring him in, we can do this quietly. Get him on the record with his union rep and ADA Saffi. Let Carmen decide if she wants to pursue charges.”

“Can you keep Harrison out of it?”

Daniels doesn’t reply.

“Look, Harrison gets wind of it, he’ll leak it to the press. You know he will. The press gets this, and Declan’s career is over. It won’t matter how it plays out.”

Daniels says, after a long moment, “Maybe it’s time for that too.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“I don’t hear from you within an hour, I’m sending someone else to pick him up. I’m not risking any more blowback.”

It will take him at least five hours to get to the city. “Understood.”

The moment Daniels hangs up, Cordova dials Declan. He gets in his car, half expecting the call to roll to voicemail, but his partner picks up on the second ring. “You see Lucero?” he asks. “What did he tell you?”

Cordova exits the prison parking lot and gets on I-87. “Daniels has been holding back information. I’ll fill you in when I see you. At the moment, we’ve got a much bigger problem, something we’ve got to deal with right now. ” He tells Declan about the witness.

“She’s wrong.”

“That all you got to say?”

“What do you want me to say? Either she’s mistaken or she’s in on it. How well does she know Denise Morrow? Are they friends?”

“You need to cut the bullshit, Dec. This is too much. It’s just too much. Take a step back and look at the evidence like a homicide detective, like it’s all on someone else—you know we would have hauled them in by now.”

“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t anywhere near that building. I told you, I was in the park—”

“Taking a walk. Right. Where the hell were you really? No more bullshit, Dec. They want me to bring you in and if I do, there’s a good chance you’re not leaving this time. Not on your own.”

Seconds tick by. Then: “I was at the Eighty-First Street subway station, the one under the museum. On the platform.”

“That station’s not even open that late,” Cordova fires back. “Why would you…” Then it clicks. He gets it. Every cop on the force knows about that station and can rattle off a list of officers who ended their lives there.

End of watch. Nobody ever calls it suicide . It’s end of watch .

Cordova’s gut twists in a knot. He wants to pull off the highway, but he can’t stop. He has to get back to the city. He flicks on his flashers and speeds up. “Christ, Declan. Why?”

Declan doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t say anything.

Cordova checks the dash clock. “I’m five hours out. I’ll call the LT back and tell him I’m bringing you in myself. Tonight. The moment I get back to the city. This is what I want you to do: Go to my apartment. Stay there. Don’t go to your place. Nothing public. We don’t want to risk Harrison sending someone for you or Hoffman trying to get a photo op of you on a perp walk. Go straight to my apartment and wait for me. Just keep your head down until I get back.”

Declan still says nothing.

“You still there?”

“Do what you gotta do, Jarod.”

When Declan hangs up, Cordova beats both fists on his steering wheel.

This kid wants to go down.