Page 54 of The Writer
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“DO YOU HAVE any coffee in this kitchen?” Cordova calls to Declan. Cordova uses the term kitchen loosely because the small space doesn’t function as a kitchen. The refrigerator is bare, most of the drawers are either empty or stuffed with random junk, and only one cabinet actually houses dishware; the others are full of everything from old magazines to car parts, which Cordova finds odd, since Declan doesn’t own a car. He does find a box of protein bars buried under some laundry on the counter. Unfortunately, they expired six months ago. Cordova takes one anyway and tries to ignore the fact that it contains dairy, which he tries to avoid, and is far more crunchy than it probably should be. “Dec? Do you have coffee?” he calls again, louder.
“Sorry! I meant to do some shopping, but…” Declan’s voice trails off, muffled by the running water of the shower in the other room.
The only bare spot on Declan’s kitchen counter is the place his knife block, now in evidence, once occupied. Cordova sees dirty dishes sitting in putrid water in the sink, and his stomach lurches. He has no idea how the kid can live like this. He has no idea how anyone could live like this. He tosses the rest of the protein bar in the overflowing trash and steps back into the living room. The door of the closet nearest the entrance is still open from the search, and half its contents are on the floor. Cordova counts five shoeboxes, and that’s without moving the coats and other items that are most likely covering more. All the shoes are the same brand and design as the ones he found in Hoffman’s safe: Merrell Moab, size eleven. Black. Declan can’t be bothered to buy a loaf of bread, but shoes? Shoes he’s got.
In the bathroom, the shower cuts off. A moment later, Declan opens the door. He’s wrapped in a towel, and white humid steam lofts out of the confined space and into the living room. He wipes the mirror with a balled fist and lathers shaving cream on his face. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” Cordova says. As long as you’re not going to ask me to help clean this shithole.
Declan says, “I need you to be completely honest.”
“Always am.”
“Did you seriously think I killed David Morrow?”
It’s been so long since Cordova got any sleep, he isn’t sure about much of anything. His brain is reeling from the events of the past twenty-four hours alone, and he hasn’t had time to try and make sense of it all. When Declan got in the shower, he tossed his shirt on the floor outside the bathroom door, and Cordova finds himself staring at it. He’s not sure why. Something about it knocks around in the back of his tired mind, but the thought is so greasy, he can’t grip it.
“If you did,” Declan says, “I forgive you. I’ll be the first to admit, things got a little sketchy.”
Cordova is still staring at the shirt.
“I’ve decided not to give a shit about Denise Morrow and her tell-all book,” Declan goes on. “Let her release it. With what you found on Geller Hoffman, if she puts that bullshit out there, I’ll sue her for slander, defamation, and whatever else I can come up with. Hell, pain and suffering, mental anguish… I’ll find a lawyer who makes Hoffman look like a saint, a bottom-feeder who has no problem getting dirty. It’s not like they’re in short supply around here. Maybe I’ll use the money to get a better place. Maybe I’ll get out of the city altogether. Who knows.”
“Who knows…” Cordova mutters.
When he finally turns away from the shirt, his right foot is tapping incessantly. This nervous tic that comes on whenever his mind is working a problem. He puts an end to the tapping and returns to the only other thought rolling around in his head. “I’m not sure I buy that Lucero is innocent in all this.”
“That scumbag is hardly innocent.”
When Cordova found Geller Hoffman in that closet, he felt like everything was coming together. The items in the attorney’s safe clinched it. If Cordova were the star of some weekly television detective drama, those things would have happened at the fifty-three-minute mark. The case would be tied up with a nice little bow, and he’d be at a bar joking with his costars, setting things up for next week’s episode. Outro music would be cued up. But this is no television drama, and real life is anything but convenient. In all his years on the force, Cordova can recall only a single case that wrapped up as tight as this one. Cases are usually sloppy. There are usually unanswered questions. There are usually doubts—not enough to tip the scales, but doubts nonetheless. When you put somebody away, you make your peace with that. This is different. He’s missed something. You don’t make your peace with that.
“Geller Hoffman kills Maggie Marshall. Ruben Lucero sees him all those years ago, then fingers him for the murder to Denise Morrow?” Cordova wonders aloud. “Think about that. If she doesn’t go up to Dannemora to interview him for her book, if her phone doesn’t ring at that exact second, none of that comes together.”
“What, you don’t believe in kismet?”
“Do you?”
“I think Ruben Lucero was found guilty by a jury of his peers. Saffi said he might get a new trial after what you pulled out of Hoffman’s place, so we let that happen. You saw Lucero’s apartment—that monster was tying girls to a mattress on the floor. Making them shit in a bucket. He had all those books, souvenirs. A cell at Dannemora is too good for him.” He glances at Cordova in the mirror. “Daniels told me about the pictures you found with Hoffman. You worried about those?”
“Shouldn’t we be?”
“Hoffman tried to frame me, so it’s not a stretch to see him frame Lucero,” Declan replies. “Lucero said he saw Hoffman in the park that day. If that’s true, odds are good Hoffman saw Lucero too. Pedos like them, they got this sort of radar, they home in on each other. Hoffman was sharp. He saw an opportunity to clean up a mess and he took it. Might even explain how that book got in Lucero’s apartment. Hoffman would know exactly who to grease to pull something from evidence. If he already knew what was in Maggie’s bag, it makes even more sense. You said Lucero mentioned Lieutenant Daniels. You ever stop and think maybe he really did it? It was his name in the log, right? Maybe he used the wrong hand to throw the handwriting. What better way to cover your own tracks? I sure as shit didn’t do it. Makes sense Daniels might’ve. Maybe that’s how he paid for that cozy cabin of his out at Riverhead. You want to make yourself feel better about it all, why don’t we run the Polaroids we found at Lucero’s place for prints, see if Hoffman’s are on them? They are, and you got your answer.”
Cordova hasn’t considered that, and he should have. He blames it on his lack of sleep. He makes a mental note to send those Polaroids to the lab when they get back to the precinct.
Declan finishes shaving, washes the remaining foam from his face, and begins popping pills from the slew of supplements in his medicine cabinet. Cordova remembers the prescription bottle he found in Hoffman’s safe. “You know, if you stopped living off takeout and learned to cook a real meal, you probably wouldn’t need that prescription. You’re too young to have high cholesterol.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like you’re the picture of health.” Declan dries his face and steps into the living room. He kicks through a pile of clothes on the floor, grabs a pair of jeans, tugs them on under his towel, and starts picking through shirts. “Look, I want to be sure we—”
Declan coughs.
A puzzled look crosses his face.
“Dec, what—”
Declan coughs again. His hand goes to his throat, and his eyes go wide. He starts to gasp.
Is he choking on the pills?
Declan gasps again, a harsh rush of air.
He stumbles back into the bathroom and yanks open the medicine cabinet. Searches. Starts slapping the pill bottles off the shelves, looking for something that apparently isn’t there.
When Cordova gets to Declan, he’s clasping his throat with swollen fingers.
He’s not choking—he’s having an allergic reaction.
“Where’s your EpiPen?” Cordova shouts.
Declan doesn’t answer. Can’t.
He pushes by Cordova, goes to his nightstand, and yanks the drawer open. His eyes are so large, they look like they might pop out of his head. He rifles through the drawer, but his movements are growing thick and sluggish.
Cordova jerks the drawer all the way out, tips it over, and spreads out the contents. There’s no EpiPen; there’s nothing but junk.
Declan makes a horrible noise—it sounds like he’s trying to suck through a clogged straw. His body jerks, spasms, and he drops onto his back.
Cordova gets his phone out, dials 911 on speaker. “This is Detective Jarod Cordova. I’ve got an officer down! I need an ambulance at—”
Silence.
Declan is no longer moving.
He’s not breathing.
He’s looking up at Cordova with vacant eyes from a face so swollen, it’s unrecognizable.