Page 55 of The Writer
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Cordova is sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, every inch of his body still trembling.
The paramedics arrived in under four minutes, record time in this part of the city, but it wasn’t fast enough. Although they got a breathing tube down Declan’s throat, started CPR, and administered a series of medications—epinephrine and others Cordova didn’t recognize—they did so with practiced robotic movements that suggested they were going down a checklist but knew it would do no good. At one point, the female paramedic called out that she’d gotten a pulse, but her partner checked Declan’s neck and slowly shook his head. Eventually, they sat back on their heels, panting, and after a brief phone conversation with the ER physician, the male paramedic said the words still echoing through Cordova’s head: Time of death, 11:43 a.m.
He closed Declan’s eyes, and Cordova is thankful for that, because he had never seen anyone look so afraid.
“Detective, would you like me to call someone for you?”
It’s the female paramedic. He didn’t notice her approach. Her large brown eyes are moist; her face is filled with the empathy and understanding of someone who sees far too many people in their final moments.
“I’ll call our lieutenant,” he manages, his voice gravelly.
“What about family?”
Cordova only shakes his head.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay.”
Her partner is busy packing up their gear and making notes on a tablet. “Any idea what he ate? What he was allergic to?” she asks.
“He’s… he’s allergic to peanuts,” Cordova tells her. “But he didn’t eat anything—”
“Looks like he ate something ,” the male paramedic says in a dismissive tone, tapping away on his tablet.
“The ME will confirm, but this looks like anaphylaxis,” the woman explains as she picks up discarded wrappers and needles around Declan’s body. Her eyes land on the overturned drawer near the bed.
Cordova says, “He tried to find his…”
Although he doesn’t finish the sentence, she understands. “We’ve seen it before. EpiPens never seem to be around when you really need them.”
It all happened so fast. Cordova tries to piece it together. Declan hadn’t eaten anything. He’d showered, shaved, and was—
He scrambles to his feet and pushes past both of them to the bathroom. Half the contents of Declan’s medicine cabinet are on the floor; some bottles are in the sink. A handful of supplements and—
His eyes land on a prescription bottle with Declan’s name on it. A bottle of Livestor, used to reduce cholesterol. A bottle identical to the one he found in Geller Hoffman’s safe. He removes the top and sniffs. The scent is faint, but it’s there—peanuts.
Cordova turns and says, “I need a plastic bag.”
The male paramedic eyes him and then the pills on the floor. “Cheaper supplements sometimes use ground peanuts as filler, it could be—”
“Bag. Now,” Cordova tells him.
The woman finds a bag in her pack and hands it to him. “If that’s what he ingested, we’ll need to take it with us. The ME will want it.”
“Not a chance—it’s evidence.” Cordova carefully places the bottle in the bag and slips it in his pocket, then takes out his phone and dials Lieutenant Daniels. When he gets voicemail, he leaves a quick message. He nearly trips over Declan’s shirt on the floor exiting the bathroom, and it clicks—
Denise Morrow was wearing that same shirt when he and Saffi confronted her earlier.
Declan was sleeping with Denise Morrow.
The thought hits him like a punch in the gut.
He picks up the shirt. There’s something in the breast pocket—a USB drive. Cordova knows exactly what’s on it because CSU didn’t find it when they tossed Declan’s apartment. It’s the copy of Denise Morrow’s book. Declan had it on him this entire time.