Page 6 of The Writer
CHAPTER SIX
THE TWO OFFICERS tasked with securing the apartment return, their weapons holstered. Declan knows one of them, a heavyset guy with a strawberry birthmark on his neck. Estes. The other guy’s name tag reads ORTEGA .
They motion for Declan to come over.
“Give me a second,” he tells Denise Morrow.
Speaking low, Estes says, “Nobody here. We found the door off the main bedroom standing open, but it leads to a private terrace. We’re in the tower. There’s no place to go. No fire escape. No secondary rooftop in jumping distance.”
“What about other terraces?”
“These apartments are all oversize. They got high ceilings. Next terrace is a good twelve to fourteen feet down. Could be done, but this ain’t no Marvel movie. Maybe with some sort of gear, but—”
“Go down there and check it out anyway. The one in the penthouse too,” Declan tells them. “They ask what’s going on, just say there was a report of an intruder in the building. Not a word about Mr. Morrow here. Got it?”
Estes nods.
“Anything seem out of place to either of you? Missing? Tossed?”
Ortega shakes his head. “Nothing. No open drawers. Jewelry laid out nice and neat on the dresser looks untouched. Computers and stereo still here. Either we got an incompetent burglar, or this is the neatest B and E I’ve ever seen.”
Estes adds, “Maybe your perp came in for something specific. Maybe the mister was some kind of target. Or…”
Or Mrs. Morrow cashed in her hubby’s chips. It’s impossible not to think it.
When they start for the door, Declan tells them, “Send CSU in. I want to get this on L-Tron before anything gets moved.”
“You got it.”
Declan returns to Denise and drops to a knee again. “Did you leave your terrace door open? The one off your bedroom?”
She shakes her head.
“The apartment is clear. There’s nobody here, but they found your terrace door open. I’ve asked them to discreetly check with your neighbors. See if anyone jumped or exited from adjacent apartments.”
Her large brown eyes drift to the floor, then back to him. “Okay,” she manages. “Can I… can I get up now?”
“I’d like a medic to take a look at you before you move. Just to be sure you’re all right,” he says in his most reassuring voice. “It will only be another minute.”
A CSU tech dressed in a white protective jumpsuit steps into the room and begins setting up a tripod with an odd-looking camera fixed to the top.
“This is called an L-Tron. It will capture a three-D rendering of this room,” Declan says. “Once we have that, we can revisit this space exactly as it is now should we need to do so.”
Like at trial , his mind mutters. A 3D image of Mrs. Morrow sitting here on the floor covered in blood next to her husband’s dead body with the murder weapon between them will do nicely when it comes time to prosecute this.
“Ready, Detective,” the CSU tech tells him.
“Please remain perfectly still, Mrs. Morrow. This will only take a moment. We’ll be right outside the door.”
“You… want me to stay here?”
“It’s important we preserve the scene. It will just take a second, I promise. I’ll check on that medic for you. Try not to move.”
Declan and the tech quickly exit the apartment and close the door. The tech presses a series of buttons on the remote and studies the screen as images begin flooding in. In under a minute, the camera captures every inch of the room. Once it’s run through the software back at the precinct, they’ll be able to zoom in on anything with incredible detail. Circle around. Go up. Down. Declan does not miss the days of flat photographs. “Run images in every room. Get the terrace off the main bedroom too. Who do you have taking samples?”
Another woman dressed in an identical jumpsuit raises her hand. “That would be me. Kim Diaz.”
Declan glances at the L-Tron monitor, Denise Morrow centered on the screen. He’s half hoping she’ll do something incriminating when she thinks nobody is watching. Stash something. Reposition something. The guilty ones can’t help themselves. But she’s not moving, and he knows he’s got a ticking clock. He’s left her there too long as is. He turns back to the CSU tech. “Diaz, you said?”
She nods.
“I want you to get some help and process every inch of that woman as quickly as possible. Get samples of all the blood. Anything under her fingernails. In her hair. Get it all. She’s part of this crime scene. I want everything. We may not get another chance. The second she lawyers up, we’re behind a wall.”
“Understood.”
Declan quickly scans the remaining uniforms huddled around the elevator, lands on Lori Hunter. “Hunter—you’re with us. I need a female officer as a witness.”
Declan grabs a pair of latex gloves and glances back at Cordova—who’s on the phone again. Declan tells Hernandez, “When he finishes with his girlfriend, can you tell him to talk to the doorman and maybe pull security footage? We need to get a timeline together.”
“You got it.”
Back inside, Declan finds Denise Morrow still frozen on the floor. He gestures toward the CSU tech. “Mrs. Morrow, this is the medic I mentioned,” he lies. “She’s going to check you for any injuries. We’re also going to need your clothing. She’ll help with that too. Is there someplace private you can change other than your main bedroom? If the person who hurt David exited that way, it’s best we stay out until my team has had a chance to gather any evidence.”
“There’s a guest room.”
“Good.” Declan nods at Officer Hunter. “Lori here will go with you too. Keep you safe. You need anything at all, you ask her, okay?” As he reaches out a hand to help her to her feet, Declan catches movement out of the corner of his eye. In a flash of gray and black, something heavy drops from the top of the bookcase and slams into his head. Sharp claws dig into his scalp. Declan grabs a fist of fur, yanks, and tosses the largest cat he’s ever seen halfway across the room. The cat lands on his feet, gives Declan a disdainful glance, and scrambles away, disappearing somewhere near the kitchen.
“Quimby,” Denise Morrow says in barely a whisper before starting down the hall, followed by the officer and CSU tech.
“Quimby,” Declan repeats, tentatively touching his scalp with the back of his gloved hand, thankful to find no blood. Shaking it off, he takes out his phone and opens the department’s transcriber app, clicks the record button, and turns back to the body on the floor. Time to go to work—
“Transcriber, this is Detective First Class Declan Shaw of the NYPD Twentieth. It is Friday, November tenth, 2023. The time is twenty-two eighteen. Current location is two eleven Central Park West. Apparent homicide of one David Morrow…”