Page 61 of The Writer

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

“YOUR HUSBAND WASN’T sleeping with you,” Cordova says. “According to Jeff, he wasn’t sleeping with Mia Gomez either. I’d be willing to bet they didn’t even know each other. What do you think, Ms. Morrow, as an author, as an accomplished investigator of true crime? What does your gut tell you? Did the husband have a mistress or is that just another deal of three-card monte?”

Three-card monte? Christ, what did Declan tell him? Denise picks up her pace. She should hang up, she knows that, but she can’t. She’s not so worried about what the man has said so far—she can spin all that. She’s more concerned about what he hasn’t said. What hasn’t he told her? Every story comes down to narrative, a simple string of words. Put them in one order, they mean one thing; put the same words in another order, and they mean something else entirely. This is her story, her narrative, not his. She won’t let him hijack it. “I’d follow the evidence, Detective. And the evidence says David was sleeping with that woman Mia Gomez. I read your report. You found condoms in my husband’s pocket that are the same brand as a condom wrapper found in her apartment. David was a well-documented flirt. Not with men, women . You have photographic evidence tying him to her. As an investigator of true crime, I figure if it quacks like a duck, that makes it a duck. There’s no evidence suggesting David was gay, and Jeff isn’t going to blow up his life to put something like that out there. Even if he did, it wouldn’t make the evidence linking my husband to Mia Gomez go away. You can spin whatever tale you want, but I’m successful because I stick to the facts no matter where they lead.”

“Like learning Geller Hoffman, not Ruben Lucero, killed Maggie Marshall?”

“Exactly like that.”

Denise goes around a pothole and stops with the crowd at the corner of Seventy-Seventh and Central Park West, the Museum of Natural History on her left. When she looks back over her shoulder, she thinks she sees the woman from the bar at Louie’s, but she can’t be sure. Across the street, near one of the entrances to Central Park, a tall Black man is staring in her direction. He looks familiar too, and it takes her a moment to place him, then she does—he’s that police lieutenant, Declan and Cordova’s boss. Davids—no, Daniels, that’s it. Then the woman clicks too. It’s the assistant district attorney who tried to prosecute her—Saffi, Carmen Saffi. She’s wearing a wig; that’s why Denise didn’t recognize her. Her hair is tucked up in a damn wig. Denise wants to look back over her shoulder again, but doesn’t dare. Instead, she stares across the street with everyone else, waiting for the signal to change. When it finally does, she moves with the crowd. The Beresford is only one long block up, just past the museum. She’s nearly home.

On the phone, Cordova clears his throat. “How long have you been writing? Ten, fifteen years, right? How many books in all that time? You’ve got Why Corrine Had to Die, Bones Tell a Tale, Wyatt Loved His Mama, The Bronx Ripper, The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen , this latest one about Maggie… a bunch more. And not just the books—you’ve got movies, television shows, speaking engagements. Is it true you get upwards of twenty thousand dollars for a one-hour appearance? Christ, I’m lucky if someone buys me pizza for showing up somewhere. Twenty thousand dollars? Good for you. You’ve built yourself quite the little empire. It’s the writing, though, that really ropes people in. You’ve got this relatable voice. I’ve read a couple of your books over the past few weeks, and honestly, it’s like sitting at a campfire listening to someone spin a tale. Like eating popcorn, it’s hard to stop. But you know what really got me? Not only as a reader, but as a cop? It’s the way you lay out the facts. You dig so damn deep into these cases. You pull facts and piece together theories that completely slipped by the investigating officers. Like in The Cornerstone of Marriage . The couple in that one were married for, what, forty-seven years? Then the husband dies of a severe allergic reaction at a steak house in Poughkeepsie. He was allergic to shellfish, and the medical examiner blamed it on cross-contamination in the restaurant’s kitchen. Then you go and find some old transcripts from when the CSU techs were poking around in their house. They listed the items they found in the wife’s medicine cabinet, and the name of a popular herbal supplement jumps out at you. Hell, I take it for my joints. Works great. Who would know it’s sometimes made with fish oil? In your book, you pointed out that only three of the ninety pills were missing even though the bottle was over a year old. You, not the police, found the purchase in the wife’s Amazon history. You floated your theory to the local cops, and when they brought the wife in, she cracked, confessed to slipping her husband a mickey at dinner. Said she hadn’t loved him in years and just wanted out. You pieced that together—not the police, you. Maybe you should have been a cop.”

“The pay is shit. No, thank you.” Denise can see the Beresford just ahead.

Across the street, Daniels is making no attempt to hide. He’s matching her stride for stride. She can feel the woman somewhere behind her but doesn’t turn. She doesn’t pick up her pace either, as much as she wants to.

“The fish allergy. Is that how you came up with the idea to kill Declan? Did he tell you he was allergic to peanuts, or did you figure that one out on your own?”

Denise has had enough. “Goodbye, Detective. Don’t call me again.” She mashes the disconnect button and slips her phone into her pocket.

The Beresford doorman spots her coming up the sidewalk and opens the door for her. “Lovely evening, Mrs. Morrow.” He must see something in her face, because his grin disappears and he says, sounding worried, “Everything okay?”

She’s lost track of Daniels and the Saffi woman but she knows they’re both out there. “I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight, Teddy. Nobody comes up, okay? If anyone shows up looking for me, send them away. I don’t want to see anybody.”

He nods. This isn’t the first time she’s given these instructions, and Teddy is better than most bouncers at the trendiest midtown clubs when it comes to enforcement. He reaches into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket and produces a business card. “You did have a guest earlier. He left this, but I can give it to you tomorrow if you’d rather not be bothered now.”

The NYPD logo is partly visible between his chubby fingers. Denise takes the card from him, expecting it to be Cordova’s, but it’s not. It was left by Roy Harrison with Internal Affairs.

“Did he say anything? What did he want?”

“He said cops like to play cards too.”