Page 13 of The Writer

“I’ve got officers en route. Is your husband responsive?”

“Responsive?”

“Awake? Breathing?”

“I think they’re still here!”

“If you feel you’re in danger, you should exit the apartment immediately and wait in the lobby or on the street for officers to arrive.”

“No! I can’t leave my husband.”

“Is he responsive?”

“I have a gun. I can’t leave him.”

“Ma’am, if you’re in danger, you need to get out.”

Sudden intake of breath. “Detective Declan Shaw.”

“Excuse me?”

“Declan Shaw! Detective Declan Shaw!”

Declan’s not sure what to make of that. When he looks up from the phone, Denise Morrow is staring at him; the others are too. Before he can say anything, Morrow speaks in a low voice:

“I don’t even remember making that call.”

And this is where ADA Saffi shines—in the disarm. She reaches across the table and places her hand on Morrow’s. “Of course not. Who could expect you to in a situation like that? I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Let’s just take this one step at a time, okay? We’re right here with you. You found your husband when you came home?”

Denise Morrow nods.

“Where were you prior to that?”

“Tribeca. I was giving a talk at a bookstore.”

“Which bookstore?”

“Mysterious Bookshop on Warren Street. If you call Otto, he can confirm.”

“Otto?”

“He owns the store.”

Hoffman says, “Otto says there were sixty people in attendance, not including employees. I confirmed with him about twenty minutes ago.”

“You called him? This late?”

“With good reason.”

Declan can tell Saffi doesn’t like that. The last thing they need is Hoffman getting ahead of potential witnesses. Sixty percent of any good prosecution is controlling the narrative, and the other forty is dumb luck. She lets it go for now and asks Morrow, “What time did you leave for the bookstore?”

“Seven fifteen.”

“Did you drive?”

“No, I took a cab.”

“And your husband was…”