Page 16 of The Writer

“Between four forty p.m. and when Mrs. Morrow got home at nine twenty p.m., how many other people went up to that tower apartment?”

“Zero.”

“Not one?”

“Only nine other people entered the building through that lobby, the one you have to go through to get to the Morrows’ tower apartment. All of them were residents, and we’ve accounted for their whereabouts. Nobody went up to the tower.”

“You’re sure?”

“The building is quiet. Exclusive. There is very little foot traffic.”

“What about a service elevator? Stairs? Other access?”

“The stairwells all have cameras. Nobody used the stairs. Lobby cams capture the service elevator for this part of the building, and nobody used that either.”

“So nobody went up to that tower apartment except Mrs. Morrow here?”

“Correct.”

“And nobody left either?”

“Not unless they knew how to fly.”

If Hoffman is rattled by this, he shows no sign of it. “My client did not kill her husband.”

Saffi shakes her head, removes another photograph, and slides it across the table.

Hoffman goes red. “Is that necessary?”

It’s an eight-by-ten glossy taken from the L-Tron footage: Denise Morrow covered in blood on the floor next to the body of her husband, the knife between them. “How do you plan to explain this to a jury?”

“She clearly tried to revive her husband. What you’re looking at is transfer.”

“The pattern isn’t consistent with transfer; any layman can see that. In fact, our experts are confident it’s not transfer, it’s spatter resulting from stabbing someone.”

“You know that can be argued.”

“I asked your client if she checked her husband for a pulse, breathing, tried to revive him in any way, and she said no.”

“She said she didn’t remember. That’s not the same thing.”

“The ME places time of death between eight thirty and nine thirty p.m.,” Saffi continues. “Detective, you said nine people entered the building between four forty and nine twenty. How many of those were after eight thirty, within our TOD window?”

“None.”

“Only Mrs. Morrow, right? Nobody else.”

“Yep.”

Hoffman says, “You do not want to go down this road, Carmen.”

Saffi says, “Forty unaccounted-for minutes. No other possible suspects based on security cams. That’s damning.”

“You have no motive.”

Declan’s phone dings with a text from Cordova. He has to read it twice because it sounds too good to be true. When he shows it to Carmen Saffi, a sly smile crosses her lips. She tells Hoffman, “Oh, we have motive. We have one hell of a motive. Your client should have checked her husband’s pockets.”

CHAPTER TWELVE