The Writer

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

•••

CHAPTER ONE

Log 10/18/2018 18:58 EDT

Transcript: Audio recording

[Detective Declan Shaw] Maggie Marshall?

[Voice unidentified] Yeah. Fourteen years old. Student at Barrett’s Academy. She went —

[Shaw] I know who she is. We’ve all had eyes out for her since the Amber Alert. Transcriber, for the record, Maggie Marshall was reported missing two and a half days ago by her mother. Last seen leaving school, and she never made it home. She’s been all over the news. The whole city’s looking. Has she been touched or moved in any way?

[Voice unidentified] No. That’s exactly how she was found.

[Shaw] Electrical repair team found her?

[Voice unidentified] Yeah.

[Shaw] Where are they?

[Voice unidentified] We’re holding them at Eighty-Sixth Street.

[Shaw] Central Park Precinct?

[Voice unidentified] Yeah.

[Shaw] Okay, give me a little space. [Clears throat.] We’ve had rain the last three nights. She’s lying in the mud about a foot off the northeast exterior wall of Blockhouse in Central Park. Severely bloated and discolored from exposure. Same shoulder-length brown hair as in the photo circulated. Do you have positive ID?

[Voice unidentified] We found her backpack in the bushes over there. Student ID card inside, and her name is written in a few of the textbooks. It’s her.

[Shaw] We’ll confirm ID back at the ME office, but high probability this is Maggie Marshall. Aside from her left sock, she is naked from the waist down. I have eyes on her jeans, other sock, and shoes, all discarded randomly about four feet from her body.

Left sock is still in place. Her underwear is twisted around the base of her left foot. The ground immediately around her has been severely disturbed. Even with the standing water, maybe because of it, I can see deep indents on either side of her where it’s clear he stood over her. There are also trenches approximately six to eight inches in width both on her sides and between her legs. They appear to be marks left by our unsub’s knees. There are obvious signs of struggle — kick marks and gouges in the mud and dirt around her feet and hands, almost like . . . almost like she tried to dig out from under him.

[Twelve seconds of silence.]

I can see clear bruising around her neck consistent with a single hand — right — about the same size as mine. Thumbprint begins about one and a half inches to the left of the hyoid bone with the other four fingers rounding the right side. He used a single-hand grip.

There is another large bruise directly above her navel, giving the impression he held her down with his knee. Additional bruising visible on the undersides of her wrists. If he strangled her with his right hand, he most likely pinned both her hands above her head with his left hand as he did it. It’s clear from the surrounding ground she put up a struggle, but she didn’t stand much of a chance. Both eyes are bloodshot. Petechiae in the right supports strangulation. This is an isolated spot, but why the hell didn’t anyone hear her screaming? She must have screamed. [Sniffle.] Upon closer examination of her hands, her fingernails are caked with dirt from clawing at the ground. It’s possible she scratched her attacker, but retrieval of trace may prove to be problematic. We’ve got a mess of footprints. We’ll get elimination prints from all first responders and the crew that found her; maybe we’ll get lucky.

[Nine seconds of silence.] Where’s that backpack?

[Voice unidentified] Over here. [Shuffling.]

[Shaw] Transcriber, confirming for the record we’ve got a student ID in the front flap of the backpack for Barrett’s Academy reading “Margaret Marshall.” Three textbooks inside, got some math homework, and a paperback copy of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. Library card being used as a bookmark at page ninety-seven also reads “Margaret Marshall.”

[Voice unidentified] Detective, you’ll want to see this!

[Shuffling. Eighteen seconds of silence.]

[Shaw] [Shouted but muffled.] Hey, get a few pictures of this before we move it. Up close and at a distance to establish proximity. Get these tracks around it too . . . [Unintelligible, then muttered.] Goddamn rain. We’ve got a Citizen watch. Old. Tan face with a tachymeter bezel. Brown leather stitched band. Looks like the top pin broke. Fell off the owner’s wrist. It’s a windup and still ticking, which means it was lost recently. Surrounding tracks appear similar, possibly the same as the ones around Maggie. Fresher, though. With the rain, less than twenty-four hours old.

[Voice unidentified] You think your guy came back?

[Shaw] Maybe he came back to move her or something. Could be he just wanted to revisit. They do that. Based on the tracks, looks like he stood here and . . . ah, there it is. Cigarette butt. Bag that.

[Voice unidentified] Fucker stood here and smoked?

[Shaw] Looks like it. There’s an inscription on the back of the watch. It says “Lucky.”

[Second voice unidentified] I think I know who that belongs to.

[Shaw] You do?

[Second voice unidentified] Robert Morter. Head of park services.

[Shaw] You recognize this watch?

[Morter] Not the watch, the name. Lucky. We’ve got a guy on grounds crew who goes by Lucky.

[End of recording.]

/MG/GTS

•••

CHAPTER 2

DECLAN SHAW WAS a good cop.

Is a good cop, he tells himself.

Because until he actually jumps, he is still living in the present tense. And that’s the rub, right? Anyone can find a deserted subway station; anyone can inch up to the edge of the platform and wait for the next train. But how many can actually work up the balls to launch themselves from the platform to the tracks? There is a science to it. Jump too early, and you’ll end up under the train. Too late, and you’re bouncing off the side. The key is to be in the air, meet the metal head-on. No pain, just lights-out.

The Eighty-First Street station is a dirty little secret known to New York’s Finest. It’s directly under the Museum of Natural History on the A/B/C lines, and once the museum closes for the night, the platform becomes a ghost town. Also a suicide hot spot. Few trains stop. Most speed up as they shoot through because there is a tacit understanding among engineers: If you’re going to hit a jumper (and odds of that are high at the Eighty-First), you want to do it quick.

The faint rumble of a train in the tunnel, maybe a minute out.

“Do it, you pussy. You’re bleeding all over the nice white paint.” Declan’s voice sounds foreign to him, and the second the words leave his mouth, he gets all self-conscious about it, like talking to himself is the craziest thing in his life at the moment, like that is where all concerned observers should be pointing their fingers.

The blood is coming from a cut on his hand. Nothing too serious, just a scrape. But enough to make a mess of the metal pipe above his head. The one he’s been holding for the better part of an hour. Without letting go, he inches closer to the edge of the pavement and stops when his shoes are half on, half off the concrete.

Declan tests the angle. The balance.

Tenses his leg muscles. Relaxes.

Tenses again.

Draws an oily, humid breath, lets it coat his throat when he swallows.

The train grows louder.

In his fourteen years with NYPD, Declan knows of four other cops who died in this very spot. Probably holding the same damn pipe. There’s no plaque or commemorative photo on the wall, but when he closes his eyes, he can feel them standing right there with him. He can hear them quietly counting down the seconds until that train emerges from the tunnel. He can feel their hands on him, ready to give him a little shove. A little encouragement.

Ain’t nothing, one of them mutters. We got you.

Bend your knees. Makes it easier to push off, says another.

It was the next one that got him. The next one struck him like a gut punch, because it sounded like his father.

You best be sure. ’Cause there’s no coming back.

“There’s no coming back from what I’ve done either,” he tells him. His voice carries a faint echo with all the tile.

The train grows louder. The pipe, the concrete, the air — all come alive with the vibration of it.

Maybe twenty seconds out now.

Declan has very few memories of his father. He was only seven when he died in a construction accident over on Forty-First. One that wouldn’t have happened if the foreman hadn’t been pushing everyone to put in double hours to hit some ridiculous deadline nobody gave two shits about all these years later. His father lost his footing — that’s what they told him and his mother. Would he have slipped if he hadn’t been on fifteen straight hours? Not his father. No fucking way. Declan can barely picture the man’s face anymore, but his voice . . . his father’s voice, that thick Irish brogue — it’s as clear today as it was when Declan was a kid.

You don’t run from your problems, boy. You grab ’em by the fucking throat.

“Pops, you don’t know.”

A drop of blood falls from his hand, hits Declan’s cheek. He wipes it away and catches a glimpse of the small tattoo on the skin between his thumb and forefinger: MM.

“Sometimes you dig a hole and there’s no climbing back out.”

Lights visible now.

The train just beyond the tunnel bend. Ten seconds.

Every muscle in Declan’s body goes tense. His fingertips are electric. Every sound, smell, and color are amplified.

Seven.

When the train rounds the corner, it’s moving so fast it has no business staying on the tracks, but somehow it does. Sparks fly. There’s a harsh screech. Declan’s eyes find the engineer and a moment later the engineer spots him, and for that quick instant, their gazes lock. Declan tells himself he looks stoic, hard. Resolved. But in truth, he can’t hide his fear any more than the engineer can.

Three.

The world slows.

The engineer reaches for the emergency brake. His fingers curl around it. But he doesn’t pull. They both know it’s too late for that.

Two.

Declan closes his eyes. “Sorry, Pops.”

One.

•••

CHAPTER 3

DECLAN’S PHONE RINGS.

In the instant it takes for his brain to process that, the train screams by at a mind-bending speed followed by a rush of air that nearly sucks him from the platform in a whirlwind of dust. It’s his grip on the pipe that keeps him from tumbling over the edge and maybe under the ass end of one of the cars, maybe not, certainly not into the sweet spot at the train’s nose, and that deduction — which he comes to in a millisecond — is enough for Declan to push off from the pipe, swing back, and drop awkwardly to the ground against a support pillar.

The train vanishes.

The sound fades.

Drenched in sweat, Declan sucks in a sharp breath. Every fiber of his body is screaming. Protesting. This isn’t the first time he’s tried to jump tonight, it’s the fourth, and he knows the next train will arrive in under seven minutes. He’ll regroup and get it right. Declan is many things, but a failure isn’t one of them.

His phone gives another shrill ring and vibrates in his pocket. He fumbles it out and glances at the display — his partner, Jarod Cordova.

Declan clicks Decline.

At sixty, Cordova is twenty-four years older than Declan and three short years from forced retirement. While most cops slip into low gear for this phase of their career, Cordova seems to view the ticking clock as some sort of personal challenge — how many jackets can he close before they slap an imitation-gold Apple watch on his wrist and buy him a one-way ticket to Boca Raton? Because their current workload isn’t enough for him, he’s gotten in the habit of taking cold-case files home and working them in his spare time. These late-night calls usually mean he’s at his kitchen table elbow-deep in yellowed paperwork and wants to talk something out.

Nope.

Not tonight.

Declan’s got a full dance card. Five minutes until the next train.

He’s brushing the dust from his jeans when his phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text:

Pick up, you shit!

When the phone starts to ring again, he has half a mind to chuck it against the far wall but decides not to. Sometimes it’s better to rip off the Band-Aid. He thumbs the side button.

“Look, man, I’m a little into something right now. Can this wait?”

Cordova’s scratchy voice comes back at him. “Where are you?”

“Busy.”

“Busy where? You near the Upper West Side?”

Declan glances around the empty subway station. At the dirt and grime. The streaks on the ground around him left by his shoes, his fingers. There’s a poster on the wall opposite for a new shark exhibit coming to the museum next month. The date grabs him — next month.

He swallows.

“Declan, you there?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Call came in. Sounds like a B and E gone bad.”

The clock at the far end of the platform reads 9:52 p.m.

“Sounds like someone else’s problem.”

“Got at least one dead with shots fired at the responding officers. Your name came up.”

“Came up how?”

“I don’t know the details, but LT wants us there. How fast can you get to two eleven Central Park West? The Beresford.”

Four minutes until the next train. He doesn’t have to do this.

He doesn’t have to do a damn thing but get back up on the edge of the platform and count to a little over two hundred and —

Cordova says, “You need me to send a car for you?”

Somewhere behind Declan, a woman giggles; the sound echoes off the subway tiles. A moment later, two twenty- somethings come down the steps from the street. Pretty girl in a slinky black dress leaning heavily on a guy in a sports coat, jeans, and Birkenstocks, both of them drunk. Probably looking for a little privacy. Evidently, neither one is happy to see him standing there, because they quickly turn around and stumble back up the steps.

Life goes on.

Declan blows out a defeated breath and looks down at the scrape on his hand. Pink and ugly, but no longer bleeding. “I’m in the park. I can be there in a few minutes.”

“Take the Central Park West entrance. You want the tower apartment. I’ll meet you. Move.”

•••

CHAPTER 4

BY THE TIME Declan ascends the steps to Eighty-First, the drunk couple is gone and he is no longer shaking. The anxiety is still there, though. It’s bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, looking for a way out. It’s not until he catches sight of the Beresford building that he’s able to focus, get his head in the game.

Less than a block away, the twenty-two-story Beresford looms over Central Park West like some patriarch of old New York. Built in 1929 in the Renaissance style, it’s one of the most prestigious and luxurious apartment buildings in the city. The limestone exterior is adorned with gargoyles, dragons, and floral patterns, from the oversize doors at street level to the three towers at the top. A modern-day castle. The building screams money.

You will never live there, his father had told him about a year before he died. They’d been on the bus, heading home from the Irish fair at Coney Island. His mother was sleeping. One of Declan’s few memories of the three of them together outside their cramped apartment. You’re ever lucky enough to set foot inside, it will be to clean up the shit of someone who does live there. You remember that, because folks like that got a way of making their shit sparkle. Make you think you want to clean it up. You do it, there’s nothing wrong with honest work, but don’t let them trick you into thinking you belong. That happens, and they own you.

The doorman at the Central Park West entrance spots Declan coming up the sidewalk, catches sight of the badge on his belt, and has the door open before he’s even under the canopy. “You know where you’re going?”

“Tower apartment.” Declan steps by him, crosses the ornate lobby, and presses the elevator call button as his phone starts ringing again. This time, it’s not his partner.

“Assistant District Attorney Carmen Saffi,” Declan says. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re responding on the Beresford call, right?”

How the hell did she hear so fast? “Just entered the lobby.

Heading up.”

“Any press there yet?”

“For a B and E? Why would the press show for that?”

“They will. I need you to handle this with kid gloves, Detective,” Saffi says. “She’s a friend of the mayor.”

You mean a donor to the mayor’s campaign, Declan thinks. Isn’t that what you meant to say?

The elevator doors slide open and Declan steps inside, presses the button for the tower. “Kid gloves, got it.”

“I’m serious, Declan. There’ll be a lot of eyes on this. We don’t want a negative narrative.”

“In the elevator, Saffi. I’m losing you. Try back in —” He hangs up.

When the doors open, Declan steps out into a wall of cops. Six uniforms standing in a cramped foyer with their thumbs up their asses staring at a closed door at the opposite end of the hall. Cordova somehow beat him here. His back is turned, phone attached to his ear. Tense.

Sergeant Jorge Hernandez spots Declan and frowns. “You fall asleep in an alley, Dec? You look like shit.”

Declan runs his fingers through his tousled dark hair. His hand is shaking again. He shoves it in his pocket. “Next time you call, I promise to wear your favorite lipstick. You wanna tell me why I’m here?”

Hernandez nods at the far end of the hall. “Woman in the tower apartment comes home to find her door jimmied and her husband dead. Calls 911. Says whoever did it might still be in the apartment. My guys show, and she fires a round at them when they try to come through the door. Tells them nobody comes in but you — ‘Detective Declan Shaw, Detective Declan Shaw.’ She says it over and over again. Fucking loony tunes. She’s lucky nobody returned fire.”

Hernandez and Declan came up patrol together. When Declan went for his detective shield, Hernandez opted to go for his stripes. Unlike Declan, he’s married with four kids at home. Rumor has it his wife is pregnant with number five. Even though no one’s come out and said anything yet, the whole force knows. Hernandez has a terrible poker face, is a shitty liar, and is the last person you’d ask to keep a secret.

When he’s holding something back, Declan has no trouble reading him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Hernandez purses his lips. “Something about this ain’t right.”

“She fired at responding officers. No shit, something ain’t right.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Hernandez tells him. “The shot was a reflex thing. My guys ID’d themselves, then came through the door hard and loud and startled her. I think her finger was just on the trigger. She jerked; it went off. High and wide. She wasn’t aiming at them. But that’s not what I mean.” He gestures at one of the patrol officers. “Marco, give Detective Shaw your vest and radio. Apparently, he’s forgotten how to properly respond to a crime scene.”

“I’m off the clock,” Declan mutters, donning the gear. “If her shooting at you isn’t the problem, what is?”

“You’ll see.”

This isn’t Declan’s first rodeo. He knows what Hernandez is getting at. “Husband’s dead, you think she did it, and the B and E is bullshit? Insurance grab or something?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice drops low: “She’s covered in blood. You just find a body, you don’t look like that.”

Cordova, still on the phone, is pacing now, his face red. When he catches sight of Declan, he gives him a frustrated nod, turns away, and mutters something that sounds a lot like Roy Harrison, that IAU prick. Declan doesn’t want to know what that’s about. Internal Affairs climbed on their backs after Maggie Marshall, and it doesn’t matter that they haven’t found anything; those fuckers won’t let go. Harrison has IAU digging through all Declan and Cordova’s closed cases, looking for who the hell knows what.

Declan shakes it off and steps up to the apartment door, Hernandez behind him. He reaches for the borrowed microphone clipped to his shoulder, locks it in the transmit position, then says, “You copy?”

Hernandez adjusts his earbud and nods. “Loud and clear.”

“Be ready to come in behind me.”

Hernandez frowns at the officers crammed in the foyer who are caught up in nervous chatter. “How ’bout a little quiet, gentlemen? Look sharp.”

Cordova ends his call; the others go silent. Declan asks, “What’s her name?”

“Denise Morrow.”

Hernandez says it like it should mean something to him.

Declan reaches for the Glock on his hip and unfastens the leather safety strap. He doesn’t take out the weapon, though. With a hooked finger, he gives the door a gentle knock and speaks in the calmest voice he can muster: “Mrs. Morrow? This is Detective Declan Shaw of the NYPD. I believe you requested me?” When she doesn’t respond, he twists the knob. “I’m coming in. Hold your fire.”

•••

CHAPTER 5

AS HE OPENS the door, Declan steals a quick look at the lock and jamb. It’s clearly been jimmied; there are scrape marks all around the otherwise pristine brass. The jamb is scuffed and dented, like someone shoved a wide screwdriver in the small space and tried to pry the door open. There’s blood too. Not much. Like whoever did this scraped a knuckle or something.

Hernandez is right. It’s all wrong.

If a perp on a B and E knows how to pick a lock, he doesn’t try to pry the door open. If a perp pries a door open, there’s no need to pick the lock. You don’t do both. You don’t pry a door open with a screwdriver either. You need something more formidable, like a pry bar. And when you use that, you make a mess — the jamb cracks, sometimes the door. You gotta bust up enough to get the dead bolt past the strike plate. That didn’t happen here. None of it. The scrapes in the brass around the lock are too wide, probably from the same screwdriver. Definitely not a lockpick. Picks are narrow, pointy. Even the blood makes no sense. What self-respecting perp wouldn’t wipe it away? Maybe some meth-head looking to score wouldn’t think of that, but someone doing a B and E in a building like this? It all looks superficial. Staged. Someone took a screwdriver and roughed up the doorjamb, then made some scratches around the lock.

Declan glances at Hernandez, and the man’s nodding his head, silently mouthing, See what I mean?

Yeah, Declan thinks. I see.

He clears his throat. “Mrs. Morrow? It’s me, Detective Declan Shaw. I’m coming in. I’m alone. Don’t shoot.”

Drawing a deep, calming breath, Declan steps into the apartment. He gently closes the door behind him, sealing out the other officers. His mic is live; he knows they can still hear him.

He’s in a large foyer surrounded by marble — floors, walls, all of it marble. A table sits by the door; on it is a brass plate filled with keys next to a large empty vase. There’s a coatrack off to the side. Silk flowers are scattered on the floor. On the wall, an alarm panel is flashing red. Tripped earlier, but silent now. Probably timed out.

He finds Denise Morrow at the end of a short hall off the entryway. She’s sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the wall. Her knees are pulled tight against her chest, held there by her arms in an almost childlike hug. A .38 dangles loosely from the fingers of her left hand. What he can see of her white blouse is stained crimson; her black pants are wet with it too. She’s gently rocking, the softest of whimpers slipping from her lips.

A man is on the floor, his dead face frozen in a mix of panic and fear, his chest a bloody mess from multiple stab wounds.

The knife is on the floor between the two of them, marring the otherwise pristine white marble with blood.

Declan speaks softly, disarmingly. “Is this your husband?”

It takes a moment for her to respond, like the words reach her on a delay. She bobs her head, the movement barely perceptible.

Declan lowers himself to a crouch and checks the man for a pulse he knows he won’t find, then reaches over the man’s body for the gun. “How about you give me that?”

She seems to shrink back farther, like she’d become part of the wall if she could, her grip tightening on the weapon. In a soft, urgent voice, she says, “I think they’re still here. I heard something from the main bedroom.”

Declan follows her gaze past the kitchen to a dark hall. He seriously doubts anyone is still in the apartment. Aside from her and her husband, he’s fairly certain nobody has been in the apartment period, but he’s not about to chance it. He whispers, “Do you mind if I bring in some officers to conduct a search? I’ll stay here with you.” Nodding at the gun. “You’ll need to give me that, though. They won’t come in if you have it. Think you can do that? You don’t have to move. You can stay right there if you want. Just give me the gun. You’re safe now. I promise.”

He holds his hand out again.

For a second, he thinks she’s going to protest, but she reaches out and sets the weapon in his hand.

Declan pops the cylinder and empties the bullets into his palm. He slips them into his pocket and tucks the .38 under his belt behind his back. Then he reaches for the radio clipped to his shoulder and pretends to push the transmit button, knowing full well Hernandez and the others are already listening. “This is Shaw,” he says. “Send in two officers to conduct a room-by-room. Potential perp still on-site. I’m with Mrs. Morrow. She is no longer armed.”

He half expects to hear Copy, then realizes they can’t respond as long as he’s locked in transmit mode. When he lowers his hand, he hears the apartment door open behind him, followed by the shuffle of shoes on the marble. He doesn’t take his eyes off Denise Morrow as they dart by his right side and disappear deeper into the large apartment. “This will just take a moment.” Declan tries to get a read on her, but she appears to be in shock. She doesn’t seem to want to look at her husband, which is understandable. Right now, Declan doesn’t want her to. Looking at him might snap her out of it, bring on emotion. Emotion is unpredictable. Nobody wants unpredictable. Then he notices something else — her makeup is perfect. Not a single mascara streak from tears. No snotty nose from crying. No odd coloration in her cheeks; they’re not pale, flushed, or otherwise. What kind of woman (in shock or not) finds her husband stabbed to death and doesn’t shed a tear?

He stands and gets a better look around. There’s a floor-to- ceiling bookshelf on his left, and he spots something odd there too — there are ten copies of the same book. A dozen more of another title. The entire shelf is like that, maybe a hundred books in all, but most of them are the same four or five titles. He pulls a hardcover at random and flips it over, finds Denise Morrow’s photo on the back. “This is you?” More of a statement than a question. “You’re a writer?”

Another soft nod.

The bio under her photograph reads Denise Morrow is the New York Times and international bestselling author of numerous true-crime thrillers, includingThe Bronx Ripper and The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Her titles have been translated into over thirty languages and can be found in more than 150 countries worldwide. She resides in New York City with her husband, David, and their cat, Quimby.

Declan lowers the book, gives the body a quick glance, then meets her eyes. “Do you know who might want to hurt David?”

She sucks in a deep breath, and for a second Declan thinks the tears might come, but there’s nothing.

Not a damn thing.