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CHAPTER FOUR

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 lime- stone 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, Detec- tive,” 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 FIVE

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 lock pick. 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 slip- ping 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 listen- ing. “This is Shaw,” he says. “Send in two officers to conduct a room-by-room. Potential perp still on-site. I’m with Mrs. Mor- row. 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, including The Bronx Ripper and The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Her titles have been translated into over thirty lan- guages 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.

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 sec- ond, 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 photo- graphs. “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 . . .”

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