Body Of Truth

by Deirdre Savoy

  “Amanda Pierce, celebrity biographer, Amanda Pierce. Years back she did a book on Sinatra that made Kitty Kelly’s book look like a love letter. You watch, Stone. This is going to be big.”

  Just what he was afraid of. How’d you find out?”

  “Missing persons got back to me. The housekeeper at her East Side town house reported her missing. Yesterday was payday and Pierce didn’t show up to hand out the check. The housekeeper waited twenty-four hours then called the local precinct.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “Only a brother, some sort of movie type. He’s flying in from the Coast tomorrow morning.”

  So what was a woman like Amanda Pierce doing in the South Bronx? Maybe she hadn’t been. Maybe she’d been dumped far from the scene of the crime to confuse the investigation even more. “Any clue so far what she was doing so far from home?”

  “That’s the question of the hour, amigo. I guess we start on that tomorrow.”

  Jonathan clicked off the phone and sat back against the iron railing, remembering his earlier feeling of unease about this case. So far his suspicion that this investigation wouldn’t be an easy one had proved true. What remained to be seen was how gruesome this thing could get. The victim’s celebrity changed things.

  The press would dog him, wanting to know who’d slain one of their own. They’d be working under a public microscope—never a fun prospect. For all he knew, Manhattan would want the case if it could be proved that she was killed on their soil. He’d gladly give it up, except there was something about that battered, broken body that called to him, that whispered she wouldn’t rest until he’d found out who’d killed her.

  Until then, neither would he.

  He sat in his study, a half-full tumbler of scotch at his elbow, looking at a picture of them from years ago. Leather jackets and wild hair and restless spirits. They’d had nothing then, no one. They’d run the streets as only those who have nobody waiting at home to question their activities could. They’d gotten into their share of trouble, but never paid the consequences until the night Father died. They’d gotten away with his murder, but they’d lost the only person who’d ever given a damn about them. He took a quick swig from the glass trying to counteract the taste of bile in his throat, with no success.

  That night, the night the church went up in flames, they made a pact. They would stick together. They’d watch each other’s backs. They would never tell anyone. But they’d do their damnedest to get out of that neighborhood, to make something of themselves like Father wanted.

  They’d succeeded beyond what they could have conceived of at the time. Father would have been proud, if he’d lived to see them now. That’s what counted most to him. He, they, had risen above what meager prospects the neighborhood had offered. They had made it.

  Damn Mouse! For twenty-five years they’d kept their pact and their silence—and for the most part, their distance, as well. But thanks to Mouse, they were in it all over again. Mouse had come to him begging his understanding and his help. He hadn’t meant to kill the nosy bitch, but she wouldn’t leave it alone. He’d seen his carefully built life ruined because of her and panicked.

  That was the trouble with lies and secrets: No matter how carefully you kept them, they sought the light, they sought discovery. He’d lived the last twenty-five years waiting, knowing time would eventually reveal what they’d done. But why now, when he’d finally allowed himself to breathe, to hope, to want, did his world threaten to dissolve around him?

  More than discovery, he feared what else Mouse would do to keep the secret besides what he’d done already. But this time there would be no pact, no promises. They weren’t children anymore; they were grown men. He couldn’t be a party to it anymore. He put the picture back in his wallet, hiding it behind another. This time, if there was hell to pay, he’d pay it and let the chips fall where they may.

  Three

  If not Jonathan’s least favorite place, the m.e.’s office on Crosby Avenue had to run a close second. Not that the sight of blood or gore fazed him. He’d been a cop long enough to have gotten over any innate squeamishness he might have possessed. But folks who made a career out of poking around in dead people’s insides had to be one step up from crazy.

  Jonathan parked in the small lot at the back of the building and got out of the car. Heat rushed up at him from the pavement. This day threatened to be as much of a scorcher as the day before. Mari came up beside him as he retrieved his jacket from the back seat and put it on.

  “Ready to meet the relative?”

  Jonathan snorted. Seymour Banks, Amanda Pierce’s only living relative, had been met at LaGuardia airport by a black-and-white unit, supposedly as a courtesy to the bereaved. In truth, Jonathan wanted to get a bead on the man when he viewed his sister’s body. Distance preventing him from seeing first-hand Banks’s reaction to the news Pierce had been killed, as he would have liked. Without intending to, people gave away a lot about themselves by the way they reacted to the news, sometimes their own culpability.

  According to the detective that had spoken to the brother, Banks had responded with neither surprise nor much emotion. There could be any number of explanations for that. After Jonathan had spoken to Mari last night, he’d spent a few hours researching Amanda Pierce on the Internet. No one but her publisher seemed to have a kind word for the woman.

  Reviews attacked her literary prowess. The subjects of her tell-all books threatened lawsuits, though as far as he could determine none had actually gone to trial. The general public seemed to hate her most of all. The “Let’s Start by Killing Amanda Pierce” message board, which appeared to be frequented mostly by fans of the celebrities she’d skewered, featured innovative ways to put Pierce out of everyone else’s misery.

  The uni pulled into the parking lot and took the spot beside them. The officer on the passenger’s side got out and opened the back door. Banks stepped out. A man of medium height, with a slender build and lanky brown hair, he wore a pair of gray slacks and a summer weight sweater that appeared casual but had probably cost as much as Jonathan made in a week. According to an article Jonathan had read, Banks made seven million dollars last year playing a number of bad guys in a variety of movies. If that were true, he might be more well off than his sister had been.

  Banks looked around with an expression of disdain before his gaze settled on him. “Detective Stone?” Banks checked his watch. “Is this going to take long?”

  Beside him, he felt Mari bristle. To her, family was family, which meant you showed a little respect.

  Jonathan stepped forward and extended his hand toward the man. “Mr. Banks, my condolences on your loss.”

  Banks ignored his hand. “Can we get this over with?”

  Jonathan brought his hand to his side. “In a moment. We have a few questions for you first.” Although he could just as well ask his questions inside the air-conditioned building, Jonathan decided to use the man’s discomfort to his advantage. “When is the last time you saw your sister?”

  Banks shrugged. “A couple of years ago, I guess. We ran into each other at some function. I haven’t seen her since then.”

  “You and your sister weren’t close?”

  Banks shook his head. “Amanda and I decided a long time ago that she’d stick to her coast and I’d stick to mine. When she was alive, our mother had expressed the hope that one day we would learn to get along. For that reason alone we used to call each other twice a year, Christmas and Thanksgiving, and speak for approximately five minutes. Aside from that, we don’t have much to do with one another. Amanda was a pain in the ass, but I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  He hadn’t implied anything, and he found the man’s defensiveness telling. “These are standard questions, Mr. Banks. We ask them of everyone.”

  “Look, I’ve been in enough cop dramas to know how this goes. The first people you people suspect are spouses and relatives.”

  “But that’s not true
in this case?”

  “Detective, my sister made her living pissing people off. Does it surprise you that one of them finally had enough?”

  No, it wouldn’t surprise him if that were the case, but he wasn’t willing to concede that it was—yet. Time might prove him right or wrong, but he wasn’t willing to close off any avenues just yet. “Do you have any reason to suspect anyone in particular?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Last I heard she’d set her sights on Will Hudson. The one who turned up in that hotel room with two underage girls last year. That’s what I heard, but you’d have to ask her assistant what she was working on. His name is Eric Bender.”

  Jonathan took down the man’s name and contact information on his pad then returned it to his breast pocket. “Thank you.”

  Banks issued an impatient sigh. “Can we go in now? Or was there another standard question you wanted to ask me?”

  Inwardly Jonathan shook his head, but didn’t comment. He referred to Pierce’s corpse as the body, not Amanda’s or even my sister’s body. He gestured for Banks to precede him toward the building.

  Jonathan felt Mari come up beside him. “It’s a wonder Pierce didn’t off him.”

  Although he doubted Banks had heard her, he whispered, “Behave.”

  “Maybe.”

  Once inside, Jonathan led the way to the small room set up for family identification of the deceased. The viewer stood on one side of a large window with the body on the other side. Once the blinds were opened, the viewer could make the identification.

  “Mr. Banks, how much have you been told about the way your sister died?”

  “She was strangled and left in some alley.”

  “Someone also beat her pretty badly. You may not recognize her.”

  For the first time, Banks’s face registered something other than impatience. “Let me see her.”

  Jonathan pressed the wall intercom button. “We’re ready.” An instant later the blinds slid open. Amanda Pierce was laid out on a stainless steel table looking much the same as she had in the alley: her body intact but her face broken. He reacted with the same visceral revulsion to violence he always did. Some cops worked at losing that, but the day Jonathan lost it he’d turn in his shield.

  But it was Banks’s reaction that concerned Jonathan now. The other man’s eyes widened and he gasped, “Good God.” He lowered his head and shut his eyes. He gulped in air in a way Jonathan had seen many times before. He had the look of a man fighting nausea. Though the man was an actor by profession, Jonathan doubted the man’s response was a manufactured one.

  After a moment, Banks said, “Wh-who could do that?”

  “Is that your sister, Mr. Banks?”

  “I don’t know. It could be. She wore her hair like that.”

  “Did your sister have a birthmark on her left shoulder?”

  He nodded. “A half moon. It’s her, isn’t it?”

  “I believe so.”

  Banks nodded. “I need to make some calls, funeral arrangements. When will her body be released?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you. Where will you be staying?”

  “I made reservations at the Pierre.”

  “I’ll contact you there. We’re going to need to get into your sister’s apartment.”

  Banks shrugged. “I’ve never been there.” He gave them an address on Central Park West. “Please keep me informed on your progress.”

  Jonathan pulled one of his cards from his pocket. “If you can think of anything else that might be helpful, please call.” He nodded to the uniforms that had followed them in. “The officers will take you to your hotel.”

  Banks looked at the card then stuck it in his pocket. “Thank you.”

  As the three others walked off, Mari turned to him. “Just when I had the guy pegged as a complete asshole.”

  Jonathan snorted. “Sorry he disappointed you.”

  “You don’t like him for this, do you?”

  “Not particularly. I’ve got the LAPD checking out his whereabouts for the last two days.”

  “Even if he was there, that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have paid someone to take her out.”

  “True, but so far, where’s the motive? The guy doesn’t appear to be hurting financially and from what he said, they were content to ignore each other.” Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t check out every word Banks had said, he just didn’t think he’d find anything going in that direction.

  “That’s what he said . . .”

  “True.” Yeah, and if Banks had lied to them he wouldn’t be the first or last person to do so. “Why do you like him so much?”

  “I don’t, actually. It would be nice and neat, though. Brother and sister don’t get along. One whacks the other. End of story. Let the press feed on that.”

  Instead of on them. Once the press had a name to go with the body found in back of Mario’s, the fun would really begin.

  Bill Horgan appeared at the window, beckoning them inside.

  Stepping through the door to the right of the window, Mari said, “What brings you in on a Sunday?”

  “Word came down from on high to put a rush on this, so I got called in.”

  That news didn’t entirely surprise Jonathan. “By who?”

  “Don’t know. I am but a cog in the great machine.” He reached for a clipboard on the counter beside him. “Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way. The rape kit was negative for fluids, fibers or hairs. My guess is Ms. Pierce hadn’t seen any action in a long time. The tox screen came back, too. It’s negative for any of the kinds of those fun drugs we look for.”

  Horgan flipped over a page in her chart. “Her last meal—eggs, toast and Canadian bacon—was still fairly intact. I’d put her death between six and ten o’clock Friday morning.”

  Jonathan recorded the pertinent details in his notebook. “Anything else?”

  “Here’s where it gets interesting,” Horgan continued. “Remember, I told you I thought the body had been washed before being dumped in the alley? I confirmed it. I thought from the smell it was probably rubbing alcohol and it was. But, here’s the interesting part.”

  Horgan produced a tiny glassine envelope with a miniscule scrap of something dark in one corner. “Your killer wasn’t as thorough as he thought. This scrap of fabric was imbedded in her skin, here.” He pointed to an area on his own neck. “Some sort of silk material, maybe from a blouse or a scarf. I’m sending it over to your lab boys to check it out.”

  Horgan put down his clipboard and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “One last thing. The job on her face happened post mortem.”

  Which fed into Jonathan’s theory that she’d been beaten for the sole purpose of hiding her identity. “Any guess on the weapon?”

  Horgan shrugged. “Something round and heavy. Maybe a paperweight.”

  After writing down the additional information, Jonathan closed his notebook. “If you think of anything else.”

  Horgan winked. “I know where to reach you.”

  Once outside in the oppressive heat, Jonathan loosened his tie and opened his collar before they reached the car. As Mari got in, he heard her snicker.

  He laid his jacket on the back seat before sliding in behind the wheel. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are, my friend. You and your brethren.” She tugged on his tie. “How can you stand to wear those things?”

  He slid a sideways glance at her as he started the car. He recognized her comment for what it was—an attempt to distance herself from the brutality they’d just seen with the aid of a little humor. He didn’t mind playing along. “If men are ridiculous for wearing ties, what does that make women for wearing panty hose?”

  “Yeah, well women don’t like pantyhose. Besides, it’s not like we wear this big sign on our chests that points to our gonads. It’s like, ‘There’s my penis. Right there. Look at it, look at it.’ It’s disgusting.”

  Smiling, Jonathan pulled out of the space and into
traffic. “Then how do you explain the push-up bra?”

  “Okay, you’ve got me there. I guess neither sex corners the market on unbridled vanity.” She sighed. “I suppose I ought to call the LT. He asked me to let him know when Pierce’s identity was confirmed.”

  In the periphery of his vision, Jonathan watched her pull out her cell phone. Lieutenant John Shea was one of those political beings that made their way up the ranks not through intelligence or hard work but through cronyism and a certain brand of craftiness better suited to lesser animals. He was a master of serving his own ends rather than protecting his men or serving the public, and Jonathan wondered about his involvement in this case. Obviously, it concerned him enough to have Mari call him on a Sunday morning to report their progress. Jonathan hoped that keeping on top of what was likely to be a sensational case was his only motive.

  They’d already decided on their course of action for the day by the time they’d met Banks. First, they’d see if Pierce’s brother could identify her. If not, they were back to square one and they’d start back on it on Monday. If he could, they’d head to her apartment. Since she obviously hadn’t been murdered in the alley, she had to have been killed somewhere. Her apartment was as good a bet as anywhere else.

  Mari closed the phone and looked at him. “Shea’s going to release Pierce’s name to the press. And get this, he already heard from Banks. Banks is offering a fifty thousand dollar reward for any information leading to an arrest in his sister’s death.”

  Jonathan gritted his teeth. Adding that kind of money to the mix would bring out another brand of crazy. Every greedy son of a bitch would be calling in looking for a pay day. “It took him all of fifteen minutes to come up with that?”

  “Maybe he wants to appear the devoted brother while the world is looking.”

  Jonathan shrugged, not really interested in anyone’s motivations but his own. He pressed a little harder on the gas pedal. “Maybe we ought to get there before the press does.”

  Amanda Pierce lived in a luxury apartment building on the corner of West 87th and Central Park West. The doorman, dressed in navy blue livery, greeted them at the front desk with all the disdain of an English butler trying to shoo the riff raff away from his master’s door. “May I help you?”