Jonathan flashed his badge. “Who do we speak to about getting into Amanda Pierce’s apartment?”
The doorman’s glare shifted from him to Mari and back again. His chest puffed up, like a bird’s, announcing his importance. “That would be me, but I’m under strict orders not to let anyone up without her approval. Besides Ms. Pierce isn’t here.”
“I’m aware of that. Are you aware of the penalty for hindering a police investigation?”
The man visibly deflated. “All right, then.” He pulled a voluminous set of keys from his pocket. “When Ms. Pierce finds out about this, it’s on your head.”
“Not a problem,” he said.
The doorman led them through the expansive marble-tiled lobby to the service elevator. When the car arrived, the doorman stationed himself at the front, leaving Mari and Jonathan to move around him to stand in back. Of all the childish nonsense. Since Jonathan needed the information the man could provide, he squeezed in behind Mari without comment. “When is the last time you saw Ms. Pierce?”
“Friday morning,” the doorman answered still staring straight ahead. “I hailed a taxi for her. I don’t know where she was going.”
“You didn’t happen to notice the medallion number of the cab?”
“I am not in the habit of monitoring taxi drivers.”
The elevator stopped on the twelfth floor. The doorman got out and headed toward a door almost directly across from the elevator. There were only two other doors to choose from. In a building this size, the apartments must be tremendous.
As the doorman worked on the locks, Jonathan asked. “How long did Ms. Pierce live here?”
“At least six years. She was already a tenant when I arrived.”
“Did Ms. Pierce have many visitors?”
“Not many, no. Her agent came by from time to time.”
“What about her brother?” Mari put that in, Jonathan figured, in an attempt to stir the pot.
“I wasn’t aware Ms. Pierce had a brother.”
At least that part of Banks’s story checked out. Her doorman would have known if he’d visited frequently.
The door finally slid open. Jonathan gestured for the man to wait outside.
“What is this about, anyway?” the doorman asked. “Has something happened to Ms. Pierce?”
It took him long enough to get to that. Jonathan stepped into the apartment after Mari. “She was found dead yesterday morning. If we need anything else, we’ll find you.” Jonathan shut the door in the man’s face.
“Dios, would you look at this place,” Mari said, drawing his attention. “No wonder the admiral didn’t want us in here.”
Jonathan snorted at Mari’s appellation for the doorman, but her assessment of the house was dead on. He let out a low whistle as he drank in the apartment’s décor: white marble floors, high, arched ceilings, a foyer he could fit almost his entire apartment into. Heavy sunlight streaming in from nearly floor to ceiling windows provided all the illumination needed. Delicate wood furniture bespoke the wealth of its owner, and everything was spotless.
He supposed that’s what lent the apartment a non-lived-in feel, as if everything here were being exhibited in a museum. Most people didn’t live like this. If you showed up at their house unexpectedly there might be a couple of dishes in the sink, a dust bunny or two hiding under the bed. Then again, Pierce’s housekeeper had been here on Friday. If Pierce hadn’t returned home that day, she’d have had no opportunity to mess things up.
Searching the apartment took a little over an hour. There were six messages on her answering machine: two were from telemarketers, one was from her editor informing her that she loved the latest manuscript that had been sent in. The remainder were from her agent. In forty-eight hours she hadn’t received one personal phone call.
At the far end of the house was the room she obviously used as a home office, complete with laptop, printer, fax and copying machine. He found her address book there, but no day planner, no calendar that might have told him where she was headed that day.
Her file cabinet contained little save contracts she’d signed, press clippings, fan mail and financial records. Very little to indicate what she’d been working on. Nonetheless, they would need to take all of this back to the house to sift through it, contact the people she knew, figure out which person hated her enough to kill her. But judging by the virulence of some of her mail, the vitriol of the press against her and her brother’s lack of devotion, it might be easier to find someone who wanted her alive.
Four
Restless, unused to being in the position of having someone else care for her and out of sorts at being stuck in a hospital bed, Dana flicked around the meager television offerings using the remote. Absolutely nothing interested her, but eager for some kind of sound in the room, she settled on the news. A male/female pair of anchors smiled for the camera while relaying yet another grisly story of murder and mayhem on the city’s streets.
Dana sighed. What was it in the recent evolution of the human psyche that required that even the worst news be sugarcoated with a wink and a grin? Annoyed, but more at her own situation than anything on the screen, Dana tossed the remote onto the bed beside her.
She couldn’t even use her proper hand. Her right arm and shoulder were encased in a sling fastened close to her body. The bullet had gone through her shoulder without hitting any vital muscle or bone. She’d been lucky, damn lucky. Tim could be picking out a casket for her at the moment. If it weren’t for Wesley trying to get her out of the way, the odds on that would have been even higher. She found that thought ironic, considering that his presence had put her in danger in the first place.
A knock at her door pulled her from her thoughts. Father Michael Coyne poked his head in the room. “Anybody home?”
Dana reacted with a mixture of pleasure and surprise. Not only did she credit Father Mike with helping her push, pull, drag and cajole Tim into not only finishing high school, but excelling, but Father Michael Coyne was also one fine specimen of a human being. Like three-quarters of the schoolgirls at St. Matthew’s and most of their mothers, Dana had to admit to having a slight crush on the man. Since neither crossing the color line nor seducing a man of the cloth were in her immediate plans, all she did was look. But how had he known she’d been there to begin with?
Dana formed her lips into a welcoming smile. “Come in, Father,” she said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but how did you know where to find me?”
Father Mike strode into the room. Dressed in neither the gym clothes he usually wore nor the priest’s frock he eschewed, he had on a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt. “Mrs. Ryan, Stevie’s mother, is an emergency room nurse. She saw you come in and called me.”
Dana nodded. She’d known that she and the boy’s mother shared the same profession but not where the other woman worked. “She didn’t have to call you.”
He pulled the one chair in the room, a green pleather number, over to her bedside and sat. “Yes, she did. We’re a family at St. Matt’s. We take care of our own.”
Dana offered him a wan smile. She’d heard that sentiment from the first time she’d walked through the school’s doors. The idea of being part of a family community had been what drew her to the school, not the fact that its academic program ranked as one of the top in the archdiocese. Neither she nor Tim had any family; they only had each other. She liked the idea of people watching out for her brother when she could not.
In the four years Tim attended the school, she’d donated blood for blood drives, baked cakes for bake sales, offered up prayers for the needy and those in dire straits. But never before had she been in the position to need their largesse or their concern. She wasn’t sure how she felt about receiving it now.
Father Mike sat back in his chair. “How are you feeling?”
She lifted her good shoulder in a shrug. “Just a little worse for wear.”
“But the young man with you wasn’t as fortunate.”
&nb
sp; “No.” Grief welled in her, clogging her throat and bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. “He died right there.”
“I’m sorry, Dana.”
She inhaled, and let her breath out slowly, fighting the urge to let her tears spill. “Don’t get me wrong, Father. He was no angel. He dealt drugs and probably stepped on the wrong person’s toes. I don’t know. It just seems like such a waste to me. He was only seventeen. He could have been anything.”
Father Mike offered her a sympathetic look. “Sometimes the hardest thing to give up on is hope.”
Nodding, she looked away. Despite his hostile attitude and fatalistic view of his own life, she really had felt Wesley could have turned his life around. Hope. The fact that she felt the emotion didn’t surprise her, but the depth of her emotions and the breadth of her grief and disappointment at the loss of the young man did. Maybe she wasn’t as much of a cynic as she thought.
She started to turn back to Father Mike, but something on the television screen caught her eye, the image of a blond woman in the upper right hand corner of the screen. Dana recognized the woman as the one she’d seen in Nadine Evans’s building a couple of days ago and automatically turned up the sound.
“. . . body was found behind a popular South Bronx eatery,” the newscaster intoned. He gave several other details of the case before concluding, “Police are investigating both the cause of Ms. Pierce’s death and how she ended up in the South Bronx neighborhood where she was discovered. Anyone with any information should contact the Bronx Homicide Division. A special hotline has been set up at 1-800-877-9241.”
Though the newscaster quickly switched to another story, Amanda Pierce’s image stayed with Dana. “Oh, my God, Father. I saw that woman.”
Father Mike sat forward. “When?”
“Friday morning. She was coming out of Wesley Evan’s apartment building. Less than a mile from where she ended up.”
“Are you sure she’s the woman you saw?”
“Not absolutely. My head is still a little fuzzy from the concussion, but I’d swear it was her. I wondered at the time what a woman dressed as she was could be doing in that part of town. I thought at the time that she was smart to catch a ride out of the neighborhood. In retrospect it might have been her last.”
“Did you get a look at who picked her up?”
“Not really. A dark-haired man. Or at least that was my impression. For all I know, it could have been a woman. I guess that’s not particularly helpful.”
Father Mike shrugged. “Maybe not. What are you going to do?”
Dana sighed. “Call the hotline number, I guess.” And hope she could make an anonymous report. While she felt obligated to tell what she saw, the prospect of getting involved in another police investigation in two days, when she’d done nothing to involve herself in either of them, didn’t please her.
Perhaps sensing her displeasure, Father Mike said, “You can always take comfort in knowing you did the right thing.”
Yeah. Her and Mother Teresa. She hadn’t bothered to have a phone hooked up in the room. “Hand me my phone, Father, before I change my mind. It’s in my purse in the top dresser drawer.”
Chuckling, Father Mike did as she asked. Between the two of them, they remembered the number to dial. After making her waste her minutes on hold, an operator came on and took down her information with the promise of getting it to the detective in charge.
Dana leaned back against her pillows, hoping that her involvement in the matter was over. If she had seen Amanda Pierce, surely someone else had seen her as well. Besides, she’d given them the precise address she’d visited and a description of the car she’d gotten into, though she hadn’t been able to provide a license plate number. Surely that was enough to go on without involving her any further. Well, she could hope anyway.
Father Mike checked his watch. “I’ve got to be going. The other thing I wanted to ask you is if you need any help with Tim? I’m sure one of the other mothers wouldn’t mind having him over for a couple of days while you recover.”
Again she felt a tinge of... she didn’t know what to call it. Guilt, probably, over making anyone worry about her, and discomfort at being in a position of need, even if it were only perceived need.
“I’ve got it covered, Father. You couldn’t know this, but I’m supposed to be lying on a beach on Paradise Island right now, not stuck in a hospital bed. I’d already made arrangements for Tim to stay with another family. He’s with them now. Besides, they’re supposed to be letting me out of here today, if the doctor would ever show up to check me out.”
Father Mike pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll let you get your rest until then. If you need a ride home, I can get someone—”
Dana held up her good hand to forestall him. “I’ve got that covered, too. My friend Joanna and her husband are on call.”
He took her hand and offered her a benevolent smile. “All right. You let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
Great. Now she’d offended him. The problem with the do-gooders of the world was that they resented the hell out of not being given anything good to do. “Actually, there is something you can do for me. My patient, Nadine Evans, she’s bedridden. I don’t know if she has the wherewithal to make the arrangements or if she has any money to bury her grandson.”
Dana had called Nadine earlier, only to have the woman slam the phone down in her ear. Dana didn’t know what that was about. Maybe Nadine was too overcome with grief to talk, or maybe she resented her for surviving when Wesley didn’t, but Dana couldn’t leave it like that. Hopefully, Father Mike would be able to succeed where she failed. Nadine wasn’t Catholic, but she was religious enough not to be rude to any man of the cloth.
After taking down Nadine’s address and phone number, Father Mike left, leaving her alone. Now if only the damn doctor would show up, she could get out of here and figure out what to do with herself the next few days. She had another week before she had to go back to work, not that she was in any shape to lug that computer from place to place. About the only thing she was good for was catching up on all the books she wanted to get to while on her vacation. But then she’d been planning to read them with the sun on her face and a tropical breeze blowing through her hair.
Damn. That’s another bonus she hadn’t thought of. She’d just lost the money she’d laid out for her trip. Her life just got better and better.
When Jonathan walked into the squad room on Monday morning, Mari was already waiting for him. She nodded toward the lieutenant’s office. Shea was on the phone, and from what Jonathan could tell the conversation was one-sided with Shea doing all the listening. “He wants to see us as soon as he gets off the phone.”
Jonathan gritted his teeth. Most of the time Shea could not care less what you did or how you did it as long as it was accomplished with enough speed to make him look good. If he wanted to speak to them now, it wasn’t to wish them a Merry Christmas.
As soon as Shea hung up he motioned them to join him. Once they’d entered his office before closing the door he gestured that they sit. Jonathan ignored the two visitors’ chairs, as did Mari. If they were going to be dressed down both of them preferred to take it standing up.
“I don’t need to tell you the flack I’m getting already on this Pierce thing. Turns out the police commissioner’s new wife and Pierce went to Wellesley together. She’s on his back about a speedy resolution to the case, and now he’s on mine.”
Jonathan slid a glance at Mari, gauging if she caught his implication. Never being one not to share the grief, he was passing it on to them.
Shea shifted in his seat. “Where are we on this thing?”
Jonathan glanced down at Shea’s desk where his initial report sat. He wouldn’t need to ask questions if he had bothered to read them. But why do things the easy way? “Apparently, Amanda Pierce caught a taxi from her apartment on Friday morning and that’s the last anyone saw of her until she was discovered Saturday morning.”<
br />
He filled Shea in on their meeting with Banks and what they found in her apartment. He’d spent the previous night going through some of her paper records while Mari had gone through her computer. Most of the files were password protected, so the laptop was with the techs now, hoping they could crack the code. But nothing they had found so far suggested what she was working on or where she had gone.
He finished with, “We’ve got the housekeeper coming in this morning. We’ll put in a call to Pierce’s agent and her editor and see what turns up.”
Shea huffed. “There will be a small press conference this afternoon at three at One Police Plaza. I’ll expect you both there.”
Jonathan gritted his teeth. Any excuse for Shea to press his mug in front of the cameras. Everyone knew Shea had ambitions beyond the office he now occupied. Jonathan and Mari would be superfluous.
Shea adjusted his jacket and hunched over his desk in a way that suggested they’d been dismissed. Jonathan opened the door and followed Mari into the squad room.
“Well, that was fun,” Mari said as they walked back to their desks. “Think I need to get my hair done?”
Jonathan shot her a droll look. “What time is that housekeeper coming in?”
“A half hour.”
Rosa Nuñez showed up ten minutes early. A slender, petite woman in her mid-forties, she presented the picture of propriety. She wore a pale peach dress that fell below her knee, black low-heeled pumps and a silk scarf around her neck. Her dark brown hair was pinned into an old-fashioned bun at her nape.
After introducing themselves, they showed her to the coffee room, a small office converted to a pseudo-kitchenette, its only real amenities being a small sink in the corner, a refrigerator, and an ancient microwave oven. A rectangular table and four chairs took up most of the room.
Body Of Truth Page 5
