Body Of Truth by Deirdre Savoy

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.