Body Of Truth by Deirdre Savoy Page B

else.
    Joanna stopped and turned to face her. “Is this the twenty-first century or the Stone Age? You’d really let that stop you?”
    â€œNo, but the fact that he’s a priest would.”
    Joanna sucked her teeth in disgust. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” She continued on to the kitchen at the left. She lowered herself into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Damn. It’s bad enough that half the decent looking fellas are either gay, on something, or in jail. Couldn’t God just take the ugly ones?”
    Dana laughed. “Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. Those who are called must answer.”
    â€œListen to you, Ms. Agnostic. I thought you didn’t believe in any of that stuff.”
    â€œI don’t, but sending Tim to Catholic school for four years I had to pick up something.”
    â€œYeah, too bad it couldn’t have been him.”
    Slumping into the chair beside Joanna, Dana made a disgusted sound in her throat.
    â€œDon’t give me that. You know I worry about you. You act like you don’t need a man, like you don’t need anybody. But, girl, you’re just as human as the rest of us. We all need. Tell me, how long has it been since you let any man get even a little bit under your skin?”
    Unbidden, her mind traveled back to the day before, when he’d been here. There had been a moment there when she’d looked at him, seen the weariness in his face and wished she could smooth it away. It must be that nurse thing in her, some defect of her genetic make-up that . . .
    â€œWell?” Joanna prompted.
    â€œToo long.” Especially if the first man who came to her mind was Jonathan Stone.
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    Hanratty’s on East 163rd had taken over where the spot on 161st had left off as a cop bar and hangout. When Jonathan had worked in the 44, Moretti had been a regular at the bar almost every night of the week. Tonight was no exception.
    Hanratty’s didn’t look much different than any other Irish bar in the city: lots of wood, lots of smoke, lots of guys losing the day’s frustrations in a bottle of their favorite booze. Jonathan spotted Moretti at the bar the moment he walked in the door. But there were also plenty of cops he knew from his days working among them. There were hands to shake, jokes to be made at his expense, new faces to be introduced to. All the while, Jonathan could feel Moretti’s gaze on him as he made his way to the bar.
    Finally someone got to the question they’d all been wondering. “Hey Stone, to what do we owe the honor?”
    â€œYeah, what brings you here, Stone?” Moretti smiled back, but the belligerence in his gaze belied any friendliness in his tone.
    Jonathan took a step toward him. “You got a minute for me?”
    â€œAs long as you’re buying.”
    Moretti turned back to his drink. He lifted his empty glass and said to the bartender. “I’ll have another one of these.” He turned to Jonathan as he slid onto the stool beside him. “Now what does a big-time homicide detective want with little old me?”
    Jonathan ordered a beer from the waiting bartender before answering. “I hear you caught the Wesley Evans case, the shooting on Highland Avenue.”
    â€œYeah. What about it?”
    â€œHow’s it going?”
    Moretti downed a gulp from his glass. “It’s going. Don’t you have enough to do with your celebrity cases without worrying about mine?”
    â€œDana Molloy, the woman who was shot with Evans, is a friend of mine.”
    That perked Moretti up. He tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowing. “You want to ride my ass ’cause your squeeze almost got popped. Maybe you should tell her to meet her connection inside next time.”
    Jonathan ignored Moretti’s comment because to acknowledge it would mean putting his fist in the other man’s face.