Body of Evidence
Endorsements
Praise for Labyrinth of Lies
“Hannon continues her Triple Threat series with this enjoyable second-chance romance between two undercover agents. Hannon’s winning inspirational thriller will please fans and newcomers alike.”
Publishers Weekly
“This is one of the best offerings by master of romantic suspense Hannon.”
Library Journal
“Any Irene Hannon novel is a suspenseful delight. Ms. Hannon is very adept at crafting taut, believable characters.”
Interviews and Reviews
“In addition to the mystery, Irene creates a cast of characters that you come to love.”
More Than a Review
Praise for Point of Danger
“As a general rule, men shun romance novels, while some women turn away from suspense thrillers. But in Point of Danger, author Irene Hannon gives readers a thriller with a persistent romantic angle.”
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“An action-packed drama that will have you hooked, trying to piece together clues until the very end.”
Best in Suspense
“A page-turner. The surprise ending has a twist readers will not guess.”
Military Press
“Riveting suspense focused on controversial issues. Hannon delivers a heart-pounding novel that had me on the edge of my seat.”
Relz Reviewz
Half Title Page
Books by Irene Hannon
Heroes of Quantico
Against All Odds
An Eye for an Eye
In Harm’s Way
Guardians of Justice
Fatal Judgment
Deadly Pursuit
Lethal Legacy
Private Justice
Vanished
Trapped
Deceived
Men of Valor
Buried Secrets
Thin Ice
Tangled Webs
Code of Honor
Dangerous Illusions
Hidden Peril
Dark Ambitions
Triple Threat
Point of Danger
Labyrinth of Lies
Body of Evidence
Hope Harbor Novels
Hope Harbor
Sea Rose Lane
Sandpiper Cove
Pelican Point
Driftwood Bay
Starfish Pier
Blackberry Beach
Sea Glass Cottage
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2022 by Irene Hannon
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2022
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3870-9
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
Dedication
To the incredible team I’ve partnered with at Revell for fifteen years and twenty-eight books:
Dwight Baker
Jennifer Leep
Kristin Kornoelje
Michele Misiak
Karen Steele
Thank you for your professionalism, dedication, responsiveness, commitment to excellence—and friendship.
It is a privilege and a pleasure to be your publishing partner.
Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Books by Irene Hannon
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of the Next Installment in the Hope Harbor Series
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
SOMEONE WAS IN THE MORTUARY PREP ROOM.
Someone besides her and the body in the cooler awaiting tomorrow’s autopsy.
Someone who shouldn’t be here.
Forensic pathologist Grace Reilly set aside the police report on seventy-six-year-old Mavis Templeton and cocked her ear.
Silence.
She waited, straining to pick up another out-of-place sound.
Only the drip of the leaky faucet, the hum of refrigeration from the cooler, and the squeak of the desk chair as she leaned forward broke the stillness.
There was no one here.
And she shouldn’t be, either.
There were better places for a thirty-year-old single woman to hang out at nine o’clock on Friday night than a funeral home in rural Missouri.
Unless you were a thirty-year-old single woman whose last hot date had been three months ago. A date that had cooled off fast after the guy asked about your day, and you’d told him in perhaps a tad too much detail while the two of you were chowing down on barbecue.
Grace sighed and slumped back in the chair.
As soon as the color began leaching from her companion’s complexion, she’d changed the subject—but not fast enough to salvage the evening or win herself another dinner invitation. He’d dumped most of his meal into a takeout container, hustled her home as fast as he could, and never called again.
So with nothing more interesting to do on this Friday night, she’d swung by the mortuary to review the paperwork and medical records for tomorrow’s autopsy.
Pathetic.
Huffing out a breath, she pushed the chair back and stood. She was out of here. Watching a movie by herself from her collection of oldies wasn’t her first choice of activity for a Friday night, but it was preferable to—
She froze.
There it was again. A muffled, metallic tapping noise. Faint but discernible.
And it was coming from the cooler.
A shiver snaked down her spine.
The only person in there was Mavis, and she wasn’t doing any tapping.
Sidling around the desk, she eyed the refrigeration unit. There had to be a logical explanation for the noise.
Of course there did.
Nevertheless, she opened her purse and pulled out the compact Beretta she’d carried ever since—
No.
She was not going there.
That was then, this was now—and lightning didn’t often strike twice. She was overreacting.
Even so, she kept her pistol at the ready as she approached the cooler.
The faint tap sounded again. More to the right, and muffled. Like it was outside the building.
Exhaling, she lowered the gun. A noise on the other side of the wall was nothing to worry about. For all she knew, a carful of teenagers had pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home and decided to down a few illegal beers where no one was likely to disturb them.
This out-of-proportion response to a stray noise wasn’t like her.
But she was tired. It had been a long week, and she was stretched thin. Doing autopsies for six adjacent rural counties, not to mention the occasional private job she picked up, kept her on the move.
Add in that weird noise she’d heard outside the window of her rental house last night, and it was no surprise her usual calm was a mite wobbly.
Time to call it a night, go home, watch that old movie, and chill.
She returned to the desk, picked up her purse, and started to tuck her Beretta inside. Hesitated. Shook her head in annoyance.
This was farm country, for pity’s sake. Two and a half hours away from St. Louis and the types of crime that plagued all big cities. In the three years she’d been doing autopsies for the county coroners, homicides had been few and far between.
After all, if you couldn’t be safe deep in the heartland, where could you be safe?
Despite that little pep talk, she kept her weapon in hand—where it would stay until she was behind the wheel of her car and locked inside. It never hurt to be careful, as she’d learned the hard way.
She exited through the wide back door in the small foyer off the work area, filling her lungs with the warm June air as she gave the dim parking lot a swift perusal.
No beer-drinking teens in sight.
So much for that theory.
Nor was anyone else about. Whatever the source of the noise she’d heard from inside, it was gone.
More proof that letting her imagination give her a case of the shakes had been silly.
She closed the door behind her, tested it to make certain it was locked, and strode toward her Civic.
Six feet away, she came to an abrupt halt, stomach lurching.
Apparently the noise she’d heard hadn’t been innocent after all.
And despite her original suspicion that it had come from inside the cooler, this had been done by someone very much alive.
Backing up, she groped in her purse for her cell. Punched in 911.
And kept her finger on the trigger of her Beretta.
Sheriff Nate Cox hung a right into the parking lot of Larktree Mortuary and circled around to the back.
First call he’d ever gotten to a funeral home—but there’d been a ton of firsts since he’d been elected to the job four months ago.
A Larktree cruiser came into sight, and Nate pulled up beside it. Thank God local police were willing to respond to 911 calls until he or one of his deputies could arrive. With only seven of them providing 24/7 coverage for more than 750 square miles of territory, it wasn’t unusual to be twenty minutes away from a crime scene, even with sirens blaring and a heavy foot on the gas pedal.
But despite the courtesy response, the mortuary was beyond the town limits and therefore outside the jurisdiction of the local cops. Meaning this case was going to land on his desk.
He slid out of his patrol car as the officer walked toward him from the shadows of the protective roof that shielded the back door of the building. Over the man’s shoulder, Nate squinted at the victim, who remained near the exit, purse gripped in front of her, posture taut. Though he couldn’t distinguish any features in the dim light, she appeared to be on the young side.
“Matt Jackson.” The fiftyish officer stuck out his hand.
Nate gave it a firm shake and returned the introduction. “Thanks for responding. I got here as fast as I could.”
“No worries. It’s a quiet night in town.”
“What do we have?”
The man gave him a cursory overview. “I poked around after I got here, but I didn’t see anything helpful.”
“Thanks. I’ll take another look. Two sets of eyes can’t hurt. Who’s the victim?”
“Grace Reilly.”
It took no more than a second for her name to click into place. He’d seen it on a few autopsy reports—including one that had struck too close to home—but their paths had never crossed.
“What was she doing here at this hour?”
“Paperwork.”
“On a Friday night?”
The man shrugged. “To each his own. Said she was prepping for an autopsy tomorrow.”
Must be the one for Mavis Templeton. He’d responded to that call yesterday morning, and there’d been no other suspicious deaths in the past few days.
“Anyone else here?”
“No.”
She’d been alone in a mortuary with a dead body after dark. By choice.
He suppressed a shudder. After all the death he’d seen during military missions overseas, the idea of spending an evening in the company of a lifeless body shouldn’t spook him.
But it did.
Having death thrust upon you was one thing. Seeking it out? Not his cup of tea.
“Thanks again for swinging by and hanging out until I got here.”
“Happy to do it. Good luck.”
As the officer returned to his cruiser, Nate circled Grace’s car, giving it a cursory scan. It had been keyed on all door panels and sported several small, deep, round dents—as if someone had hammered the end of a pipe against the frame.
Circuit complete, he walked over to her, extending his hand as a low rumble of thunder reverberated in the distance. “Nate Cox. I’ve read quite a few of your reports. Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”
“Likewise.”
Her fingers were cold as she returned his firm squeeze, and he gave her a quick assessment.
Early thirties, at most. Five four, give or take an inch, using his six-foot frame as reference. Wavy, longish hair the color of the spicy ginger cookies his mom used to make. A strong chin that could suggest a personality to match. Hazel eyes that were big . . . and appealing.
He frowned at that last, inappropriate thought. Cataloging a victim’s features was part of the job. Reacting to them wasn’t.
Switching mental gears, he refocused. “I know you told Officer Jackson what happened tonight, but I’d appreciate it if you’d run through it again.”
She complied, her report straightforward, precise, and detailed. No less than he’d expect from a forensic pathologist. They were trained to tune in to the tiniest details.
“And that’s what I found when I came outside.” She motioned toward her car as she concluded.
“Any idea who may have done this?”
“No.”
“Any known enemies?”
“No.”
“Does anyone have a grudge against you?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Have you received any recent threatening communication?”
She hesitated—and a blip appeared on his radar.
“Not communication in the sense you mean it.”
“Explain that.”
She exhaled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m probably being paranoid.”
“Or not, considering the state of your car.”
She conceded the point with a nod. “Last night, about one in the morning, I heard a noise that sounded like someone was rattling the knob on my back door.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No. It was windy, and I wasn’t certain anyone was out there. I also have excellent locks, a security system, and my Beretta was on the nightstand. I didn’t think there was any real danger. But it was rather unnerving.”
The lady kept a weapon close at hand while she slept?
The blip got bigger.
“Any particular reason you have a gun?”
She lifted one shoulder, her features flattening. “My oldest sister is a police detective in St. Louis. After all the stories I’ve heard, getting a concealed carry permit seemed prudent. I’ve had it for years.”
Her response was straightforward, and he couldn’t argue with her rationale. Nor was there anything in her answer to suggest she had a personal motive for carrying.
But his gut was sending a strong message that she wasn’t telling him everything.
However—if she’d had the gun for as long as she claimed, it probably wasn’t relevant to the current situation.
“Did you find any evidence to suggest anyone had been on your property?”
“Nothing specific.”
“But you found something.”
Twin grooves creased her forehead. “There are two daylilies beside the steps to the back porch. All of the buds had been snapped off. I know deer like to munch on them, but they’ve never bothered those plants before. Besides, the buds weren’t eaten. Just broken off and scattered around.”
Adding credence to her theory that someone with two legs had paid her a visit.
He gave her car another sweep. In most cases, that sort of damage could be attributed to petty vandalism. It was the type of stunt bored high school kids were known to pull.
It was also possible her nocturnal visitor last night and this evening’s damage were unrelated.
But the instincts he’d honed and learned to trust on the battlefield were beeping a yellow alert.
Translation? He wasn’t going to be able to write off tonight’s crime as easily as he’d expected. If the two incidents were related, it would suggest someone was targeting Grace Reilly for unknown reasons.
A few raindrops began to fall, and he motioned toward his car. “Would you like to wait in the cruiser after you give me your contact information while I take a closer look at your vehicle?”