Perfect Grave

Chapter Thirteen

D riving his Falcon from the shelter to the Mirror, Jason looked at his watch. Two hours before deadline, enough time to put a story together.

His cell phone rang. The number showed: “Restricted.”

Most Seattle police phone numbers came up that way.

“Jason, it’s Garner.”

“Grace! Hang on!” He scanned his mirrors before pulling over. “What’ve you got that I can use?”

“The name’s confirmed, Anne Louise Braxton. The press office is putting that out with a photo of her from the order, in about an hour.”

“Any next of kin?”

“Apparently not. The order was her family, her life.”

“Cause of death?”

“She was stabbed. That will be in the release and we won’t go into details.”

“Did you find the weapon? I’ve got sources saying you found a knife near the town house and I’ve got a lead that the knife may have come from the shelter, so I’m going with it.”

“How did you get all that?”

“I’m a crime reporter, or did you forget already?”

“Jason, if you publish that now, it could damage our case. We’ll be chasing down every whack job who’ll confess.”

“I don’t work for the Seattle PD. I’m going with what I have, unless you tell me right now that it’s dead wrong?”

“I’m not confirming or denying it.”

“So you do have a knife?”

“I’m not confirming that.”

“You’re not denying it. Grace, quit the BS. I think you’ve got the knife. I won’t say what kind of knife it is, I’ll qualify all my stuff as, ‘police are investigating the theory that…’ you know the tune, okay?”

“I have to go.”

“I think you owe me, Grace.”

“What? I don’t owe you squat. Grow up.”

“Then tell me my stuff is wrong.”

Silence hissed for several beats.

“Grace?”

“I don’t work for the Seattle Mirror. ”

“Give me a break.”

“You can go with the knife, if you qualify it.”

“I will. Any suspects?”

“I’m not getting into that.”

“What about something from her past, something gang related.”

“Look, you know the procedure. We’re tracing her final movements, last twenty-four hours. Like I said, the shelter, the bus ride, the hood. That’s what we do. Now, I have to go. And you keep my name out of the paper.”

In the newsroom, Jason stepped from the elevator and glanced at the nearest clock, the one in sports above the blowup of a Seahawks touchdown. Most reporters had filed their stories and were gone. Others were putting on jackets, giving last-minute updates to copy editors, as the handoff from day side to night side had begun.

Jason had no time to talk to anyone.

At his desk, the red light on his phone was blinking with twelve messages. He logged on to the newsroom’s system and had some two dozen unanswered e-mails. Ignoring everything, he transcribed his notes, putting up his best quotes, then crafted a rough lead and four or five paragraphs.

He’d taken a good bite out of the story.

Then he went to his phone messages, advancing them in rapid fire while simultaneously checking e-mails. Nothing critical. Then Jason winced when he heard his father’s voice. “Still want to talk to you, son. Call when you can.”

Jason mentally promised to call his dad after he filed.

“Wade! Get in here!”

Eldon Reep, the metro editor, hollered from the door to his office where Mack Pedge, the deputy managing editor, and Vic Beale, the Mirror ’s night editor, were seated. Reep had loosened his tie and put his hands on his hips.

“Why in hell didn’t you call in, Wade?” Reep said.

“My cell phone died and I was on to something at the shelter.”

It was clear Pedge and Beale had no time for Reep’s drama-their faces telling him to discipline your staff on your time, not on our deadline.

“What’ve you got for us that’s strong enough for front?” Beale said.

“Homicide’s got the murder weapon, a knife, and a theory that it came from the shelter. She may have had some sort of incident with a visitor.”

“And who backs that up?” Beale said.

“People I talked to down there. I also have a source inside the investigation.”

“Can you shape your story,” Pedge said, “so it leads by saying that detectives think the nun may have been murdered by one of the very people she tried to help?”

“Yes, as long as we qualify it as a theory.”

“This is strong. Good work, Jason,” Beale said. “We’ll take twelve inches on front, then jump inside to the rest of the coverage. Go as long as you want, but we need it in under an hour.”

After Beale and Pedge left, Reep closed the door.

“Wade, don’t ever embarrass me like that again. When you’re on a story, you call me every hour and tell me what you’ve got.”

“I just got all of this now. Excuse me, but I’ve got to get writing.”

“Hold up. Cassie’s filing some material, I want you to put it into your story and give her credit. I told you to work with her, so put a double byline on top of the story.”

“What’d she get?”

“Some color.”

“I don’t need it. Maybe somebody else can use it. I’m writing news.” Translation: I do not trust her stuff.

Reep stepped close enough for Jason to know that he’d eaten something with garlic today. “You listen to me, smart-ass. You work for me and you’ll do as you’re told. Now shut up and get out of here.”

Cursing under his breath, Jason got coffee, then sat down to finish his story. Halfway through, he detected a trace of perfume.

“There you are,” Cassie Appleton stood next to his desk. “I’ve just sent you my half of our front-page story. I told Eldon that we have to be careful we have our facts straight. See you tomorrow.”

“Right. Bye.”

When he’d finished his story, he opened Cassie’s file. She had five hundred words copied directly from the Web site of the Sisters’ order. Not a single live quote. Not a single news fact. The stuff was not even rewritten into news copy.

It was useless.

Jason didn’t use a single word. He gritted his teeth and his stomach heaved as he typed her name next to his. It was ten minutes before deadline when he filed. Then he reviewed his e-mails and messages to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

His old man.

Fifteen minutes later, Jason was listening to Van Morrison and staring at Seattle’s skyline and the bay as he headed south to the neighborhood where he grew up, at the fringe of South Park.

Driving through it gave him mixed feelings. He knew every building, every weather-worn tree, and every landmark that had been there since he was a kid.

His old man’s truck, the Ford Ranger pickup, was in the driveway. Jason parked his Falcon behind it. There was no response when he knocked on the door but the lights were on inside.

Strange.

Jason found his key and went inside.

“Dad?”

Nothing.

At the kitchen table he found a family photo album. A few ancient snapshots were fanned out on the table, one of Jason, about seven years old with his new red bike. His mom had her arms around him. Their faces were radiant.

There was one of his old man smiling in the uniform of the Seattle Police Department. That was a rare picture. Must’ve been before “the incident” that led him to quit the force after only a few years.

Would Jason ever really know why?

His dad never talked about it

Whatever happened back then had to be the reason his mother walked out on both of them. His old man worked hard to hold on to what was left of his life and in the last few years after he got on with Don Krofton’s private investigation agency, he’d been doing well.

Until now.

He was battling something and he seemed to be losing.

What the hell was it?

Among the items on the table, Jason saw an empty envelope with Krofton’s letterhead. It was recent, according to the postmark.

What was this all about?

Dad, I’m sorry I got tied up.

Jason started calling bars looking for his old man.