A Perfect Grave Part 9

Jason displayed his photo ID and put a business card on the table for the stranger. The man was heavyset, in his forties, maybe. Hard to tell under his long hair and beard, flecked with crumbs. A war vet? A war vet? He was wearing a dirty, tattered field jacket with desert camouflage pattern and military pants. He was wearing a dirty, tattered field jacket with desert camouflage pattern and military pants.

"I never talk to cops and they were here all day asking things about Sister Anne."

"You knew her?" Jason asked.

"She's the reason I'm still alive, know what I'm saying?"

No, Jason didn't know, but the man's intensity made him curious. The guy obviously had some problems.

"Can we talk about her?" Jason asked.

"No, I'm too upset, but there's something I want you to pa.s.s to police."

"What's your name?"

"Forget that, listen up and write this down."

Jason opened his notebook but wondered if the old soldier was going to be a nut job and a waste of time. Might as well humor him.

"A couple of weeks ago, this guy, a stranger, started showing up. He kept to himself and talked to no one but Sister Anne."

"What'd they talk about?"

"She never said. They always went off alone to a corner. It was weird. I watched them, see, because the thing was, she always came away sorta sad, like whatever they were talking about was her problem, not his. It was like they were arguing."

"Did it get physical? Did he threaten her?"

"Couldn't say. It didn't look that way."

"You ever ask her about it?"

"I mind my own business. We all do in here."

"Has the guy been around today?"

"Haven't seen him for a few days. But somebody's got to look into this guy."

"You know much about him, like his name, or what he looked like?"

"Not really, the one thing I do remember is that I saw him take a knife from here."

"A knife? Really?"

"A wooden-handled steak knife."

Jason made careful notes. As he struggled to absorb the implication of the new information, his cell phone rang. His caller ID displayed the number for Eldon Reep.

"Sorry, I gotta take this." He answered, "Wade, Mirror. Mirror."

"You better haul your b.u.t.t in here now, Jason," Ca.s.sie Appleton said.

What the h.e.l.l was this? Ca.s.sie calling from Reep's line, giving him orders.

"Where's Eldon? I should be talking to him."

"Why did you ditch me? We're supposed to be working together."

"You don't need me to hold your hand."

"Eldon's in a meeting and since you're not answering my calls, he told me to call you on his line and give you this message, which is to tell you you've got a deadline and you'd better d.a.m.n well get in here now with a story."

"I don't take orders from other reporters."

"You better listen to what I'm telling you, Jason, he's really ticked at you."

Jason ended the call and turned to resume his conversation with the old soldier.

But the man was gone.

Chapter Thirteen.

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

His cell phone rang. The number showed: "Restricted." "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. 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 Mirror's night editor, were seated. Reep had loosened his tie and put his hands on his hips.

"Why in h.e.l.l 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. 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 embarra.s.s 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. Ca.s.sie'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. 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-a.s.s. 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.