Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

Quinn was certain of it.

He glanced at his camera in the passenger seat, thinking that if he cleared this one, it would be his biggest payday ever.

Upward of $1.5 million.

For a moment, Quinn entertained his financial options when suddenly the rear of a Seattle Metro bus was all he saw in front of him. Rubber screeched as he slammed his brakes, stopping dead.

Traffic ahead halted.

Quinn cranked the wheel to the left, craned his neck to see that a construction crew was working ahead.

No sign of Henry Wade’s pickup truck.

Quinn slammed his palms against the wheel.

The roar of a Detroit diesel engine in a dump truck unloading steaming asphalt onto the street ahead drowned out Quinn’s cursing.

T hree hours to deadline.

Jason took stock of the newsroom, the tense clicking of keyboards as reporters concentrated on filing. Senior news editors were emerging from the big glass-walled room at the east end where they’d wrapped up their final news meeting on where stories would play in tomorrow’s paper.

Only the night news editor could override their decisions.

At his desk, Jason inserted the CD with his story into his computer, downloaded it, flagged the holes he was going to fill, then sent it to the metro desk for editing.

Next, he went online for info, then called the U.S. Embassy in Bern and requested information from the twenty-four-hour duty desk about the school and two American citizens who died in a car crash near Geneva. He also got numbers for Swiss police who had jurisdiction over the areas.

Then he called the Swiss Embassy in Washington, D.C., and made the same request after he’d reached the on-call press attache.

Next he called Grace Garner. She didn’t answer. He left a message, then headed to the cafeteria for a coffee, cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. Back at his desk, he’d just lined up his burger for the first bite when Eldon Reep called him into his office, where he had been reading a file on his computer monitor.

“You should’ve alerted me the instant you got back.”

“I called in to the desk. I had a lot to do.”

Reep swiveled.

“I’m your boss. I authorized your trip. You report to me first.”

Jason rolled his eyes.

“Just finished your story from Canada. You struck out. The hard news just ain’t there.”

“Bull. It’s full of exclusive revelations.”

“We might be able to salvage it as an exclusive human interest bio: ‘A troubled young heiress becomes a nun in Paris and donated her fortune to her order.’ Dedicated her life to helping the poor before her murder.”

“I wrote it as a murder mystery.”

“Yes, that’s why I’ve ordered the desk to rewrite it as a bio feature.”

“What? Are you nuts? Did you even read the thing? It’s a start at unraveling the mystery surrounding her murder. We quote her secret diary, the donation, Cooper’s account of the mystery man at the shelter who’d ‘ asked her to forgive him and it upset her. ’ I’m telling you, there’s something here. We’re connecting the dots. The pieces are starting to come together.”

“I don’t see it, I think you’re reaching.”

“I don’t believe this! Did Vic Beale or Mack Pedge read it yet?”

Reep stood, put his hands on his hips, and invaded Wade’s space.

“Set this aside for the moment. I want you to check out something more important right now.”

“Like what?”

“Nate Hodge was shooting pictures at a house fire when he overheard a cop talking about rumors of a new lead in the case.”

“What sort of lead?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out. He sent the desk an e-mail. I’ll bump it to you. You act on it now.”

Cursing under his breath, Jason returned to his desk and opened Nate’s e-mail. “I was at house fire near Ravanna and was talking to a cop friend. He got a call on his cell phone. He stepped back but I overheard him say, ‘We’ve got a new lead in the nun murder?’”

The cop was probably referring to a new tip, rather than a solid lead. If it’s big, it rarely gets down to the uniforms on the street. Jason wasn’t sure what to make of it. He put in another call to Garner, shook his head, then tore into his burger, managing three bites and half a dozen fries before Kelly Swan appeared from the library, tapping a slip of paper in her hand.

“Don’t know if this is good or bad-can I have one?” Kelly stole a fry. “But so far no records-absolutely zip-for a Sherman and Etta Braxton in Cleveland, or anywhere in Ohio.”

Jason halted chewing.

“And,” Kelly continued, “there’s no record for St. Ursula Savary College in Switzerland, nothing that even comes close.”

Jason resumed chewing, but thoughtfully, noticing, at that moment, the arrival of an e-mail from the press attache at the Swiss Embassy. Preliminary queries with authorities indicate no citizens of the United States whose names you provided are listed in records as traffic fatalities. The St. Ursula Savary College is not among the country’s schools. Included below is a link to all Swiss private and international schools.

“Thanks, Kelly. Can you please keep checking?”

Quieted by the development, Jason resumed eating and thinking. Thinking of the image of Anne Braxton, a distraught young woman, alone in a church in Paris, begging nuns to allow her into their order.

But did she lie to them about her past?

Why would she do such a thing?

And where did that one million dollars come from? How does a twenty-three-year-old American woman come to have one million dollars in a Swiss bank account?

His line rang.

“Wade, Mirror. ”

“It’s Garner.”

“Grace,” he sat up, “Listen, I’ve been doing some digging and I’ve got something.”

“Will I be reading it in the paper, or are you going to tell me?”

“I think we need to meet.”

“Is that what you think? I think you want something.”

“Grace.”

“So you’re talking to me now. All done with your tantrums, is that it?”

“Grace, please.”

“You want to meet now?”

“Now would be good.”

“All right. That place beside the old warehouse. In twenty minutes.”

T he Rusted Anchor was an all-night sanctuary for cops and the like who worked 24/7 downtown.

Tucked down a side street near an abandoned warehouse and the waterfront, the narrow building was webbed with vines. Its battered metal door, punctured with several bullet holes, gave newcomers pause.

Even during sunny days, the Anchor remained dim inside. The darkness calmed frayed nerves and eased troubled minds, offering tranquillity and beer as cold as an embittered ex-wife. Low-watt lights hung low over the dark high-backed booths that were evocative of church pews. Jason spotted Grace Garner alone in a corner, poking the ice in her Coke with her straw.

The neon clock on the wall gave him a little over two hours until his deadline.

He sat down and ordered a ginger ale from a bored man in a dirty white apron who had three days’ worth of white whiskered growth on his face. They waited in awkward silence until Jason’s drink arrived.

“Okay, Wade, I made a mistake. Can we move on?”

Jason held up two fingers.

“Two mistakes: You dumped me. And you went out with Special Agent Asshole.”

“How did you know?”

“You’re not the only paid investigator at this table.”

She looked away.

“Grace, what happened? Just tell me what happened?”

“I got scared.”

“Of what?”

“It felt so right with you. We were moving fast, but it felt so right I caught myself thinking long-term, even though I realized it ain’t going to happen.”