A Perfect Grave Part 12

Surprise stung Denise's face and the young officer pretended not to notice.

How could Sister Vivian do something like that without first discussing it with me? Denise thought later. Denise thought later. Because Vivian had a reputation for being an arrogant tyrant, that's why. Because Vivian had a reputation for being an arrogant tyrant, that's why.

As she scrubbed, Denise grappled with anger and anguish. She abhorred the way Vivian was dominating people, especially given this horrible time. But Anne had been Denise's friend, and, in some way, by was.h.i.+ng the blood from her room, she was honoring her memory.

Like Anne and the others, Denise lived in the town house. She was a nurse at the shelter and was regarded by the sisters to be the toughest in the group because she was raised in New York. Her mother had been an emergency nurse; her father had been a New York City cop.

Growing up in a rough Brooklyn neighborhood, Denise had seen some unforgettable things, but was.h.i.+ng her friend's blood from the floor where she had been murdered was one of the hardest moments she'd ever faced in her life. She struggled with her tears each time she poured a bucket of reddish water down the sink.

She was alone with her grim work, contemplating life, death, and G.o.d's plan, when a shadow rose on the wall. Denise turned to see that Sister Paula, the most timid of the women who lived here, had ventured into the apartment.

Paula didn't speak as she cast a glance round, absorbing the eerie aura of death, gazing at the pasty, reddish streaks for a long moment. Then gently, she touched the walls, the counter, the light switch, the things Anne had touched, as if caressing a memory, or feeling the last of her presence.

This was a brave step for her, Denise thought. Paula was born in a small town near Omaha, Nebraska, the daughter of an insurance salesman. She was soft-spoken and meek.

"I'm sorry for interrupting, Den," she said. "But I had to see that it really happened." She twisted a tissue in her hands. "I mean, Vivian tells us to be strong. To go beyond being the humble bride-of-Christ thing, be progressive urban warriors of light. But how do we do that knowing that Anne was murdered right here in our home? And her killer's still out there. I really don't think I can handle this."

Denise washed her hands quickly, then put her arms around Paula to comfort her.

"I'm so sorry," Paula said, "I'll try to be strong like you and the others."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, it's okay. It's perfectly fine to feel the way you feel. Be angry. Be afraid. Be confused. Be human. That's how G.o.d made us."

"Please forgive me."

"For what? You're like Thomas, you have to see and touch the wounds before you believe. So you can carry on in faith."

"I suppose I am. I just don't understand how she can be gone."

"She's not, Paula, her good work will live on."

"But her killer is still out there."

"The lock on the front door's been reinforced. The windows, too."

"I know, but he's still out there."

Downstairs, the doorbell of the town house was sounded by another visitor, part of the continuing stream of neighbors, local politicians, and Sister Anne's guests from the street. They arrived to offer their condolences, flowers, home-baked cakes, cash donations, ca.s.seroles, or colorful cards in crayon scrawl made by the children from the day care. People also phoned or e-mailed with heart-warming messages of sympathy and support.

After taking a call on the town house phone, Sister Ruth approached Sister Vivian, who was on her cell phone instructing the order's lawyer to help her volunteer the order's staff and client lists to Detectives Garner and Perelli.

"Excuse me, Vivian, the Archdiocese is calling. They're offering Saint James Cathedral for the funeral."

"The Cathedral? Thank them. Tell them we'll consider it and get back to them."

Nearby, in the cramped office of the townhouse, Sister Monique's eyes widened at the computer monitor when she saw an e-mail with the ".va" extension. The Vatican, she whispered to herself before reading the short message. It was from the cardinal who was secretary of state, who reported directly to the Holy Father on all actions of the Church outside of Rome.

Sister Monique printed the e-mail and hurried from the computer to read it to Sister Vivian: "The cardinal conveys personal condolences from the Supreme Pontiff, who has dispatched an Emissary from the Holy See in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., to represent the Holy Father at the funeral, or for any requirements of the order at this difficult time."

Sister Vivian did not share Sister Monique's awe. As she removed her gla.s.ses to weigh matters, she said, "It appears the boys, who've always been wary of progressive nuns, now want to ride in the slipstream of Sister Anne's good work."

The younger nun's face flushed.

"Monique, surely you're aware that most men in the upper ranks of the old guard want us to remain socially isolated in convents, making jams and candles."

Sister Monique didn't speak and Vivian suddenly cut herself off and waved her hand to silence the subject.

She was exhausted.

The night before, she'd slept on a couch in the living room. Well, she lay there, at least, grieving and looking at Anne's file and photos of her, remembering her friend's overwhelming capacity for forgiveness.

Through the years, they'd worked together in so many places around the world. But when it came to Anne Braxton's family background and her life before she became a nun, Vivian knew nothing. Unfortunately, it was exactly as Detective Garner had said, it was like Anne had "just dropped out of the sky."

It saddened Vivian.

No family to contact. No mother, father, brothers, or sisters. No one listed in her personal file. Nothing. Information on her biography was arriving in small pieces from the missions where she'd served, and the former mother houses in Paris and Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. But nothing that preceded her call to a religious life.

Vivian was trying to locate the nun who'd first advised Anne when she was accepted as a postulant. And there was belief in some circles that the old nun was responsible for screening Anne in Paris, and had retired somewhere in Africa or Canada.

One thing Vivian knew for certain about Anne was that in life she was happiest in her sweats.h.i.+rts and jeans, helping those who felt they were beyond it, offering grace to those who felt undeserving of it.

Anne Braxton would abhor any pomp imposed upon her in death.

"Excuse me, Sister Vivian?" Sister Ruth appeared and pulled her from her thoughts. "What should I tell the Archdiocese? They require an answer. It seems a number of weddings are also taking place in the next few days."

"Tell them no thank you. We'll have her funeral-a celebration of her life-in the shelter she helped found. In the very dining room where she gave so much of herself." Vivian slipped on her gla.s.ses "Let the Vatican's emissary pull up to it in his luxury sedan. Should be a nice juxtaposition for the news cameras."

Vivian tapped the printout of the Vatican e-mail to her chin, returning to her pondering about the old nun who had screened Anne, wondering if she was still alive and considering ways to locate her.

"Where's Denise? Is she done with the room yet? I'd like to lay down for a bit and I've got another job for her."

Upstairs, Sister Denise was alone again and almost finished cleaning Sister Anne's apartment.

Upon making a final inspection, she noticed that some blood had spilled into the hall closet next to the bathroom. A slender thread had meandered along the floor, like a tributary on a map, pointing to a secret destination. Denise freshened her bucket with cold water and ammonia, then used a soft-headed tooth-brush to scrub dried blood from the seams between the floor boards.

That's strange.

The gap between two boards-as thin as the edge of a credit card-had widened ever so slightly. A loose board. It appeared that with the proper manipulation, the board could be completely lifted from the row covering the closet floor.

Curious, Denise found a pair of manicure scissors in the bathroom, opened them, and used a blade to pry the loose board out. Two adjacent boards were also loose. Denise pried them out as well.

Something was under the floor.

Something rectangular.

Denise opened the closet door wider to allow more light on the hole before she reached in to get the mysterious object hidden under the floor.

It was a cardboard box.

Chapter Seventeen.

In the twilight hour before dawn, Grace Garner sat alone in the empty homicide squad room, feeling the crus.h.i.+ng weight of the case on her shoulders.

It increased with every word of the morning's headlines.

The Seattle Times Seattle Times had had NUN'S MURDER CONCERNS VATICAN NUN'S MURDER CONCERNS VATICAN-HOLY SEE ASKS CHIEF FOR UPDATE. While the Post-Intelligencer Post-Intelligencer had had SISTERS PLAN SHELTER SERVICE FOR SLAIN SISTERS PLAN SHELTER SERVICE FOR SLAIN ' 'ANGEL OF MERCY,' and the Seattle Mirror Seattle Mirror had lined had lined POLICE FOCUS ON WEAPON POLICE FOCUS ON WEAPON-A KNIFE FROM NUN'S SHELTER on page one above the fold. on page one above the fold.

Each of the headlines. .h.i.t Grace like a blow to her stomach. After digesting every article, she set the papers aside to work. As she reached for a re-canva.s.s report, her cell phone rang. It was her sergeant.

"It's Stan, you see today's papers yet?"

"Yes."

"The heat's on us to clear this one fast, Grace. My predawn wake-up call came from the chief. He said the commissioner, the mayor, even the governor, have 'expressed deep interest' in Sister Anne's case."

"I'm writing that down."

"Grace."

"And what's their interest in the murder of a seventeen-year-old hooker? Or, a homeless down-and-out loser-"

"Grace."

"This kind of political c.r.a.p sickens me. We go flat out, Stan. We don't need to be told the obvious."

"It's in my job description to tell you the obvious. By the way, we're bringing in detectives from Robbery to help. Case status meeting's at 7:30 A.M. A.M."

After the call, Grace noticed a message that had come last night from Cynthia Fairchild, with the King County Prosecuting Attorney's Office, requesting an update. Came in about midnight. They were leaning on Cindy, too.

The pressure was coming from all fronts.

Grace had a stack of messages and shuffled them into priority. First things first. She brewed herself some fresh coffee, then began working on her candidates for suspects, so far.

The full autopsy report and observations by the King County Medical Examiner's Office on the angle and force of the wound suggested that Sister Anne's killer was strong, likely over six feet tall and weighing more than two hundred pounds. Reviews of the shelter's staff and client lists had, so far, yielded the following subjects who fell into that category: Haines Stenten Smith, Caucasian male, age 37, weight 235 pounds, height six feet, six inches. Recently released from Was.h.i.+ngton Corrections Center after serving time for choking a woman in a Tacoma park. Witnesses said he held a knife to the face of a volunteer at the shelter five months ago but was intoxicated at the time. Smith could not account for his whereabouts the night Sister Anne was murdered.

Louis Justice Topper, African American male, age 33, weight 220 pounds, height six feet, three inches. Recently released from Coyote Ridge. A crack dealer who'd stabbed female crack addicts for nonpayment. Three weeks ago he'd flown into a rage at the shelter and threatened a client with his fists. A friend said Topper had "gone off his medication."

Johnny Lee Frickson, Caucasian male, age 43, weight 280 pounds, height six feet, two inches. A Level 2 s.e.x Offender who'd attacked women aged 4060, in their apartments in Seattle. After undergoing treatment, Frickson qualified for a work-release addiction recovery program. One night, last month, after dessert at the shelter, Frickson lost his temper and shouted threatening gibberish at several nuns. Detectives interviewed him in a downtown flophouse. A neighbor alibied Frickson, placing him in the flophouse that night of the murder. Detectives were seeking more sources on Frickson's alibi.

Ritchie Belmar Brown, Caucasian male, age 52, weight 240 pounds, height six feet, four inches. Brown was recently released from King County Jail. He'd served several months after trying to run down the organ player in the Seattle church parking lot where Brown was a Bible studies instructor. Legal action had bankrupted Brown's struggling taxidermy business. He frequented Sister Anne's shelter, where he began telling anyone who'd listen that the Catholic Church was the cause of his personal troubles. The detectives who'd interviewed Brown strongly recommended they go back on him because he kept changing his account of where he was the night Sister Anne was slain.

Each of them had a connection to Sister Anne. Before their release, she'd visited each of them in jail, as she had visited many prisoners, to offer spiritual guidance.

Each of these men had access to a shelter knife. Each of them was a smoker, which fit with Grace's single witness account.

Still, Grace did not like any of them for the murder. Nothing registered with her. They were all violent, dangerous men, but her instincts had not locked on to any of them.

And these four heroes were not her only potential suspects.

The shelter had people who were not regulars, those who drifted in and out. Sister Anne could have been stalked. And there were also "walk-ins." Strangers who appeared every day, like anonymous ghosts.

Sister Anne also counseled abused women who sought sanctuary. Through these situations, she often came in contact with their vengeful partners. Threats were common in these cases.

Grace faced many possibilities.

She needed solid evidence, a fingerprint that put someone at the crime scene. DNA. A credible witness. Something.

Grace went to her notes and reviewed Sister Anne's last moments. After leaving the shelter, she took the bus. No one indicated if she was alone, or was followed. Grace and Perelli interviewed the bus driver, who'd helped them find his few pa.s.sengers. They were regulars and the driver pinpointed their stops and buildings, too. But it had yielded nothing. No one got off anywhere near Sister Anne's stop.

And the one witness account from Bernice Burnett, who lived next door to the nuns, suggested a stranger had been in Sister Anne's apartment when she arrived-and was a smoker. She recalled him lighting up in the alley when he left.

Grace flipped through other files. It would take time to collect and a.n.a.lyze cigarette b.u.t.ts from the alley to compare with possible DNA from the suspects who could already be legitimately placed in the vicinity of the crime.

That made for a weak case against the four men she was considering so far. All of that evidence would be challenged in court.

Okay, back to square one.

So the guy's in her place like he's looking for something. But what? Nothing's missing. Nuns have nothing; they vow to live a nonmaterialistic life. Maybe that's it? He's a two-bit criminal. Has no idea she's a nun. He's getting p.i.s.sed off that she's got squat to steal. Sister Anne discovers him and boom, he kills her.

There was the tip from a couple of confidential informants that someone had been talking on the street about a gang thing. It was the same line Jason Wade was working on. Some kind of revenge thing, because Sister Anne had helped some banger in trouble. The fact was she helped anyone who needed it. The "gang connection" to the murder was just talk coming from a gangster named Tango whose crew was devoted to the Sister. About five weeks back, she had comforted one of the members who got stabbed outside the shelter by a rival gangster. Sister Anne had called an ambulance and saved his life. Tango just wanted to put the word out that if it was an act by an enemy, his people would exact vengeance.

So far, nothing came of the gang angle.

It might've been a false lead, but it showed how much people loved Sister Anne.

Grace put her head in her hands and took stock of the empty squad room. Perelli and his family smiled at her from the framed photo on his desk. The other detectives had pictures of their kids on their desks, even the divorced dads who lost custody.

No one smiled from a photograph at Grace. Suddenly she felt utterly alone. Everybody had somebody. Everybody belonged to somebody.

It hit Grace that her life was similar to that of the nuns. They had taken a vow to give up any chance of ever getting married, of having children, of growing old with a husband and grandchildren.

But they belonged to the church, worked together doing G.o.d's work. In a sense, Grace worked for G.o.d, too. The G.o.d of Justice. But outside of being a homicide cop, Grace had no life. Even her attempt to find one with the FBI agent ended in disaster.

He was a married lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d.