A Perfect Grave Part 2

Stop it, Grace! Stop this "poor me" garbage!

Pa.s.sing headlights stabbed at her for being selfish, hurling case images at her. Of Sharla May Forrest, a runaway not-yet-out-of-little-girlhood who was addicted to crack but kept a stuffed teddy bear on her bed and signed birthday cards to friends with happy faces. Of Sharla May's naked corpse in the urine, vomit, and dog s.h.i.+t alley, with a metal hanger garrotted around her neck, twisted at the back with a lead pipe so tight it nearly decapitated her.

And of Isabella Martell lying about Roberto while Jesus watched.

And of Special Lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d Lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d Agent Drew Wagner at the mall with his wife and kids. And of Grace Garner alone with her unsolved murders, trying to get a handle on it all as someone was speaking her name. Agent Drew Wagner at the mall with his wife and kids. And of Grace Garner alone with her unsolved murders, trying to get a handle on it all as someone was speaking her name.

"Grace. Grace," Perelli nudged her, holding out his cell phone, "It's Stan, he says your phone's dead."

"Garner."

"It's Boulder. We got a fresh one and you're the primary."

"Cripes, Stan, we got our hands full with the Forrest case. Can't Marty and Stallworth take it?"

"It's yours. Take down the address, it's near Yesler Terrace."

Grace pursed her lips as she jotted down the information.

"Who's the vic?"

"Anne Braxton. This will get profile. Big time."

"Why?"

"She's a nun, murdered in her residence."

Chapter Four.

Jason Wade grabbed a portable scanner and took the stairs to the parking lot, hating his situation.

He couldn't miss a story and he couldn't turn his back on his father. His old man was fresh at war with a ghost that had been stalking him for years, but he'd refused to talk about it.

Ever.

Even as it destroyed the things he loved, he would not open up to anyone. Even when it threatened to drag Jason down with him. Like tonight, man, he had to be careful. Whenever his father was seized by his demon, he reached out to Jason to rescue him.

Jason was all he had.

The cry of a gull and lonely horn of a distant boat echoed from the bay as he approached his 1969 Ford Falcon. He'd finally gotten around to getting it painted metallic red and it reflected the city lights as he wheeled through the streets. A few blocks east, the s.p.a.ce Needle ascended into the night, while south, the city's tallest buildings, Union Square, Was.h.i.+ngton Mutual, and the Columbia Center dominated the skyline. Pike Place Market was near and a little farther, Pioneer Square.

Welcome to Seattle, baby.

Jet City. The Emerald City. Gatesville. Amazonia. Java Town.

The place where Jimi Hendrix learned to play guitar.

Rolling south near the stadiums he cast a glance in the direction of First Hill and Yesler Terrace and considered a detour. To where, though? He had no specific address to check out. He wasn't even certain anything was happening out there.

Cover yourself, man.

He called the East Precinct again. Voice mail again. He left a message. Then he alerted the editorial a.s.sistant at the paper to call him if he heard anything. He set his phone on vibrate, then slid Layla Layla into his CD player. He was a disciple of cla.s.sic rock and loved how Clapton's genius blended with the scanner's dispatches in an eerie mix against the night. He gathered speed as the song played and returned to his old man's situation. into his CD player. He was a disciple of cla.s.sic rock and loved how Clapton's genius blended with the scanner's dispatches in an eerie mix against the night. He gathered speed as the song played and returned to his old man's situation.

Henry Wade was a private investigator, an exbrewery worker, and an ex-Seattle cop. And for as long as Jason could remember, his father would not, or could not, ever bring himself to talk about the incident that had forced him off the Seattle PD and into a job at the brewery, where each day the thermos in his lunch bucket had been spiked with bourbon.

Whatever it was that he was trying to drown had ultimately cost him his marriage. Jason's mother had worked beside his father on the bottling line but eventually she walked out on both of them. She just couldn't take it any longer, she said in her note. The night before she left, she'd hugged Jason and her eyes looked as if she were dreading something on the horizon. In the days after, Jason rode his bicycle all over the neighborhood searching for her until his old man told him she was gone.

"But don't you worry, Jay, she'll come back, you'll see."

The scanner crackled with a warehouse alarm.

Nothing to it. He adjusted the channels, then looked toward the bay as he guided his Falcon south until the brewery loomed. Man, he hated that place with its dark cl.u.s.ter of brick buildings, its stacks capped with red strobe lights spearing the night, the stench of hops permeating his car, reminding him of the worst days of his life.

His mother never returned and his old man's drinking never stopped.

Over time, it had pushed everything to the breaking point. It came just two years ago when his dad showed up drunk in the newsroom looking for him. The humiliation and shame of that night nearly cost Jason his job at the Mirror. Mirror.

A job he'd shed blood to win.

But it also got his old man to admit that he had a problem.

He quit drinking and got counseling.

Nearly two years sober now and he was doing well, emerging from his self-imposed tomb a stronger man. Jason had reminded him that for a brief time in his life, he'd been a Seattle cop, a good one, and that he should do something about it.

He did.

First, he took early retirement from the brewery. Then enrolled in a few courses. He'd become a licensed private investigator with an agency run by an old cop buddy. He did well on his cases, even helped Jason out on a few news stories. His old man finally had it all under control. That's right, Jason thought, looking at the brewery fading in his rearview mirror, he was convinced they'd put all this c.r.a.p behind them.

But here he was driving to another bar to rescue his father.

Risking everything he'd worked so hard to achieve.

It played out before him as he came upon the bluecollar neighborhood where he grew up, in the south, between Highway 509 and the west bank of the Duwamish River, not far from the s.h.i.+pyards and Boeing Field. It was here, ever since his mother had read him bedtime stories, that he'd dreamed of being a writer and had decided that being a reporter would give him a front-row seat to life's daily dramas. He studied them every morning on his first job in the business, delivering the Seattle Mirror. Seattle Mirror.

Reading about other people's problems helped Jason forget his own.

He had tried to comprehend how his mother could just leave. As years pa.s.sed, his grades plunged, his writing dream slipped away, and his father got him a job driving a forklift at the Pacific Peaks Brewery. They would rise at dawn, climb into his dad's pickup, and drive to the concentration of filthy brick buildings. For Jason it was a gate to h.e.l.l and he vowed to pull himself out of it before he became a ghost, like his old man.

So, between loading trucks with beer, he read cla.s.sic literature, saved his money, went to night school, improved his grades, enrolled in community college, and worked weekends at the brewery. He also got his own apartment, wrote for the campus paper, and freelanced news features to Seattle's big dailies.

One of his stories, a feature on Seattle beat cops, had caught the eye of a Seattle Mirror Seattle Mirror editor, who gave Jason the last spot in the intern program after another candidate had bailed. editor, who gave Jason the last spot in the intern program after another candidate had bailed.

It was Jason's shot at realizing his dream.

The Mirror Mirror's interns.h.i.+p program was notorious. Jason had to compete with five other young reporters, each of them from big journalism schools. And each of them had news experience as interns at places like The New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times, and and Wall Street Journal. Wall Street Journal. They all went full tilt in a do-or-die compet.i.tion for the one They all went full tilt in a do-or-die compet.i.tion for the one Mirror Mirror job that came at the end. After Jason had put everything on the line and broke a major exclusive, the job that came at the end. After Jason had put everything on the line and broke a major exclusive, the Mirror Mirror awarded him a full-time staff reporter position. awarded him a full-time staff reporter position.

It was all in jeopardy now because of the screwup over Brian Pillar and whatever awaited inside the bowels of the Ice House Bar.

Jason parked in the littered lot next to a burned-out Pacer, rotting there in the far corner where drug deals were closed and bladders relieved. He made another round of calls, left messages, and checked the scanner before switching it off. Nothing was popping on the air, yet he couldn't put aside his nagging feeling that something was going on up in Yesler Terrace.

The bar smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, sweat, and regret. A mournful honky-tonk song spilled from the jukebox; the wooden floor was littered with peanut sh.e.l.ls and pull tabs. An a.s.sortment of losers populated the place. Two broken-down old-timers were at the bar. One was missing an arm, and in the glow of the neon beer signs above the bar, Jason noticed that the other had a patch over his eye.

Farther back, under the glow of lowered white lights, there was a pool table and a game in progress between a gap-toothed woman whose T-s.h.i.+rt strained the words DON'T TALK TO ME DON'T TALK TO ME across her chest, and a tall slender man, whose arms were sleeved in tattoos. Beyond the game, six high-back booths lined the walls. All were empty except the one where Jason's father was sitting. across her chest, and a tall slender man, whose arms were sleeved in tattoos. Beyond the game, six high-back booths lined the walls. All were empty except the one where Jason's father was sitting.

Alone, except for a gla.s.s filled with beer on the table before him.

It appeared untouched.

Henry Wade looked up from it to his son, who stood before him.

"You drink anything tonight, Dad?"

His old man shook his head.

Encouraged, Jason sat across from him in the booth, nodding to the white rag wrapped around his father's right hand.

"What happened?"

"Changing the blade in my utility knife to replace a bathroom tile."

"This is why you had the bar call me? Dad, I'm working now."

His father rubbed his temples as if to soothe something far more disturbing than a household mishap.

"Jay, you have to help me, son, I don't know what to do here."

Jason squirmed in his seat, then held up his finger.

"Hang on, it's my phone. I gotta take this." Jason fished through the front pocket of his jeans. "Dad, whatever you've got going on, I want you to go home just as soon as I-Wade-Seattle Mirror."

"Yeah, Wade-it's Grimshaw at the East Precinct. Got your d.a.m.n messages."

"What's up near Yesler?"

"Report of a homicide."

"A homicide? Anything to it?"

"Something about a nun."

"A nun? Can you give me an address?"

"Let me see." Jason heard keyboard keys clicking, then the cop recited the location and Jason wrote it down in his notebook.

"Anybody else in the media calling you on this?"

"Not yet. We're just getting people out there."

"Thanks," Jason hung up. "Dad, I have to go, now. It was good that you called me and didn't drink. Now, I'm getting you home. We'll talk later. I have to go."

Chapter Five.

Jason got his old man into a cab and sent him home.

It was good that he'd called, good that he didn't drink and that he was trying to open up, but they'd have to talk later. Jason had his hands full with a story.

He laid rubber pulling his Falcon from the Ice House Bar and the neighborhood rushed by with his fears. Man, everything was at stake because after his dad and his job at the Mirror Mirror, what did he have in his life?

Seriously.

He had squat.

After things had ended with Valerie, he'd started up with Grace Garner and it was going great. Until she broke it off, saying that their jobs complicated things. That was a head-shaker. He thought they'd connected. He thought they had something real happening until-wham-she breaks it off.

He didn't get it.

Then he'd heard she was with some FBI guy. That was months ago. Jason hadn't seen her since and, if fate was kind, he wouldn't see her tonight. Picking through his CDs he played a live cut of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song," from the BBC Sessions BBC Sessions, letting its ferocity pound Grace out of his mind as he ups.h.i.+fted to the murder.

A nun.

Everyone would be all over this one. He had to get on top of it, had to concentrate on the story.

As he drove, he alerted the night news a.s.sistant to wake up the on-duty night photographer and get him to the scene. Then he tried in vain to reach the East Precinct sergeant for any new info, while gleaning whatever he could from his portable scanner. But he wasn't hearing much. Wheeling through the fringes of Yesler Terrace, he glanced up at the glittering condos of First Hill, soaring over the public housing projects.

This was not the crime scene.

He went farther, coming upon a tangle of marked cars, radios crackling, emergency lights was.h.i.+ng a group of well-kept town houses in red.

Blood red.

Yellow crime-scene tape protected the yard of one of them. The place of death. The place of death. People stood at the tape, craning their necks; others watched from their windows, balconies, and doorsteps as a uniformed officer waved Jason's Falcon away from the building. People stood at the tape, craning their necks; others watched from their windows, balconies, and doorsteps as a uniformed officer waved Jason's Falcon away from the building.

"Can't stop here, pal."

Jason showed him his press ID.