A Perfect Grave by Rick Mofina Page A

in the Rain,” he reflected on his competition’s stories, finding some comfort in the fact nobody— nobody so far —had the angle that the homicide may be linked directly to something in the nun’s past.
    Whoever she was. Sister Florence. Sister Anne. Was his angle dead now?
    Where would he take the story from here? He had to get a handle on it. But how? As he searched Seattle’s skyline for answers, he remembered something important.
    His old man.
    Jason seized his cell phone, called his father but got his machine.
    “It’s me, I’m sorry, I’m jammed up with the story on the nun’s murder. I want to talk about what’s troubling you. Hang in there, okay?”
    The metro editor’s office was empty when Jason got to the newsroom, so he headed straight to his own desk and began working the phones, relieved when he connected with a trusted sergeant he knew.
    “Man, I need help,” Jason said, “Is Florence Roy the victim?”
    “No. And this bull that’s getting around about it is causing us grief. Good thing you held off, Wade, or you’d be off my Christmas card list.”
    “Great, I’m thrilled, can you tell me—wait, hold on, that’s my cell. Got to take it.”
    Answering the call, Jason saw Eldon Reep far across the newsroom, emerging from a news meeting an unhappy man.
    “Jason it’s Grace returning your calls—all six of them.”
    “Thanks, I’ve got a lot of questions.”
    “You’ve got about thirty seconds.”
    “Who’s Florence Roy?”
    Grace took a moment to decide on the shape of the conversation, knowing that Jason often received information that could help, or hurt, an investigation. It was a delicate dance. “I’m off the record, got it,” she said.
    “Anything I use, I’ll put to ‘sources.’”
    “Fine.”
    “Who’s Florence?”
    “She’s the nun who found the victim. Some loudmouth TV reporter had called into the town house, got Florence’s name from a distraught nun, got confused—got the story wrong—and now we have this mess. We’re going to issue a statement clarifying things after the preliminary autopsy’s done and ID’s confirmed.”
    “When?”
    “Should be later today.”
    “So is it Anne Braxton?”
    “Don’t publish Sister Braxton’s name yet, Jason, until we put it out. But yes, you’ve got it right. The victim is Anne Louise Braxton.”
    “Have you notified her family yet? I’m going to start talking to people about her.”
    “We’re sorting that out today with the sisters. Go ahead, but stay low-key.”
    “What was the last thing Sister Anne did before arriving at her apartment last night?”
    “She’d worked at the shelter overseeing meals for street people. We’re canvassing there and the driver of her bus route. You could put out that we’re looking for people who took that bus. I’ll text you the route and time.”
    Jason saw Reep standing at the doorway to his office.
    “Wade! Get in my office, now!”
    Jason held up his hand, indicating that he was nearly done on the phone.
    “Grace, do you have any suspects?”
    “I’ve got to go, Jason.”
    “Me, too, but you do have a weapon—a knife, right?”
    “I can’t talk about those things. I’m getting another call.”
    “What about a link to her past? I’ve heard this is tied to something in her past. Maybe even gang related, something about payback?”
    “We’re hearing a lot of rumors. It’s too soon to rule anything in or out. Sorry, I have to go.”
    When the call ended, Jason buried his face in his hands, thinking that at least he had something to build on. Then his office line rang.
    “You’ve got five seconds to haul your ass in here!” Reep said.
    One wall in Eldon Reep’s office was a theme park of “damn-I’m-good” displays of framed photographs and front pages. Jason stood before Reep’s desk. Reep glared at him, then held a quarter-inch of air between his right thumb and forefinger before his eyes.
    “I’m this close to suspending you,