A Perfect Grave (21 page)

Chapter Forty-Eight

T
he West Pacific Trust Bank on Yesler Way near 23rd Avenue was a small stand-alone branch, built in the 1980s.

It was a one-story structure with concrete columns and tempered-glass walls that captured Henry Wade’s reflection after he’d parked in the lot.

Leon Dean Sperbeck, using the alias Sid Foley, had cashed his welfare check here a few days ago.

Quite a trick for a dead man, Henry thought as he entered the bank. He removed his sunglasses and announced himself to the branch manager, Eloise Sherridan, who’d agreed to a meeting. On the phone with her earlier, Henry had guessed Eloise might be near his age, but in person she looked younger, quite striking in her business suit. Her hand was warm when she shook his.

Eloise closed the door to her neat office.

“So, Mr. Wade, how can I help you? You said you were investigating a security matter, concerning…” She began typing on her keyboard and studied her monitor over her half-frame glasses, “Mr. Sperbeck. The name and information you’d provided concerned a Mr. Leon Dean Sperbeck and a Sid Richard Foley?”

“My client is the insurance firm for a financial institution that suffered a substantial loss several years ago because of Mr. Sperbeck. He was convicted of that crime, which also involved”—Henry paused to clear his throat—“the shooting death of a customer.”

“I see.”

“It was many years ago, but since his recent release, it’s now believed Sperbeck may still profit from that crime. And in the course of my investigation, I’ve learned that he may have recently committed another crime, welfare fraud, cashing a check under the name of Sid Richard Foley.”

“I see. And you say he cashed that check at this branch.” Eloise stared at her monitor.

“Here’s his picture. I’d like to confirm by visual ID if he in fact was the person who cashed the check here.”

Henry showed Eloise the Department of Corrections photograph of Sperbeck, hoping the psychological effect of a prison photo would help him navigate through the bank’s privacy policies.

As Eloise looked at it, Henry nudged her by emphasizing the key facts.

“As I’d mentioned, he was recently released from prison, where he served time for his role in the murder of an innocent bank customer during an armed robbery.”

“And you’d like to confirm if he cashed the check for $346.23 three days ago?”

Henry nodded.

“And this concerns a security matter with another financial institution?”

Henry nodded.

“One moment.” Eloise stepped from the office, leaving Henry with a hint of lilac in the air before she returned a few minutes later. “Madeline was the teller who handled the check, but she’s off today. We’re going to run our surveillance recording from that time. I’ve asked Tim Baker, my assistant manager, to get it for us. It’ll only take a moment. We’ll run it here. It’s on a CD.” She smiled.

Henry smiled, but his stomach was tensing, dreading what was surely coming. Several moments later a young man in a suit presented a CD to Eloise.

“It’s on here, El, go to 3457. That coincides with the transaction time.”

“Thanks, Tim.” Eloise slid the CD into her computer and it began downloading. “All counter transactions are synchronized with our cameras. We’ll get a look at him from several angles.” She typed in a few commands. “Please, come around and see.”

Henry went around Eloise’s desk. Her large monitor displayed several frames of the man at the counter and Henry’s gut twisted.

“It’s him.”

“That was easy, Mr. Wade. Is that it? Do you want color printouts?”

“Yes. Thanks. And, please, this is the address I have for him. Can you confirm it?”

Henry pulled a page from his briefcase and placed it before her. Eloise consulted it, then double-checked her computer files. “That seems outdated,” she said. “He must have moved recently; we have a different one for him. I’ll print it out for you.”

When the printing finished, Eloise gathered the pages into a plain folder for Henry, who slid them into his case.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You know, when I was a teller I experienced several armed robberies. That’s why I decided to help you. That, and the fact that you strike me as a trustworthy man who’ll keep our business here confidential.”

“That’s the private part of my job,” he said.

Henry’s pickup was in the far corner of the lot sheltered under the shade of a tall tree. He got into the cab, but did not turn the key. His breathing quickened.

It was real now.

Sperbeck was free.

Sperbeck had faked his death. Christ, what’s he up to?

Henry stared at his files. At Sperbeck’s face. At the new address. It was all here in this folder. God, he ached for a drink. He licked his lips and in one motion reached under the passenger seat, felt the brown paper bag, and heard the liquid swish as he set it on his lap.

Whiskey.

Purchased last night.

Without unwrapping the bag, he gripped the bottle with both hands. Felt the hard glass. He held it against his chin, swore he could smell the healing quality of alcohol as he imagined that first hot swallow flowing down his throat.

This was not the answer.

He put the bag back under the seat and his arm nudged against his gun, holstered under his jacket.

He was licensed to end a life. Licensed to kill another human being.

He hated it.

Hated it.

Henry inhaled deeply. His hands were shaking and he gripped the wheel.

Twenty-five years and now Sperbeck was this close again.

It was time Henry Wade put it all to rest. He had to face this head-on. He had to face it sober. If he failed, he would die.

He thought of his son. He needed help.

Jay.

He started his engine and eased out of the lot, unaware that down the street, half a block away, someone was watching him.

Awaiting his next move.

Chapter Forty-Nine

O
ne million dollars.

Was it a factor in her murder?

As Jason’s plane began its descent for Seattle, he took a hit of coffee and scrolled through his story. He’d started working on it last night in his motel room after leaving Sister Marie’s cabin. He wrote until midnight before catching an early morning return flight, writing more as the Canadian Rockies glided under him.

At first he didn’t think the money could be linked to Sister Anne’s murder. It was so long ago. But as he started building his article, he reexamined key aspects.

Maybe it was all right here before his eyes.

First, there were Sister Anne’s own words in her journal. He reread what she’d written in the final days of her life. It was as though she were anticipating a conflict, an accounting, something: “Can I ever be forgiven for what I did, for the pain I caused?” then, “I deeply regret the mistakes I have made and will accept your judgment of me.”

These anguished entries appear to have been made
after
Sister Anne’s encounter with the stranger at the shelter, the one John Cooper had told him about. Jason put it into context, into a simple time line: A stranger at the shelter confronts her, upsets her about something, then she secretly begs God’s forgiveness for mistakes made in her life—
then appears to embrace judgment.

And the murder weapon came from the shelter.

Mistakes from her past.

“…the pain I caused…”

She donates more than a million dollars to the order.
From a Swiss bank.

To assuage the guilt of her parents’ deaths?

Or something else?

Jason heard the hydraulic groan of the landing gear locking and metropolitan Seattle wheeled below. He closed his laptop, raised his tray, then rushed through a mental checklist of what he had to do on the ground.

After landing, Jason took a cab directly to the
Mirror.

On the way, he called the news desk to alert them to the exclusive story he’d be filing today. Then he called Kelly Swan, the news librarian.

“Kel, I need an all-out shotgun search now on two people.”

“You’re back in town already? Hang on, cowboy,”

Kelly was at her computer and began closing files. “Okay, fire away.”

“Their names are Sherman Braxton and Etta Braxton of Cleveland, Ohio.” He provided the spellings. “Sherman was a banker. They died together some thirty-odd years ago in a car accident in Switzerland, near Geneva. I need everything we can get on them. Obits, old clips.”

Kelly was jotting notes.

“What are you looking for?”

“Every word, utterance, record that concerns them, anything. Everything.”

“I’ve got a friend in the library at the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
and I’ll call Mavis, our genealogical contractor. We’ll comb the city directories, the public library, municipal records, voter lists, court records, wills, etcetera. A lot of stuff is on CD now, so we should be able to get data flowing pretty fast.”

“Good, I also need you to confirm and locate St. Ursula Savary College.” He spelled it. “It’s a private Swiss boarding school near Montreux, or Lausanne. If you find it, I know there’s a time-zone challenge, but get them to check records, albums, alumni clubs, anything to confirm the registration of an American student named Anne Braxton, of Cleveland, Ohio, for the same period, some thirty years back, give or take.”

“But we did a big search for Anne Braxton when she was murdered and found nothing about her.”

“I know, Kel, just search this new information, please.”

“How soon do you need this?”

“I need it now.”

Chapter Fifty

T
hey were getting closer.

Grace Garner stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork. Eating her salad quickly at her desk, she checked the time, wishing her phone would ring as she reevaluated the facts before her upcoming case status meeting.

Kay Cataldo’s discovery had given her a solid break.

The physical evidence told them that Sharla May Forrest and Sister Anne Braxton’s killer wore size-11 tennis shoes issued by the Washington Department of Corrections. Everything pointed to an ex-con. Maybe one who was recently released, or had violated custody.

They had ruled out Cooper. And after talking with Roberto Martell, Grace and Perelli canvassed the bar where Martell said the suspect had encountered Sharla May. Martell’s story held up, according to a waitress and a bartender.

Grace and Perelli then went back to the shelter to interview John Cooper again. A picture was emerging. The suspect was a white male in his forties with a muscular build and a tattoo on his neck. And considering the knife used to kill Sister Anne came from the shelter, where Cooper had witnessed him upsetting her, the killer had to have had some connection to the nun.

Was he someone she’d counseled in prison? Or a nut job out of control?

The answer was somewhere with the Department of Corrections. How long had it been since she’d requested the DOC’s help?

Too long.

Grace checked the time before her meeting. Perelli was in the records room gathering summaries of cold cases to support a theory he was developing. Grace stared at her phone, hoping against the odds that the DOC had some way of helping them zero in on her guy, or develop a suspect list.

Why haven’t they called back yet? This was not good.

She jabbed another tomato and grappled with another problem.

Jason Wade.

His messages seemed almost desperate. Where had he been? They hadn’t spoken in a long time. She had to take some of the blame. She had to admit that she liked him. A lot. They were both loners. They both felt like outcasts. They were right for each other. But she’d hurt him and in the process got hurt herself.
What goes around, comes around, kiddo
, she told herself. Maybe when all this was over she would talk to him. Really talk to him. Maybe they could give it another shot? For now she focused on her case.

Grace finished her salad and started making notes when her line rang.

“Homicide, Garner.”

“Steve Scannell, with the DOC in Olympia.”

“Did you get anything?”

“You’re asking us to find a needle in a haystack. I’ve had my people go at your request five ways to Sunday and we can’t pinpoint things the way you’d like.” Scannell was high up the command chain of the DOC’s Prisons Division.

“What can you tell us so far?”

“Sister Anne’s order has been very active with our religious and spiritual programs for years.”

“That should help.”

“It helps complicate things.”

“Well, can you give us a list of all the prisoners she’s visited?”

Scannell sighed.

“It doesn’t work that way. In some cases she had one- on-ones, in others she was with a spiritual group providing services to a prisoner group.”

“Well, can I get a list of names?”

“Detective Garner, we have fifteen institutions and fifteen work releases. We’re talking a prison population of some seventeen thousand statewide. Over the years the Order has visited every facility. In some cases, several times. In some cases, there are sign-up logs, in some cases, like when they addressed groups, no sign-up was required.”

Grace tapped her pen and thought.

“Let’s try this, Steve. We know we’re looking for someone who’s been out for at least three months. He’s a male, white, has a tattoo on his neck, and wears a size- 11 tennis shoe, approximately six feet tall, muscular build.”

“That’s too general. Do you have a specific release date?”

“No.”

“Type of release?”

“No.”

“Do you know his offense, or length of sentence?”

“No.”

“Do you by chance have an offender classification, or institution?”

“No.”

“Then, I’m afraid that’s way too general.”

“Couldn’t you run a program or search?”

“Grace, listen to what I’m telling you. Every month we average anywhere from fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred releases of all types. Across the state we have nearly forty-three thousand offenders under field supervision, nearly eleven thousand in King County alone.”

“I get it. Needle in a haystack.”

“Give us something specific and we can lock onto this guy in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, I’ve got all of my senior custody staff going full bore on this, getting my captains to check with their lieutenants, their CCOs, and Correctional Unit Supervisors.”

“I appreciate that.”

“If we find something, you’ll be the first to know.”