by Rick Mofina
This was the one.
Cataldo examined the crime-scene pictures. There was Sharla May, the runaway, naked on the ground in a back alley with a metal hanger garrotted around her neck. She was so young. It broke Cataldo’s heart. There was the Dumpster, the trash, and the semidry mud puddle that had captured a partial right shoe impression.
Here we go.
She called up the cast and the image filled her computer monitor. Very familiar. This is looking very familiar. She called up the file notes, read through them, then called up the image of the shoe impression.
“Hold on,” Cataldo told herself.
She loaded her computer with shoe files from Sister Anne’s homicide, including the work Chuck DePew had done over at the Washington State Patrol’s Crime Lab. She called up the images of the shoe impressions, then split the screen of her computer monitor.
How in the world did she overlook this?
Biting her bottom lip, she aligned the photograph from the hooker murder with the sharpest image of the right shoe impression from the nun murder, so that they were in identical scale and attitude.
Cataldo transposed one over the other and set out to look for comparisons.
“Oh boy.”
The wear, edges, channeling, the waffle pattern, right down to the fifth ridge with the nice little “X” cut, aligned perfectly.
Cataldo reached for her phone to alert Grace Garner.
They had a multiple murder suspect.
Grace was at her desk at the homicide unit, mining her notes on Cooper’s account of the stranger at the shelter.
She was panning for details, anything to aid the Washington Department of Corrections in its search for a con who could fit Cooper’s scenario. Trouble was, Cooper’s description was just too vague.
Once Perelli clocked in, they were going down to the shelter to recanvass the breakfast crowd. Grace turned to her notes and reports on Sister Anne’s work as counselor at prisons and women’s shelters.
Damn. The DOC was supposed to get back to her on the prisons Sister Anne had visited and the names of offenders she’d counseled. It ticked Grace off that they had not gotten back to her yet. She would get on their case, she told herself as her line rang.
“Garner, Homicide.”
“It’s Kay at the lab. Are you sitting down?”
“I’m sitting down.”
“Our nun killer also did Sharla May Forrest.”
“What?”
“Shoe impressions match at both scenes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“But we already looked at Roberto Martell.” “Better look again. He’s an ex-con.”
Within minutes of Cataldo’s call to Grace, a Seattle police emergency dispatcher issued a citywide silent alert to mobile display terminals for Roberto Martell. A couple of days ago, Grace had merely wanted to question Roberto about Sharla May Forrest’s murder. Now, the twenty-six-year-old drug-dealing pimp was a suspect in two first-degree homicides.
He was Seattle’s most wanted man.
The alert with his physical description and details on his Chrysler and tag were also quietly circulated to every law enforcement agency in King County and the state. At the time it came up, Seattle police officers Dimitri Franz and Dale Gannon were inside a 7-Eleven getting fresh coffee and sugar donuts.
They were unaware of the bulletin when their attention was seized by the screech of rubber in the parking lot and the doom-boom of a car stereo playing at an illegal level. It had interrupted Officer Franz’s story about his fishing trip to Montana and disturbed Officer Gannon’s enjoyment of a quiet morning.
A gum-chewing girl in her late teens, wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing, unless you counted her thigh-high spike boots and micro mini, strode into the store looking for mouthwash.
Dimitri exchanged a look with Franz, nodding to the girl’s man, waiting in the lot behind the wheel of a Chrysler. The exhausted driver’s head was thrown back to the headrest. His eyes were closed. He was too tired or too stupid to realize he’d rolled up alongside a marked Seattle police car.
Obviously the girl and her man had been working it all night.
While the music assaulted the air, Franz had slipped into the patrol car and typed into the small computer keyboard to query the Chrysler’s tag. His eyebrows climbed a titch when it came back and he saw what they had.
“Oh, my.” He pivoted the terminal so his partner could see.
The two cops set their coffees down gently.
Murder suspect Roberto Martell felt the barrel of a police pistol against his head and opened his eyes to see a second pistol leveled at him. He was arrested without incident, except for the sound of a bottle of mouthwash hitting the pavement.
Roberto’s girlfriend had not expected her night to end like this.
Less than an hour later, Perelli folded his arms and looked hard at the man sitting across from him and Grace Garner at the table in the homicide squad’s interview room.
“Don’t lie to us, Roberto,” Grace said. “You were the last to see Sharla May alive.”
“No.” The chains around Roberto’s neck chinked as he shook his head. “Your information is incorrect. The last person to see her alive would be the person who killed her. I swear the truth to you on this.”
“What size shoes do you wear?” Perelli asked.
“What? What size? Why?”
“Give me your right shoe.”
Roberto looked at Perelli, then at Grace, who nodded.
“I do this, then you let me go?”
“Just give it to me.”
Roberto put his sneaker on the table.
“Size eight.” Perelli and Grace exchanged a look. No way could Roberto be the killer. Perelli passed it back. “Man, you’ve got very small, stinkin’ feet, Roberto.”
“People saw you arguing with Sharla May,” Grace said.
“Yes, sure, I’m going to tell you what happened.” Roberto slipped his foot back into his shoe. “She owed me two large for her habit.”
Grace made notes.
“I was getting angry with her. I’m not her banker, I’m her agent.”
“Her agent?”
“She had talent and I introduced her to talent scouts.”
“You were her pimp and you beat her,” Perelli said.
Roberto held up his hands and appeared offended.
“Okay”-Grace shook her head-“you’re her agent.”
“In a business sense. And she owed me and, yes, I make my point that she has to pay me.”
“You make your point?”
“She brought it on herself. But I can understand how people in the community might misinterpret things, give you incorrect information, make you think I killed her.”
“You don’t seem too choked up about losing her.”
“I’ve come to terms with my pain in my own way.”
Perelli had to restrain himself from drilling his fist into Roberto’s head.
“So who was her trick, uh, the last talent scout?” Grace asked.
“I set her up with some guy I met around the ID, at a bar. The Black Jet Bar.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know, two, three months ago, like before you found her dead.”
“You have a name on this guy?”
Roberto shook his head.
“What did this guy look like?”
“White guy, forties.”
“Height? Facial hair?”
“About six feet. He was clean-shaven as I recall.”
“His build?”
“Good. Average, but muscular, like he worked out. He was an ex-con.”
Grace and Perelli maintained poker faces.
“How do you know he did time?”
“You’re forgetting that I was unjustly incarcerated due to the lies a slut told the prosecuting attorney.”
“Was her broken jaw also a lie?” Perelli said.
“You want to know about the las
t man to see Sharla, or do you want to call me a lawyer?”
“Go ahead.”
“I got that he’d been inside for a stretch from our little conversation. He was having a beer by himself, looked kind of depressed. I said he’d feel better if he met someone like Sharla May, someone with talent, and that I could set him up.”
“Where did this guy live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where did he work?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was he in for?”
Roberto shrugged. “We didn’t become soul mates. I just pointed to Sharla May, who was picking songs on the jukebox, doing that little sexy dance she always did, and that sealed the deal. I could see him come alive, once he set eyes on her talent.”
“You’re a fine slab of humanity, Roberto,” Perelli said.
Roberto nodded. “I help girls in trouble.”
“Sure, you do,” Perelli said. “You’re just like the nuns at the shelter.”
Grace defused the tension with a question.
“Where did this guy do his time?”
“It was not a subject of conversation.”
“Did he have any tattoos?”
“Maybe, on his neck.”
“What was it, do you remember?”
“I don’t recall, just that maybe he had something on his neck.”
Grace threw an over-the-shoulder glance to the one-way glass and Stan Boulder, who was on the other side.
This may have brought them one step closer to the killer.
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, writ
ing 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.”
