Cold Winter Rain (4 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Tuesday, January 24

By midnight the rain had slowed to a drizzle.  The streets of the city were wet, and in the weak light from the streetlights three stories down from my hotel room, they looked almost clean.

I took the little bronze Buddha out of my suitcase and placed it on the nightstand, lit a stick of incense, unrolled my zabuton, placed my bolster in the center, and just sat, astride the bolster in seiza posture, for fifteen minutes.  Thoughts came, and I acknowledged them, then allowed them to float away.

For a year after the accident, when I meditated, all the images and thoughts floating up to consciousness were of Anna or David, their faces, a phrase, how they moved and breathed; or sometimes of twisted metal and smoking airbags.  Then an occasional thought of work or chores or a conversation with someone else would come.  By now the mix of images and thoughts approached fifty-fifty.

I rolled off the bolster, stretched my stiff legs, then tossed the bolster and the mat onto a chair and went to bed.

At two in the morning, my cell phone rang.  I was in that half-sleep when dreams begin, and I lay still for a moment to let the jangle of the bell clear my head.

I answered on the sixth ring.

“
Slate,” the caller said.

“
Yeah,” I said.

“
It’s Grubbs.  Not asleep, were you?”

“
Of course not.  I was evaluating my investment strategy for the transition to the renminbi as the world’s reserve currency.”

Leon Grubbs’s little sister Tasha had worked for me at my old law firm as a paralegal in the early nineties.  From eighty-three to eighty-five Grubbs had started at weakside linebacker at Grambling and made second-team All-Southern conference three consecutive times.

Grubbs had also majored in criminal justice and made academic All-American twice.

I knew a couple of people who’d seen Grubbs play football.  Running backs didn’t get to Grubbs’ corner, and he didn’t need support from the defensive backs.  When Grubbs hit a ball carrier, the guy stayed hit.

Back home after school, Grubbs made one of the highest scores ever recorded on the Birmingham police entrance exam and rose up the ranks like an ebony rocket.

Eighteen months ago he’d made captain and the same day got appointed to his dream job, at least until he made chief – Deputy Chief of the Investigative Operations Bureau of the Birmingham Police Department.  Chief of Detectives.

Middle-of-the-night calls from Leon Grubbs were not likely to convey good news.  “What’s up?” I said.

“
You and me.  I’m down in the railroad yard.  Morris Avenue and Twenty-First.  Not far from your hotel.”

In the background I heard static from what could only be a police radio approach closer to Grubbs and his cell phone, then Grubbs’ muffled voice mingled with more radio static and the voice of another man.

“Just a second,” Grubbs said.  The line went silent while I wondered how Grubbs knew I was in town.

When he came back on the line, he seemed to have heard my thought.

“Yeah, I know where you are.  Get your butt down here now.  I’ve got a murder victim in an expensive suit.  He’s carrying one of your business cards in his shirt pocket.”

I told Grubbs I’d get there when I could, went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and rubbed the skin hard with a clean white towel.

I pulled on a red Marines sweatshirt and a rain suit with a hood, strapped on the Glock, and walked the six plus blocks in the cold rain down to the rail yards that divided the north side of Birmingham from the south side.

Most Birmingham citizens would have advised against that walk, but cold rain keeps the gangs indoors too.  I could have driven the Taurus, but the walk in the cold wet air slowed my arrival, helped me think, and, mostly, woke me up.

Down past Morris Avenue between Twenty-first and Twenty-second Street North, a dozen cops moved slowly over and across the tracks, surrounded by four black-and-white units with blue lights turning, too bright in the semi-darkness of the city night, and one ambulance, the attendants sitting in the front seat out of the rain while the police did their work.

Grubbs was chewing on a wet cigar and talking to another detective and a couple of uniforms, their hats wrapped in plastic.

Grubbs finished with the uniforms before he cocked his head toward me and gestured with the cigar.  “Come over here,” he said.

I followed him across three railroad tracks, the wet iron rails glistening in the artificial light.

Grubbs was just over six feet, and even now, just shy of fifty, the shoulders and waist made a V.  He looked like he could still shed the defensive end and nail the tailback.

But this was no night for games.  A dark plastic tarp covered a shape that was unmistakably a body.

Grubbs motioned with his thumb.  I bent over the tarp and lifted a corner near what appeared to be the head.

Kramer was on his back.  The hair was soaking wet and plastered against the scalp.  There was blood on the back of the head and a deep bruise on the left side of the face.

Raindrops fell steadily into the open sightless eyes, but the dead man didn’t blink.

“
Looks like a nine-millimeter in the back of the head,” Grubbs said.  “Know him?”

I eased the tarp back over the face and stood up.  “His name was Kramer.  Donald R. Kramer.  He’s -- he was a lawyer here in Birmingham.”

“Any idea why he was carrying your card?”

I shook my head.  “Lots of lawyers have my cards.”

Grubbs nodded.  “Let’s hope they don’t all end up lying dead in the rain.”

“
Yeah,” I said.  “That would be good.  Okay if I go back to bed now?”

Grubbs looked down the tracks for a minute as though he were thinking about taking the next train out of town.  Finally, he turned back to me.  “Sure,” he said.

I turned and began stepping over the wasteland of wet tracks, careful to place my feet on the heavy dark cross ties.

“
Oh, Slate,” Grubbs called.  “Call me if you remember anything about this Kramer.  Got me?”

I waved without turning around.  Grubbs was a guy who needed to have the last word.

At a quarter after six in the morning, running at about eight-minute pace, I was two miles down First Avenue, across the viaduct over the old Sloss Furnace, past the waterworks office with its perpetual wall of water, in a neighborhood of warehouses and wholesalers, heading in the general direction of the airport.

The morning air was cold and damp, last night’s rainwater turning the asphalt streets into cold air humidifiers.

When I hit two and half miles, I crossed the street and headed back.  Uphill now; I had to slow down.

I was not twenty anymore.  And I didn’t want to be.

Back at the hotel, I showered and changed into a white shirt with gray slacks, tasseled loafers, blue Brooks Brothers blazer and rep stripe tie.

I took the elevator down to the lobby, picked up a copy of the
Birmingham News
at the counter, pushed through the double doors of the hotel restaurant and ordered blueberry waffles, two eggs and coffee.

The shooting of my client was not mentioned in the paper, but at Alabama, recruiting seemed to be going well.  Around here, people had their priorities straight.

I ate breakfast slowly and drank three cups of strong coffee.  I needed the coffee.  Sleep had eluded me after I returned to the hotel.

So far, I hadn’t been paid, my client was dead, and I had no idea where to look for his missing daughter.  This case was looking like a real winner.

The Homicide Division office on First Avenue North occupied the second floor of police headquarters.

Grubbs’ personal space was an eight-by-ten glass cubicle in the corner overlooking a dozen cops’ desks in a bullpen.  Grubbs was sitting in there behind his desk.

Despite the fact that he’d been up investigating a homicide the night before, Grubbs appeared to have showered and shaved, and he was wearing a starched blue oxford-cloth shirt, a plaid tie, and pressed khakis.

He also wore a Colt’s Government Model .45 semi-automatic pistol in a belt holster.

I tapped on the glass and opened the door.  Grubbs nodded.  “So what do you know about this Kramer?” he said.

“Good morning to you, too, Captain.”

“
Yeah, right.  Pleasantries, et cetera.  So what do you know?  Were you working for him?”

“
Not much and yes.”

“
The girl?”

I smiled a little.  Pleasant.  Innocent.  “What girl, Captain?”

Grubbs lowered his eyes and slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.  “Not a good first inning for you, Slate.”

“
Captain. . . .”

Grubbs looked up.  “Nobody likes a smart ass, Slate.  Stop this ‘Captain’ shit and let’s talk straight.”

I leaned over the desk, palms flat on the corners, my eyes inches from the top of Grubbs’ head.

“
A client is dead.  Last night you asked me to identify the body.  As though you didn’t already have him identified.  This morning you ask about the girl.  I agree with you.  Let’s talk straight.  But maybe you should go first.”

To his credit, Grubbs held still.

“All right, Slate,” he said.  “Point made.  Now unless you intend to kiss the top of my nappy head, sit down over there and let’s see if we can do each other any good.”

I sat in the vinyl and chrome chair in the corner and folded my arms.

Grubbs said, “I assume, since he was your client, you know about Kramer.”

I shrugged.  “Lawyer.  Downtown firm.  Used to be assistant AG.”

Grubbs shook his head.  “You don’t know much, Slate.”

I heaved a sigh and sat forward, elbows on my knees.

“Kramer came to see me Saturday in Gulf Shores.  We talked for ten, fifteen  minutes.  He hired me to look for his daughter.  I visited the house yesterday and met his wife and two agents from the Bureau.  I was planning to spend some more time with him and his wife today.  What else should I know?”

“
Nothing, considering it’s you.  No reason to expect much.”

“
You’re right.  I live on a boat and run a bar.  You have the vast resources of the government at your disposal.  What is it you shouldn’t expect me to know?”

Grubbs shook his head again as though he were having trouble hearing.  “You still planning to talk to Mrs. Kramer?”

I nodded.  “Not a very good time, but I think I have to.”

Grubbs nodded.  “That would be my view.”

He stood, came around the desk and opened the door.  “I have a few more things to do before mid-morning.  I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty at your hotel.  I’ll tell you what I can on the way out to Mountain Brook.”

I followed him out the door.  “Isn’t Mountain Brook out of your jurisdiction, Captain?”

Grubbs dismissed me with a flick of his hand.  “We still make house calls,” he said.

CHAPTER SIX

Building security at Park Plaza would not have met New York standards.

The first time I visited a New York lawyer’s office after 9-11, security in the building lobby outpaced the TSA at LaGuardia.  But here, an elderly fellow in a green blazer with a nifty gold identification badge on the left breast pocket sat inside a circular cubicle a few steps from the revolving doors, reading the sports section of
The Tuscaloosa News
.

After I stood at the counter for a few seconds, he looked up reluctantly.  “Help you?” he said.

“I think so.  I’m looking for Woolf White Waldstein.”

“
They got three floors.  Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.  Reception on seventeen.  Take the elevator there,” he pointed backwards with a thumb.

“
Thanks.”  I smiled, tapped the counter for emphasis, just a regular Joe, another lawyer, another suit among the hundreds who came and went around his desk every day, trotting up to the main tenant’s office with a Glock strapped under his arm and a lock-blade knife clipped to his right trouser pocket.

On the seventeenth floor, the elevator opened to a marble lobby with closed double doors on the right and a large reception area on the left.  A brass and wood spiral staircase that must have cost more than the
Anna Grace
connected the law firm’s two main floors.

In front and to the right of the stairs sat a blonde receptionist wearing a headset and a neon smile.  She spoke into the headset and managed to continue that conversation while conveying attentiveness to me as though I were far more important than the caller.

Despite her efforts, it didn’t look as though the call would end soon.  I strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the courthouse square and, beyond, the hills of North Birmingham.

“
Sir?  Sir, may I help you?”

I turned around.  The receptionist had removed her headset and had taken a couple of steps in my direction.  “Yes,” I said.  “My name is Slate.  I’m here to see Mr. Woolf.”

“Senior or Junior?”

“
I didn’t know both of them were still practicing,” I said.  “I’m here to see the Mr. Woolf who is the managing partner.  Is he in this morning?”

“
I can check with his assistant, sir.  Did you have an appointment?”

“
No.”  I shook my head.  “No appointment.”

“
Well – and it’s Mr. Slate?  May I tell her your full name?”

“
Just tell her Slate.  I need to speak with Mr. Woolf about Don Kramer.”

“
Oh.  Yes.  I’m sorry sir.  Just one moment.”  She replaced the headset and spoke into it.  Thirty seconds later, a woman in her fifties, wearing a blue wool skirt, white blouse, and plaid pullover sweater, her white hair pulled into a tight chignon, materialized in the elevator lobby behind me.  “Mr.  Slate.  Katherine Richards.  Mr. Woolf’s secretary.  Follow me right this way, sir.”  She turned and we went through a door beside the elevators that opened with an electronic key pad into a corridor lined with filing cabinets and interspersed with secretarial workstations.

Woolf had the southwest corner office.  The office was adequate for a managing partner of a fifty-lawyer firm, the cherry wood furniture slightly worn, solid but understated.

In one corner were stacked half a dozen file boxes with case names in black marker on the ends.  A couple were open, and documents were half-pulled from some of the files.  Legal pads filled with notes were lying on the floor in a pile next to the boxes.

It looked as though Woolf might be a real lawyer.

Woolf was standing behind his desk.  He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows and a blue scroll-pattern tie pulled loose.

Woolf reached across the desk to shake my hand.  It was not a stretch for him.  He must have been six-seven and had arms to match.

“Mr. Slate, Bill Woolf.  Ms. Richards told me you wanted to see me about Don Kramer.  What is your interest in my law partner?”

“
I met him last Saturday, and I identified his body for the police last night.  I think you may want to spare me a couple of minutes.”

Woolf didn’t say a word.  Just nodded a couple of times, looked me over for a second, walked over to close his office door, and returned to sit down behind his desk.

“Sit down,” Woolf said.  “Let’s talk.  I’ve got about fifteen minutes.”

I sat in one of Woolf’s leather client chairs and crossed my legs.  The chairs were a little nicer than mine, but his desk lacked a view of the Gulf of Mexico.

Woolf leaned toward me, his elbows on the desk.  “Why did the police call you?”

“
They found my business card in your partner’s shirt pocket.”

Woolf nodded.  “I see.  So, I could ask, why was your business card in my law partner’s pocket?  But this is not a deposition, and you came to see me.  So why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?  If this is about money, I can tell you, I’ve never heard of you, so this law firm owes you nothing as far as I know.”

Lawyers, especially litigators, experience more confrontations in the average week, just in the normal course of business, than the average person does in a lifetime.  Most lawyers are comfortable with confrontation, and some learn to seek it out, to initiate it, some because they learn to need it, others because they see it as the shortest way through life.

Woolf, I figured, was in the short-way-through group.  Sometimes, so was I.  “I don’t need your money, and I never heard of you before yesterday either.”

“Fair enough, Slate.  So why are you here?”

“
But I had heard of Don Kramer before he came to see me in Gulf Shores.  He brought this.”

I laid the picture of Kris Kramer on the desk in front of Woolf.

“She’s missing, and he asked me to find her.  Now he’s dead, but I intend to do what he asked me to do.  That’s why I’m here.”

Woolf looked down at the picture of Kris Kramer and nodded several times as though he had confirmed something.

“Do you have a business card?” he asked.

I placed a card on the desk beside the picture.

Woolf glanced at the card, looked up at me and nodded again.  “All right.  What do you want to know?”

“
Did Kramer talk to you about Kris’s disappearance?”

“
A little, yeah.  I knew he was going to see a new investigator he’d heard about from one of his law enforcement contacts.  I knew he was going to Baldwin County, so that must have been you.  He was frustrated with the local police, especially the campus cops.  Not sure why; I would assume they couldn’t find water in the river.”

“
Do you think the girl’s disappearance and Kramer’s murder could be connected?”

Woolf shrugged.  “Who knows?  Kramer was working night and day trying to find her.  We relieved him of all his duties here.  If you knew Kramer or his reputation, you would know he’d charge hell with a bucket of ice water if he thought it would help bring Kris back.  Maybe he had arranged an exchange with the kidnappers and it went badly.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“
Again, Mr. Slate, I just do not know.”

“
What was Kramer working on before she disappeared?”

Woolf leaned away from the desk and crossed his fingers behind his head.  “Well, that.  I don’t think I can speak with you about legal matters the firm may be handling.  Sorry.  Our clients are off limits.  Privilege.”

I nodded.  “Right.  But still, it’s possible, isn’t it?  Was Kramer working on any cases where he was getting any threats, any matters with criminal involvement?”

“
Can’t tell you, Mr. Slate.  Won’t tell you.  Our clients expect their business to remain privileged.  It’s one of my jobs to see it stays that way.”

“
Does the name Godchaux mean anything to you?  Michael Godchaux of New Orleans?”

Woolf shook his head slowly.  “No.  I don’t think so.  But if it’s a witness or even a client, I would not necessarily have known details about what Kramer was working on, and even if I did, I could neither confirm nor deny that the name means anything to me.”

Woolf’s face was absolutely blank.  He probably played poker well.

I stood.  “Well, I hoped this would be more helpful.”

I picked up the photograph and gestured at the card.  “Call if you think of anything that might be useful.”

He was already out of his chair and showing me to the door.  He had me by seven inches.  I hate having to look up at people.

“I wish I could help,” he said.  “I’d like to see Kris safe and sound, too.  Known her since she was a baby.  Let me know if there’s anything I can do.  Except opening client files of course.”

“
I’ll see myself out,” I said.  I was saying that too much, lately.