Cold Winter Rain

by Steven Gregory

  “Is that part of the deck covered by a security camera?”

  “No. That stairwell is just outside the line of sight of the nearest one, which covers the east side of the third floor of the deck.”

  I tossed the print back across the desk. “So. Anything else?”

  “There is some video from inside the building. A white man wearing a dark suit and a dark raincoat, with a fedora pulled down over his eyes, rode the elevator to Woolf White’s floor around five-thirty that afternoon. He got off the elevator and apparently walked down the corridor to the men’s room. You probably know that building is configured so that all offices on each floor share men’s and women’s restrooms on central halls coming in each direction off the elevator lobby. Even on floors where one business rents the entire floor, the configuration is the same.”

  “Guy was wearing a hat? Changes the look.”

  “Yep. You show a witness photos of a guy without a hat, if they saw him wearing a hat, they’ll swear it’s different guys. Of course, it was raining that day. Maybe explains the hat.

  “We had prints made of the best still capture of the man’s face from the video. Showed them around in the building. No one recognizes this guy.

  “Kramer walks out to the elevators at five fifty-two. Our man appears in the elevator lobby just as the car arrives, and he gets on the elevator with Kramer. They ride down to the third floor. As the elevator opens, you can see them talking. Kramer looks animated, waves his arms a bit; the unidentified guy looks calm. They both get off the elevator and head for the parking garage door.

  “And that’s all we’ve got. No one saw this guy follow Kramer out of the building. Apparently, there is a camera in the area where the parking deck door is located, sort of around behind the elevator lobby, but it wasn’t working that day.”

  “No video in the elevator?”

  “That wasn’t working either.”

  “Without an identification, this doesn’t help much,” I said.

  “No, it does not. FBI is running the stills through their new facial recognition software. Birmingham is not part of the trial they’re running on this system, but this case rated high priority because of the unusual circumstance of a kidnapping and murder in the same family just days apart.”

  “With any luck, maybe they’ll get a hit.”

  “Have you been lucky lately? I personally have not. They tell me this technology is in its early stages, and it’s useless if a face or some other biometric identifier, like a fingerprint, is not in the database. But at least, I’m told, this software is not fooled by somebody wearing a hat.”

  “Okay. Waiting for the FBI is what I do, lately. But also, how did the body get moved? Assuming this is the killer, assuming Kramer was killed in the stairwell outside the parking deck, how did the killer get the body down to the rail yards without being seen? Teleportation?”

  “If the bad guys have that, I’m taking early retirement,” Grubbs said.

  “There had to be a car,” I said.

  “I believe so,” Grubbs nodded.

  “But how did the killer get the body in a car trunk or a back seat without getting caught on video?”

  “That is a question I’ve been rolling around in my head.” He shrugged. “Some of the cameras were not working.”

  “So, nothing else so far?”

  “Nope. That’s why I decided to tell you. Thought you might meditate about it and come up with something.”

  I smiled. “You should try it, dude. Works wonders on the blood pressure.”

  “So I hear. Maybe I will.”

  I stood, turned, opened the office door, and turned back toward Grubbs. “I appreciate the info,” I said. “See you around.”

  “Slate,” Grubbs said. I turned back. “Find the girl,” he said. “I’m getting tired of the press conferences.”

  I nodded and left without another word.

  Find the girl. Find the girl. Find the girl. The phrase pulsed through my head like a mantra as I walked back to the City Federal parking garage in the weak midday light. I had thought this case would begin and end in January. Now, nearing a new month, I didn’t feel much closer to the end than to the beginning.

  As to finding Kris Kramer, I had done, or actually failed to do, something which, if acted on by my enemies — I had a few — could result in my indictment for obstruction of justice. I had not, not yet anyway, told either the Birmingham Police Department or the FBI about the note on the old computer on my boat. The FBI knew my boat had been searched, thanks to Agent Sanders’ flirtation with Moeller, but I hadn’t even told Moeller about the note.

  In my defense, I had a defense. I’m a lawyer, Kramer was my client, and the information related to the matter for which Kramer hired me. The privilege survives the client’s death, but the information I had failed to disclose was not obtained through a communication with the client. I hadn’t told anyone at all about the note, not even Susan Kramer, who was arguably also my client, especially after the meeting in Woolf White’s offices. Not telling her might be tantamount to something akin to failure to communicate a settlement offer to a client, and thus run afoul of the Alabama Rules of Professional Conduct. That is, if a putative communication purporting to be from a kidnapper amounted to a settlement offer. I had not been certain at the time of the communication that Susan Kramer was my client, but something else, something besides my normal reserve, must have prevented me from telling her about the digital note.

  At least I had not assisted anyone with committing a crime. To my knowledge.

  On the other hand, whoever had written the note had not gotten back in touch, except through his emissary, Billy Royal.

  I should have confided in Moeller. He would have generated ideas. Maybe his ideas would have been better than his efforts to find the password for the thumb drive.

  But it wasn’t too late, at least not to speak with Moeller. Before I started the car, I called Moeller and asked if I could once again rent his mind for a couple of hours for the price of a dinner at Hemingway’s. If it was about the memory stick, he said, he would pass. I told him how I’d obtained the password and how the FBI code breakers were at work on the contents of the files. I told him I just wanted to lay out the facts for him and to have him think through them to see where they should lead as a matter of logic.

  “It’s always easiest, Slate, to just ask someone for the password, isn’t it?” Moeller said.

  I admitted that had turned out to be true. I told him I’d be at the restaurant by six-thirty, and he told me I was his for the evening.

  I texted Sally, “Seafood dinner tonight?” and she texted back “Yes!!!” I told her we needed to leave the condo by five. I didn’t tell her we’d be traveling by high-performance jet. She deserved a surprise or two.

  At Sally’s place, I changed into running clothes and went for a forty-minute run along Clairmont Avenue. Back at the condo, I showered, ate two bagels with smoked salmon, and drank a cup of peppermint tea. I sat on my cushion for thirty minutes, then checked the aviation weather and called the FBO and asked them to tow the Albatros out of the hangar and make sure it was fueled and ready to fly. Hemingway’s was happy to make a reservation for three on a Monday night in late January for any time we wanted to arrive.

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon creating a timeline, a document I should have kept on a day-to-day basis after Kramer had visited me in Gulf Shores, to review with Moeller and Sally after dinner. When I practiced law, I had followed the advice of my senior litigation partner and created a timeline for every lawsuit, a document that expanded in both temporal directions as discovery proceeded in the case. Forcing myself to adopt this discipline meant I usually had better recall of the facts than my opponent, a priceless advantage in depositions, and in court.

  Sally returned to the condo a little after four. I suggested that appropriate attire for the evening could be jeans, boots, a sweater, and a warm jacket, and that she might need to pack a small overnight bag
in case the weather deteriorated. She gave me a curious smile, showered, and changed into black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, motorcycle boots, and a black leather jacket. Throwing a change of clothes and a few essentials into a bag took five minutes. My kind of girl.

  Driving to the airport, we stayed on surface roads, but the drive took fifteen minutes longer than usual in the afternoon traffic.

  The Birmingham airport is not located in one of the better neighborhoods in town. As we cruised through the Lakeview district, Sally said, “So has Frank Stitt opened a new place in Avondale?”

  I smirked. “Not that I’ve heard of.”

  Closer to the airport, Sally asked, “So you’re taking me to a restaurant in Concourse C?”

  Gourmet food at the Birmingham airport is putting hot mustard on your pre-made turkey sandwich. “Not exactly,” I said.

  I parked outside the FBO, pulled my flight gear out of the trunk, and said, “Follow me, babe.” We walked through the FBO and out onto the ramp. The Albatros, gleaming under the bright ramp lights, sat no more than fifty feet from the FBO’s doors.

  “This is yours?” Sally said.

  “Yep,” I answered. “We’re flying to the coast for fresh seafood. In an hour we’ll be eating gumbo with hot sauce and crackers.”

  “I’m ready!” she said.

  I handed Sally my extra David Clark headset, climbed up to the rear cockpit, opened the hatch, then jumped down and showed Sally how to use the two steps up. She stood on the seat, and I climbed up and helped her sit down, strap in, and plug in her headset. I climbed back down and did a preflight walk-around. Sally gave a me a thumbs-up sign as I checked the right-side fuel cap.

  Finished with the preflight, I climbed up to the front cockpit, strapped in, turned on the master and avionics switches, and spoke to Sally on the intercom. “Are you still up for this? I sort of threw you into the rear seat of a high-performance jet without much explanation. If you like flying, you’ll love it. If not, we can always get a turkey sandwich over in Concourse C.”

  “No sir, Mr. Slate,” she said. “I’m looking forward to fresh blackened redfish tonight.”

  “Okay, then. Here we go.” I showed Sally how to close and lock her canopy and called clearance delivery for an IFR clearance and transponder code. I went through the engine start sequence, and in less than a minute, the little jet was whistling and almost ready to fly. We taxied out and waited for takeoff sequencing behind a Delta MD-88 and a Falcon 50.

  As the Falcon taxied into position for takeoff and we took our place at the hold-short line, I reached down and turned the volume on the intercom all the way down. I’ve done that every time I’ve given someone his or her first ride in the Albatros. Inevitably, either at the beginning of the takeoff roll when the little jet gathers itself and begins its rush down the runway like a runaway G-sled, or just after wheels-up and best climb speed is reached and I point the nose at the sky, the new rider finds it impossible to maintain the sterile cockpit rule I’ve tried to impose and simply has to scream in delight or terror or both.

  The tower had traffic moving, with late afternoon flights stacked deep, as they were at even moderately busy airports like Birmingham. By the time the Falcon lifted its nosewheel, the controller gave us a position and hold clearance, and when the Falcon pilot raised the landing gear a moment after takeoff, she gave us our takeoff clearance.

  Climbing through three thousand feet, I turned the intercom back on. “Still along for the ride back there?” I said.

  “Did you hear me scream?” I could hear the broad smile if I couldn’t see it. “I couldn’t stop myself.”

  The clouds had lifted and parted just enough to create a fish-scale sunset, pinks and oranges filling the sky to our right as we flew almost due south at ten thousand feet.

  The sunset faded and darkness fell as we approached Mobile Bay and the Alabama Gulf coast. The lights of Mobile and the eastern shore guided us down the mouth of the bay and inland for a visual approach to runway nine at Jack Edwards airport. The tires chirped on the asphalt, and soon we were loaded into the airport courtesy car for the fifteen-minute drive down Highway 59 South, then east on Route 98 to Orange Beach and the marina.

  We would not have needed a reservation at Hemingway’s on this Monday at the end of January. No bleaker month shared the calendar in Alabama.

  At the bar sat Hans Moeller, nursing a Scotch with two ice cubes and chatting up the bartender, a woman in her mid-twenties with thick waist-length brown hair. She wore a low-cut plaid jumper with a band of creamy lace at the collar, if a band dipping between her breasts could be considered a collar.

  Moeller saw me in the mirror behind the bar — not all of his attention was on the bartender — and swiveled to greet me. “Slate!” he said. “Just in time. I’m afraid I have been overselling the merits of a Caribbean cruise on a small motorsailer named for a Swiss hero.”

  The bartender smiled. “Overselling the merits of spending a month on a boat with Hans Moeller, more like.”

  Moeller shrugged. “At least she remembers my name. Think about it, my dear,” he said.

  “But, Slate, you — you’re not alone. Well.” He looked Sally up and down, then smiled brightly at me. “It’s a long road that knows no turning.”

  I gestured toward Sally. “Sally Kronenberg, meet my friend Hans Moeller. Hans, Sally Kronenberg.”

  Sally reached out to shake Moeller’s hand, but he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Guten Abend, Fraulein. Surely a woman named Kronenberg speaks German, nein?”

  “Eine kleine,” Sally said. “My grandparents immigrated from Heidelberg, but no one in the family thought to speak German to me when I was young.”

  “Hah. You are still young, mein liebe, believe me.” He turned to me. “Holding out on me, Slate?”

  “Just busy. Let’s get a table. Anyone hungry?”

  Sally said, “I’m starving. I think flying fighter planes does that to me.”

  On the dock side of the restaurant, behind the bar, the dining room, captain’s chairs and bare wood tables in dark oak, overlooked the harbor. Over each table hung a light in the shape of a ship’s wheel. A lobster tank sat bubbling in one corner.

  There were only three couples in the dining room. We chose a window table away from the others. Sally and I dropped our bags near our table along the wall under the window.

  Seated, Moeller appraised Sally and me, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “If this were a better establishment, I’d order a round of Kronenbourg 1664, but I’m afraid the only European beer on tap is Irish, not German.”

  “Most popular lager in France,” Sally said. “Founded in Strasbourg.”

  “Should be a German city, but the Frogs claim it now,” Moeller said.

  The waitress interrupted them to take drink orders. Moeller ordered another Scotch, Sally a Grey Goose martini.

  I had thought we might return to Birmingham after dinner, but Sally and Moeller had forced me into defensive drinking. I would never fly after drinking, and the FAA rule is eight hours between your last drink and piloting an aircraft. Eight hours bottle to throttle. Not long enough in my judgment, but nobody asked me.

  “Manhattan on the rocks, Evan Williams Black.” I touched Sally’s hand. “Glad we made contingent overnight plans.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  “Slate’s boat is not exactly the Ritz,” Moeller offered, eyebrows raised a judicious millimeter. I could see where things were going with Moeller and realized that if I didn’t slam on the brakes, he’d be at me with innuendo all evening. Besides, I needed his forebrain engaged, not the limbic system.

  “You didn’t tell me you lived on a boat,” Sally said.

  “I would’ve gotten around to it,” I told her.

  To Moeller I said, “Sally is a soccer coach. Kris Kramer’s soccer coach. We met a few days ago. I asked her to dinner.”

  “And the rest, as they say… .”

  “Is
none of your business,” I said.

  “Sounds serious,” Moeller said.

  “‘And the rest’ is that Slate is now officially my sweet patootie,” Sally said.

  Our waitress brought our drinks; the conversation paused as we took in the calm dark water of the harbor.

  When she had finished, Moeller said, “Oh. Now that explains everything. Why didn’t you just say so, Slate?” He raised his glass. “To new love,” he said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said.

  Sally touched our glasses. “Prost!” she said.

  We started with cups of seafood gumbo, chunks of crab, whole shrimp and sausage in a thick brown broth, served in plain white ceramic bowls over rice. I ordered a Guinness; Moeller and Sally stayed with their first choices.

  Gumbo is properly eaten with a brisk splash of Tabasco, with spoon in one hand and a saltine cracker, the square ones that come in cellophane two to a package, in the other.

  After the gumbo, I ordered each of us a small West Indies salad, simple as diced onion and chunks of crabmeat marinated overnight in oil, vinegar, and ice water. A restaurant owner in Mobile named Bill Bayley invented the West Indies salad in 1947. Bayley and his restaurant are long gone, but the man should get more credit for the plain but elegant seafood that he served up at Bayley’s Restaurant on Dauphin Island Parkway.

  Offshore fishing in Alabama waters remains quite good through the winter. The fresh entrees were redfish, vermillion snapper and grouper. I ordered grouper Oscar, Sally, as promised, the blackened redfish. Moeller wanted grilled snapper. Shared bowls of steamed broccoli and asparagus served accompanied by tiny carafes of clarified butter and a loaf of French bread came to the table with the entrees.

  After the gumbo and the salad — especially after the gumbo — I needed another Guinness. Moeller seemed to have some arrangement with management under which tumblers of Scotch with two ice cubes appeared as if on an assembly line. Sally drank Chardonnay with her redfish.

  We ate quietly, the dark harbor and the dim lights on the docks providing a focal point for our eyes and, perhaps, our silence.