Read Cold Winter Rain for Free Online

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