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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