Free Cold Winter Rain by Steven Gregory Page A

right?”
    “ Right.”  Akilah nodded a few more times than necessary, as though she’d made up her mind about something.  “You said was there anything else that day.”
    “ Yes.”
    “ There was.  I don’t know why and I don’t know what it means, but she gave me something to hold for her.”
    Her backpack was on the floor beside her chair.  She unzipped one of the outside compartments, pulled out a small object and held it out to me.
    I held out my palm, and she placed it there.  Her fingers were long and strong, the nails short but red-lacquered.  The object was a USB keychain memory device.  “Do you know what’s on it?”
    “ No clue.  But. . . .”
    “ What?”
    “ Kris told me when she gave me the memory stick that she wanted me to keep it safe and that she’d trust me to know if I needed to let someone else see it.”  She smiled a little, one corner of her mouth going up, blinking back a tear.
    “ Did Kris mention the memory stick to you earlier, when her mother was there?”
    She thought a minute, then shook her head.  “No.”
    She brushed a hand across her eyes.  “Mr. Slate, do you think anything bad has happened to Kris?  I wasn’t too worried at first, but now I’m starting to feel really bad.  Her dad getting shot . . . Do you think whatever is on the memory stick has anything to do with Kris disappearing?  Or with her Dad?”
    My gut told me yes.  “Did you look at it?”
    She shook her head.  “I tried after Kris didn’t come back on Sunday night or Monday.  But I couldn’t open anything.  It looked like the files might be encrypted.”
    I told her she’d done the right thing.
    “Yeah,” she said.  “I think so too.  Coach K likes you, and, you know, Coach K knows about police and stuff.”  She stood up.  “Well, I’ve got a lab.  Bye, now.”  And just like that, she was out the door and gone.
    When I went to look for Coach Kronenberg, her office door was locked, and the building suddenly seemed very empty.
    I let myself out.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER NINE
    Wednesday January 25
     
    I hadn’t brought funeral clothing to Birmingham.  The blue blazer and gray slacks I’d worn the day before were the best I could do, along with the white shirt I’d sent to the hotel laundry.
    Light rain had returned for Kramer’s funeral.  My clothing didn’t matter.  It was a season for raincoats.
    I had been to only one other burial service at Elmwood Cemetery, for one of Anna’s aunts on her mother’s side.  I asked for directions from the hotel concierge because I wanted to be there early and watch the other mourners arrive.
    The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time I found the main gates, but the cemetery’s oaks still dripped water.
    Don Kramer was buried within sight of the final resting place of Paul “Bear” Bryant and within earshot of the grave of the black jazz musician Sun Ra.  Death treats all of us as equals, even in Birmingham, Alabama.
    Graveside workers from the funeral home and the cemetery were at the gravesite before I arrived.  I stood a discreet distance away, hands folded in front.
    Soon automobiles began easing through the gates.  Directed by cemetery officials, they rolled to the side of one of the cemetery paths, part of the labyrinth that wound through the acres of burial grounds, and stopped, their engines tick-ticking in the cold damp air.
    Members of the bar, the judiciary, government officials, businessmen filed past me, some nodding.  I remained at the edge of the crowd, not far from some of the parked cars, but I spotted a former Birmingham mayor and two former governors.
    At precisely ten o’clock, the black hearse drew up, followed by a couple of limousines and the private automobiles of family members. 
    Six of Kramer’s law partners served as pallbearers; I recognized Bill Woolf, a head taller than most of the men.
    The funeral director efficiently seated the