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Authors: Steven Gregory
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office with a couple of inexpensive waiting-room chairs and a desk.
The room was empty. To the right of the desk was a solid wooden door. I crossed to the door. I could hear faint sounds inside. I knocked twice and opened the door.
Inside, a woman with a blonde pixie haircut was sitting on the dark blue carpet with her back against a sofa covered in burgundy vinyl. She wore gray sweatpants and a black long-sleeved tee shirt. Her feet were bare.
A flat-panel television monitor hung on the opposite wall. A couple of remotes lay on the floor beside the woman. In front of her on the carpet was a notebook computer. Aside from the light from the monitors, the room was dark.
The woman clicked the remote and scrambled to her feet when she saw me. She brushed off her hand and stuck it out.
“Hello,” she said. “Sally Kronenberg. I wasn’t expecting anyone around. I was just watching film of last season. We’ll be starting spring soccer in a few weeks.”
I shook the coach’s hand. The handshake was firm and dry, the fingers a little blocky for a woman, the nails short and unpolished. She did not appear to be wearing makeup. The red streaks in her eyes could have resulted from recent tears or from too much time in front of screens in a darkened room.
“Slate. I hate to interrupt your work, Coach, but it’s important that we talk. I’m trying to find Kris Kramer.”
Sally Kronenberg nodded a little. “We’d all like to find Kris. I know her parents are -- were -- Ohh.”
Her chest heaved slightly and she bit her lip. “Well, I understand the FBI is doing everything it can. Don’t take this the wrong way, but -- uhh -- they didn’t mention you. Are you with the police, or something?”
“ No. Private. Don Kramer came to see me on Saturday and hired me to find his missing daughter. So far I haven’t accomplished very much, and I really need to talk with you. Have you spoken with the police?”
“ Yes, it was a Captain, uh, African-American fellow.”
“ Leon Grubbs.”
“ Captain Grubbs. Yeah, that’s right. He didn’t tell me his first name. Neither did you.”
“ Slate is enough. Here.”
I took out one of Grubbs’ cards and gave it to her. “Call Grubbs, uh, Captain Grubbs. I think he’ll vouch for me.”
She took the card and studied it for a second, then looked up at me and nodded. “Would you mind waiting outside for just a moment?”
“ No, I don’t mind.” I walked out into the exterior office and heard the bolt turn after the door closed.
Two minutes later the door opened, and Coach Kronenberg motioned me in.
“All right,” she said. “You are who you say you are. I’ll be glad to do whatever I can to help find Kris. All the young women who play soccer for me are like family.”
“ Why did you lock me out of the office while you called?”
The coach smiled a little. “My father was a police officer in Chicago for twenty-five years. I can spot a concealed pistol from half a block. And I didn’t want you to hear me call Captain Grubbs, either. I can be pretty blunt.”
“No need to apologize.”
“ I wasn’t apologizing.” A small lift of the eyebrows. A challenge? “So you’re looking for Kris Kramer,” she said. “What did Don Kramer tell you?”
That was an interesting question. I was, however technically, still a member of the Alabama bar. Under United States law, attorney-client privilege does not die with the client.
During the Whitewater investigation, the Office of the Independent Counsel tried to obtain copies of the files of James Hamilton, Esq., the lawyer who had represented Vincent W. Foster, Jr. Foster was Deputy White House Counsel, a close confidant of President William Jefferson Clinton and his wife, later Senator and Secretary of State, Hilary Rodham Clinton -- some said especially of the wife -- and he had been found shot dead on the mall
The room was empty. To the right of the desk was a solid wooden door. I crossed to the door. I could hear faint sounds inside. I knocked twice and opened the door.
Inside, a woman with a blonde pixie haircut was sitting on the dark blue carpet with her back against a sofa covered in burgundy vinyl. She wore gray sweatpants and a black long-sleeved tee shirt. Her feet were bare.
A flat-panel television monitor hung on the opposite wall. A couple of remotes lay on the floor beside the woman. In front of her on the carpet was a notebook computer. Aside from the light from the monitors, the room was dark.
The woman clicked the remote and scrambled to her feet when she saw me. She brushed off her hand and stuck it out.
“Hello,” she said. “Sally Kronenberg. I wasn’t expecting anyone around. I was just watching film of last season. We’ll be starting spring soccer in a few weeks.”
I shook the coach’s hand. The handshake was firm and dry, the fingers a little blocky for a woman, the nails short and unpolished. She did not appear to be wearing makeup. The red streaks in her eyes could have resulted from recent tears or from too much time in front of screens in a darkened room.
“Slate. I hate to interrupt your work, Coach, but it’s important that we talk. I’m trying to find Kris Kramer.”
Sally Kronenberg nodded a little. “We’d all like to find Kris. I know her parents are -- were -- Ohh.”
Her chest heaved slightly and she bit her lip. “Well, I understand the FBI is doing everything it can. Don’t take this the wrong way, but -- uhh -- they didn’t mention you. Are you with the police, or something?”
“ No. Private. Don Kramer came to see me on Saturday and hired me to find his missing daughter. So far I haven’t accomplished very much, and I really need to talk with you. Have you spoken with the police?”
“ Yes, it was a Captain, uh, African-American fellow.”
“ Leon Grubbs.”
“ Captain Grubbs. Yeah, that’s right. He didn’t tell me his first name. Neither did you.”
“ Slate is enough. Here.”
I took out one of Grubbs’ cards and gave it to her. “Call Grubbs, uh, Captain Grubbs. I think he’ll vouch for me.”
She took the card and studied it for a second, then looked up at me and nodded. “Would you mind waiting outside for just a moment?”
“ No, I don’t mind.” I walked out into the exterior office and heard the bolt turn after the door closed.
Two minutes later the door opened, and Coach Kronenberg motioned me in.
“All right,” she said. “You are who you say you are. I’ll be glad to do whatever I can to help find Kris. All the young women who play soccer for me are like family.”
“ Why did you lock me out of the office while you called?”
The coach smiled a little. “My father was a police officer in Chicago for twenty-five years. I can spot a concealed pistol from half a block. And I didn’t want you to hear me call Captain Grubbs, either. I can be pretty blunt.”
“No need to apologize.”
“ I wasn’t apologizing.” A small lift of the eyebrows. A challenge? “So you’re looking for Kris Kramer,” she said. “What did Don Kramer tell you?”
That was an interesting question. I was, however technically, still a member of the Alabama bar. Under United States law, attorney-client privilege does not die with the client.
During the Whitewater investigation, the Office of the Independent Counsel tried to obtain copies of the files of James Hamilton, Esq., the lawyer who had represented Vincent W. Foster, Jr. Foster was Deputy White House Counsel, a close confidant of President William Jefferson Clinton and his wife, later Senator and Secretary of State, Hilary Rodham Clinton -- some said especially of the wife -- and he had been found shot dead on the mall
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