McMichael and Hector walked into Homicide Captain Don Rawlings's office at three that afternoon. McMichael closed the door without asking permission, then sat down and watched the black clouds blowing into the window.
Rawlings was sixty, tall and soft-spoken, though his temper was feared. McMichael liked him and trusted him and wanted to have his job someday, many years from now, when he was good enough to do it.
Rawlings listened to his tale of Victor Braga, new Fords, TJ and two law enforcement men running narcotics into the country.
Rawlings listened, back straight, eyes expressionless, hands folded on the desk. "So you never saw what was in the bags?"
"Wasn't tamales," said Hector.
"No," said the captain. "What's your guess on weight?"
"Fifty pounds each," said Hector. "Times three."
"Axelgaard Two didn't think it was suspicious when you two guys came through right behind his brother and Victor Braga?"
"McMichael made up a quick tale about a robbery and a witness with a Tijuana address," said Hector. "I think he bought it."
Rawlings nodded. "Wasn't Jimmy Thigpen working for Pete Braga?"
So much for Jimmy's head start, thought McMichael. "Yes," he said.
"The same thing, right, allegedly transporting cars down to Mexico for leather upholstery?"
McMichael nodded.
"Was Jimmy in on this?" asked the captain.
"Neck deep," said McMichael.
"You talked to him four hours ago. What did he say?"
"He said he made a big mistake."
"He said he was 'just about as stupid as a guy could get,' " said Rawlings.
"Exactly," said McMichael. "I didn't know the yard was miked."
"It isn't," said the captain.
McMichael squared himself in the chair.
"Internal Affairs knew Jimmy was moonlighting," said Rawlings. "But they didn't know he was running drugs. Who else was in on this with him- who else from San Diego PD?"
"I don't think anyone was," said McMichael.
"That was a little risky, offering Thigpen a deal," said Rawlings.
It's like he was fucking there, thought McMichael. "I thought it was worth the trade, for information on Pete."
Rawlings offered a very minor nod. "Keep this to yourselves, gentlemen. Absolutely to yourselves. I'm unhappy with it, and heads will roll. Basically, good job."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"McMichael, that line you said you'd never cross- you tiptoed right up to it with Thigpen."
"I know."
"I've nudged it myself, once or twice."
"Then I feel a little bit less like an ass, sir."
"Has your old man really been drunk for forty years?"
"Longer, I think."
"The deputy reads lips. A few of them do. They bring them in for special visits like yours."
Just after five they were standing in the lobby of Grothke, Steiner & Grothke, explaining to Sharona Saddler that they wanted to talk to Henry Grothke, Sr.
"Impossible," she said. "He's not seeing anyone at the current time."
"He's sitting in there looking at us," said Hector. "He can see us just fine."
"You're not clients."
Old Grothke gazed at them through the glass wall of his office, then smiled and waved.
Henry Jr. came flapping down the hallway, sleeves rolled up, frowning, a pencil in his hand. "The pestilential detectives are back. Now what do you want?"
"We want to talk to your father," said Hector.
"I've absolutely had it," said Junior. "I will not allow you to disrupt our business anymore. I've gone out of my way to help you. And you barge in here with no warning and no appointment and make even more demands on our time? I demand that you leave immediately."
"We just want a few minutes," said McMichael.
"Sharona, call security."
Sharona already had the phone to her ear and her fingers on the keypad.
"We're going," said McMichael.
"Plan B," said Hector, as they got into the elevator.
They stood under an awning on State Street and watched the rain pour down. Old Grothke's van and driver- as cased by Hector on Monday evening- pulled up at five-thirty. The driver parked in the loading zone and flipped the handicapped placard onto the dash. He ran around the van and into the Bay Towers entrance.
Eight minutes later the driver pushed Old Grothke out onto the sidewalk under the awning, using the big wheels to prod McMichael and Hector out of the way.
"Handicap, man- you blind?"
"We can see fine," said Hector.
"Don't you go nowhere, Hankie Baby. Derek'll be right back."
Grothke looked up at McMichael with burdened blue eyes that showed no sign of recognition.
Derek set the wheelchair brake and hunched through the rain to the driver's seat of the van. Once inside he slammed the door shut. A moment later McMichael saw the back door of the van roll up, then a ramp slide out and lower to the street.
"Derek is disrespectful," said Grothke to no one in particular. "But a helluva good driver."
Derek hustled back, kicked up the wheelchair brake and raced Old Grothke through the raindrops to the ramp. While he got the chair locked into place Hector climbed into the driver's seat.
The driver had just activated the ramp when McMichael jumped onto it and badged him.
"McMichael, Homicide," he said. "Get back up front and sit in the passenger side."
"What the-"
"Am I going to have a problem with you?"
A big shake of his head, a big smile. "I don't ever have trouble with the police."
"Then get on it."
Derek jumped to the pavement and scrambled around the van. When the ramp clunked into place, McMichael hit a blue button to retract it. As the ramp groaned backward Old Grothke's head jiggled and raindrops rolled down his thin white face.
The interior had seats along both sides but none in the middle. The floor carpet had been replaced with plywood to accommodate wheelchairs. A moment later the back door rolled down.
"Is this a robbery?" asked Grothke, eyes wide.
"Relax, sir," said McMichael. "We're the cops you talked to last week. Remember? Vultures in the ice cream?"
Grothke's face locked into seriousness. McMichael saw the battle going on behind his eyes. Then, illumination, like sunlight through clouds. "Detective McMichael! Of course I remember."
McMichael poked his head into the driver's cab. Derek was in the passenger seat, saying something to Hector about applying to SDPD back in 'ninety-two but his back was bad and he had this one thing on his record.
"Go stand outside," said Hector. "Distribute your weight on both feet equally. Save that back."
"It's raining out there, man."
"Then go inside, dumbass."
When Hector had locked the driver out he climbed back and sat down across from Grothke.
"That driver's kind of rude," he said.
Grothke nodded slowly. "No respect."
"Thanks for meeting with us," said McMichael. He handed the old man a clean folded handkerchief. "We won't take up much of your time. We just wanted to know about those letters that Pete Braga mailed to your firm. He sent you one in November and another one in December, but both of them just disappeared after they got to your office."
"Oh," said Grothke, nodding. "Those."
"Did you see them?"
"See what?" asked Grothke.
Hector shot McMichael a look.
"The letters from Pete Braga, sir," said McMichael.
"Of course."
"They were about Pete changing his will," said McMichael. "He wanted to remove the Catholic Church as a beneficiary."
Old Grothke studied McMichael with a kind of freshness in his bright blue eyes, as if seeing McMichael for the first time. "No," he said. "They weren't about the Church."
McMichael and Hector looked at each other.
"They pertain to the weather," said Grothke. "A change in the weather. And I'll correctly handle the matter, as I have for fifty years."
"The letters were about weather?" asked McMichael.
"Yes."
"The ones that Pete Braga mailed to your firm, then were lost or misplaced?"
"Nothing has been lost, I can assure you."
"Then where are they?" asked Hector. "Pete came to your firm six times at the end of last year, trying to find those things."
Grothke smiled at Hector, then McMichael. He dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief. "I assume full responsibility for them. They are in my possession."
"Would you mind if we just looked at them, sir?" asked McMichael. "Pete was murdered last week, as I'm sure you know."
Grothke's face went blank and his pale blue eyes seemed to freeze. "He sold me a Country Squire station wagon in nineteen sixty-two. Red. A material that suggested wood on each side. Very convincing."
"What did you do with the letters, sir?" asked McMichael. "The ones pertaining to a change in the weather."
The rain roared against the roof of the van. Through the side window McMichael could see the driver smoking a cigarette under the awning of the Bay Towers entrance, irate workers crowded under with him, waiting for taxis and buses or for a good time to run to the next overhang.
Grothke was staring straight ahead now, his eyes seemingly focused on something close but puzzling. He breathed deeply in and deeply out. "Sometimes, I stand on the edge of a memory and look in. I see nothing clearly. It's like water in a pool after a rock is thrown in. Then, if I look long enough, the water gets smoother and smoother and the ripples vanish and I can see again."
"That's beautiful, Mr. Grothke," said Hector. "It really is."
McMichael heard no sarcasm in Hector's voice.
Grothke looked at Hector, then to McMichael. "I'm not sure where I put them," he said. "But I will correctly handle the matter, as I have for the last fifty years. And I promise you now, on my good name, that I will locate and deliver to you these missing letters."
"Did you shred them?" asked McMichael.
Grothke eyed him suspiciously. "I don't think so."
"Put them in your briefcase?" asked Hector.
"It has been searched."
"Take them home?" asked Hector.
"I looked there. We all did."
Another downpour bellowed against the top of the van.
"They had to do with weather like this," said Grothke, looking up at the roof somewhat dreamily. "I remember. A change."
"You mean rain?" asked Hector.
"Yes."
"Rainwater?" asked McMichael.
"Yes! Rainwater. It's a name."
"What about her?" asked McMichael, looking not at Grothke but at Hector.
"Pete wanted his will changed for Rainwater."