“Glad to help.”
“See you soon,” I said, and turned to leave.
“Mr. Russo?”
I looked back at Andrea McHale. She started to say something, then paused. I knew what was on her mind, but instead she said, “Stay cool in all this heat.”
12
Outside, the heatwave continued on its merry way: hot sun, heavy air, not a hint of rain. I entered the office, but Sandy wasn’t at her desk.
“She left early.”
It was Henri in my office. He had maneuvered my desk chair so he could put his feet on the window ledge and keep an eye on the cool blue waters of Little Traverse Bay. AJ sat in a client chair, her feet on the corner of my desk.
I took the other client chair. “Say where she was going?”
“Something about you being a real hard ass, and she’d had enough.”
We laughed.
“No, really, where’d she go?”
“Dentist appointment.”
“What’re you doing here?” I said to AJ.
“I just needed to get out of the office, clear my head.”
Henri dropped his feet to the floor and scooted the chair behind my desk.
“Here, she left these,” he said, handing me several sticky notes.
I sifted through the messages.
“Anything important?”
I looked up. “Do you really want to know?”
Henri smiled. “Just being polite. You talk to the library lady?”
“Let me make one call first,” I said, reaching for the office phone.
Henri grinned. “Who we calling?”
“Maury Weston.”
“Don’t bother,” AJ said. “He’ll just tell you that Charles Bigelow arrives on the last plane tonight into Traverse City. Maury’s meeting the plane. Bigelow’s staying with him.”
“What about Hubbell, the editor?”
“She’s already here,” AJ said. “Drove up yesterday.”
“Wouldn’t the boss pop for a plane ticket?” Henri said.
AJ laughed. “She’s staying with her sister, on the other side of Alanson.”
“Back to the library lady,” Henri said.
“That would be Andrea McHale, the director.”
“She worried?”
“Concerned in a business-like way,” I said.
“Good to hear.”
“This is a lot more serious for her than collecting book fines.”
“I assume you want me to stick with Lenny,” Henri said.
“Yeah, he’s finally used to you telling him what to do. No point messing with a good thing. I’ll meet McHale at the library before she opens the doors.”
“I’ll have Lenny there on time,” Henri said. “What’s happening with you newspaper types, AJ?”
“We haven’t organized anything, if that’s what you mean. We’re just going to meet at the office and walk to the Carnegie.” She looked at Henri, then me. “Why are you asking? Have there been new threats?”
“No,” I said. “But I need to talk to Kate Hubbell.”
“Tina explained the situation to her,” AJ said. “She’ll be out of town with her sister when she’s not with us.”
“We still have to meet her,” Henri said.
“Of course,” AJ said. “The least we can do is show her what the good guys look like.”
“How about early tomorrow?” I said.
“Maury will arrange it,” AJ said.
“Hold on a second,” Henri said, looking at his phone. “Lenny’s done with work. I told him we’d stop at the Side Door on the way home.”
Henri said good-bye and left the office.
I reached over and touched AJ’s left hand. “You hungry?”
She shrugged. “Not much. But I’ll get soup, maybe a salad.”
“Let’s walk over to City Park Grill.”
We went down the stairs and turned up Lake Street for the two-block walk to the restaurant. We crossed to the other side of Lake Street at Pennsylvania Park, next door to the City Park Grill.
Once inside, we asked for a table near the front windows. The Grill began life in the 1880s, serving men only. The long front room featured wood floors, tables scattered around the room, and a high tin ceiling. Along one wall was a heavy mahogany bar. Back in the 1920s when it was known as The Annex, a local resident named Ernest Hemingway often occupied a stool at one end of the bar where he dreamed up short story ideas.
We ordered two chardonnays and glanced at the menu.
“You want to stay at my apartment,” I said, “or your house?”
AJ put down her glass. “Either one would be okay, but I’ll take a rain check. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course. Still have that staff meeting in the morning?”
“Uh-huh. Not quite ready for it.”
I leaned over and kissed AJ softly on the lips.
“I’m always disappointed when we can’t fit in time together, but it’s still okay.”
“That’s very sweet,” she said.
“We’ve had too much time apart lately,” I said.
“Maybe it’d be easier if we lived together.”
“Where we live isn’t the problem, AJ. We have busy, complicated lives.”
AJ slowly nodded. “Yeah, I know.” She picked up her glass. “Well, here’s to the big day tomorrow. Are you happy the book tour will finally start?”
I touched her glass with mine. “Relieved is more like it. We needed a few days to get ready, but it felt like a long time coming.”
13
I lingered in the shower, letting the hot water slowly melt into cold. It helped. So did a light run through Bay View. Sleep had come quickly, but it was a restless night of tossing, turning, and staring at the ceiling. Too much nervous energy.
I finished off eggs, toast and coffee, put the dishes in the dishwasher and left the building by the back stairs. It was already 73°, still humid, and the sun was hot on my skin.
“Morning, Sandy,” I said when I arrived at the office.
“Good morning,” she said. “Don’t settle in, Maury Weston’s expecting you. You didn’t forget, did you?”
“I remembered, Sandy.”
“Then get a move on, the gang’s all there.”
The sidewalks became less congested as I moved away from the Gaslight District. I turned up State Street and walked into the offices of the Post Dispatch.
“They’re in the conference room, Mr. Russo,” the receptionist said as I went by.
This was my third visit in recent days to the small, humorless space the newspaper people called a conference room.
“Michael,” Maury Weston said. “Come on in.”
Charles Bigelow was there, and Tina Lawson and Lenny Stern. Off to one side, leaning against a bookcase, was Henri LaCroix.
Standing next to Maury was a small, dark-haired woman with freckles across the bridge of her nose, wearing a J.Crew business casual outfit.
“I’d like you to meet Kate Hubbell,” Maury said, “Lenny’s editor from Chicago.”
We shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” I said.
Hubbell’s face lit up with a soft smile. She was very much the young professional, eager to learn, always looking for the next opportunity.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Russo,” she said.
“Fake news,” I said, “all of it. Please, call me Michael.”
“Yes, Michael,” she said, smiling. “Tina told me you’re Big Ten.”
“Michigan State,” I said. “You, too?”
“Illinois. Creative writing.” She gestured at Bigelow, who was off in a corner on his cell. “I had an internship at Gloucester my senior year. They liked what I did, and Charles hired me. That was four years ago.”
&n
bsp; “You like editing rather than writing?”
“Well,” Kate said, “I’ve learned a lot, for sure, but … it’s not like writing. The process, I mean.”
“Would you rather be writing?”
Kate shook her head. “I’m still writing. I’ve got two short stories circulating. One might be published.”
“That would be exciting.”
“But I wouldn’t trade my job,” she said. “Besides, Lenny’s book is my first solo edit.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Lenny doesn’t always play well with others.”
She laughed. “Not a problem,” she said. “I just tell him to shut up and listen.”
I started to respond just as Maury Weston rapped lightly on the conference table.
“If I can interrupt your pleasant chitchat …” In his easygoing, low-key way, Maury went over plans for the Carnegie event.
“I realize this may sound unnecessary, all of us walking to the library together,” Maury said, “but I’d like us to help Michael and Henri,” he gestured in our direction, “any way we can. With Charles and Kate here, well, it’s additional people for two men to watch.”
I noticed Henri had a satisfied, if discreet, smile. I moved over next to him.
“Your idea, I take it?”
He nodded. “Went down like a piece of cake.”
“You’ll stick here until they’re ready to walk over?”
“Easier that way. Listen, Bigelow mentioned taking the group out for a drink after.”
“Sure,” I said. “If everything goes okay, it’d be a nice way to celebrate Lenny’s book, relax a little.”
“I think so, too,” Henri said.
“All right,” I said, “I’m going to slip out of here, they’re all busy anyway.”
I left the conference room. I had no reason to suspect I was being followed, but I chose an odd route back to the office just in case. I walked at a leisurely pace, intentionally, down Mitchell.
I window shopped at Reid’s Furniture and stopped again at Dittmar’s Chronotech. I glanced occasionally behind me and across the street, but I wasn’t being watched, let alone followed. I continued to the alley that runs behind the Lake Street stores, cut through Roast & Toast and went up the stairs.
“Hi, boss,” Sandy said. “Is everyone on board over there?”
“Seems to be.”
I fidgeted away the rest of the afternoon with calls, emails and scanning the new issue of Runner’s World. I kept looking at the time — my watch, my phone, the monitor on the desk.
“Sure you won’t change your mind and come to the Carnegie?”
“I’d just as soon not spend an hour in those uncomfortable chairs. Besides, I’m lucky. I can talk to Lenny anytime I want.”
“Okay.”
“You’re taking your gun, right?” Sandy asked.
“Probably a good idea.”
“You’re not going to clip the holster to your belt, are you?”
“I’ll take a jacket,” I said. “The Carnegie’s air conditioned. Nobody’ll think anything.”
I went over and took a dark green nylon jacket off the hall tree.
“Stay safe, boss.”
The sidewalks of Lake Street were still busy, but with people reading menus for an early dinner. There was plenty of traffic, so I crossed at the stoplight and went over to Mitchell. Not as many shoppers as Lake Street, but several bars and restaurants helped make up the difference.
I made my way to the Carnegie Building on East Mitchell and waited for Andrea McHale. A few people milled around the front of the building, no doubt waiting to get a good seat. Near the main door sat a plaque honoring Bruce Catton, the Civil War historian and Petoskey native. I’d admired his work ever since I first read A Stillness at Appomattox years ago. He deserved the tribute.
“Mr. Russo.”
I looked up and spotted the library director waving from the doorway.
“Hello, Ms. McHale.”
“Come on. Get out of the heat.”
I went through the side door, and she closed it behind us.
“We won’t use the back entrance for Mr. Stern’s talk,” she said. “Just the front door.”
“Admission tickets only, right?”
McHale nodded. “But once he starts signing books, both entrances will be open to the public. The parking lot is out there,” she said, pointing to the rear door. “It’s closer for our older folks, if you get what I mean.”
“Got it,” I said.
“This way,” she said.
We entered the rotunda. It was set up much as I’d seen the room for the gardening writer. The podium was at the far end, by the windows, with chairs arranged in rows reaching back to the front door. I’d already picked the best spots for Henri and me to watch the doors.
McHale moved around the room, talking with staff members, then went over to unlock the front door. She clicked the latch and turned toward me.
“We’re ready, Mr. Russo.”
14
I watched people pass through the door, giving over their tickets and making a much bigger deal out of selecting seats than the event required. They were mostly older adults, the ones who likely read Lenny Stern in a paper copy of the Post Dispatch rather than the digital PPD Wired. Locals and tourists alike ambled into the rotunda, filling most of the seats.
After thirty-five minutes, I recognized two men who arrived together: Frank Marshall and Wardcliff Griswold.
Marshall, a retired investigator from Chicago, was an old friend, a mentor from my early days as a private eye. A touch over six feet tall, he was trim and fit, befitting an avid runner (despite having edged into his seventies). He was dressed in resort casual: a navy polo shirt, khaki shorts and a beat-up pair of running shoes.
Wardcliff Griswold was another matter. We tangled several years ago when I helped the police investigate a murder at ritzy Cherokee Point Resort, just north of Harbor Springs. Griswold, the self-important president of Cherokee Point, made it his business to hinder that investigation using every option shy of illegal. I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me. Fair enough, but Frank Marshall was his neighbor at the Lake Michigan resort, so I tried to be nice. Griswold frequently wore khaki pants with little green ducks all over them. He did the first time we met, and he did not disappoint tonight.
“Michael,” Marshall said, coming up to me with a huge grin. We hugged.
“AJ and I were just talking about you, Frank,” I said. “How are you?”
“Training for the Great Turtle half,” he said, referring to the annual October thirteen-miler on Mackinac Island. “You remember Ward, don’t you?”
“Certainly,” I said, acting interested and polite as I reached out my hand.
“Mr. Russo,” Griswold said, condescending to shake my hand as if I were there to park his Mercedes. “I shall secure two seats while you chat,” he then said, turning away.
“Be right along, Ward,” Frank said.
“Didn’t think you two were friends,” I said.
“Ah, Ward’s okay. He just has an odd priority list, that’s all.”
“Are you a fan of Lenny Stern?”
“You bet,” he said, smiling. “Chicago was my town, too, remember?”
We took a few moments to catch up, as old friends do when they haven’t talked in a while. He started to walk away, but stopped.
“Michael,” Marshall said, glancing from one side to the other. “You’re working, aren’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
He shook his head. “Not to the others, but it’s all the years I did the same thing. I had a gut feeling.”
He said good-bye again and went off to find Griswold.
“Was that Frank?” a familiar voice said.
I turned to see AJ and the cre
w from the newspaper come through the door.
“It was,” I said. “Where’s Lenny?”
“Outside talking to someone. Henri’s with him.”
I nodded, and said hello to the others.
“I want to catch Frank before the talk,” AJ said as Henri and Lenny walked up. “See you after.”
“Anybody look suspicious?” Lenny said.
I shook my head. “Not unless our assassin has gray hair and moves very slowly.”
“That’s a depressing thought.”
“Hello, Mr. Stern,” Andrea McHale said as she walked up.
I introduced McHale to Henri.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “This way, please, Mr. Stern. We have a full house.”
“Duty calls,” Lenny said with a grin and a quick salute of his right hand.
When McHale took the podium, Lenny stayed off to one side.
“Good evening, everyone,” McHale said, and spent a few moments on a brief biography of the evening’s guest, concluding with his introduction.
“Any changes to our plan for this little soiree?” Henri said.
“Nope.”
Henri nodded, then circled around the rotunda and took up a position on the opposite side of the room. I stood on the sidewall across from him. We had a good view of the entire space, both doors, and of each other.
“Good evening,” Lenny said from the podium. “I’m delighted that you’re here tonight, that you’ve chosen to spend a glorious summer evening at the Carnegie Library.
“Tonight …” Lenny paused for effect, then raised his voice and said, “Murder, mayhem, and the Mafia in Chicago. What’s not to like?” He spread his arms wide like he was about to give someone a big hug. He grinned broadly, his eyes sparkling.
Scattered applause broke out. There was an air of expectancy in the room.
This was a Lenny Stern I’d never seen before, in private or in public. Never heard him use “glorious” before. Never seen him so interested in talking to people who weren’t criminals or the cops who chased them. My friend, the cantankerous crime reporter, was a charming public speaker. Of course, I’d never seen him perform — and that was the right word, in a setting like the Carnegie.
“It’s essential to remember that this is a true story, with real people living corrupt, dangerous lives.” Lenny was off and running, revealing gruesome details and taking us along for the ride.
Deadline for Lenny Stern Page 7
