“Lenny’s book.”
AJ smiled. “Uh-huh. He told anyone who’d listen that you and Henri could be, and I quote, ‘dumb shits.’ I didn’t have a chance to ask him why.”
“Neither of us read his book. We missed an important detail.”
“A real clue?”
“Yep,” I said, “and helpful.”
“Want to fill me in?”
I shook my head. “Not right now.”
“No, not right now.” AJ waited a moment. “Michael, I don’t like this. I’m uncomfortable. Where we are … the distance.”
“I don’t like it either, AJ. We’re not used to … to this.”
“No, we’re not.”
“How did we get here?”
“Does it matter?”
I nodded. “I think it does. It feels … no, I feel … like you’re being critical, judgmental about the way I do my job.”
“I’m not judging you, Michael.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m not.”
“It feels that way.”
AJ sat back and looked away, at the wall, maybe, or the large aerial photo of the Mackinac Bridge that occupied most of the wall space. I waited.
“I’m afraid, Michael …”
“That I could get hurt?”
“Hurt? You’ve been hurt before. I don’t want … night is the worst time, did you know that? The middle of the night … I wake up … Marty Fleener’s banging on the door.”
Her eyes were wet. And sad.
“AJ …”
“What if I never see you again? You go off … to an alley or a deserted house … you’ll die in the street, alone.”
“It’s what I do, AJ. It’s dangerous sometimes.”
“Well, hell, I know that …”
I closed the cover of Corruption on Trial. She’d gone another place, alone.
“AJ …”
“I don’t want you to be a dead private eye, Michael. I’m angry.”
AJ looked startled, just for a moment, at what she’d just said.
“Who are you …”
“Who am I mad at?”
I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I felt bad for her, for her fear. I stayed silent for a few moments.
“I’m mad at you, Michael. You.”
Tears trailed slowly down her face. She sat still. I wanted to ask why, but that would not have been a helpful question.
“But … but I’m mad at me. Really mad at me.” She took a tissue from a box on Sandy’s desk. “I don’t want you to be a dead private eye,” she repeated.
AJ looked as sad as I’d ever seen her. It broke my heart to see her so despondent, to feel her in such pain.
“Would you rather I be a lawyer again? Divorces, wills?”
She was quiet.
“I’m really a good investigator, AJ.”
“That’s because you want to be a good investigator, Michael. There’s a
difference.” She wiped tears away and took a deep breath.
“I’m really mad at me … for being scared. I want to push the fear away.” She shook her head slowly. “That won’t work, not really. I have to find a way to accept it, live with it.
“I wish I could tell you how to do that,” I said.
“I have to do it myself, dammit, I don’t need …”
She stopped, waited a moment, then turned toward me.
“Sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”
I reached over and took her hand. She squeezed it.
“I want to figure out a way … a way through it, Michael.”
I nodded, but I didn’t know what was in her head, only what she said. I felt pretty sure not interrupting was a better idea than jumping in too soon.
“Michael.” She glanced around the office, as if it were filled with people and she didn’t want them to hear.
“Michael, come home with me. I know you have to leave early for the island.”
I nodded.
“I want … I just want to feel you next to me, feel you … inside of me. I want to put my arms around you and just … I want to do that.”
35
“What time is it?” AJ pulled the sheet away from her face just enough so that I heard the question. I’d already slipped out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and put on coffee.
“Almost six-thirty.” I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll have some coffee, then get going.”
“Want me to drive you home?” AJ was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, holding the sheet across her chest.
I shook my head. “The walk will feel good. Don’t have time to run.”
“You have your .38, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh, and I’ll pay attention, AJ, promise.”
“You anticipated my next question.”
“I did. Meet you in the kitchen?”
“I’ll get my robe,” she said, flipping the sheet back and getting off the bed with more theatrical flair than was necessary.
I smiled. “Beautiful.”
“So you said last night … more than once.”
I was leaning against the kitchen counter working on my coffee when AJ walked in. She tightened the cinch on her long, white terrycloth robe. I filled a mug with hot coffee and handed it to her.
“You’re not worried about the walk home?”
I selected my words carefully. I didn’t want to launch into another contentious discussion of my job. For one thing, I didn’t have time. Mostly I didn’t want to spoil the moment.
“I’ll be careful about every move we make until this is over,” I said. “But experience has taught me that some places are more dangerous than others.”
AJ sipped coffee. “Walking home this morning is less dangerous?”
I nodded. “There’s no Lenny, no Tina. The car’s at my apartment. Being here was not predictable, not scheduled.”
“But leaving for the island this morning is on Lenny’s public schedule.”
I nodded again. “Anyone can read it.”
“Want more coffee?” she said.
“Wish I could stay …”
AJ put down her mug, took two steps, put her arms around me and pulled me close.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Michael,” she said softly, with her face close to mine. “I still have to work through this … this stuff.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
We kissed good-bye, and I left by the side door.
The sun had a good start on its arc through the morning sky. I moved along at a decent clip, feeling beads of sweat under my shirt. It was a four-block walk to my apartment from AJ’s restored two-story above the ravine on Bay Street. I’d walked this route many times, often under the pressures of a case. Shooters only had a few spots to try something without giving me a lot of warning. I kept my eyes moving, watching for the odd, the unusual.
I didn’t take AJ’s comment the wrong way. I knew she had to sort out the fear, to deal with the anger. She wouldn’t be happy until that happened. But being together overnight was a pleasant diversion for both of us.
I took a fast shower, then put on a polo shirt and fresh khakis. I decided on a lightweight blazer instead of a loose shirt to cover my .38. The author luncheon at the Iroquois Hotel was resort-dressy, unlike book signings on the mainland.
I left my car at home and ate a banana on the two-block walk up Howard to the office.
“Good morning, boss,” Sandy said when I walked in the door.
“Morning, Sandy,” I said. “Did your father do okay at the doctor?”
She laughed. “Passed his Medicare checkup with flying colors. I’m sure he gave only the best answers.”
“To get done faster?”
“That’s it,”
she said. “What time is Henri picking you up?”
“In a couple of minutes. Any messages?”
“Nope, you’re good,” she said. “Text when you’re back from the island, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Boss?”
I looked back from the door.
“Be careful.”
I picked up a coffee at Roast & Toast and left for the parking lot by the back door. Henri’s SUV was in the alley, waiting.
“Good morning,” I said as I climbed into the front seat. Lenny and Tina were in back.
Henri took the usual route to Division, then US 31 north for the fifty-minute drive to the Mackinaw City ferry docks. We rode along without much idle chitchat. Lenny scanned his notes, Tina checked her email, Henri and I were, well, alert.
“Michael.” It was Tina. “I have a theory I want to run by you. You, too, Henri.”
We were a few miles south of the airport in Pellston. Traffic was steady.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Wait a second, Tina,” Henri said. “Michael?”
“Yeah, I see it.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes, fifteen maybe.”
“What’s happening?” Lenny said.
“Black Tahoe, right?” Henri said to me.
“That’s the one.”
“Do we have a tail?” Lenny said.
“We do,” Henri said.
“Can you tell who it is?”
“No,” Henri said. “We’ll keep driving, see what he does when we get to the dock.”
“Sorry, Tina,” I said.
“No, no,” Tina said. “Your job comes first.” She paused.
“You have a theory?”
“So, we’ve talked about Kate’s murder. Why kill Kate?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t sure. Lenny and I weren’t sure.”
“I’ll say it again,” Lenny said. “I wrote the goddamn book. Why kill Kate?”
“It’s the documents,” Tina said.
“All the evidence is with your lawyer,” Henri said. “Right?”
“It’s not the documents themselves, you guys,” Tina said, “it’s us. The Mafia wants to kill us, shut us up.”
I thought again that maybe the mob wasn’t after anyone, but that someone else was. The bookstore owner in Harbor Springs asked if Kate was killed for a reason, or — was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time? I wasn’t convinced by Tina’s theory.
“I don’t get it,” Henri said. “If they kill two of you, three of you, the damn book gets even more publicity, more attention after it’s published.”
“So what?” Tina said. “They shout ‘prove it’ or ‘fake news’ or sue Gloucester Publishing for making it up to sell books. Somebody will get the ball rolling, I don’t know, a former office holder, one of the Cavendish people. Somebody puts it on Facebook, Instagram, it wouldn’t take much to ruin the book, muddle what it exposes.”
Henri eased up on the gas as he went through the stoplight at US 23 in Mackinaw City. The black SUV kept a discrete distance. The driver knew how to run a tail.
“That’s my theory, anyway,” Tina said.
“It’s an interesting theory,” I said, “but only if the mob’s after all three of you.”
“But I thought …” Tina said, as her voice faded.
“I’m not sure it’s the mob,” I said. “The people we’re hunting for might never have made our radar screen.”
Silence replaced the chatter after I said that. Henri took Central Avenue through town, passing shops featuring fudge, T-shirts, and trinkets. He pulled up to the gate at Shepler’s and paid cash to park on the dock.
Henri pulled into a parking spot three rows away from the ferry ramp. “Michael, look,” Henri said, pointing toward the street.
“I should have guessed,” I said, watching Jimmy Erwin exit the black SUV and make his way through the parked cars.
“Is that the same man who was at the church,” Tina said, “at Kate’s memorial service?”
“That’s him,” I said.
The others headed for the ferry ramp.
“Save me a seat,” I said, and went to meet Jimmy Erwin.
He stood next to an elegant Porsche Carrera S, slate gray over tan leather.
“Nice ride,” Jimmy said, ogling the car. “Got to get me one of these someday.”
“One-twenty large, my man,” I said. “You’ll have to be a gunman a long time.”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“Nobody followed you up from Petoskey,” Jimmy said.
“Comforting to know. You coming to Lenny’s talk?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Next time. You’ll be in good hands on the island for a couple of hours.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. Jimmy didn’t have much of a sense of humor.
“I’ll be here,” Jimmy said, “when you get back to the mainland.”
“So you can keep an eye on us.”
Jimmy smiled. “To keep an eye out for the shooters.”
I nodded, and went to catch up with the others on the ferry.
36
I’ve crossed the Straits to “the land of the great turtle” regularly since that first time when I was four years old. I’ve never tired of it, not once. The deep blue water with a scattering of whitecaps, the elegant Mackinac Bridge, and the quaint charm of the harbor at Mackinac Island.
The deckhand left the bow door open, allowing cool, refreshing air to push through the passenger’s cabin. As we rounded the west breakwater, the captain sounded the horn and cut the throttle. The Wyandot slowed, settling into the water.
“Are we taking a taxi?” Lenny asked.
“No need,” I said. “The hotel is a block away.”
“Ah, too bad. How often can you ride in a taxi pulled by horses?”
The ferry pulled up to the ramp, and lines, fore and aft, were secured to the dock. Once the luggage carts were removed, a deckhand shouted, “All ashore folks. Watch your step.”
We made our way slowly up the dock, through the crowd of people waiting to catch a ferry back to the mainland. At the top of the dock, the chaos of Main Street Mackinac Island opened up in front of us. Bicycles, horse-drawn taxis and drays, and people all competed for space on the street or sidewalk. Somehow, they managed to fit. Most of the time.
Across the street, leaning next to the Carriage Tours ticket window, I noticed a familiar figure, Santino Cicci, a lean six feet, with a weathered, chiseled face and a neatly trimmed goatee. I quickly understood Jimmy Erwin’s quip that we’d be in “good hands” on the island. Cicci and his partner, Gino Rosato, were longtime bodyguards, first for Carmine DeMio and then his son. Joey brought in Jimmy Erwin and Bobbie Lampone when Carmine retired and he required his own protection.
“Henri,” I said.
“I see him. Think something’s up?”
“Well, why don’t I find out? I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
Henri nodded, then set off down the street with Lenny and Tina.
Cicci watched me carefully as I crossed Main Street.
“People watching your new hobby, Santino?” I said.
Cicci fingered his goatee. “Always the smart-ass, aren’t you, Russo?”
“Do the best I can. You our welcoming committee?”
“Something like that,” he said.
Cicci kept an eye on Henri and the others as they slowly moved down the sidewalk.
“They’re headed to the Iroquois,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, and started across Hoban Street. “You coming, smart-ass?”
Being a savvy private eye, I assumed he was talking to me. “You bet.”
We waited at the edge of the sidewalk for two dock porter
s, baskets piled precariously high with luggage, to pass by.
The Iroquois Hotel was built in 1900 as a private home by island blacksmith Robert Benjamin, whose descendants still call Mackinac home. In 1904, the Benjamin House was converted into Hotel Iroquois, which was eventually bought by the McIntire family, who managed the intimate 45-room hotel until 2020.
Cicci and I took the long brick walkway to the hotel’s Carriage House Dining Room, site of Lenny Stern’s luncheon presentation. The peaceful, spacious room, with large windows on three sides, offered a spectacular view of the Straits of Mackinac and the Round Island Lighthouse.
I went over, near the bar, and picked a spot with a good view of the room. Cicci remained at the entrance.
A few people were milling about, others enjoyed salads or sandwiches at brightly decorated tables. Women, mostly older, outnumbered men in the dining room, but all were dressed appropriately for a luncheon at the Iroquois (rather than, say, a hot dog at a picnic table next door at Windemere Point). Lenny chatted with two women near the bar. They held wine glasses, Lenny a cup of coffee. The two women smiled a lot and seemed to be doing most of the talking.
It was almost showtime. I looked over at Henri, who stood at the back of the dining room, near the kitchen. He nodded toward the door. I looked over.
Carmine DeMio.
The retired Don of the Baldini crime family was older now, perhaps slower, but he still commanded attention, standing erect, face tanned, in an elegant black suit, his thinning gray hair combed straight back. He surveyed the dining room as if he were a general about to issue orders to his troops.
A few feet behind Carmine stood Gino Rosato, longtime bodyguard for Carmine and partner of Santino Cicci.
Rosato was Oliver Hardy to Cicci’s Stan Laural, overweight not trim, unkempt not fastidious, with a puffy red face and nose to match. Take it from me, the man knew his way around a .45 automatic.
Carmine gestured discretely. Rosato lumbered over to the windows and stood by the only open table, a four-top with a small silver stand on one corner. It held an elegantly written sign, which read, “Reserved.” I’d seen this one-act play before, choreographed to perfection and implemented wherever other people were around, even in the dining room of Carmine’s own hotel. Bob Fosse would have been proud.
Deadline for Lenny Stern Page 17
