Deadline for Lenny Stern: A Michael Russo Mystery

by Peter Marabell

  Sandy shook her head. “No, no, not that. I don’t mean a casual conversation at work.”

  “How about Gloucester Publishing?” Henri said. “When did they get involved?”

  “Later,” Lenny said. “I’d finished most of the rough draft before I took it to Gloucester.”

  “Who’d you talk to first?” Henri said.

  “At Gloucester?”

  Henri nodded.

  “Tina Lawson.”

  “You already knew her?” I said.

  “Yeah. I met her a few years ago,” Lenny said, “in Chicago. At a retirement party for my editor at the Tribune. She’d heard about the case, has crime writers as clients. She seemed the logical person to ask.”

  “Did you tell your old editor,” I said, “the one who retired?”

  “Never had the chance,” Lenny said. “He died six weeks later. Cancer.”

  “I assume Tina thought you were onto something?” Sandy said.

  Lenny nodded. “Murder and the mob in Chicago. It may not be a New York Times bestseller, but that’s good enough to sell books in the Windy City.”

  “What happened after you approached Tina?”

  “She wanted a proposal, told me how to put it together, so I did.”

  “You give the proposal to Tina?” I asked.

  Lenny nodded.

  “Who’d she give it to?”

  “Don’t know for sure,” he said, “but Bigelow gave the project a green light.”

  “Back to Bigelow again,” Henri said. “That guy bothers me, and I haven’t even met him.”

  “Hell, Henri, he bothers everybody. He’s an insufferable snob, but apparently he knows the business of books.”

  “That might sell books,” Henri said. “Doesn’t make me less cautious.”

  “Tell me again,” I said, shifting the subject, “who’s seen the documents besides you.”

  “Tina and Kate Hubbell,” Lenny said. “She edited the book.”

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “Yep.”

  I looked over at Henri, and he nodded slowly.

  “Either of them been threatened?” Henri said. “Or anything odd happen to either of them? You know, they think they’re being followed, stuff like that?”

  Lenny shook his head. “I would have heard,” he said, “especially after I got beat up.”

  Lenny glanced at Henri, then at me. “Do you think they’re in danger?”

  “Can’t be sure,” I said. “We’ll assume the answer’s yes for now.”

  “Listen, Russo,” Lenny said, looking at his watch, “I’m on a deadline. I have to write up an interview. What do you need from me?”

  “Two things,” I said. “I want to review the death threats with you and Tina, and we have to talk over how the tour’s going to play out.”

  “I figured we’d get to that sooner or later,” Lenny said.

  I nodded. “Had to happen, Lenny, had to happen.”

  Lenny shrugged and took his coat from the hall tree. “All right. How about my office in the morning? That work?”

  I looked over at Sandy.

  “You’re clear, boss.”

  “Henri?”

  “I’m clear, too, boss,” he said, and laughed.

  “How about Tina?” I said.

  “She can be there,” Lenny said.

  “How about Hubbell, the editor?”

  Lenny shook his head. “In Chicago. But I’ll make sure she’s kept in the loop.”

  “Does Hubbell have plans to be on the tour?”

  Lenny nodded. “Just the first stop at the Carnegie Library and the Chicago events at the end. Okay to go now?” he said.

  “I’ll be outside when you leave work,” Henri said, “follow you home.”

  “And now it begins,” Lenny said and left the office.

  We were silent for a moment.

  “What do you think?” I said.

  “We don’t know enough,” Henri said.

  “That happens a lot in this office,” I said.

  “We have the death threats,” Sandy said. “Let’s start there.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You’re up to bat, have at it.”

  “All of us,” Sandy gestured with her hand in a big circle. “Us, Lenny, Maury Weston, even the dude from Gloucester Publishing, we all assume the Mafia’s pissed off about Lenny’s book.”

  “Lenny writes about a mob killing, the mob is pissed,” I said. “Politicians implicated want the book to go away, Lenny is beat up, threatened. It’s the logical assumption.”

  “Unless it’s wrong,” Sandy said, leaning forward. “Just suppose it’s not the Mafia. Suppose it’s not Joey DeMio who concocted a plan to stop publication of the book or try to kill Lenny.”

  “Then who?” I said. “Who else would put together a plan like this?”

  Sandy shook her head. “I don’t know. You guys are the detectives.”

  “He’s the detective,” Henri said, pointing at me. “I’m just along for the ride.”

  I pushed my chair back from the desk and swiveled around. The sun was up there, waves of heat shimmered up from the tarmac in the parking lot.

  “Sandy’s got a point,” Henri said. “Maybe we should consider someone else is behind the threats.”

  “Our job’s tougher if it’s someone else,” I said.

  “How so?” Sandy said.

  “The mob is fairly predictable. They always do things the way they’ve always done things. They’re not very creative when it comes to intimidation and murder.”

  “Worth thinking about, Russo,” Henri said. “And there’s one man who’d know.”

  “Joey DeMio himself,” I said.

  Henri pointed his forefinger at me and pulled an imaginary trigger.

  The DeMios — Joey and his father, Carmine, now retired — were from Chicago. They owned a perfectly legitimate enterprise, the Marquette Park Hotel on Mackinac Island. Carmine also owned a restored Victorian cottage on the island’s East Bluff. The hotel provided cover for the family’s more criminal operations in northern Michigan and Ontario.

  “Well, if you decide to go ask him,” Henri said, “I have breaking news about Mackinac Island’s favorite mob family.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Trouble right here in River City.’ Remember Ristorante Bella?”

  The highly regarded Italian eatery a block down Lake Street put its tablecloths in mothballs two years back.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “New owners. Want to guess?”

  “DeMio wants a base in Petoskey?”

  “It opened last week,” Henri said.

  “You know anything?” I said.

  Henri got that look, like I’d asked a dumb question.

  “It’s a legitimate move.”

  “Seriously?” Sandy said.

  Henri nodded. “Paperwork checks out. The official owner is the same corporation that owns his hotel on Mackinac.”

  “Is Joey using the restaurant as a cover, too?” I said.

  “Too soon to tell. I suppose it’s possible a move to Emmet County is separate from his more traditional business practices.”

  “That’ll be the day,” I said.

  “Maybe he just wanted good pasta,” Henri said.

  “Funny,” Sandy said.

  “The Don renamed the place, too. ‘Ristorante Enzo.’”

  “Well,” I said. “When it’s time to see the man, walking down the street’s easier than catching a ferry to Mackinac.”

  5

  I swung the chair around and put my feet on the window ledge. Small whitecaps slid along the blue water of Little Traverse Bay. I spotted two single-mast sailboats moving smartly on the other side of the breakwater.

 
I texted AJ, “Dinner?” and put the phone down.

  Sandy leaned on the doorjamb.

  “Where’s Henri?” I said.

  Sandy jerked her thumb, hitchhiker style, toward the outer office.

  “Henri,” I said loud enough, “what are you doing?”

  “Hold on a minute,” he said.

  Sandy looked back. “Be careful with my computer, if you know what’s good for you.”

  We heard the printer come to life and start its dedicated task. Henri came in the office and sat down.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Looking up Petoskey’s Carnegie Library,” Henri said. “Interesting history. Never been inside.”

  “I have,” Sandy said. “A couple of times.”

  “So have I,” I said, “for a community event or a fundraiser. Never as a bodyguard.”

  “Where will Lenny do his book thing?”

  “In the main room,” I said, “his talk and the book signing. That’s the way I’ve seen it done before.”

  “How many ways in?” Henri said.

  “Two,” I said. “The front door on Mitchell and a door on the side, where the library connects to the Arts Center.”

  “We should be able to cover both doors,” Henri said.

  “Lenny’s talk will be easier,” I said. “It’s invitation only. That helps.”

  “But the doors are wide open for the signing, aren’t they?” Sandy said.

  I nodded. “Harder to cover depending on where they set up the table for Lenny. We’ll figure out the best place to watch.”

  I thought for a minute, then leaned over and tapped a few keys.

  “Let’s see … the library … should be an event schedule. Here it is.” I sat back and pointed at the screen. “How about that? We have an author presentation tonight,” I said. “Woman’s got a new book on gardening …” I looked back at the screen. “Taking care of flowers, shrubs, that kind of thing. I could swing by tonight, get a lay of the room.”

  My phone buzzed. The screen read, “Yes.”

  “It’s AJ,” I smiled. “Maybe she’d like to tag along.”

  I tapped her number.

  “Michael,” she said, “a real phone call? What’s up?”

  “You interested in a brief detour before dinner?”

  “Would you like to be more specific? Not that I’m suspicious, or anything.”

  “I’m going to listen to an expert gardener who has a new book out. Thought I might learn a thing or two. Want to come along?”

  Silence.

  “AJ?”

  “No, really, Michael, what do you want?”

  “I’m serious, AJ. All about gardening. At the Carnegie Library.”

  “I was thinking we’d share a glass of wine, something romantic at my house.”

  “We can still do that,” I said. “It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. We could stop at City Park Grill for a drink.”

  “I was thinking … are you on speaker?”

  “No.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of wine in the bathtub.”

  Sandy and Henri were watching me. I tried to keep a straight face.

  “Oh … I think I get it.”

  “It’s a damn good thing you’re a detective, Russo. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.” She paused. “Wait a minute. Your interest in gardening is limited to watching me work in the garden. So this has to be about something else.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The Carnegie?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Silence again. She was thinking.

  “That’s Lenny’s first stop on the book tour, isn’t it? You want inside the building, don’t you? To check out how they set it up for authors.”

  “You’d make a terrific reporter. Want to come along? Then some wine.”

  “In my bathtub?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I may rip your clothes off between the front door and the tub.”

  I tried hard to look nonchalant, edging toward blasé.

  “I certainly hope so,” I said.

  AJ laughed. “Okay, I’ll meet you at the library. What time?”

  I told her and clicked off.

  My office companions waited patiently for my next words.

  “She loves to garden,” I said, and smiled.

  “If you say so, boss. I have a few things to do before I go home.”

  Sandy went out to her desk.

  Henri looked at his watch. “Time to keep Lenny company on his ride home.”

  6

  I walked up the steps and through the double-front door at the Carnegie Library. The large rotunda was beautifully restored, with high ceilings, wood beams and tall windows. Folding chairs, in neat rows, filled most of the floor space. They were aimed at a podium at the back of the room. People milled about, talking and laughing and waiting for the evening’s presentation to begin.

  Off to one side, AJ leaned against the wall. She smiled and waved when I looked over. She wore a two-piece navy linen suit over a soft pink blouse. I walked over and gave her a quick kiss.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi, yourself,” she said.

  I stood next to AJ and took in the room.

  “Would you like my two cents worth?” she said.

  “Always. About what?”

  “About what? Some Philip Marlowe you are.”

  “I’m not Sam Spade anymore?”

  “Oh, hush, darling,” she said. “If they set up the room this way for Lenny, you have four problems.”

  I moved back a half step and gave the rotunda another look. “Is that right?”

  AJ nodded slowly, but her attention was focused on the room.

  “First off, the door you came in,” she said, “and then that one, over there.”

  AJ pointed to a side door, several feet in front of us, near the middle of the rotunda.

  “That one connects to the Arts Center, right?” I said.

  “It does, through a narrow hallway.”

  “Back in a second.” I walked to the other side of the room, opposite the side door. I watched for a couple of minutes as some visitors entered the library using both doors. I walked across the room and down the narrow hallway to have a look, then I went back to AJ.

  “What do you think?” she said.

  “Clear view of the front door,” I said, “but I need to watch that hallway more carefully. Maybe they’ll only use the front entrance.”

  “Don’t count on it,” AJ said, “the side door leads to a parking lot and the restrooms. That’s the third problem.”

  Two women, one taller, thinner and younger than the other, came straight out of an Ann Taylor catalog and walked to the front of the room. Both women smiled, but they didn’t really look all that happy. The younger one placed a folder on the podium and began chatting with women in the first row.

  AJ looked at her watch. “Think they’re ready to start?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Maybe we ought to vamoose before they do,” AJ said.

  “Okay with me, but you said four problems. What’s number four?”

  AJ raised her left arm and waved slowly across the expanse of the rotunda. She leaned in and spoke softly.

  “You’d spot a bad guy as soon as he came in the room. But what if he’s already sitting in the audience? What if the bad guy is a she?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Worth thinking about. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Good idea.”

  We left by the front door as people were coming in for the gardening presentation.

  “City Park Grill?” I said.

  “Not a chance,” AJ said. “It’s my house. Did you walk?”

  “Yeah. Your
truck here?”

  “Across the street. And it’s an SUV, Russo. Would it kill your ass to call it an SUV? Just once?”

  “Probably.”

  “It’s a damn good thing I love you,” AJ said, laughing … just a little.

  She took my hand. We crossed Mitchell Street and climbed aboard her SUV.

  “Do you mind riding in my SUV, darling?”

  “I’d love a ride in your SUV, darling.”

  “The right thing to say.”

  AJ started the motor, and off we went to Bay Street. We rode in silence, AJ’s hand finding mine. It was a short trip, and the quiet was both welcome and relaxing. Our workdays provided enough stimulation. We enjoyed sharing the quiet the way we shared so many things.

  AJ pulled in the driveway, and we entered the house through the kitchen door.

  “I have to get out of these work clothes,” she said. “Wine’s cold. Get the cheese out, too.”

  I took two glasses, a bottle of chardonnay and napkins to the living room and placed them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I put down a plate with crackers and a brick of manchego cheese. I kicked off my shoes, poured wine into the glasses and leaned back.

  The soft hum of the air conditioning was a welcome sound in the middle of the heat wave. AJ’s elegant two-story Victorian needed serious repairs when she bought it several years ago. Structural updates, a new roof, the heating and air systems, came first. Then it was onto cosmetic improvements like fresh paint, inside and out. It was a work in progress, but almost complete.

  AJ came into the living room wearing a familiar outfit, loose baggy shorts and a man-tailored light blue shirt not quite buttoned up the front.

  She sat down and picked up a glass. “A toast.”

  “To what?”

  “Us, and I have a question.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You first,” she said, and tapped my glass with hers.

  I sipped some wine. “At the Carnegie Library, you were playing private eye.”

  AJ glanced at something on the other side of the room.

  “So?”

  “Seriously,” I said. “You like to help out from time to time, but you were scouting the library, too.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Why?”

  “Lenny Stern, that’s why. I have more than a passing interest in his well-being. He’s our best reporter: skilled, experienced, people talk to him. He’s a mentor, a coach to every rookie reporter that comes along.”