Deadline for Lenny Stern: A Michael Russo Mystery

by Peter Marabell

  “Another baggy shirt?”

  “No. Skinny black T-shirt.”

  “How do you hide a gun underneath a T-shirt?”

  “You don’t,” Henri said. “He’s carrying a small attaché case.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a break-away Uzi.”

  “Thank you for your interesting questions,” Lenny said as he wrapped up the second portion of the afternoon. “Some thoughtful insights, too. Well, I’d be delighted to inscribe my book for anyone who’s interested.”

  “Kill a lot of people with an Uzi,” I said.

  “Right about that,” Henri said. “My baggy shirt likely has a pistol.”

  “My guy still there?” I said, straining to see out the window.

  “Yeah. Same doorway. He’s been in one place too long.”

  “Professionals haven’t used the Uzi in years. Think they’re amateurs?”

  “Be my guess,” Henri said. “Get an Uzi pretty cheap these days.”

  “Big trouble anyway you look at it. Amateurs panic at the worst times.”

  “Hold on,” Henri said. “Baggy shirt’s on the move.”

  I looked hard. “I see him. He’s still on your side of the street. Walking your way.”

  “How do you want to play this?”

  “Let’s see where your guy goes first. If he moves to the bookstore, that’s one problem. Might be … wait, he’s just about to you.”

  Henri put down the phone and unzipped his nylon windbreaker as the man walked by.

  “He’s a kid,” Henri said.

  Baggy shirt stopped across Main Street from his buddy on my side.

  “Okay,” Henri said. “One on each side of the street. What do you think?”

  “I can’t see them both.”

  “I got good lines, Russo. I could take them both quick, right now. But bad shit could happen fast.”

  Henri paused. “Don’t want to wait too long, they might have itchy trigger fingers.”

  “Let’s run a two-man on them,” I said.

  “Been a long since we did that,” Henri said. “I might be out of practice.”

  “You’re never out of practice. It might just keep them from shooting. But if they do …”

  “I’ll kill them both,” Henri said.

  “You ready?”

  Henri clicked off, left the café and started down the sidewalk, walking fast, straight toward baggy shirt. When he got close enough, I went out the door and turned right, walking fast toward my man with the attaché case.

  They spotted us.

  Henri pulled up ten feet short of his man and stared at him. I did the same with my guy. We made sure our guns were visible, not drawn, but very visible. That’s all.

  My guy blinked first. He backed up two steps, then spun and ran. I followed.

  Henri’s guy took off down a side street and out of sight, with Henri close behind.

  I was ten, twelve feet behind my guy when he turned on Spring Street heading toward the harbor. I cut the corner tight at Graham Real Estate, and collided with a middle-aged couple I never saw. The three of us landed hard on the cement. A large paper shopping bag exploded, and its contents slid across the sidewalk into the street.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said as I struggled to get on my feet. I glanced down Spring Street. My guy was already a block away and moving fast.

  “I got to go,” I said, pointing. “Sorry.”

  The man, on his knees, pulled at my khakis. “Not so fast, you sonofabitch.” He grabbed a handful of my shirt, and the buttons tore away.

  The woman screamed. “He’s got a gun, Harry!” Then, even louder, “It’s a gun, Harry!”

  I heard another voice — male — loud, deep, harsh.

  “Stop. Right there, stop. Hands over your head. Now.”

  The voice wore a uniform.

  I raised my hands.

  “I’m a private investigator licensed to carry firearms in the state of Michigan.”

  23

  “I want this hooligan arrested,” the man said. On his feet, he was angrier and bolder with a cop around. He shouted at the officer, “He attacked us!”

  The officer, handgun at his side, never took his eyes off me. He was medium height, stocky, with a serious face. His nameplate read, “Leon Flores.”

  A second officer, taller and leaner than the first, came up quickly. He moved beside the frightened couple, easing them a few steps away.

  “That man has a gun, officer,” the woman said, her voice trembling as she edged closer to him.

  “Yes, ma’am. Stay here, please,” the tall cop said as he moved toward me.

  “I called for backup,” the tall one said.

  “The sheriff?” Leon Flores said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Against the wall,” Officer Flores said. I stretched out, hands on the wall of the real estate office.

  His partner reached under my torn shirt, carefully pulling my .38 out of its holster.

  All the excitement had drawn a small crowd of spectators. They kept a discrete distance.

  “ID?” Flores said.

  “Left rear pants.”

  “Slowly,” he said, “so we can see your hands.”

  I came off the wall, held my shirt out with one hand and reached for my wallet with the other.

  Flores holstered his gun and took my wallet. He found what he was looking for. “He really is a PI, Harry,” he said, showing the documents to his lanky partner.

  A sheriff’s SUV stopped across the street, near our audience. A deputy eased himself out from behind the wheel and crossed the street to join the fun.

  “Gentlemen,” the deputy said.

  “Leon Flores and Harry Bales,” my cop said.

  “Here for the summer, officers?” the deputy said. The Harbor Springs police brought in additional officers each summer to help during the busy tourist season.

  Flores and Bales nodded in unison.

  “Hands down,” the deputy said to me. Then addressing the police, “So, what do we have here, officers?”

  Flores held up my gun, and explained how all of us ended up on a Harbor Springs street corner on a humid July afternoon. He handed my wallet to the deputy. His nameplate read, “Isaac Lasher.”

  “So …” he glanced at the license, “Mr. Russo … Petoskey, huh. I’ve heard of you.” He pulled out a notebook and flipped a couple of pages, then said, “Hold on.”

  Deputy Lasher walked a few steps away, took out his phone and tapped the screen. When he finished, he came back to us.

  “Now, Mr. Russo, why were you running so hard? Somebody chasing you?”

  “I was doing the chasing. The guy went around the corner.” I pointed down the side street.

  “There was nobody else.” It was the man again, not shouting, but still angry at having been knocked over. “He attacked us, plain and simple.”

  “Please, sir,” Officer Bales said, turning toward the man.

  “You want to tell us why you were running after somebody?” the deputy said.

  I needed to leave Henri out of this. I wondered if he’d caught the kid he went after.

  “I’m on the job. Hired to protect a man named Leonard Stern …”

  “The reporter?” Deputy Lasher said.

  “The same.”

  He looked around. “Then where’s Stern?” He sounded skeptical.

  I pointed down Main Street. “At Humbug’s Bookstore.”

  “But you’re here,” the deputy said.

  He listened patiently as I told him about Lenny, the bookstore, and why I was running.

  Deputy Lasher looked at the tourist couple, then at his colleagues and said, “Officer Flores, how ‘bout you go to the bookstore. Collect Mr. Stern and br
ing him back here.”

  “Will do.” Flores turned on his heels and left.

  “Officer,” the deputy said. “Keep our private eye here company, will you? I want to chat with these nice folks.” He nodded in the direction of the couple.

  “Not planning on running off, are you?” Officer Bales said.

  I shook my head. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

  He smiled, and put his hands behind his back, rocking gently back-and-forth on his heels.

  After a few minutes, Deputy Lasher waved at the couple as they ambled off down the street.

  “They calmed down now?” Officer Bales said.

  Lasher shrugged. “Think so.”

  “Think they’ll file a complaint,” Officer Bales said.

  “I doubt it,” Deputy Lasher said. “I apologized for the city and told them Mr. Russo, here, was just doing his job.”

  “Which job was that?” I said.

  “Keeping the good city of Harbor Springs safe for visitors like themselves.” He smiled.

  “Good choice.”

  “Just barely,” Lasher said. “You’re the guy ran them over, remember?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “What’s next?”

  “Well, let’s talk to Mr. Stern first,” he said, “then we’ll see …”

  When he stopped in mid-sentence, Office Bales and I took notice. Officer Flores was coming our way. Alone. No Stern, no Lawson.

  Deputy Lasher threw me a sharp look. “Was there a problem?” he said when Flores got close enough.

  Flores shook his head. “Lady at the bookstore confirmed the reporter and a woman were there.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “Tina Lawson,” I said. “Works for Stern’s publishing company.”

  “The reporter and the woman left with another man …” Flores said.

  “That’d be my associate, Henri LaCroix.”

  “Do you know …” Lasher started to say, but his phone beeped. He took it out and read the screen.

  “Mr. Russo,” the deputy said. “How about we take a ride to the road patrol building? It’s just over …”

  “I know where it is. Why?”

  “Captain Fleener will meet us there. Shouldn’t take long.”

  I’d heard that one before.

  24

  “I’ll be in touch, officers,” Deputy Lasher said. The three men exchanged good-byes, and Officers Flores and Bales returned to their beat on Main Street.

  “You have a car?” Lasher said.

  “Down by the marina,” I said.

  He considered that for a moment. “How ‘bout you ride with me?”

  I thought about objecting.

  “I’ll see to it you get a ride back.”

  More than anything else, I wanted to talk with Henri. It wasn’t worth arguing about my car. We went across the street, and climbed into the patrol SUV.

  Deputy Lasher said only a few words on the way to the office, which gave me time to think. Henri had obviously made it back to the bookstore to hustle Lenny and Tina out of town. But what happened to the guy he was chasing? Hell, what happened to the guy I was chasing?

  The road was thick with traffic. The quaint charm of the houses along Main Street, the privileged life on the fairways of Wequetonsing Golf Club, casually devolved into strip mall storefronts near the airport. The Richard L. Zink Law Enforcement Center, housing the road patrol offices, was a contemporary building with smart roof lines and not a tacky cement block in sight. Its second most notable feature was that it sat across the Harbor-Petoskey Road from Johan’s Burger Express.

  Deputy Lasher turned in and parked in the “official” area.

  “This way,” he said, pointing to a side entrance.

  “Never gone in that way,” I said.

  “First time for everything.”

  He led me down a corridor with several doors on one side, the holding cell on the other.

  “Here,” Lasher said, opening a door to an interview room. “Have a seat.”

  The windowless room was about ten-by-six, with a small table and two chairs. I pulled out a chair as the deputy closed the door. I considered my torn shirt, with its missing buttons, and shook my head. Hardly the most professional dress for the job. I was momentarily tempted to call Henri, but walls, especially these walls, had ears (and electronic eyes).

  I was replaying the events of the day when my attention was drawn to muffled talking out in the hallway. Moments later, the door opened.

  “Why am I not surprised,” I said as Captain Martin Fleener came into the room and closed the door. He leaned back against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit, and stared at me without expression, as if he were trying to decide what to order at a restaurant he didn’t like. His eyes moved, and his head tilted slightly.

  “You look like you ought to be in the drunk tank across the hall.”

  “A tourist took exception to meeting …”

  “So I heard,” Fleener said as he took the other chair.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” I said.

  “I’m a cop. The building’s full of ‘em.”

  “Nice you brought your sense of humor,” I said. “Seriously, why’d the deputy call you?”

  Fleener hesitated; I waited.

  “I put out the word after Kate Hubbell’s murder. If you pop up …”

  “You get a call.”

  Fleener put his hands out and smiled. “Voila.”

  “The deputy catch you up?”

  Fleener nodded. “His boss, too. You want to give me your version? Before and after the cops showed up on the street corner.”

  I did.

  Fleener thought for a moment. “Strange,” he said, “that the officers heard about Henri LaCroix from the woman at the bookstore. You never said a word about him. Why is that?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Fleener didn’t consider that for very long. “Like hell,” he said. “You were shielding Henri because you had no idea what happened to him, or where he was.”

  I leaned forward on the table and laced my fingers together. “Maybe.”

  “So you haven’t talked to Henri yet?”

  “No chance,” I said. “Deputy Lasher insisted I ride over here with him.”

  “Henri obviously didn’t get picked up like you did,” Fleener said. “The guy he was chasing got away, that what you’re thinking?”

  I nodded. “Seems likely.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “Not for sure, no,” I said. “When do I get out of here?”

  “You’re free to go anytime.”

  “What about the sheriff?”

  Fleener took a deep breath. “You’re my case, remember? They don’t know how lucky they are to be rid of you.”

  “Any trouble with the tourists I ran over?”

  Fleener shook his head. “I had Deputy Lasher follow up, just in case. No trouble.”

  Fleener slid his chair back and stood up. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “My car’s downtown.”

  “Of course, it is. I’ll drop you off.”

  Fleener’s dusty black sedan, looking hopelessly dated in a row of shiny cop SUVs, was parked outside the door.

  He beeped the locks, we got in, and I told him where to find my car. “Think they’ll ever give you a shiny, new SUV?”

  “You can always walk, you know.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  We left the parking lot and headed downtown.

  “Why don’t you get Henri on the phone, see what he has to say?”

  I hesitated, like I wasn’t listening.

  “What’s the matter, Russo? I’ll find out one way or the other.”

  “True.” I
pulled out my phone.

  “Where are u?” I tapped to Henri.

  “Your office. u?” he tapped back.

  “Riding with Fleener. wait for me.”

  Fleener turned off Main Street to avoid the congestion of downtown. He took East Bay Street along the water to the parking lot.

  “Thanks for the lift,” I said, opening the door.

  “You meeting Henri?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Is he with Stern at the paper? Maybe your office?”

  I put one leg out the door.

  “I’ll tail you,” Fleener said. “I do that a lot.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’m going to find out, remember?”

  I glanced back at Fleener. I remained in my seat and closed the door. “Mind if I let Henri know you’re coming? He wouldn’t appreciate the surprise.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I texted Henri about our not-always-welcome visitor.

  “You know,” Fleener said, “something’s bothering me.”

  “About the bookstore and the cops?”

  “Well … let’s see about Henri first.”

  25

  “You can’t be serious?” Sandy said. We were in the front office, Sandy at her desk, Fleener and Henri seated uneasily next to each other at the front window, me in a client chair from my office. Lenny Stern and Tina Lawson were safely tucked away at the offices of the Post Dispatch for the rest of the day.

  “The tourist called you a hooligan,” Sandy said, laughing. “Who says ‘hooligan’ anymore? It’s so … West Side Story.”

  “Cut the poor man some slack, will you?” I said. “I probably ruined his vacation.”

  “Nonsense,” Sandy said. “He’ll be telling that story for years. And they got a personal apology from the sheriff.”

  Henri and I offered separate accounts of the events of the day. I went first. Rank had its privileges, I guessed.

  When I’d finished all eyes turned toward Henri. He glanced sideways at Fleener.

  “Look,” Fleener said, “we’re on the same side in this, like it or not.”

  “What side is that?” Henri said. It was as much a statement as a question.

  These two had been at each other for years. Henri didn’t trust cops; it was in his DNA. Martin Fleener regarded Henri as trouble afoot. But they held a begrudging respect for each other … as long as the air was clear between them.