Deadline for Lenny Stern: A Michael Russo Mystery

by Peter Marabell

  When he was satisfied it was safe, Rosato nodded, and he was joined at the table by Carmine and Santino Cicci.

  Lenny Stern, still with the chatty women, watched Carmine’s table. He spoke to the women, handed off his coffee cup to a waiter, and made his way toward Carmine.

  When Lenny reached the table, Carmine stood. I’d never seen that before. Other people stood for Carmine out of respect, or fear. But not this time.

  “Well,” Henri said as he came up, “what do you think of that?”

  “It’s a good bet there’s more between them than just sharing gangland information in the old Windy City days.”

  The clock edged its way toward the noon starting time. Waitstaff cleared tables. Coffee was being consumed, along with an occasional glass of wine and slices of peanut butter pie.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” a pleasant voice offered. “Good afternoon.”

  It didn’t take long for the gathering to settle down as Lenny left Carmine’s table.

  “We’re excited to have Leonard Stern with us today. Most of you know him as a reporter for the Petoskey Post Dispatch. But today, he’s also author …”

  And, so, Lenny took over the room with charm, wit, and bold tales of Chicago crime and corruption. Just what the guests came to hear. After a rather brief and sedate Q&A, Lenny chatted with people while the Island Bookstore folks sold fresh copies of Corruption on Trial.

  Carmine DeMio and Gino Rosato made a hasty, inconspicuous retreat as the session wrapped up. Santino Cicci stayed behind, by the doorway.

  Henri whispered something in Tina’s ear and moved past Cicci. We left the dining room.

  “You tell Tina we’d wait out here?”

  Henri nodded, but his attention was elsewhere.

  “What?” I said.

  “This,” he said. “Look. The walkway.”

  He made a sweeping gesture at the beautifully decorated walk, all thirty feet of it, a combination of flowers, shrubs, and assorted greenery.

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I ought to have Barnwell Landscaping design my walk like this.”

  Besides his other endeavors, Henri LaCroix was an island landlord, with a small apartment building downtown and a house in the village.

  “Henri, the walkway at your house is six feet long, if that.”

  “But wouldn’t it …”

  “All right, let’s go,” Lenny said, interrupting Henri’s gardening fantasy as he and Tina emerged from the luncheon. “We can make the next ferry, can’t we?”

  37

  The line waiting for transport to the mainland at the Shepler’s dock was, happily, short for a July afternoon. Our literary group found seats at the back of the cabin. Santino Cicci turned and walked toward Main Street as we sat down, his job done.

  The Miss Margy cleared the west breakwater and picked up speed. The wind blew harder than it did on our trip over, so it pushed more water-cooled air into the steamy cabin than just a few hours earlier.

  Lenny Stern sat Henri in the row behind Tina and me. They talked during much of the twenty-minute ride. I picked up a few words now and then, suggesting they were relieved that the final Michigan stop of the book tour went off without trouble. I felt pretty good about that myself. The wrap-up for the tour was in the Windy City, but that was a job for Bigelow’s security people, not Henri and me.

  Tina leaned against the portside window, scrolling through her phone. She occasionally let out a small laugh, then her thumbs danced around the screen. For a few welcome moments, she was lost on Facebook or email or Instagram.

  I envied Tina, but Martin Fleener asked me to let him know when we were on our way to the mainland. I did.

  “hendricks’ office 9a?” Fleener texted back.

  “tomorrow?”

  “tomorrow morning”

  Fleener usually offered more than cryptic responses. He was probably tied up with official cop business instead of chasing down imagined gang activity in northern Michigan.

  But why meet in Don Hendricks’ office? Kate Hubbell’s murder was Hendricks’ responsibility as Emmet County prosecutor. Maybe there were new developments, but that would have to wait until tomorrow.

  I stared at my phone. I wanted to call her. Or text. Something. When I left AJ’s house after a comfortable, pleasant night, the tension hadn’t vanished, but it had been sidelined for a few hours. I wanted to see her, I always wanted that, but I didn’t want the distance between us. The tension was going to hang around until we came back together, hopefully by resolving the issue’s source.

  “you home?” I tapped.

  “work. you in mac city?”

  I briefly explained where I was and that all went well at the Iroquois. She wanted to hear that, even if she didn’t ask. I wanted her to know we were all safe.

  “sandwiches, Toski Sands, meet you state park?”

  I sent a thumbs-up emoji.

  “at the beach house.”

  A second thumbs-up.

  I put the phone away. We were closing in on the dock in Mackinaw City.

  I couldn’t get AJ out of my head. Not AJ exactly, but the stress, the tension. I remembered what she said, her worry that I might be hurt or killed. Her fear of a phone call in the middle of the night … . That started years ago when I chased down a killer at Cherokee Point Resort. We talked about her fears then, we’d talked about them since. Danger went with my job, and she just accepted it as best she could. Over time, the fear grew out of control, no longer manageable. For my part …

  The ferry’s horn sounded as the captain throttled back, and the Miss Margy settled into the water at the entrance to the Mackinaw City harbor. Several passengers left their seats and stood in the aisle, eager to be first off. Island workers anxious to get home. Young and old, women and men, many wearing the familiar cotton houndstooth pants of the kitchen. They all carried backpacks or large tote bags and had tired faces.

  The passengers followed the workers and moved slowly, in a pack, off the ferry. They fanned out, some walking to a small four-car tram for a ride to distant parking lots, and us to Henri’s SUV parked on the dock.

  “Two rows over,” Henri said, pointing, and we followed along.

  “I’m meeting Fleener in the morning,” I said, but Henri wasn’t listening. He’d stopped; Lenny and Tina, too. His SUV, a gleaming white, had been unceremoniously desecrated by a red liquid splashed across the hood, both front fenders, and half the windshield.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  I turned in time to see Henri unzip his lightweight nylon jacket. Never a good sign. It covered his shoulder holster.

  Lenny, the veteran crime reporter, recognized the move and eased closer to Tina. Henri scanned the rows of cars, looking for anything out of place. I did, too. Nothing, no one.

  Then I spotted Jimmy Erwin walking slowly toward us, his arms away from his sides, palms up.

  “Henri?”

  “Watch Erwin. I want to look around.”

  “They’re gone, Henri,” Jimmy said.

  “You saw them?”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  “Two males, white.”

  “What age?” I said.

  “My age, give or take,” Jimmy said.

  In other words, two teenage white boys again.

  “Car?” I said.

  Jimmy shook his head. “F-150, light green, good-sized dent on the left rear fender, cracked taillight.”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?” Henri said.

  “Sorry, man, not my job.”

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

  “Keeping an eye on you.”

  “I meant …”

  “I know what you meant,” Jimmy said. “Santino Cicci told me you were on the way back to the mainland.�
�

  Henri glanced at his SUV.

  “Your ride’s okay,” Jimmy said. “I poured water on it, came right off. Wash the car.”

  “See which way they went?” I said.

  “I did better than that,” Jimmy said, smiling. “I followed them.”

  I waited, figuring there was more.

  “Carp Lake.”

  Carp Lake had been a dot on the map south of Mackinaw City since the 1880s. It sat between US 31 and Paradise Lake.

  “One of those old, beat-up cottages down from the Post Office.” Jimmy pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Henri. “The number’s hard to see, but it’s there, on the doorframe.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You going back to Petoskey now?” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah.”

  “My car’s over by the bakery,” Jimmy said. “I’ll meet you at the car wash.”

  38

  “Was that supposed to be a threat, Henri?” Tina said. “That stuff on your car. Was it supposed to be blood?”

  It took Henri ten minutes with a high-pressure hose to clean the surface of his car. Lenny and Tina sat patiently in the back seat while I texted with Sandy, telling her I wouldn’t get to the office tomorrow until after I’d met with Captain Fleener and Prosecutor Hendricks.

  We made our way back to Petoskey with Jimmy Erwin following along at a discrete distance. We knew he was there, and if the shooters tried something, Jimmy would spot them first.

  “Not sure what it meant, Tina,” Henri said. “A threat’s a good guess.” We picked up speed on 31 South. “Let’s get Lenny and Tina home safe first, then you want to find those guys at Carp Lake?”

  I thought about his question. The obvious answer was yes, particularly since Jimmy Erwin had handed us a good tip. But I wasn’t sure.

  “Is this about a new lead,” I said, “or your car?” I knew Henri was pissed about the affront to his SUV.

  “This isn’t personal, Michael. It’s business.”

  “You been waiting a long time to use that line, haven’t you?”

  Henri ignored my sarcastic reference movieland gangsters.

  “Let’s wait till tomorrow,” I said. “I’d like to see what Fleener has to say first. Might be good to know if we are dealing with a gang.”

  “You won’t have to be babysitters tomorrow,” Tina said.

  “What time do you head back to Chicago?” I said.

  “First plane in the morning.”

  “How about it, Lenny, when are you going down?”

  Lenny looked up from his phone. “No sooner than I have to.”

  Tina laughed. “Tomorrow, Michael. We’re on the same flight.”

  “I’ll get you to the airport,” Henri said. “After that you’re Gloucester Publishing’s problem.”

  “I’m not looking forward to the Chicago stop,” Lenny said. “I like Michigan events, the ones here. All the VIP small talk in Chicago, it’s not my style. I’ll be glad when this tour is over.”

  “Me, too,” Tina said, a touch of resignation in her voice.

  “Drop me at the office, Henri,” I said.

  After a moment or two, Henri said, “You seeing AJ tonight?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Remember …”

  “You don’t have to say it, Henri.” I knew what he’d tell me. I didn’t need to be reminded again. I didn’t feel like talking about AJ, particularly with our companions in the back seat.

  “It’s … I’ll be fine,” I said.

  Henri dropped me in front of the office. The sidewalks were crowded with visitors about to transition from shopping in stores to menu shopping for dinner.

  Sandy was gone for the day, but she’d left a sticky note on my desktop screen: “You should call AJ”

  I laughed at them, Sandy and Henri. Were they sticking their noses into my personal life? Of course they were, but they weren’t nosy people. Were they just worried about both AJ and me? Probably.

  I wrote a couple of notes for the meeting with Fleener, stuck them in my brief bag and left for home. It was time for a break, time to play tourist, just AJ and me for sandwiches on the water. Once home I pulled on a pair of khaki shorts, a threadbare polo shirt and grubby Chaco sandals. I took the back way to the Harbor-Petoskey Road and turned in at the State Park.

  I wound my way toward the beach house, left my car in the lot and walked toward the water. I spotted AJ at a table with a small blue-and-white cooler.

  “This seat taken, lady?”

  “I’m waiting for a guy I know … hey, it’s you. I didn’t recognize you in those clothes.”

  “You making fun of my summer wardrobe?”

  “I am,” she said. “Are you really a private eye?”

  “Not right now,” I said, and leaned in to kiss her hello. Her silly greeting felt comfortably familiar, loving.

  “What’s in the cooler?”

  “Dinner courtesy of Toski-Sands.”

  Toski-Sands, a small market on the Harbor-Petoskey Road barely a half mile from the park entrance, had both a delicious deli and a knowledgeable staff.

  AJ opened the cooler.

  “J Lohr Chardonnay,” she said. “Already opened.” She put two glasses out, and I filled them.

  She opened a bag. “Tuna salad and chicken salad. Take your pick. And a chef’s salad to split.”

  We arranged everything on the table, and I raised my glass. “A toast.”

  “Yes, a toast,” she said. “To what?”

  I smiled. “To a summer dinner on the beach.”

  “Here, here.”

  We opened our sandwiches and salads and dug in.

  “When did Toski-Sands start offering real silverware and cloth napkins?”

  AJ grinned. “Smart-ass. I just thought the real stuff would be more fun.”

  “Elegance on the beach?”

  “Exactly,” she said, and lifted her glass. “Another toast … to elegance on the beach.” We touched glasses, took drinks, and returned to the food.

  “You said everything went okay on the island.”

  “It did.”

  “Was the Iroquois dining room full?”

  “Lenny has his fans.” I explained the afternoon, starting with the charm and wit of Lenny Stern.

  “Good for him,” AJ said. “And no trouble, right?”

  I hesitated, and she caught it.

  “What? What aren’t you telling me?”

  I wasn’t hiding anything, but I felt the tension in her words, in the way she asked the question. I wanted to be careful, to edit my comments. We were having fun. I didn’t want to lose it.

  I gave her a condensed version.

  “So you’ll check out the two guys? You and Henri, I mean.”“Best lead we’ve had since the Cavendish Company president lied about his father being alive long after he was killed in prison.”

  “At least you won’t go charging over there alone.”

  “AJ, I told you I wouldn’t do that. Henri went along to see DeMio, and to the Cavendish Company. He’ll be there this time, too.”

  I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but there it was, right there on the beach, in the park, by the water.

  “Don’t get pissed at me again, Russo. I don’t like it.”

  “I have a job to do, AJ. We’ve … we’ve done this before.” I rolled up the rest of my sandwich in the wrapping. “You’re worried about me, Henri thinks I don’t pay attention to the job …”

  “Are you blaming me for that?”

  I shook my head. “No, but … Henri says I don’t focus on my job when I’m worrying about you, and that’s dangerous.”

  “Henri’s right, Michael.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I didn’t have to
.” AJ folded up her half-eaten sandwich and shoved it back in the paper sack.

  “Is it that obvious?” I said.

  “Just do your goddamn job, Russo. Just do your job. I’ll be here when you’re done. I’ll figure it out.”

  39

  I woke up early. The sun had crept its way through the blinds, putting rows of light on the opposite wall. Dinner on the beach ended well enough. But AJ went one way, me another, neither of us at peace — or comfortable.

  Do my job, AJ said. I tossed the covers back and sat on the side of the bed. Time to meet Martin Fleener at Don Hendricks’ office.

  I put water and coffee in the machine, punched the button, and headed for the shower. It was time to focus, as Henri would say. By the time I sat at the kitchen table with an English muffin, fresh raspberries and coffee, I had not made much headway with focusing.

  I took a lightweight cotton blazer to cover the hip holster. I cut through the parking lot behind the Perry Hotel and went up Bay Street to the rear entrance of the County building.

  “Morning, Sherry,” I said. Sherry Merkel was assistant to Emmet County Prosecutor Donald Hendricks, and chief protector of his privacy.

  “Mr. Russo,” she said. “They’re waiting for you.”

  I went through the door behind Merkel’s desk.

  “Morning, Russo,” the prosecutor said. Donald Hendricks was in his third term, duly elected by the county’s voters. In his fifties, the slightly overweight Hendricks looked rumpled no matter the time of day. Tie loose, collar open, shirt sleeves pushed up. “Take a seat,” he said.

  I did, and a tough decision it was between three worn-out metal chairs. At least they matched the faded institutional green of Hendricks’ desk.

  “Good morning, Marty,” I said to Captain Fleener, who occupied his usual chair under a huge map of Emmet County.

  “Morning,” Fleener said.

  “You’ve got the floor, Marty,” Hendricks said.

  Fleener flipped open a reporter’s notebook.

  “Ah, before we start,” I said. “Mind if I ask why we’re meeting here?”

  “You don’t like my office?” Hendricks said. The prosecutor was not known for his sense of humor, but he tried every so often.