Deadline for Lenny Stern by Peter Marabell (easy books to read in english .txt) 📗

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