Deadline for Lenny Stern by Peter Marabell (beautiful books to read TXT) 📕

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