Deadline for Lenny Stern

by Peter Marabell

  Bob Berg (1943-2019)

  Mary Maurer (1951-2020)

  It’s likely just a coincidence that these two spent much of their professional lives with newspapers. But it’s no coincidence at all that that Bob Berg and Mary Maurer were thoughtful, decent people who gave to the citizens of their respective communities, time, energy, and support. I will miss their friendship. I will miss the easy, relaxed times sharing dinner and a glass of wine. I will especially miss the times that were not relaxing or easy, when they stirred my mind, challenged my political perspectives, and pushed me to rethink my view of the world.

  “Better to more than to know less.”— Lenny Stern, reporter, The Petoskey Post Dispatch

  “Revenge is an act of passion, vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.”

  — Samuel Johnson

  1

  Maury Weston called this morning, said he needed me for a dangerous job. I was betting the publisher of the Petoskey Post Dispatch didn’t want to hire me as a reporter. I told him I’d walk over.

  It was a hot, steamy day even for the middle of July, so the sidewalks were crowded with tourists, eager to shop before heading to the beach. I snaked my way through them as best I could. Once out of the Gaslight District shopping area foot traffic lightened up, and I moved more easily.

  The newspaper offices were packed into a two-story frame house in the middle of State Street, a short three blocks from my Lake Street office. Only a large sign on the front lawn distinguished it from so many other houses around town built in the 1930s.

  I entered the building and took the stairs to the second floor. Maury Weston’s office was across from AJ Lester’s office. AJ was editor of PPD Wired, the online edition of the Post Dispatch, and the most important person in my life. I stuck my head in her door.

  “Morning, AJ.”

  “Good morning,” she said, smiling.

  “Any idea what’s going on?”

  She nodded slowly. “Let Maury tell you,” she said. “I love you, but this is business.”

  “Whatever you say, darling.”

  “I’ll be here when you’re done,” she said. “Come see me.”

  I went across the hall to Weston’s office. The door was ajar, but I knocked anyway.

  “Michael,” Weston said. Maury Weston was an influential member of the community, respected both for his civic contributions and for keeping the Post Dispatch in business (and focused on local issues).

  His office had been a large front bedroom in an earlier life. Off to the side of the room was a long, rectangular cherry conference table. Three other people sat around the table. None of them looked happy.

  “Let me introduce you,” he said as he hauled his lanky six-six frame out of the chair at the head of the table.

  First was Charles Bigelow, six feet tall, forty-something with a pencil-thin mustache on a narrow face.

  “Charles is assistant to the president of Gloucester Publishing Company in Chicago.”

  “How are you?” Bigelow said, in a way that was both dismissive and uninterested.

  “This is Tina Lawson,” Weston said. Lawson was thirty or thirty-one, five-six, straight shoulder-length black hair, with green eyes.

  “Tina is Lenny’s agent at Gloucester.”

  Lenny Stern, a veteran reporter for the Post Dispatch, nodded when I glanced his way. Over the years, I’d given him solid leads for some juicy stories.

  “Agent?” I said, and sat down. “You finally publish your book, Lenny?”

  “Of course, he’s published, Mr. Russo,” Bigelow said. “We have a book tour scheduled. That’s why you’re here. I assumed you would have been told of the problem.”

  “I’m always late to the party,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  Weston jumped in ahead of Bigelow. “Lenny’s received death threats, Michael.”

  I glanced at Lenny. “Death threats?”

  He shrugged. Lenny Stern had spent enough years as a crime reporter in Chicago and Detroit to recognize a real threat when he got one.

  “Because of the book?” I said.

  Lenny nodded.

  “Why?” I said.

  Everyone was silent. I took care of that.

  “Lenny?”

  He hesitated, then said, “You know In Cold Blood by Truman Capote?”

  I nodded.

  “Capote called it a ‘nonfiction novel.’ That’s what I did. All the details are accurate. The creative part is weaving it together in a book with the dramatic flair of a novel. To make it a better read.”

  “Understood,” I said. “What’s your book about?”

  “A mob killing in Chicago, 1995,” Lenny said. “I covered the story as a reporter from the start. The name Alberto Genco ring a bell?”

  “Vaguely,” I said. “Mafia Don who went missing?”

  Lenny nodded. “Until his body floated to the surface of Lake Michigan near Grand Haven one September afternoon. They found his gunman’s body a day later.”

  “They ever solve the case?”

  “You bet they did. But the prosecutor said there wasn’t enough evidence for a jury to convict. If he’d gone to trial, it would have gutted a powerful crime family and all its political connections. The mob paid him off, Russo. He invented a story to cover the bribe. Pled guilty to a low-level felony, got five years. Should have been out in eighteen months, but he was killed in his prison cell. Raped and beaten to death.”

  “And you spelled all that out?”

  “I did,” Lenny said. “I focused on the prosecutor who didn’t prosecute, named the public officials who helped him, and the mob family who did the killing.”

  “That was a long time ago, Lenny, 1995,” I said. “You’re being threatened now? After all these years?”

  Lenny shrugged again.

  “We need two things, Michael,” Weston said, holding up two fingers of his right hand in a “V” shape. “Arrange protection for Lenny, especially on the book tour, and find out who’s behind the threats.”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Weston,” Bigelow said, “Gloucester needs Mr. Stern’s book to be a success. We need him out there, we need the tour. Has Mr. Russo the experience, the temperament for this assignment? Can he handle it?”

  “I’m right here,” I said, “talk to me.”

  Bigelow put his hands flat on the table, as if he were about to leap up. He didn’t. “All right, Mr. Russo, can you?”

  “Can I what?” I didn’t have the willpower to resist that one.

  “Can you handle this assignment or not?”

  “Why not hire somebody else if you need to ask that question?” I said.

  “Somebody else already quit,” Lenny said, grinning.

  I took a moment, not that I needed one. Lenny was a good friend, after all.

  “Maury, if I take the job, who do I work for?”

  “You’d work for Gloucester Publishing,” Bigelow said, interrupting again. “We pay the bills.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said, and looked at Lenny. “No offense.”

  “None taken, Russo.”

  “Why’d you waste our time?” Bigelow said to Weston with a sharp wave of the arm.

  “Since it’s my ass on the line,” Lenny said, loudly enough, “anyone want my two cents worth?”

  “I would,” Weston said, sounding relieved.

  “I trust Russo with my life,” Lenny said, “and it is my life we’re talking about.”

  “If Mr. Russo’s good enough for Lenny,” Tina Lawson said, f
inally jumping into the conversation, “he’s good enough for me. What about it, Charles?”

  Bigelow hesitated, then nodded slowly, but he wasn’t happy about it.

  “What do you charge?” Bigelow said.

  I told him. Fees, expenses, a retainer.

  “Questions, Michael?” Weston said.

  I leaned forward and turned toward Weston.

  “Arranging protection is the easy part. I’ll bring in a couple of people and set it up.”

  “Okay,” Weston said.

  “Finding out who’s behind it is more difficult. Not impossible, but more difficult.”

  “What do you need from us?” Weston said.

  “First, I want to know about the threats. Lenny?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve had worse. A bad guy wants you dead, he usually doesn’t give a heads-up.”

  “We can’t take that chance,” Bigelow said.

  The man finally offered something sensible.

  “No, we can’t,” I said. “You have a file on the threats, I assume?”

  “Right here,” Weston said. “And the schedule for the book tour.” He handed me a manila folder.

  “Do you think the Mafia is behind the threats, Russo?” Weston said.

  “Be the first place I’d look.”

  “Then you’ll take the job?”

  I nodded, picking up the file.

  “Oh, Mr. Bigelow?” I said.

  He raised his chin in my direction, to make it easier to look down his nose at me, I’m sure.

  “Leave my retainer with Maury, will you. On your way out.”

  2

  “You really told that blowhard to leave a retainer?” AJ said, and laughed.

  I’d gone back across the hall to her office. It was a smaller version of Weston’s, with wood floors and an Oriental rug, but no conference table. I sat in one of two heavy captain’s chairs in front of her desk.

  Always the professional, AJ wore a navy suit over an ecru blouse. Her black hair curled softly above the collar. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed.

  I nodded and smiled. “Better than he deserved.”

  “The man’s just doing his job, Michael.”

  “He does it with a nice blend of arrogance and annoyance.”

  “True,” AJ said, leaning back in her chair.

  “You knew about the death threats?”

  “When Lenny got the first ones, yeah,” she said, “not much after that. After Bigelow took over.”

  “You think the threats are serious?” I said.

  “You’re the hotshot PI, what do you think?”

  “Maury just gave me this,” I said, and put the manila folder on her desk. “I want to read through it first, but I think Lenny sized up the threats pretty well.”

  “What’d I do pretty well?” Lenny Stern said from the doorway.

  He was wiry, five-four, and nearly bald but for a few unruly tufts of gray hair above the ears. Lenny’s face was lightly tanned and lined with experience. He wore a single-breasted, narrow lapel black suit, a white cotton shirt (not ironed), and a skinny black tie. It was his standard outfit, except for casual Fridays when he switched up for a light gray suit.

  He took the other chair.

  “You da man,” I said, clapping my hands.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Your novel, Lenny,” I said, “that’s terrific. You worked on the manuscript for what, three, four years?”

  “Longer than that,” he said, nodding.

  “Good job,” I said.

  A small grin appeared. “Yeah, unless somebody shoots me.”

  I looked over at AJ. “Did you know about his book?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, we all knew Lenny was writing, but news about the book came all at once.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything until the deal was done,” Lenny said.

  “So you haven’t read it?” I said to AJ.

  “Nope.”

  “Would you have told me if you’d read it?”

  “Sure.”

  “You didn’t tell me about the death threats.”

  “That was …”

  “Sure you guys aren’t married?” Lenny said. “You sound like you’re married. You ought to hear yourselves.”

  I glanced at AJ, who looked vaguely startled.

  “Well, I’ve got work to do,” Lenny said, starting to get up.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “What?” he said, dropping back into the chair.

  “Is your book really dangerous?”

  “Apparently someone thinks so.”

  “But it’s fiction, right?” AJ said.

  “Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. You know it?”

  “Sure, the nonfiction novel.”

  “Well, my version’s called Corruption on Trial,” he said, and reprised the details.

  AJ leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

  “Help me here,” she said. “A lot of books have been written about the Mafia, especially in Chicago. Historically accurate, real names, but nobody gets death threats. So why you, why your book? It was a long time ago.”

  Lenny smiled and put his hands out, palms up. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Not funny, Lenny, you end up in Lake Michigan like the mob guys,” I said.

  “Guess not,” he said. “Look, it was a great story for a crime reporter, my story from the start. The newspaper pieces, op-ed columns, covering the Senate hearings in Springfield … everybody knew the prosecutor had been bribed.”

  “Was he?” AJ said.

  “I found evidence he took a bribe.”

  AJ had that look in her eyes; her reporter’s instincts had kicked in.

  “You were the first?”

  “Yep.”

  “But you didn’t have evidence at the time it happened?”

  “Nope,” Lenny said. “I stumbled on it a couple of years ago. I was working on another story when, bang, there it was.”

  “Hard evidence?” AJ said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Lenny said. “Prosceutor took a bundle of cash for his wife and two boys. Proof he rigged the cover story, too. Good plan — until the guy was killed in his prison cell.”

  “But isn’t the book out,” I said, “on its way to bookstores?”

  “Not quite,” Lenny said. “Gloucester released excerpts, announced the stops for the tour, pre-publication stuff to generate publicity. We wrap it up in Chicago, and that’s the official publication date. Copies will be everywhere then.”

  “Especially in the Midwest?” AJ said.

  Lenny nodded.

  “Do you have the evidence, the documents themselves?” I said.

  Lenny nodded. “In a safe place. Only two people have ever seen the documents: Tina, and Kate Hubbell, my editor at Gloucester.”

  “What about Bigelow?” I said.

  “No, not even him.”

  “Why’d you hold them back,” I said, “why not use them for publicity?”

  “Mobsters have long memories,” Lenny said. “The mob’s into a lot of things. They can reach a lot of people. If anything happens to me, my attorney gives them to Bigelow.”

  “Three crime families ran the town in those days,” I said. “And one of them bribed the prosecutor.”

  “Yep,” Lenny said. “If they knew for sure I had the documents, they’d offer the right price, get someone to steal them from me, and, bam, gone. Suddenly, everybody’s safe … so I held them back.”

  “How about that,” AJ said. “You pissed off the mob. Nice going.”

  “There’re a few public officials who don’t want to see their names in print either. If the documents are destroyed, everyone has plausible deniability no matter what I put in a book.”r />
  I tapped the file on AJ’s desk.

  “Tell me about the threats,” I said. “I’ll read the file later, I want to hear it from you.”

  “The emails were first, then text messages and voicemails,” Lenny said. “Threatened to beat the shit out of me, burn my car, that kind of thing. I’ve been threatened before. Usually nothing happens. If the bad guys really want to hurt you they don’t give a heads-up.”

  Lenny’s reputation was based on years of experience. He had trusted sources in Emmet, Charlevoix, and Cheboygan counties. Little of importance happened in the northern tip of the state that he didn’t know — and often write — about.

  “Then two guys, young punks, surprised me one night, stood me up against the car and gave my ribs a working over.”

  “You connected that to the book?” AJ said.

  “Had to. One of them said I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. I wasn’t working on anything else at the time.”

  “Recognize them?” I said.

  Lenny shook his head. “No. Kids in their late teens, early twenties. I’ll know them if I see them again.”

  “What did the cops have to say?” AJ said.

  “Not much,” Lenny said. “They figured it for a street crime. You know, beat on an old guy for fun.”

  “Have they come after you again?” I said.

  “Nah. But, you know, it feels like someone’s following me. Where I ate lunch, when I went to the post office. I started looking over my shoulder. Checked my junk mail, Twitter feed, Facebook. Took my laptop and phone to Gilbert.”

  “Who’s that?” I said.

  “Deshawn Gilbert,” AJ said. “The paper’s teenage techy.”

  “Maury hired a student to work on your computers?” I said.

  “He’s a dropout,” AJ said. “Seventeen-year-old Black kid who lives in Oden.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Kid’s a genius. Worked on the loading dock. Volunteered to fix the bugs in our network. He did. Maury fired the computer company and hired Gilbert.”

  “He find anything in your devices?” I asked Lenny.

  “Nothing. Emails and texts couldn’t be traced. Gilbert said they were ‘unhackable,’ his word.”

  “The ‘deep web’ in action?” I said.