by Landon Beach
“Fabian is not happy with our arrangement.”
“Excuse me, father, but why is she still here?” Ciro said.
Stansie’s look said that she was angry at being marginalized once again by her brother.
He hadn’t expected this. True enough, his wife had never been let in on his dealings or inner thoughts, but perhaps that had been a mistake. No, he would never admit it to anyone, but he wasn’t so sure about keeping her shielded from the family business for their entire marriage. After all, it hadn’t kept Giovanni alive, had it? And he had been his favorite, the boy who should have grown up to be a man and a Don. Angela would never forgive him for that—and shouldn’t. He had failed to protect his child. Then, he had failed to protect Stansie from a different kind of threat. There was the rub. A great deal of his fortune had come from the trafficking of drugs. When she had become addicted with no rescue in sight, he started to believe that he would outlive his daughter, which made him feel heartless and cruel. That she was sitting in front of him right now was a miracle. But he had long sworn off miracles, and his relationship with God had taken a turn for the worse when, on the night Stansie had returned clean, he had asked Father Mattie to explain the mysterious ways in which the Lord worked. Father Mattie did not speak, choosing to hold his rosary and smile. And so, they had lit two candles together and prayed for her soul. Then the good priest had entered her room later that night, disrobed at the foot of her bed, and said, “This will be a night you’ll never forget. Today, I blessed you with holy water; tonight, I shall bless you with my rod and staff.” Stansie had screamed, and twenty minutes later, Big Joey had chopped off the good Father’s legs, just above the knee, with an ax. Before he could bleed out, Joey had finished him by strangling Father Mattie with his own rosary. With Joey by his side, Ciro could outfight Fabian; the Don was certain of this. But what about his daughter? Did she need to be here right now?
“Perhaps Ciro is right,” he said.
“I’m not leaving, papa,” she said.
It was a weakness to not include her. She had every right to know about the money. It was also a weakness to back down from his position. However, he had softened it with his trademark perhaps; he had tried to mentor Ciro in the benefits of using the word when making a decision. It gave the impression of asking for an opinion in the form of a verification, a rebuttal, or a probe for more information. The word ‘perhaps’ could also be used to convey that he was leaning in a particular direction. It was also one of the few words that allowed you to reverse course if you sensed heavy opposition. ‘Perhaps I will’ could turn into ‘Perhaps I won’t’ depending on the advice or consensus of your advisors. He’d read a book years ago about how President Eisenhower would announce in front of his cabinet or group of advisors, “I’m thinking about doing...” and then sit back and listen to them debate. Ike had found it to be superior to the usual, “What do you think about...?” And so, as Don, he had adopted Ike’s philosophy. Ciro had been open to both suggestions, but something inside the Don did not believe his son was thoroughly convinced of his father’s tried and true phrases of statesmanship.
He glanced at Ciro, a gesture meant to prod his son into a decision—yet another one of his tools of negotiation. Or were all negotiations manipulations masquerading as compromises? He now, weakly—but clearly noticeably—raised an eyebrow at his son.
His daughter beat Ciro to the response. She was always a quicker thinker. Excusing her drug use, if she had been a man, she would have been named his successor—even if she was younger.
“I’m staying,” she said. “Say what you need to, papa.”
The Don watched Ciro’s eyes squint in frustration, but he remained silent. The situation had appeared to work itself out, which was another leadership lesson in patience that he had failed to pass on to Ciro. Well, better get on with it. He pointed at Ciro. “Fabian may try to move against you the moment I’m gone, if not before.” He let this settle in. Then he added, motioning at first to Stansie and then making a sweeping gesture to encompass the entire house, “You are all in danger and must be prepared to act with strength.”
“But he has given us his word,” Ciro said.
And this is why you’ll be dead before you know what hit you. “What a man says and what a man does are rarely the same thing.” The Don gathered a breath and exhaled. He had hoped to have at least six more months to mentor his son and smooth over the transition. But the cancer had spread too fast, and now he was down to days...maybe one day. “Yes, there is a slight chance he will retire and cause you no trouble.”
Ciro seemed to sit up straighter—a show of confidence and vindication.
“But,” the Don whispered. He took a sip of water and swallowed. The room was quiet enough for his swallow and lip-smacking to be heard. “Fabian is more likely to come after you. When I pass away, he’ll call a meeting to swear his loyalty to you and to celebrate your leadership. A private dinner to commemorate your friendship. But that meeting will never take place. You’ll be killed on the way to it, and your caporegimes, your consigliere, your bodyguard, and—” he paused to look at Stansie, “—your family will also embrace that same fate.”
Ciro now leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his knuckles. “We have to move first,” he said.
Stansie put a hand on her brother’s shoulder.
He shook it off.
“What should we do, papa?” she asked.
“We’ll get to that. First, there is something you both need to know. And then there is something I need you both to do. Come closer.”
The Don’s children rose and joined him at his bedside—one on each side. He opened his hands, and they each took one in their own. Then, he told them.
As the words left his mouth, he saw his son’s eyes open wide with surprise and greed.
6
Present Day
The twenty-five-foot Stingray tracked steadily along behind Rusty on US-23 south as Brad Cranston picked up his cell phone. He had left Larry’s house less than five minutes ago.
“Mr. Cranston?”
“Yes?” he answered.
“This is Private Investigator Allison Shannon from Cozy Mitten Private Investigations & Consulting Firm.”
God, that’s a mouthful. “Good evening,” Brad said. “Let me guess, there was no cell phone.”
“That would make it easier for both of us,” she said, “but there was a phone. I’ve got it and am heading back to my office.”
He thought about this development. Conrad had always been a master of deception and misdirection—some lies masquerading as truths and some truths masquerading as lies. Additionally, he excelled at half-truths—especially when he needed help. Hence, it had always been difficult to sort out what was actually happening in his brother’s life. But what about now? What if Conrad was telling the whole truth and really was in grave danger? Brad felt a hint of anxiety well up in his stomach, like finding out your spouse may be cheating on you. “Well, at least my brother’s voicemail wasn’t a complete lie.”
“True,” she said.
He couldn’t place her age. It was a game he played when an author would call him to discuss his or her vision for the book cover that Brad would be illustrating. He’d gotten pretty good at it over the years. His guess: early thirties. “Thanks for going over and checking for me,” he said. “Does the phone still work?”
“Yes. I haven’t taken it out of the Ziploc bag yet, but I pushed the ‘on’ button. Still has power.”
Take this one step at a time. “Ms. Shannon, I’d like to hire you for a few days to help me find my brother. I’ll pay you for a full day today. Are you available?”
“Tell me what you know so far,” she said.
For the next ten minutes, he filled her in.
“And you haven’t seen him for...”
“It’s been over two years,” Brad said. “Always been a pariah of sorts. He was pretty heavy into the drug scene about a decade ago. O
ur family got him to a rehab clinic. He cleaned up but then had a relapse about six years ago. We were supposed to hike the Appalachian Trail together; he never showed up. Hasn’t had contact with anyone else in the family but me since then, and I haven’t heard from him in over six months, which is not unusual. He sounded better, heard some sort of music in the background and voices, then the call suddenly ended. I called him right back. He never picked up.”
“What happened the last time you saw him?”
“Well, when he didn’t show up for the hike, I spent all of my free time from work searching for him for about a year. After that, I thought he was most likely dead or in a place where I’d never find him. Two years after that, I heard a knock on my door one winter evening, and it was him—smelly, hair down to his shoulders, beard down to the bottom of his neck. Thin, hungry, but, and I am still amazed at this, not strung out. Not a trace on either arm and no pills in his backpack, which I made him empty once he came inside.”
“Interesting,” Allison said. “Go on.”
“So, I chewed him out for skipping the hike, and he apologized. That’s one thing I’ll give him credit for, he always owns up to his mistakes. The problem has always been that he keeps making them. Anyway, I tried to get out of him what he’s been up to for the past three years, and he clammed up. And when he doesn’t want to talk about something, there is no getting it out of him. It drove my parents crazy. In his backpack, he only had three things: a ratty Guns-n-Roses t-shirt, a tattered copy of Swann’s Way—Proust’s first volume in his In Search of Lost Time epic—and a pack of Wrigley’s chewing gum.
“So, I gave him my robe and told him to take a shower. Meanwhile, I headed out and bought him some fresh clothes since he’s north of six-four, about five inches taller than I am. I also bought him a warm winter coat, hat, gloves, and a scarf because I anticipated that he was going to bounce at some point, and I didn’t want him out in a Michigan winter without them. I also got him a new backpack. We’re the same shoe size, so, ironically, I went into my garage when I got back from the store and pulled out my L.L. Bean Cresta hiking boots that I had purchased for the Appalachian Trail hike, which I hadn’t worn since. I took all of his nasty clothes and old backpack and threw them away. He borrowed my clippers and buzzed off all of his hair. He also shaved. Within two hours, he was sitting with me at my kitchen table, clean, and wolfing down sandwiches, soup, potato chips, along with guzzling a two-liter bottle of Coke. We made small talk, and he said that he needed to rest. So, I got him settled into the guest room and turned on a box fan—one of his safeties growing up. He crashed hard. The next day, I picked up vitamins and toiletries for him, and he ate heartily at both lunch and dinner. He also used almost an entire roll of clear packing tape to repair his book. During a bathroom break—I admit, we had a few beers watching football—I snuck into his room and put two hundred dollars in cash, a pre-paid calling card with one hundred dollars credit on it, a Swiss army knife, and a new sports watch, in the front pocket of his backpack and zipped it up.” Brad sighed. “The next morning, he was gone.”
“Did he steal anything from you?”
“When I woke up and found his bedroom empty—the bed was even made—I had that hollow feeling course through my body. I didn’t want to start looking around to see what he might have swiped from me, but curiosity and sadness got the best of me, so I went through everything. He didn’t take a thing—not even any food.” There was a long pause.
“You have a good memory,” she said.
“Well,” Brad said, “it was the last time I saw him, and I miss him.”
“But you’ve talked with him since then, right?”
“Just that one time six months ago.”
“No idea where he goes?”
“I find the fact that he was in Sterling State Park a bit strange. Doesn’t make sense to me, if anything does make sense where Conrad is concerned.”
“Why is that?”
“Because before when he would drift, he would disappear into the Upper Peninsula for months, doing odd jobs and staying in cheap hotels, making just enough to pay his bar tab. Then, I’d usually get a call that his 1990 Volkswagen Beetle had been parked in some diner’s parking lot for over a month, and I’d have to have it towed to my house. After the second time this happened, I sold the sonofabitch. Of course, this all took place before his stint in rehab. I don’t know where he was before he showed up at my house or where he went after. Homelessness is different in Michigan during the winter because of the weather. You can’t sleep outside. So, he had to be someplace warm during those months.”
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in Michigan, I have to reorient myself to the seasons again.”
“Where are you from?” Brad asked.
“Originally? Saginaw. But I’ve been away for over twenty years because of my service in the Coast Guard.”
“What brings you back to Pure Michigan?” he said.
“My mom. She lives in Monroe, and I wanted to be closer.” There was silence for a few beats. “So, you’re on your way down with the boat and will be here a little past midnight. That right?”
“Yes. I called and made a reservation at Sterling State Park. Got lucky. They had one of their RV spots open up after a cancellation. I’m going to pull in and then sleep in the boat’s cabin. Oh, I almost forgot. I made a recording of the voice message on my cell phone. Do you want it?”
“Yes. Text it to me at your next stop. This reminds me, any idea who the ‘she’ in the message is?”
“No clue. He was hoping that she got away, so he cared for her on some level.”
“And the money?”
“Puzzling. Conrad has always been a moocher. My bet is that if there is money in the equation, it isn’t his.”
“And you think he’s in danger?” Allison said.
“Wish I could give you a definite answer, but the truth is...I don’t know. You know as much as I do now.”
There was silence for a moment again. She’s not going to take this on, he thought. Hell, I wouldn’t.
“Consider me hired,” she said. “But I’ve got to warn you, when I start something, I go all in. It’s just the way I work.”
He raised his eyes, surprised by her decision, and couldn’t think of how to respond.
“You still there, Mr. Cranston?” she said.
“Yes,” he finally got out. “I just didn’t think you were going to take the case.”
“We don’t have much, but something seems to be going on. Agreed?”
“Yes,” Brad said. He liked her approach. Straight up. No bullshit. “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you soon.”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight? But I just told you that—”
“We don’t have any time to waste if he really is in trouble. Look, I’m heading to my office. With your permission, I’ll see if I can get any fingerprints from the phone and then check the pictures he took on it and run all of the incoming and outgoing calls. It’ll take some time, but right now, we have time while you’re traveling to me.”
“Permission granted,” Brad got in.
“I’ll also see if listening to the message gives me anything else to work on. Call me when you get to the park, and I’ll come over with what I have.”
“Anything else you can think of for me to bring?” Brad asked.
“No. You’re bringing the boat and…oh, never mind.”
“What?”
“Well, I was just thinking about your brother telling you to bring a boat, and I have no idea what we’re getting into. It made me think of dive gear.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overkill?”
“Maybe, but I want to be prepared just in case. Do you dive?”
“Yes, although it’s been a few years.” He thought back. The last time he had been diving was with Conrad, when his brother had emerged from rehab a new man—his gauntness replaced by twenty pounds of muscle, a fresh haircut,
and he was reading again. The key was to keep him busy, replacing idle time and old habits with a robust schedule and new habits. So, they took scuba classes together and started to wreck dive in Lake Huron over the summer. Conrad was clean, happy, motivated, and they became closer than they had been since growing up. There had been talk of Conrad going back to school to finish his Ph.D. in History—at that point, he was still A.B.D. (all but dissertation)—and possibly joining the professorial ranks once he had the alphabet of armor after his name. Brad had even told him, “And once you get your doctorate, don’t be like most of the enlightened and feel the need to tell someone you have a Ph.D. within the first half hour of meeting him or her.” Conrad had smirked—his way of telling people that he heard them but was not committing to agreeing or disagreeing with them. They continued to dive, talk about life, and watch old films at night. It would be summer forever… But that was the thing with Michigan summers: They never lasted. Without diving to keep him busy, Conrad began to drift...
Her words brought him out of his recollection.
“It’s been a few years for me too,” she said, almost at a whisper, “but I think I know where my gear is.”
“Anything I could use?” he said.
“I might have my old BCD, weight belt, and regulator assembly, but,” she paused, “unfortunately, I don’t have a wetsuit, mask, snorkel, or set of fins for you. You’d have to stop somewhere on the way down and pick those up.”
Her confident, get-down-to-business manner had disappeared. There seemed to be uncertainty or a measure of uncomfortableness. What was it? Diving? Or, perhaps, her mind was already starting to piece together the case, and his question had distracted her. Whatever it was, he decided not to ask about her change in tone. “I’m guessing we won’t need any of the gear, but I think you’re right. We’d hate it if we did and didn’t have it.”
At first, she said nothing, then, “I agree.”