Harbor Nights

by Rick Polad

  The forecast for Monday was temperatures in the nineties and afternoon storms as the ground heated up. I hoped it would be cooler up in Door.

  I packed a bag, said goodbye to the detective, and backed out of the garage. I slowed as I noticed a car parked across the driveway. It was a black Ford with tinted windows. I stopped just before the sidewalk and got out of the car. The passenger door opened, and a big guy got out who looked like he was used to getting his way and didn’t care what anyone thought about it. A black suit fit perfectly over a barrel chest that sported a thin, black tie.

  “You Manning?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He opened the rear door of the sedan. “Mister Maggio would like to have a chat with you.”

  “I can’t think of a better way to start the week, but I’ve got other plans.”

  He didn’t react.

  I started to get back in the car, hoping that the detective in the house would notice what was going on. But he was in the dining room with no view of the street.

  The big guy took a few steps toward me. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. There aren’t any options.” On a face that looked like it had been chiseled out of granite, the only thing that moved were his lips.

  “There are always options.”

  “My mistake. Of course there are. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. This is the easy way.”

  I did prefer the easy way, and I reasoned that if they were willing to grab me in broad daylight on the street I probably wasn’t in any danger. And maybe I’d pick up a piece or two of the puzzle.

  “I need to turn off the car.”

  He nodded toward the back seat. “You get in. I’ll turn off the car.” He did and handed me the keys.

  The driver headed east and took Lake Shore Drive south.

  ***

  No one spoke while we were driving. I watched sailboats out on the lake, all colors of the rainbow cutting through the choppy water. We stopped in front of an office building on Michigan Avenue. The big guy opened the door for me and accompanied me in the elevator up to the thirty-second floor. The elevator opened into a hallway with one office across the hall. There was no name on the door. A lot of floor-to-ceiling glass showed a large suite with a receptionist just inside the door and two men in dark suits sitting to the left of her desk reading newspapers. They were both smoking and sharing an ashtray on a table between them. My escort motioned me to a seat and disappeared through a door in a frosted glass wall. The girl at the desk smiled and showed off her dimples. Windows showed a view of other office buildings.

  A few minutes passed before the big guy reappeared and beckoned to me with his forefinger. Not much of a talker. I followed through the open door. The big guy closed the door and stayed outside.

  Behind the frosted glass was a large, bright space with a glass and aluminum desk off to one side. It was bright because all the windows were floor-to-ceiling glass just like the reception area. Seated at the desk was an immaculate, thirties-looking man who looked me over while I looked over the office. He wore a perfectly tailored gray suit with a powder-blue handkerchief in the breast pocket that matched his tie. His nails were manicured and not a hair was out of place.

  The view out over the lake and the harbor was an improvement over the reception area. I hoped he let his receptionist come in once in a while to see what management got to look at. From the looks of her, I had a feeling he did.

  He motioned me to a chair and said tersely, “Please have a seat, Mr. Manning.”

  I sat in a white leather chair that would have accommodated Nero Wolfe. I looked at him and waited.

  He stood up and moved to a glass-topped credenza with open glass shelves above that matched his desk. On the shelves was an excellently stocked bar. He pulled down a bottle of Macallan 18 scotch and poured an inch into each of two glasses. He put down the bottle, picked up the glasses, and handed one to me. I took it and set it down on the desk.

  “You’re not going to drink with me?”

  He should have felt insulted, but just looked curious.

  “We haven’t even been introduced.”

  He smiled as he sat down. “My apologies. I am Larry Maggio. You are Spencer Manning, private investigator, cop’s son, out to make a name for yourself.”

  If he was trying to win me over, he wasn’t succeeding. I stared at him as he sipped the whiskey.

  “Finest single-malt whiskey there is.” He nodded at my glass. “I don’t like to drink alone.”

  “And I don’t like being kidnapped.” I could be belligerent, too.

  Another smile appeared slowly as he turned the glass in his hands. “I beg to differ. I don’t see any ropes. You weren’t hit over the head. I don’t see anyone standing over your chair, and you have a glass of fine whiskey sitting in front of you. Many men would trade places with you in a second.”

  “There’s no bump on my head, but there was a veiled threat. I’m not stupid.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “So why am I here?” I glanced at the glass.

  He took a deep breath. “Right down to business. I like that.” He took another sip and looked out the window. “Beautiful view. I spend a lot of time looking out at the lake and thinking. Lately, I’ve been thinking about you. You seem to be showing up everywhere I’ve got trouble. So I figure maybe you’re part of the trouble.”

  I rearranged myself in the chair. “Maybe the trouble was there before I got there.” I was tired of pointing that out.

  He was still looking out the window, thinking. I had the feeling that no amount of thinking on his part would do any good.

  “Maybe it was. But something of mine is missing. Any ideas about that?”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words on both accounts.” I picked up the glass but didn’t drink. The scotch had a rich, golden-amber color. “You’re not the first to use them.”

  That got his interest. He looked back at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

  “A friend of mine has been kidnapped. They tell me they’ll trade for what I have of theirs. Maybe you have something to do with the calls.”

  I watched his face. It didn’t change.

  “Kidnapping isn’t my style, Manning.”

  I looked at him with a slight smile and raised eyebrows.

  He smiled, almost imperceptibly. “I told you, you are my guest.”

  “Sure. Well, I told the caller the same thing I’m telling you—I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I had a police chief also tell me he found trouble everywhere I showed up. I gave him the same answer I just gave you.”

  He was looking out the window again.

  I continued. “I do wish I knew what was going on, because a woman’s life is at stake.”

  As he finished the whiskey, he said, “As I already said, I am not aware of any kidnapping.”

  My eyebrows went up. “Hmmm. Are you aware of two murders? One of those was a friend of mine.”

  He looked directly at me. “For not knowing anything, you have a lot of information.”

  “Perhaps we can swap. What is it you’re missing?”

  “Well, that’s a little delicate. If you had it you wouldn’t be asking.”

  “Ah yes, delicate. Meaning not quite aboveboard, I assume. So you’re not going to swap?”

  “No. But I would like to know more about your information.”

  “Okay. There’s a gallery, Simmons, on Clark Street. Know of it?”

  He slowly shook his head.

  “That’s surprising. You own it.”

  “I do? And where do you get your information?”

  “A little bird. Perhaps MaxAMillion rings a bell.”

  The bell rang. “Ah, that explains it. My holding company. I own hundreds of companies, Mr. Manning. I’d be lucky to name five of them.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough being rich.”

  He looked out the window again. “So what about this Simmons Gallery?”

  “They have a rel
ationship with a frame shop up in Door County. This all started with a couple of stolen paintings. Then the owner of the frame shop was killed, followed by an artist whose paintings are currently being shown at the gallery.”

  “That is unfortunate.” He looked back to me. “And you are implying I had something to do with that? I assure you, I am an honest businessman. My money comes from commerce. I support more charities than you have heard of. I even get Christmas cards from people who stayed alive because I gave food to the neighborhoods during tough times.”

  “Yeah, so did Capone. That doesn’t make him an honest businessman.”

  “But it does me. Look around. Do you see any machine guns?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean your thugs don’t have them in the trunk.”

  As he started to protest, I held up my hand. “Don’t bother. I don’t think you’re involved. These people are sloppy and amateurish, not stylish like your thugs outside the door.”

  He ignored that.

  “But it is possible you had something to do with whatever started all this. You’re missing something. So is the kidnapper. Maybe it’s the same thing, maybe not. But either way, paintings are mixed up in it. I keep looking around, but so far I’m coming up empty. And if you’re not going to tell me what’s missing, we’re wasting our time here.”

  He looked out the window.

  I continued. “Of course, you may be involved in all of it.”

  “You just said you didn’t think I was.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been wrong before. Maybe you’re just having trouble getting good help.”

  I tried to read his reaction. There was none.

  “And maybe your help is helping themselves.”

  He stared past me. “Maybe.” He spun his chair and looked out at the harbor. “I have a proposition for you, Manning.”

  “Which is?”

  He turned back to me. “I want to hire you to find out if someone is helping themselves.”

  I laughed. “Well, I’m sure that would be interesting. But I have enough problems of my own. I don’t have time to look into yours.”

  He was quiet. I wondered what a crime boss thought about.

  “What are your dreams, Mr. Maggio?”

  He grinned, spread his arms wide and swept them across the room. “Look around you, Manning. I have all this. Why would I need dreams?”

  I didn’t look around—I just looked at him and slowly asked, “So, if this fulfills all your dreams, why do you need whatever it is you’re missing?”

  He stared at me for five seconds before he responded. “Because I don’t like to lose, Manning.” He pushed a button on his phone. “Miss Jenkins, please have Tommy come in.”

  As the door opened, he said, “We may talk again, Mr. Manning.”

  I handed him a card. “I have a phone.”

  When I got into the reception area, I paused and looked out the windows. That also gave me a view of the phone. It only took five seconds for one of the lines to light up. Trouble followed me wherever I went, and wherever I went people made phone calls when I left.

  ***

  Tommy and I didn’t speak during the ride home. That left me free to think. And what I thought was that Maggio hadn’t known he had competition. I also thought he wouldn’t be happy about it. It was a little after eleven. I’d be in Door for dinner. I headed north—again.

  I saw the police cars as soon as we turned onto my street. There were two squads in front and Stosh’s cruiser in the drive behind my Mustang.

  We pulled up behind the squads and Tommy opened the door. He would have made a great chauffeur. He didn’t seem bothered by all the police. The black sedan pulled away and I walked toward the house.

  I got halfway up the front walk when the lieutenant came running out with his arms up in the air.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “What’s all the excitement about? Did you get a call?”

  “Did I get a call?” he yelled. “Yeah, I got a call—from my detective telling me you left two hours ago, but you forgot to take your car!”

  I stopped five feet from him. I wanted to stay out of swinging distance.

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Can we go inside? The neighbors have enough…”

  He turned and walked inside.

  I followed and explained what had happened. He had a lot of questions and I had few answers. And by the time we were done I realized I wouldn’t make it up to Door in time for dinner.

  Chapter 32

  Almost everyone was sitting on the porch when I got there. Cletis, Peggy Sue, Ben, and Aunt Rose looked like they were spending an evening in Mayberry. Amelie was perched on the porch rail. I asked where Maxine was and heard a voice from inside.

  “Somebody has to run the place!”

  We all laughed.

  “Where ya been, buddy?” Ben asked.

  “Long story.” I turned to Cletis who was holding Peggy Sue’s hand. “Hello, Cletis. Nice to see you.” I smiled.

  So did he. “Nice to see you, too, Mr. Manning. Thanks.”

  I nodded. “Any cherry pie left?”

  “I saved you a piece,” said Aunt Rose. “It’s on a plate in the kitchen.”

  “Terrific! Thanks. Ben. Let’s chat in the kitchen. And Cletis, I’d like to talk to you, too.”

  “Tonight?” he asked.

  “Yup. The sooner the better.”

  Ben and I sat at the kitchen table after I added vanilla ice cream to the plate.

  “You going to share that?” Ben asked.

  “You didn’t have some?”

  “More wouldn’t hurt. What happened?”

  I cut off a small slice of pie and got another plate and filled him in on my chat with Maggio. We discussed the possibilities.

  “This keeps getting better,” Ben said, eyeing the pie. “I have to wonder what Maggio has in mind.”

  “Hard to say, but I’m guessing somebody is not going to be happy.”

  “Good guess.”

  I finished the pie. “Speaking of happy, looks like a happy couple out on the porch. No problems this morning?”

  “Well, Chief Iverson wasn’t quite convinced, but he had to admit that Cletis’ alibi checked out. And there’s no complainant on the boat issue. Even if there was, it would be hard to call it theft since the owner had given him free use of it in the past.”

  “Did you ask him what he’s involved with?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “I told you, unless it’s illegal I don’t want to know about it. I’m not his therapist—not that he couldn’t use one.” He straightened in his chair and folded his hands on top of the table. “Spencer, this kid doesn’t make good decisions. His thought processes are a bit on the slow side. But he’s a good kid. And that girl loves him.”

  “I know that. Hopefully her love isn’t misplaced. The heart isn’t always a good judge of character.”

  I rinsed the plates and placed them in the dish rack on the counter by the sink. “Time for a chat with Cletis.”

  Ben gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Good luck. I hope you get some answers.”

  “You and me both.”

  ***

  When I opened the screen door onto the porch, conversation stopped. I thanked Aunt Rose for the pie and asked Cletis to take a walk. We followed a limestone path around the side of the inn that led to a gazebo at the back of the property at the edge of the forest. We chatted casually about the weather—it was still hotter and more humid than normal.

  I motioned at one of the benches in the screened gazebo and we sat. Cletis looked nervous. His eyes were darting again. He looked down at the floor.

  “Mr. Manning, I’d like to thank you for all you’ve done for us. I don’t know how to…”

  “That’s okay, Cletis. Glad I could help. You’ve got a good girl in Peggy Sue.”

  He looked up. “I know. I’m not quite sure why she stays with m
e. That’s why I…” He looked back down at the floor.

  “You’d like to give her a better life?”

  He nodded.

  “Cletis, she said you were going to be rich. What did she mean?”

  A wild turkey walked out of the woods and started crossing the lawn.

  His face turned sad, and scared. “I just did it for her, Mr. Manning.”

  “What, Cletis? What did you do? Does this have something to do with the paintings?”

  He looked crestfallen as he lowered his head and quietly said, “Yes.”

  “Cletis, there are two people dead. One is a good friend of mine. And another person has been kidnapped.”

  He stood up suddenly with clenched fists. “I got nothin’ to do with that. You can’t…”

  I put my hand on his shoulder and sat him down.

  “I’m not saying you do, Cletis. But I need to know what else is going on.”

  His eyes darted again.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you.” He watched the turkey until it walked into the woods and then started talking.

  “I got a call at the store a coupla months ago. This fellow asked me if I wanted to make some extra money.” He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? So I said sure, depending on what it was. I told him I wasn’t doin’ nuthin’ illegal. He said not to worry.”

  “Who did?”

  He hesitated and then decided to talk. “The guy at the gallery in Chicago.”

  “Tony or Bloom?”

  “Tony.”

  “So what did he want?”

  “Not much. He just wanted me to switch two paintings when I framed them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a list of paintings I was supposed to get from Johnson’s studio. There were thirteen on the list. He told me to switch the frames on Green and Blue and Harbor Nights.”

  I thought about that and came up empty. “Do you know why?”

  “He said he had overheard a phone conversation. He had only heard part of it, but said someone had bought Green and Blue and there was something special about the frame.”

  “And you framed the paintings?”

  “All but that one. Mr. Gunderson said he’d frame that himself. He did it after I left.”