Dead Lock (19 page)

Who was stupid enough to play games with Jimmy Pecora? Whoever it was would pay dearly. He walked to the chair that held his coat and gun. He pulled the suit coat over his bare torso and took the .38 from the holster that hung on the chair.

Outside, he reached through the open window of the Studebaker’s passenger side and retrieved a flashlight from the glove box. Playing the light around the front of the small brown log cabin, he saw no one. The next cabin stood thirty feet away and its lights were out. Behind the string of cabins lay a thick forest. He decided to look for the intruder there.

The night was cool and Jimmy Shoes tugged the coat tightly around him. He jumped involuntarily as the hoot of an owl broke the silence. He continued on, reaching the rear of the cabin. The forest loomed twenty feet beyond.

As he began walking in the direction of the forest, he heard a rustling behind him. Turning, he was startled to see that the dim light shining through the blackout curtain of his cabin’s rear window framed the silhouette of a large man.

“Who are you?” he asked. Something about the man made him nervous and he was surprised to hear his voice cracking as he spoke. “What the hell do you want?”

As the stranger approached, Jimmy shined the flashlight on him and could clearly see the features of the man’s face. For the first time in his life Jimmy Shoes was confronted by someone who didn’t seem afraid of him. Or of the pistol he held.

Jimmy Shoes’ last thought on earth was how odd that was. And how odd it was that the man actually smiled when he spoke.

“Mein name ist Claus Krueger.”

81

Thursday, July 8

Three days before the dedication

Mick and I got an early start from Negaunee and arrived back at the Soo late that afternoon. I let Mick out in the backyard and began searching the house thoroughly for Shirley’s journal; hoping whoever had broken into the house days ago hadn’t beaten me to it.

I went through the first and second floors as I had before, this time much more carefully. I knocked on walls here and there as I had seen detectives do in the movies, listening for a hollow sound that might be the clue to a secret compartment.

Finding nothing, I went down into the basement. Shirley’s basement was unfinished, the cinderblock walls painted white. I searched the perimeter, looking for tiny cracks in the cement between blocks. Perhaps one was a false door leading to a small storage space.

No luck.

The generous space under the washtub made it easy to see nothing had been hidden there. The workbench in the far corner yielded zip, zero, zed and a goose egg as I ran through its four drawers.

So much for the basement.

I searched the attic again with the same result. Shirley’s bedroom was next to mine on the main floor and I left it for last. I went through her closet item by item finding nothing.

Her chest of drawers proved equally uneventful, just the usual assortment of blouses and underclothes.

Shirley’s jewelry box contained a variety of earrings, bracelets and a couple of necklaces. As I sat on her bed going through the items, I picked up a necklace Shirley had worn constantly in high school. It was heart-shaped, and when I snapped it open my eyes started to tear. The necklace contained a picture of her father and mother who had been killed in that tragic automobile accident. When closed, it was as if they were kissing. I sat for a moment, my eyes watering, as I realized what that locket must have meant to Shirley, a teenager coping with life without parents.

I could identify with her, because I had been left in the care of my uncle. But when my emotions got the best of me, I could at least talk with my father on the telephone. Shirley couldn’t. It must have been terribly lonely. I sat there on her bed for a while, my feelings washing over me.

Then it was time to get back to reality. I finished my search of the house and came up empty on every count. Either the intruder had found the journal days ago, or Shirley had hidden it somewhere else.

I had missed Scotty while I was gone and thought about looking him up. But first I’d check in with G.P. and Crawford at the office.

82

“He was a mob hit man and someone treated him like a schoolboy,” G.P. was saying. He leaned back in his chair, his head nearly touching the American flag in the stand behind him.

“The man’s neck was broken very cleanly,” G.P. continued. “Whoever did it was incredibly strong. And fast. There was a loaded .38 caliber pistol lying next to him. Whoever did him in never gave him a chance to use it.”

“Where did the murder take place?” I asked.

“Outside one of Palazzolo’s rental cabins,” G.P. said. “Crawford found the body.”

“Did I hear someone mention my name?”

I turned to see Jack Crawford standing in the doorway, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened.

“I was just telling Kate about our friend who the authorities say is Jimmy Shoes Pecora.”

“He bumped into someone who wasn’t very friendly,” Crawford said. “Who was the guy, anyway?”

“I’m sure it was the fellow everyone talked about the other night at Blades Larue’s place. Sheriff says he was the Cleveland mob’s best hit man. ‘Button men,’ they call them,” G.P. said.

“Cleveland, huh? Any idea what he was doing up here?” Crawford asked.

Knowing my background with the mob, both men turned to me. “He might have been looking for me,” I said. “Detroit and Cleveland mobs have been known to work closely together. Maybe they figured I’d recognize one of their Detroit thugs and they recruited one from Cleveland.”

“So you think he was here to deal with you?” G.P. asked.

I shrugged. “They tried it back in Detroit. It’s not far-fetched to think they’d track me up here.”

I turned to Crawford with a reporter’s question. “How’d you happen to find Pecora’s body?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Went for a walk. Found the body near one of the rental cabins just outside of town.”

“That’s a long walk from where you’re staying at G.P.’s house,” I said.

“I was in the mood for a long walk. As I said, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Jack and I stayed up late talking,” said G.P. “Jack retired for the evening, but got up again about a half hour later. I saw him go out for a walk.”

“What time was that?” I asked.

G.P. turned to Crawford. “What do you think, Jack? Eleven thirty?”

“Sounds right.”

It sounded strange to me. My uncle was an early riser and in all the years I’d known him he never stayed up later than nine or ten o’clock.

83

Friday, July 9

Two days before the dedication

Scotty’s big blowout aboard the Caiman was scheduled for Friday evening, and I looked forward to it with anticipation. With a crowd of notables in town for the dedication of the MacArthur Lock, the guest list promised to overflow with dignitaries. Not to mention the fact that I planned to spend as much time as possible with the host. That is, if he still wanted me to. Scotty had begged off seeing me when I called last night, saying he was busy with last minute preparations. I hoped that story was true and he wasn’t just making up something to avoid me.

My car windows were down as I drove into the Riverbend Marina’s gravel parking lot. I was wearing a stylish black dress I thought fit the occasion, topped off with a pearl necklace I inherited from my Aunt Betty. A small musical group was playing
Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy
on the deck above the Caiman’s fantail and I could see a few people in a dancing frenzy in front of the band.

Scotty couldn’t have picked a more perfect evening. The sun shone brightly in the western sky and I could smell the crispness of the gentle breeze blowing in from the St. Marys River. Almost a mile across the river lay the endless tree line of Sugar Island.

I heard talking and laughter coming from inside the Caiman as I strolled up the gangplank, once more dazzled by the immensity of Scotty’s yacht.

The Caiman’s salon was packed with people talking in small clusters, dressed to the nines and holding their Tom Collins, high balls and Scotch and waters. There was a smattering of uniforms, mostly higher ranking officers from Fort Brady. Chef Joseph and an assistant fussed over a buffet table positioned against the far wall.

Some of the guests I knew, some I didn’t. Blades Larue stood in a group that included Len Townes, Bill Milton and their wives. Standing in a small group next to them were two men I recognized from photographs as the U.S. Congressman from the district and our State Senator. A third member looked a lot like our former U.S. Senator.

I recognized a couple of newspaper reporters from downstate holding up the bar and walked over to say hello. A week ago I would have worried about blowing my cover, but if my suspicions about Pecora were correct, the mob already knew too well where to find me.

Bill Ronson of the
Detroit News
was the first to wave a greeting. “Why, Kate Brennan! You left us all wondering where the hell you were.”

“Say,” said Curt Neumann, “Harry Houdini would have loved your vanishing act.” Neumann was a veteran reporter who had been with the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
before deciding to join the
Associated Press
wire service and moving to the Arsenal of Democracy. Although he had me by at least twenty years in the age department, his ready sense of humor had made us fast friends.

“It was getting a little too warm around Detroit,” I said. “I decided to come up here to cool off.” I chose not to mention that someone from the mob had created a bit of unwelcome heat up here, too.

“Who’s here from the Times?” I asked.

“Stan Dreslinski,” said Bill Ronson. “We’re staying together in a hotel across the river in Canada. Your town is filled.”

“Where is he?”

Bill laughed. “We came in separate vehicles. He had a little trouble crossing the border. He was just ahead of us driving off the car ferry. The customs officials asked him if he had anything to declare.”

“Yeah?”

“He told them, and I quote, ’Only my love for Canada and all things Canadian.’ They’re probably still searching his car.”

“That sounds like Stan,” I laughed. “But Wells is going to raise the roof if he doesn’t file a story.”

“He’ll be along,” said Curt Neumann. “I think he learned a hard lesson. You don’t mess with the Border Patrol during a world war.”

Curt then introduced me to the others in the group, treating them to a brief description of my series of articles and subsequent troubles with the Detroit mob.

“Detroit’s not the only city with that kind of crime problem,” Curt said. “I covered the Cleveland mob for the Plain Dealer. ‘Big Al’ Polizzi runs the show, there.”

We traded Zerilli and Polizzi stories for a while, before I excused myself and walked aft through the cabin door to the fantail. I found Scotty there chatting with some of the townspeople. He looked smashing in a gold blazer that matched the color of his hair, and a tie that accented his blue eyes perfectly. A waiter passed by carrying a tray of champagne and I reached for one of the glasses. Scotty excused himself from the group and walked over to me.

“I was hoping you’d make it,” he said. I felt a tingle as he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. The evening was starting off just as I had hoped. I tried to act nonchalant.

“Just try and keep me away,” I said breezily. “By the looks of your guest list, I should feel honored to be here.”

“We expected Governor Kelly,” Scotty said. “But he was kept in Lansing with some last minute business. He’ll be aboard Sunday.”

“Where are all these people staying? I heard the hotels around here are all booked up.”

“They are,” said Scotty. “But I reserved the whole top floor of the Ojibway two months ago. By the way, how was Negaunee?”

“I want to talk with you about it later.”

The fantail seemed as crowded as the salon. Scotty pointed to a group near the back rail that included G.P. and several other men. “Your uncle looks like he could use some help and I’ve got to check on the buffet,” he said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

I walked back to the group where an animated discussion was taking place. Mayor Roland Swenson was waving a finger at my uncle.

“I’m telling you, G.P., stories of an attack on the locks are going to hurt business in this town. People sense danger and they won’t come anywhere near Sault Ste. Marie.”

“People have a right to know what’s going on,” G.P. said. “Who knows? Blades might be right; you might even draw a bigger crowd. People are funny that way.”

“Business is booming,” said another of the men. “People are already coming into town for Sunday’s dedication. Why take a chance of ruining that?”

“What if the threat is real?” G.P. said. “What if just one plane gets past the artillery? Why, there will be thousands there to watch the ceremony. Every life will be at risk.”

“I seriously doubt a plane could get past all those heavy guns,” said the mayor. “In fact, I’d like to see the Krauts try.”

Scotty joined the group just in time. “Chef Joseph says the buffet’s ready, gentlemen. Don’t keep the prime rib waiting.”

The conversation halted as the participants headed toward the salon.

84

The crowd had thinned by ten o’clock. Some had bid their goodnights; others had gone to dance on the upper deck. I could hear the band topside playing
I’ll be Seeing You.
Scotty and I stood among a small group lingering on the fantail that included G.P., Jack Crawford and a dozen or so others.