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

Street to avoid the congestion of downtown. He took East Bay Street along the water to the parking lot.

“Thanks for the lift,” I said, opening the door.

“You meeting Henri?”

I didn’t answer.

“Is he with Stern at the paper? Maybe your office?”

I put one leg out the door.

“I’ll tail you,” Fleener said. “I do that a lot.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m going to find out, remember?”

I glanced back at Fleener. I remained in my seat and closed the door. “Mind if I let Henri know you’re coming? He wouldn’t appreciate the surprise.”

“Suit yourself.”

I texted Henri about our not-always-welcome visitor.

“You know,” Fleener said, “something’s bothering me.”

“About the bookstore and the cops?”

“Well … let’s see about Henri first.”

25

“You can’t be serious?” Sandy said. We were in the front office, Sandy at her desk, Fleener and Henri seated uneasily next to each other at the front window, me in a client chair from my office. Lenny Stern and Tina Lawson were safely tucked away at the offices of the Post Dispatch for the rest of the day.

“The tourist called you a hooligan,” Sandy said, laughing. “Who says ‘hooligan’ anymore? It’s so … West Side Story.”

“Cut the poor man some slack, will you?” I said. “I probably ruined his vacation.”

“Nonsense,” Sandy said. “He’ll be telling that story for years. And they got a personal apology from the sheriff.”

Henri and I offered separate accounts of the events of the day. I went first. Rank had its privileges, I guessed.

When I’d finished all eyes turned toward Henri. He glanced sideways at Fleener.

“Look,” Fleener said, “we’re on the same side in this, like it or not.”

“What side is that?” Henri said. It was as much a statement as a question.

These two had been at each other for years. Henri didn’t trust cops; it was in his DNA. Martin Fleener regarded Henri as trouble afoot. But they held a begrudging respect for each other … as long as the air was clear between them.

“What side is that?” Fleener said, with an edge in his voice. “What side? How about the side with no more killing on city streets, no bodies dumped behind warehouses. How about that side?”

“All right, all right,” I said. “It’s been a long day. Take it down a notch, both of you.” I paused. “You’re up, Henri. What happened when you chased the other guy?”

Henri leaned forward in his chair.

“I got a quick look at you running down Main Street, but my guy went up the side street, at the fudge place …”

“Across from the real estate office?”

Henri nodded. “He was light on his feet, quick, but I caught him in less than a block.”

“Recognize him?” I said.

“No, will if I see him again.”

“But you caught him?” Fleener said.

“Yeah … put him on the ground.”

“Then how’d he get away?”

“Had to let him go,” Henri said.

“You let him go?” Sandy said, her mouth open.

“Really pissed me off to do that. Bunch of people in a parking lot, behind the library, started yelling at us … at me, ‘Let him go. Call the cops.’” Henri shook his head. “Didn’t want to be there if cops were on the way. Half a block down, my guy almost ran me over coming out of a parking lot. Old beat-up Ford Ranger truck, dirty red.”

“Would you recognize it again?” Fleener said.

“I can do better than that.” Henri went to Sandy’s desk, took a sticky note, wrote on it, and handed it to Fleener.

Fleener looked at the note, then at Henri. “Vanity plate?”

“You bet.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“Letters and numbers,” Henri said. “RC space 44.”

It happened again. That click in my gut. Familiar, I thought … but I lost it. “Can you run the plate, Marty?”

Fleener held the slip of paper up. “Yep,” he said. “Back in a minute.” Fleener took out his phone and went to the hallway.

“People put crazy things on those plates,” Sandy said. “Nicknames, colleges, could be anything.”

Fleener returned to his seat next to Henri, a small notebook in his hand.

“The vanity plate is registered to the Cavendish Company of Gaylord …”

“Spell it, Marty,” Sandy said.

He did, then said, “Cavendish has three officers, Sylvia, Daniel, and Walter, all named Cavendish. The company owns six vehicles, three trucks and three cars, including a 1980 Ford Ranger. I’ll email the specifics.”

“I pulled up the website,” Sandy said, leaning toward the screen. “The Cavendish Company … let’s see, industrial supply stuff … pipe fittings, pumps, pressure gauges, gaskets. Some history … founded in the ’20s, blah, blah, blah. Okay, here, bought by Sylvia Cavendish in 2000. Daniel Cavendish is president, Walter is marketing and production.” She leaned back. “You can read the rest, if you want to.”

“Industrial supplies? Gaylord?” Henri said, and shrugged. “Well, at least we found the truck.”

“All right,” Fleener said. “I have a question for you super sleuths.”

“We’re in trouble now,” Sandy said, rolling her eyes.

“Ignore her,” I said. “What’s the question?”

“Today, at the bookstore, the two men?”

“What about them?”

“You both described them as young, right? Probably early twenties?”

Henri and I nodded.

“But they weren’t the same two who tried to throw a scare into Lenny Stern the other day at the Side Door?”

“I only got a quick look at one of those guys,” Henri said. “The man I chased today wasn’t him.”

There it was again. It clicked …

“My guy wasn’t at the Side Door either,” I said.

“Well, that means we have three, maybe four, men involved in this,” Fleener said. “And they’re all young, you say.”

We nodded again.

“Then I have to ask the question again, who hires kids?” Fleener said.

“We know Joey DeMio was pissed when I suggested he hired teenagers.”

Fleener shook his head slowly. “So you told me, but pissed or not, DeMio is still on top of my list.”

“But it looks more and more like it could be someone else,” Sandy said.

I nodded. “Sandy might just be right.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Fleener said.

“We shouldn’t consider other people?” I said.

“Of course, we should,” Fleener said, “just not yet.”

“Your point is?” Henri said.

“My point is,” Fleener said, “an old tried-and-true