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

“The plate was registered to a business in Gaylord, the Cavendish Company. They make …”

“What’d the plate say?” Lenny said, grabbing the front seat back. “The vanity plate, what was it again?”

“‘RC 44,’” I said.

“The vanity plate, ‘RC 44?’”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Tina said.

“What are you two talking about?” I asked.

“I put it in the book,” Lenny said, clearly agitated. “Either of you half-assed detectives even read the damn thing?”

“What’re you talking about?” I said, ducking an embarrassing question.

“The Chicago prosecutor,” Tina said, not quite laughing. “The pivotal man in Lenny’s book. His name was Ramsey Cavendish, you know, like RC on the plate?”

I turned sideways, toward the back seat.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said. “We’re talking Gaylord, not Chicago.”

“Cavendish’s widow moved to Gaylord after Ramsey died in prison,” Lenny said. “Faded out of sight.”

“What’s the widow’s name?” I had an empty feeling I already knew the answer after Fleener ran the company through DMV.

“Sylvia.”

“DMV lists three names for Cavendish Company vehicles,” I said. “Sylvia, Daniel, and Walter.”

“You guys should’ve read my book. Daniel and Walter? They’re Sylvia’s sons.”

32

Our obedient line of cars snaked its way past the always-crowded boat ramps at Crooked Lake, but I hardly noticed. On this bright July day the lake was clogged with sailboats, jet-skis, and power boats. But I hardly noticed them either.

I sometimes missed important details because they moved too quickly or they were a jumble of ragged pieces. No excuses, no one to blame but me this time. And we had a copy of Lenny Stern’s book.

Once back into town, we swung by the Post Dispatch building to drop off Tina and Lenny to the safety of their offices.

“You know, Russo,” Lenny said as he climbed out of the rear seat. “Stop thinking like a detective for a minute. Don’t analyze so much. The goddamn pieces, they’re telling you what to do next.”

“Enlighten me,” I said.

“That would be Cavendish Company. I made the connection between events and the Cavendish family years ago. You just figured it out,” Lenny said, and slammed the car door.

Henri eased his SUV away from the curb and headed for Lake Street.

“That wasn’t good,” I said.

“If you mean Lenny’s book, no, it wasn’t good,” Henri said.

“We could hardly scare up a clue, two, three days ago.” I scrolled through my email. “Found an email from Sandy. On the book. Here’s another one.”

“I got them,” Henri said. “Haven’t read them yet.”

“We had Lenny’s book in the office, for chrissake,” I said.

“Too late to worry about it now,” Henri said. “But it gave us new pieces, more details.”

“We don’t know if, or even how, they fit together,” I said. “The pieces don’t make any sense.”

Henri let me out in front of the office and drove off.

“Damn, boss,” Sandy said after I’d filled her in. “It sure makes sense now, but…we dropped the ball. Wish I’d been sharper.”

“Join the club,” I said.

“Want me to call the Cavendish Company?” Sandy said.

I nodded. “See if president … forgot his name.”

“I have it,” she said, sifting through a stack of papers. “Daniel, Daniel Cavendish.”

“Well, see if president Daniel Cavendish has a few minutes this afternoon for a private eye from Petoskey.”

I went to my desk and texted Marty Fleener about the Cavendish connection.

“Text me tomorrow,” he sent back, “might have something.”

I hadn’t given much thought to Lenny’s tour stop at the Iroquois Hotel, but keeping him safe on a trip to Mackinac Island was a less complicated problem. The area was contained, unlike the northern tip of the mitt. The bad guys had to hit us on the way to Mackinaw City or back. Once at the Shepler’s ferry dock, it was too difficult to hide. On a ferry, impossible.

“You’re on Daniel Cavendish’s schedule at two-thirty,” Sandy said from the doorway. “Talk to the receptionist … her name’s Sally Peck. You’ll find her just inside the front door.”

“She ask why I wanted to see her boss?”

Sandy nodded. “As all good assistants should. I gave her the usual ‘a name came up in an investigation’ excuse, and that was that.”

Over the years, I’ve learned most people are intrigued when a private eye knocks on the door. It was “just like on TV,” they’d say. People were usually eager to talk, at least the first time. But I wasn’t sure what to expect from the Cavendish folks.

I tapped Henri’s number. “Where are you?” I asked when he came on.

“Just ordered a sandwich, why?”

“Road trip to Gaylord. You want to come along?”

“Of course.”

I explained what and when.

“Things to do. I’ll meet you there.”

I finished up some paperwork and made one call. I checked the time. It wouldn’t take that long to drive over to Gaylord.

“I probably won’t be here when you get back. Dad’s got a doctor appointment.”

Sandy had lived with her widower father since her mother died. They shared a classy 1920s clapboard-sided two-story on the water at Crooked Lake, a few miles north of Petoskey.

“Is he okay?”

“Sure. It’s his annual Medicare Wellness checkup. Happens every July.”

“Good to hear,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Are you leaving for the Mackinac luncheon from here?”

“Yeah. We’re riding with Henri.”

Sandy returned to her desk, and I stared at my iPhone … again.

I wanted to call AJ, text her at least, before heading to Gaylord. I did that all the time, keeping her aware of when I left town, especially if I was working a case. We learned the hard way during the troubles with Conrad North that danger can strike anywhere, even in the most banal places. AJ worried about me differently after that. It wasn’t simply fear, she told me, it had become a nagging sense of dread. I tried to reassure her, but it was just so many words, and she knew that.

AJ gave me a heads-up if she left town, too. That’s what partners did.

But when we talked yesterday, she seemed uninterested, even annoyed that I was bothering her. I couldn’t tell if she didn’t want to