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

made for an interesting story of success in the wake of tragedy, but it didn’t answer my question. Why did Walter Cavendish lie? Ramsey Cavendish was long dead when somebody chose a vanity plate for the battered Ford truck.

I read on for a while, but learned nothing helpful. About the time I thought I should give up and head home, the office door opened.

“Hi,” AJ said, and closed the door.

It could have been an hour or a week since we’d been together. It didn’t matter, I always reacted the same way. My heart skipped a beat.

She hesitated, then crossed the room to sit opposite from me in one of the client chairs next to Sandy’s desk.

“Hi,” I said.

“I stopped at McLean & Eakin on my way home. Thought I’d see if you were still here.”

I nodded and smiled. I didn’t care why. I was happy to see her.

She reached out and touched the back of my hand. “What are you reading?”

“Lenny’s book.”

AJ smiled. “Uh-huh. He told anyone who’d listen that you and Henri could be, and I quote, ‘dumb shits.’ I didn’t have a chance to ask him why.”

“Neither of us read his book. We missed an important detail.”

“A real clue?”

“Yep,” I said, “and helpful.”

“Want to fill me in?”

I shook my head. “Not right now.”

“No, not right now.” AJ waited a moment. “Michael, I don’t like this. I’m uncomfortable. Where we are … the distance.”

“I don’t like it either, AJ. We’re not used to … to this.”

“No, we’re not.”

“How did we get here?”

“Does it matter?”

I nodded. “I think it does. It feels … no, I feel … like you’re being critical, judgmental about the way I do my job.”

“I’m not judging you, Michael.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m not.”

“It feels that way.”

AJ sat back and looked away, at the wall, maybe, or the large aerial photo of the Mackinac Bridge that occupied most of the wall space. I waited.

“I’m afraid, Michael …”

“That I could get hurt?”

“Hurt? You’ve been hurt before. I don’t want … night is the worst time, did you know that? The middle of the night … I wake up … Marty Fleener’s banging on the door.”

Her eyes were wet. And sad.

“AJ …”

“What if I never see you again? You go off … to an alley or a deserted house … you’ll die in the street, alone.”

“It’s what I do, AJ. It’s dangerous sometimes.”

“Well, hell, I know that …”

I closed the cover of Corruption on Trial. She’d gone another place, alone.

“AJ …”

“I don’t want you to be a dead private eye, Michael. I’m angry.”

AJ looked startled, just for a moment, at what she’d just said.

“Who are you …”

“Who am I mad at?”

I nodded, but didn’t say anything. I felt bad for her, for her fear. I stayed silent for a few moments.

“I’m mad at you, Michael. You.”

Tears trailed slowly down her face. She sat still. I wanted to ask why, but that would not have been a helpful question.

“But … but I’m mad at me. Really mad at me.” She took a tissue from a box on Sandy’s desk. “I don’t want you to be a dead private eye,” she repeated.

AJ looked as sad as I’d ever seen her. It broke my heart to see her so despondent, to feel her in such pain.

“Would you rather I be a lawyer again? Divorces, wills?”

She was quiet.

“I’m really a good investigator, AJ.”

“That’s because you want to be a good investigator, Michael. There’s a

difference.” She wiped tears away and took a deep breath.

“I’m really mad at me … for being scared. I want to push the fear away.” She shook her head slowly. “That won’t work, not really. I have to find a way to accept it, live with it.

“I wish I could tell you how to do that,” I said.

“I have to do it myself, dammit, I don’t need …”

She stopped, waited a moment, then turned toward me.

“Sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

I reached over and took her hand. She squeezed it.

“I want to figure out a way … a way through it, Michael.”

I nodded, but I didn’t know what was in her head, only what she said. I felt pretty sure not interrupting was a better idea than jumping in too soon.

“Michael.” She glanced around the office, as if it were filled with people and she didn’t want them to hear.

“Michael, come home with me. I know you have to leave early for the island.”

I nodded.

“I want … I just want to feel you next to me, feel you … inside of me. I want to put my arms around you and just … I want to do that.”

35

“What time is it?” AJ pulled the sheet away from her face just enough so that I heard the question. I’d already slipped out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and put on coffee.

“Almost six-thirty.” I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll have some coffee, then get going.”

“Want me to drive you home?” AJ was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, holding the sheet across her chest.

I shook my head. “The walk will feel good. Don’t have time to run.”

“You have your .38, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh, and I’ll pay attention, AJ, promise.”

“You anticipated my next question.”

“I did. Meet you in the kitchen?”

“I’ll get my robe,” she said, flipping the sheet back and getting off the bed with more theatrical flair than was necessary.

I smiled. “Beautiful.”

“So you said last night … more than once.”

I was leaning against the kitchen counter working on my coffee when AJ walked in. She tightened the cinch on her long, white terrycloth robe. I filled a mug with hot coffee and handed it to her.

“You’re not worried about the walk home?”

I selected my words carefully. I didn’t want to launch into another contentious discussion of my job. For one thing, I didn’t have time. Mostly I didn’t want to spoil the moment.

“I’ll be careful about every move we make until this is over,” I said. “But experience has taught me that some places