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

strike me as dumb, especially Walter.”

“He the one who took over the conversation?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll bet they’re trying to figure it out.”

The green truck slowed when it reached the restaurant. Cars and trucks lined the shoulder of Van Road and jammed the parking area in front of the one-floor roadhouse.

Henri drove on a bit and pulled into an empty spot.

“Get a look?” he said.

“Could be the kid from the parking lot run-in,” I said. “Not sure.”

“Jump out, I’ll be there in a minute.”

I moved quickly to the entrance, walking right behind a noisy group of four women. This was not their first stop of the day. They laughed, pointing at the huge, phony antlers above the door. The women gave me cover as we went through the door. The room was crowded, from the bar just inside the door all across a large room filled with tables and chairs. Wood paneling, a red brick fireplace, and an abundance of moose paraphernalia left little doubt about the theme of the popular place.

I eased my way to the bar, jammed three-deep its entire length to the back wall. Hard to order a beer, even harder to be spotted by somebody who wasn’t looking for a tail anyway.

Henri came through the door and stood next to an older couple, scanning the room until he saw me.

“Can you find them?” he said.

“Look for yourself,” I said, nodding toward the fireplace. “Recognize anyone?”

Henri picked them up quickly. At a four-top on the far side of the room were the two men I followed inside. But the other two men?

“Well, well,” Henri said. “If it isn’t the two bad boys we chased in Harbor Springs.”

“We got lucky again, Henri. All because Jimmy Erwin tipped us off.”

“How do you want to play this?” Henri said. “They just ordered food.”

“How about a beer while we wait?”

We signaled a bartender, got a couple of beers and settled in with the noisy crowd around the bar.

“They’re not watching for us or anyone else,” I said.

“One guy,” Henri said, “buzz cut and black T.”

“What about him?”

“Pretty sure he was the dude in the Side Door parking lot, the one with the tattoo.”

“The gang’s all here,” I said.

We finished our beer, paid the tab, and retreated to Henri’s SUV. Henri moved to another spot to get a better view of the door. We didn’t have too wait long. Our teenage diners did not savor a leisurely meal, though they had consumed their share of adult beverages.

They burst out the front door, laughing, shoving, with all the sloppy exuberance of four teens who’d been drinking after the big game. They stopped at the green truck, where the Carp Lake duo climbed in, then drove from the parking lot, scattering dirt and stones behind them.

“Hard to imagine one of them is a killer.”

“Not the first time we’ve said that, Henri.”

“Shall we chase down the green truck, or follow these other two?”

“We know how to find the Carp Lake truck,” I said.

Henri started the SUV as the other two left the lot in a Chevy truck, a dark blue Colorado, headed toward US 31. They drove past the Pellston airport and went west on Riggsville Road toward I-75.

“Fleener told me the two who work at Cavendish Company live together in Gaylord. Downtown.”

The truck took I-75 south, and we settled in for an easy tail.

“I suppose we could get lucky, if they stop at a bar on the way home.”

I laughed. “A little sarcasm, Henri?”

Forty minutes later, we exited at M-32, Gaylord. We hid in traffic on Main Street until the Chevy truck went past the Otsego County buildings, heading north on Center towards the hospital.

“Maybe they’re sick,” Henri said.

“You’re full of one-liners today,” I said. “I settle for wherever home is and call it a day.”

“Got a hot date tonight, Russo?”

I let that pass.

After a moment, “You ignoring me, Russo?”

I was ignoring him. I knew where this was going, and I wasn’t interested.

“You can’t duck the question,” Henri said. “Not for very long.”

“We’re here to do our job, Henri, leave it alone.”

Even I didn’t like the sound of that. I doubt that Henri did.

Timing is everything.

The truck turned off Center just short of Otsego Memorial Hospital, then into the parking lot of an apartment building. It was a three-floor faded red brick structure, of which the basement was no doubt referred to as the “garden level.”

Henri pulled into an empty spot, left the motor running, and got out.

“Back in a minute.”

Henri moved slowly, approaching the entrance shortly after they went inside. One minute later, he returned to the SUV.

“Didn’t you tell me the Cavendish workers were Dexter and …”

“And Jarvis,” I said. “According to Fleener.”

“Apartment 310.”

I looked over the apartment building where the pair of teenage tough guys lived, rubbing at my jaw.

“First question,” Henri said over the hum of the A/C. “You want to roust Dexter and Jarvis here and now, see what they know?”

“Tempting,” I said. “But not now. Let’s go.”

Henri made his way down Center Avenue to Main Street, then headed west through the thick traffic of downtown. Once past the end of the retail congestion at the Meijer store, Henri took the Alba Road shortcut to Traverse City, and we were on our way home.

“Whatever we do next,” I said, “will alert the Cavendish clan that we’re on to them.”

“Don’t you think they’re suspicious already?” Henri said. “You just happened to show up at the company offices asking questions.”

“About a crime scene.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Probably not,” I said.

Henri motored along the two-lane, passing the occasional gawker mixed with locals, all heading somewhere.

“What’s next?” Henri said. “Since you don’t want to push those guys for some answers.”

“I’m not against it, just not yet, not now.”

“Now we got time,” Henri said. “Lenny’ll be in Chicago for a couple more days wrapping up the book tour. I’m not babysitting.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How about the Cavendish brothers, then? We’re stalled right now.”

“I got your point.”

Henri slowed for the blinker light, turned north on US 131, and we