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

going to save all that. The threats, Stern’s book, all of it, especially Kate Hubbell.”

“Saving it for?” AJ said.

“Are we still off the record,” Fleener said to AJ, “like before?”

She nodded. “Off the record, like before, and I get the story.”

Fleener smiled. “Sylvia Cavendish. We’re saving it all for her.”

“You’ll talk to Hendricks?”

“Done. He liked it.”

“Are you going to arrest her?” AJ said.

Fleener shook his head. “Don made some calls, talked to a few people, called in a favor.”

“There certainly are a lot of favors being used up on this,” AJ said.

“Murder will do that,” Fleener said. “A killing’s bad for everyone. City Council, County Commission, they call special meetings, issue statements. Very predictable. Can’t risk our northern Michigan image, summer tourists will stay away. Whatever, just solve it fast.”

“Back to Sylvia?” I said.

“She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“She just going to drop by for a chat?” I said, intending the sarcasm.

Fleener ignored me. “Hendricks set it up. Otsego Sheriff will talk to her. Let her come in voluntarily in the morning. Probably have a lawyer or two with her.”

“She thinks this is about drugs?”

“I have no idea what the lady thinks,” Fleener said. “Hendricks only talked drugs. I know that.”

“You doing the interview?”

“I am.”

Fleener’s reputation as an interviewer, the man with the right questions and the right strategy, was a legend built over the years. No one was better. Cops, even prosecutors, did their best to watch him and learn.

“You want to be there?” he said.

“You bet I do.”

Fleener gave me details.

“I assume Hendricks will be there.”

“Oh, count on it.”

Fleener glanced at his watch. “All right,” he said, and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee, AJ.”

“You’re welcome.”

He went down the front steps, walked to his car, and drove away.

“Did you ever wonder why they call it an interview?” AJ said.

“Not when Fleener’s in the room.”

46

After a decent night’s sleep in my own bed, I hauled my stiff body up early to get in a light run. I needed to clear my head of the events of the last couple of days. No Lenny Stern, no Cavendish family, no tension with AJ.

The run turned out to be less helpful than I expected. One hundred feet, maybe. That’s as far as I got. I thought my ribs had exploded. So, I walked. Not as energizing, but I was outside in the summer air. Better than nothing at all.

I sat at the kitchen table with scrambled eggs, an English muffin and water. If Fleener employed his talents this morning, we might have a clue to the identity of Kate Hubbell’s killer. Fleener seldom walked away from an interview empty-handed. He didn’t always solve a crime, but he often came away with good leads, good suspects, or good ideas about what to try next.

I left a few minutes early, cut over to Bay Street and walked up the short road that ran next to the side entrance to the sheriff’s office in the Bodzick building.

I spotted one man in his fifties, round and soft, unfamiliar with exercise, pacing up and down, up and down. As if he were waiting for someone. Parked cars lined the road, so I put myself out of sight between two trucks. I had a clear view of the side door.

I hadn’t waited but a few minutes when a dark blue Lincoln Continental pulled to a stop at the side door. Walter Cavendish got out from behind the wheel, went around the car and opened the passenger door. The round man moved forward to greet Sylvia Cavendish as she exited the Lincoln. He shook hands with mother and son.

The three of them chatted, if that was the right word, for a few minutes. I was close enough to pick up a word or phrase. It was not a friendly conversation. At first, round man did most of the talking, head moving, hands gesturing. Sylvia stood rigid, hands on hips, or arms folded across her chest. Walter leaned back on the Continental, more observer than participant.

Round man said something I couldn’t hear, but I had no trouble hearing Sylvia. “Bullshit,” she said, taking a step toward round man, her index finger inches from his face. “Don’t you tell me what to do.”

Walter came off the car, said something I didn’t catch, but Sylvia certainly did. She swung in his direction, her finger pushing against his chest, “Shut up, Walter. I’ll let you know when I want to hear from you.”

Sylvia’s voice dropped but she continued to hold the stage, looking at each man, finger moving as she did. I’d bet five bucks she told them …no she instructed them, how things would go.

Round man glanced at his watch. “We have to go,” he said to Sylvia. Her hands returned to her hips, she said something. When the round man replied, Sylvia threw her arms in the air. “Let’s get this over with,” she said.

Round man apparently had won the moment, and escorted Sylvia through the side door of the building.

When Walter Cavendish drove off and found a parking spot down the road, I walked around the block to the Lake Street doors. I made my way through the hallways to a long corridor with several doors spaced evenly along the hall. I tapped on the last one and walked in.

“Morning, Russo,” Don Hendricks said. “Thought you might not make it.” He occupied a chair to one side of a large rectangle of glass. The interview room, on the other side of the glass, held an ancient metal table and four equally unappealing metal chairs. The room was empty.

“How are you, Don?”

He shrugged. “Okay. You know, after all these years, you’d think I’d know if it was adrenaline or nerves.”

“Maybe it’s both.”

“What are you, a shrink?”

I shook my head. “Today, I’m just a spectator.”

“That’ll be the day. When’s the last time you sat in this room and shut up voluntarily?”

I never had a chance to answer, even if it hadn’t been a rhetorical question. The door to the room opened and in walked