Deadline for Lenny Stern Peter Marabell (best ereader for comics .TXT) 📖

Sylvia Cavendish, accompanied by the round man from the parking lot.

Sylvia was dressed for an afternoon of bridge with the girls: linen slacks, tank top, no jewelry. No doubt in deference to the air conditioning, she had covered the tank top with a light cardigan sweater.

“Did you talk with Walter Cavendish?” I asked Hendricks.

“Uh-huh, after the Otsego Sheriff arranged for her appearance today.”

“Any reaction?”

“From the son?” Hendricks shrugged. “Seemed mystified why we wanted Sylvia to come in. He tried to sound surprised we wanted to talk about drugs with mama.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep,” Hendricks said. “Insulted, he said. He was insulted we’d even suggest such a thing.”

“Is he telling you straight?”

“Doubt it,” Hendricks said. “Asked him flat out, if he and his brother were giving drugs to their employees.”

“And he denied it.”

“Of course, he denied it,” Hendricks said. “But he’s an amateur. Doesn’t know how to lie with a straight face.”

“What’re going to do about the brothers?”

“Not sure, yet. Let’s see how it goes in there,” Hendricks said, nodding toward the room.

Sylvia sat down first. The round man, in an awkwardly fitted suit, sat next to her. He opened a briefcase, took out a yellow pad and pen, and put them on the table.

“That’s her lawyer, I assume?”

Hendricks nodded. “Name’s Randolph Bakersfield. He’s a partner in a white-shoe firm in the Chicago burbs. On the West Side, I think.”

“He any good?”

Marty Fleener came in the door, stood behind us and looked through the glass. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

“Russo was asking about Bakersfield,” Hendricks said, “if he was any good.”

“Good reputation, solid firm, but not a criminal attorney,” Fleener said.

“Family friend?” I asked.

“Probably.”

Hendricks said, “You ready, Captain Fleener?”

“I am,” he said, “but let them sit a few.”

“See if they get impatient?” I said.

Fleener nodded. “She has no record, Bakersfield doesn’t do criminal law. They got to be uncomfortable.”

Several minutes passed; neither Cavendish nor her lawyer said a word.

“Doesn’t look like they even know each other,” I said. “No idle chitchat, nothing.”

“Could be nerves,” Hendricks said.

“Don, did you tell Russo about the library?”

Hendricks shook his head. “Forgot.”

“Remember,” Fleener said, “when you couldn’t figure out how Sylvia knew about Stern’s book?”

“I thought somebody at Gloucester Publishing leaked it.”

“Nope. Sylvia’s a Friend of the Petoskey Library.”

“She doesn’t like Gaylord’s library?”

“Gaylord does not have a Carnegie Library,” Fleener said. “She’s a big donor.”

I turned toward Fleener. “So Sylvia got advanced notice of Lenny’s first event for the book tour.”

Fleener nodded. “Yes, she did.”

“Ready, Marty?” Hendricks said.

Fleener picked up a folder and said, “Yep.”

Hendricks turned in his chair. “Break a leg.”

47

Fleener left us, appearing moments later on the other side of the glass.

“Good morning,” he said, introducing himself to Cavendish and Bakersfield.

Fleener put the manila folder on the table, followed by his legal pad and pencil. He removed his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair.

I’d watched Fleener in the room several times over the years. His routine was always the same — methodical, deliberate, paced. People at the table could not help but watch him. Martin Fleener was in charge, and every move was choreographed to convey that feeling.

He sat down, placed a digital recorder in the middle of the table, and opened the folder.

“For the record …” Fleener began with a series of basic questions, all about the Cavendish company, Sylvia’s sons, her life in Gaylord.

“Captain Fleener,” Bakersfield said. “You have all this, there’s no need for these questions.”

“Mistake number one,” Hendricks said, leaning toward the glass.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “The guy doesn’t understand the formalities.”

“Just a few more things,” Fleener said, faking a friendly smile.

Fleener carried on as if every question were a matter of grave importance.

Sylvia was restless, but she managed to deliver answers in a flat, uninterested voice. Bakersfield was growing impatient, too, constantly rearranging himself in the chair.

“Can we move this along?” he said. “Mrs. Cavendish is here out of a desire to help, to be a good citizen.”

“No, she’s not,” I said. “Doesn’t he remember the Otsego County Sheriff didn’t offer her a choice?”

“Neither did I,” Hendricks said. “He’s annoyed now. Think that’ll carry over to his client?”

“Now, Ms. Cavendish …”

“Captain,” Cavendish said, and Fleener stopped. “Please call me Sylvia, if that’s all right.” She smiled and turned to her lawyer. “You, too. Sylvia’s fine.”

“Guess they’re not old friends,” Hendricks said.

Fleener smiled. “All right. Sylvia, do you know Samuel Dexter?”

Sylvia shrugged. “I might have met him, you know, around, I don’t remember.”

“He says he knows you.”

“Well, okay.”

“How about Benjamin Jarvis, you know him?”

Sylvia shrugged.

“They both work for you,” Fleener said.

Sylvia leaned forward. “They do not work for me, Captain. They work for the business.”

“Well, well,” Hendricks said. “Do I detect annoyance?”

“In fact, Dexter and Jarvis do handyman work at your house, don’t they?” Fleener said.

“Well, I suppose …”

“Fairly frequently?”

“I don’t see what this …”

“Sam Dexter says you supplied him with drugs,” Fleener said. “Is he telling the truth?”

“Captain.” It was Bakersfield. “We know about the allegations that brought us here today. I will not let Sylvia answer that question.”

“Nothing like stating the obvious,” Hendricks said. “This guy belongs in probate.”

“Did you supply marijuana, amphetamines …”

“Don’t answer that,” Bakersfield said.

“Dexter said you …”

“No, Captain,” Sylvia said before her lawyer could intervene. “Why do you believe him and not me? Is there evidence that he’s telling the truth?”

“Maybe Sylvia should represent herself,” I said.

“Let me ask you about Benjamin Jarvis,” Fleener said, pushing on.

He softened the questions, but always returned to drugs.

“Do your sons give drugs to Dexter and Jarvis?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvia said. “Why don’t you ask them?”

“I might just do that.”

Fleener’s questions grew repetitive intentionally. Bakersfield cut some of them off. He and his client were still annoyed, struggling to stay focused.

“Now, Sylvia,” Fleener said, pausing.

“Here we go,” Hendricks said.

“Tell me about RC 44.”

Sylvia Cavendish sat bolt upright, her eyes wide open.

“Ma’am?” Fleener waited. “RC 44?”

“What do you want me to say?” Sylvia said, glaring at Fleener.

“Hold on a second,” Bakersfield said. “Where are you … what is this line of questioning?”

Fleener ignored him. “It’s a simple