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 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 question, Sylvia, RC 44?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” Fleener said.
“Would you like to explain the meaning of the question, Captain?”
“I’d rather hear from Sylvia, if you don’t mind, Mr. Bakersfield.”“Well, I do mind, Captain. What’s the purpose of the question?”
Without serious objections from Bakersfield, Fleener continued. “Have you seen RC 44 anywhere?”
Sylvia shook her head.
“How about at the Cavendish Company? Maybe on a truck or car?”
“Captain, that’s enough,” Bakersfield said, “until you tell me where this interview is going.”
“How about a tattoo,” Fleener said. “A 44 inside a circle?”
“Why do you make things up,” Sylvia said, still glaring at Fleener.
“I think annoyance has morphed into anger,” Hendricks said. “What do you think, Russo?”
I just stared, riveted by the people on the other side of the glass.
“A tattoo, a circle around the number 44. Seems pretty simple to me. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
Sylvia sat stone-faced, but clearly angry.
“An odd tatt, don’t you think?” Fleener said. “What does it mean, Sylvia?”
“Why isn’t Bakersfield cutting off the questions?” I said.
“This isn’t his ballpark, Russo. He doesn’t understand. Of course, his client isn’t helping any.”
“Tell me about RC 44.”
“You have no …I don’t know what you mean,” Sylvia said.
“Sam Dexter says you know all about the tattoo, Sylvia.”
“Whoa, Don,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Neither did I,” Hendricks said.
“Dexter’s lying,” Sylvia said, raising her voice.
“Lying about the tatt?” Fleener said.
“Yes, of course,” Sylvia said.
“Lying about drugs?”
“Yes.” Her voice grew louder.
“Tell me about the Cavendish Company truck with the vanity plate, ‘RC 44.’”
Sylvia never hesitated. “I don’t know anything about company trucks.” But her response had no weight behind it.
“A vanity plate, RC 44, on a company truck, your company truck.”
She shook her head. Shook it with dramatic flair, like that was more convincing.
“The RC,” Fleener said, “it’s for Ramsey Cavendish, your husband, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my husband,” Sylvia said, clearly angry. “My husband’s dead and you know it.”
“What’s the connection, Sylvia? Ramsey and 44?”
“Captain,” Bakersfield said, but Sylvia cut him off.
“Shut up,” she said, her head only inches from Bakersfield face. “Shut up, just shut up. Both of you.” She turned Fleener’s way, “You have no right …”
Fleener pressed on. “What does the 44 have to do with your dead husband, Sylvia?”
Fleener flipped a few pages in the manila folder. It was show. He already knew what it said.
“Ramsey Cavendish died in prison. Says here he was beaten to death, Sylvia. Did your husband know about the 44?”
“Where’s Fleener going with this, Don?” I said.
“Don’t have a clue.”
“Leave Ramsey out of this, damn you,” Sylvia said. “He’s dead. I don’t want you talking …” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Tears fell down her cheeks. She wiped them away with a finger.
“Why did Sam Dexter and his buddies threaten to kill Lenny Stern?”“Damn,” Hendricks said.
“What?” Bakersfield said. “No, Sylvia. Don’t answer.”
“Sylvia.” Fleener paused. “Did you tell Dexter to kill Lenny Stern?”
“That’s it, Captain. We stop. Now.”
“What about Kate Hubbell? Did you tell Dexter to kill Kate Hubbell, too?”
Sylvia Cavendish came out of her chair, leaning on the table toward Fleener.
“You’re damn right I did. That man killed Ramsey!” The tears ran freely down her face now. “The woman got dead, so Stern knew he was next. I wanted him to sweat it out…every…single…day.” Sylvia drew t
he words out. “Like me when Ramsey went to prison. I want Stern dead. You hear me, dead.”
Bakersfield was out of his chair. “No. Sylvia, not another word. Captain, we’re done. I need time with my client. Now.”
Sylvia sat down, crying hard. Bakersfield put a hand on her shoulder. She swatted it away.
Fleener closed the manila folder, took his jacket, and left the room to Sylvia Cavendish and Randolph Bakersfield.
Fleener came in with us.
“Well shit,” Hendricks said. “Did you have any idea … ?”
Fleener shrugged.
“She gave it up pretty easily,” I said.
“She didn’t give anything up,” Fleener said.
“But Sylvia admitted she ordered Lenny killed.”
“All Sylvia cares about is her hate, Russo. Getting even for her husband’s death. Somebody had to pay. Lenny Stern, Kate Hubbell, anyone related to the book project.”
“That thing about 44,” I said. “That sent her over the line.”
“Took me a while to figure it out,” Fleener said. “The 44? That was the number of days Ramsey Cavendish survived in prison before he was killed.”
I shook my head. “Jesus …”
“What do you want to do about the sons?” Fleener said.
“Pick ‘em up,” Hendricks said.
A veteran criminal attorney once explained Martin Fleener this way: “Fleener is like LeBron James. The game looks the same because it is. But Fleener plays at another level. His experience and instincts work seamlessly. Fleener trusts his instincts, even if they conflict with logic. It takes him places others can’t conceive of, not on their best days.”
48
“What’ll happen to Sylvia Cavendish?” AJ said. We sat with Henri and Sandy at a table near the front windows at City Park Grill. Lenny Stern was there, too, after wrapping up his grand book tour in the Windy City. Lenny, Sandy, and Henri drank beer, AJ and me, chardonnay. We’d ordered crab-spinach dip and sweet potato fries for the table.
“That’s up to Don Hendricks,” I said. “Fleener said it’d be a few days yet.”
“What about Sam Dexter and Ben Jarvis?” Sandy said. “And the two from Carp Lake?”
“Dexter will be charged with killing Kate Hubbell,” I said.
Deadline for Lenny Stern Page 22