On Sunday, Cher and I held down a corner booth at Chubby’s. She drank from a tankard of coffee and picked at an apple-cider doughnut with her good hand. I opted for the three-egg special and kept an eye out for Russian thugs. Just another morning in sleepy ol’ Booker.
“Was someone watching the garage when Sam visited us?” Cher asked.
“Probably. My place is in the middle of nowhere. They could have parked half a mile away and tracked cars that came and went. My daddy had his garage outside of town, so that’s how I wanted mine.”
She stared at her plate. “Speaking of. That bit about how things get hushed up years and how it hurt your family, what did you mean by that?”
“I never told anyone the details.”
“I’m your partner, Klaus. We shouldn’t have secrets. Besides, I think I’ve it pieced
