The Fourth Motive (16 page)

Farrell put his hands on his hips. “And there’s one other person you might reconsider
dumping your puritanical disdain on. My friend and partner, who is currently rotting
in a municipal jail cell. This young man’s only crime was damn near getting killed
keeping you from that same fate. And you want him charged with two rinky-dink misdemeanor
crimes related to the very gun he used to save your ungrateful ass? If you were my
daughter, I’d turn you over my knee.”

Paige stood up from her chair. Her face lost all its color. “You can go to hell,”
she told Farrell. She looked from him, to Sergeant Wendt, and finally to her father.
“All of you.”

“Paige–” her father pleaded.

“I’m going to lie down,” she cut him off. She walked from the study.

Farrell retrieved another cigarette. The Judge’s face slackened. Wendt broke the silence.

“That was quite a speech,” he commented. “Thanks for saying what I wanted to but couldn’t.”

“Maybe I should run for public office?” Farrell said, lighting his smoke.

“I’m sorry,” was all the Judge could say. “She’s always viewed everything in very
black-and-white terms, like her mother. To her, the law and rules in general are the
glue which hold her world together. If anything,” he went on, looking at the floor,
“it became more pronounced after my wife’s death.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I probably shouldn’t have been so hard on her,” Farrell
said. “The kid’s had a rough couple of days.” He exhaled smoke. “But she’s the victim
now; she’s on the other side of the fence. She’s learning the hard way that the rules,
and the system, aren’t necessarily going to keep her safe.”

“I agree with you,” Wendt said. “But I’m part of that system. I can’t say it.”

Farrell gave Wendt a conciliatory nod. “We’ll get this guy, Sergeant.” He turned to
the Judge. “We’re not going to let anything happen to your daughter.”

“My name is Randy,” Wendt said, extending his hand. Farrell shook it. “What do you
say we go get your partner out of cold storage?” Wendt now faced the Judge. “That
is, if his attorney here will permit us to finally obtain his statement so we can
release him?”

“No charges?” Judge Callen asked.

“No charges,” Wendt affirmed.

“Have my client call me when you get to the station,” Callen said. “I’ll advise him
to cooperate. Then he’s all yours.”

“Thanks for the drink, Your Honor,” Farrell said. “I’ll be in touch.” He and Wendt
headed for the door. As they left, Farrell looked back and saw the Judge sitting forlorn
with his drink.

“Do you really think the suspect’s motive might originate with the Judge and not his
daughter?” Wendt asked once they were outside.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Farrell said. “I’m flying by the seat of my pants.”

“So you’ve got no plan? Just wait for this asshole to strike again?”

“Didn’t say that,” Farrell said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 19

 

 

“Hi, Kevin,” Farrell said. “Nice to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Kearns said.

Kearns was being escorted by Sergeant Wendt through the front doors of the Alameda
Police Department headquarters on Oak Street. He had his coat over one arm, bags under
both eyes, and a scowl on his face.

“Sorry about your stay in the hoosegow,” Farrell said.

“You should be. I wasn’t back working with you even one full day and I find myself
in a fight, a shoot-out, and locked in jail. Again. It’s just like old times, Bob.”
Kearns ran his hands through his short hair and looked up at the sky. “What the hell
was I thinking?”

“Come on.” Farrell put his arm around Kearns’ shoulder. “You’ll feel better after
a meal and some rest.”

“I doubt it,” Kearns said. “But if you’re buying, I’m hungry. It’s been over twenty-four
hours since I’ve had anything to eat. Or sleep.”

Several uniformed police officers passed by the trio entering or exiting the police
administration building. All gave sharp glances at Farrell and Kearns. Wendt saw them;
Farrell and Kearns paid them no mind.

“I’d think about moving along pretty soon,” Wendt said. “You two aren’t exactly popular
around here.”

“We’re going,” Farrell said to Wendt. He handed the police sergeant one of his business
cards. “Let’s stay connected, Randy. I don’t expect you to lay out the red carpet,
but we stand a better chance of keeping the Judge’s daughter safe and bagging the
guy trying to do her harm if we don’t butt heads.” Sergeant Wendt responded by digging
out one of his own business cards and extending it to Farrell.

“You might want to reconsider giving him your card,” Kearns said. Wendt looked puzzled.

“Never mind.” Farrell elbowed Kearns. Farrell and Wendt exchanged cards and a handshake.

Just as they were shaking hands, the front door of the police department burst open
and two men strode forcefully down the steps towards them. One was in uniform, the
other in plainclothes. Both cops’ hot eyes were locked on Farrell.

“Who’s your friend, Randy?” the taller uniformed cop demanded. He was well over six
feet in height and overweight, and had his dyed black hair swept over his bald spot.
He looked to be in his early thirties. He also had the bleary eyes of a regular, heavy
drinker. The name tag on his uniform read “McCord”. The plainclothes detective with
him was about the same age, much shorter, and just as fat.

“Take it easy,” Wendt told the newcomers. “They were just leaving.”

“You take it easy,” McCord said.

“Bob Farrell,” Farrell said. He stuck out his hand and grinned. “Nice to meet you.”

“I know who the fuck you are,” McCord spat, refusing the offered hand. “You’re lucky
I don’t kick your ass right now.” He wheeled on Wendt. “What the fuck is he doing
here?”

“None of your business,” Wendt told him.

“Winning friends again, I see,” Kearns said. Farrell shrugged.

“Do all your cops threaten citizens while in uniform?” Farrell inquired, his eyes
laughing. Wendt sent Farrell a dirty look.

“It sure as hell is my business,” McCord said to Wendt, ignoring Farrell’s question.
“I heard he was skulking about,” he told the sergeant. He turned to Farrell. “You
got a lot of nerve showing your face around here.”

“Have we met?” Farrell asked him innocently.

“No, we haven’t,” McCord snarled. “But you met my brother. A year ago Christmas, you
tried to kill him with his own shotgun.”

Farrell’s eyes jettisoned their mirth. “No, I didn’t. That’s not what happened. You
weren’t there. If I tried to kill your brother, Officer McCord, he’d be playing a
harp right now.”

McCord started to lunge at Farrell. Wendt and Kearns stepped between them. The plainclothes
officer stood by with his fists clenched.

“I was there,” the plainclothes cop blurted. “And I didn’t forget you pointed a gun
at me.” He sent what he thought was a fierce glare at Farrell, diminished by his cherubic
face and doughboy physique. “Maybe I’ll return the favor sometime.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Farrell admonished. “Last time we met, I didn’t pull
the trigger. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

“You threatening me?” plainclothes challenged.

“Not threatening anybody,” Farrell explained, his voice calm. “But if you break leather
on me, be ready to meet the coroner.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

“There’s a quick-witted comeback,” Farrell drawled to Kearns.

“Swell company you keep, Sergeant,” McCord said, using Wendt’s title instead of his
name. The meaning wasn’t lost on Farrell.

“Last warning, Officer,” Wendt said, returning the formality. “You want to end up
an ex-cop, like your brother, stick around. You want to keep what’s left of your career
intact, you’ll turn your butt one hundred and eighty degrees and get the hell out
of here.”

“Let’s beat it, Joe,” the plainclothes officer said. He faced Farrell. “The air stinks
around here.”

McCord glared at Wendt but let the plainclothes officer lead him away by the arm.
A few steps away, he turned back and pointed a fleshy finger at Farrell.

“This ain’t over,” he said. “And that goes double for your fuckhead sidekick.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Officer McCord,” Farrell said. McCord stormed off,
muttering obscenities under his breath. Kearns wiggled his fingers in a goodbye.

Wendt shook his head. “You two are a couple of real comedians. Laugh now, but you’d
better not screw around in Alameda,” he advised. “McCord holds a grudge. And he’s
got friends.”

“You let him carry a gun?” Farrell asked.

“He’s actually a pretty good cop, believe it or not,” Wendt said. “His brother was
one of the officers you jacked last year out on Bay Farm Island. His friend in the
suit was the other.”

“I figured that part out already,” Farrell said. “He’s a detective?”

“No. He’s on modified duty; a worker’s compensation claim. He’s off street duty and
working in the records division. Says he has a back injury.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Farrell said.

“What do I know?” Wendt said. “Could be he’s malingering. It happens. That’s for the
docs and shrinks to figure out.”

“Sounds like Officer McCord is the one who needs to talk to a shrink,” Kearns said.
“He’s wound a little tight, if you ask me.”

“McCord’s brother didn’t take kindly to being held hostage and having you disarm him,”
Wendt told Farrell. “He was already a drunk, and his marriage was on the rocks. That
event was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Within a couple of months of meeting
you, he was fired for repeatedly being intoxicated on duty.”

“And now his big, fat, gun-wielding, grudge-holding brother blames you,” Kearns said,
making an OK sign with his fingers. “Nicely done, Bob.”

“If there was another way, I’d have used it,” Farrell said.

“Don’t sweat it too much,” Wendt said. “Frankly, McCord’s brother was eventually going
to get fired anyway; you just accelerated the process.”

“I did thirty years with San Francisco PD,” Farrell noted. “I’d be lying if I said
I hadn’t seen it before.”

“Me, too,” Wendt agreed. “In any case, it’s water under the bridge.”

“Apparently not for Officer McCord,” Kearns said.

“Give me a call, will you,” Wendt said, “before implementing any more of your schemes
involving Deputy District Attorney Paige Callen? Especially if they’re going to occur
on this island?”

“I’ll stay connected,” Farrell told him. “When do I get my gun back?”

“Not anytime soon, I’m afraid. Mister Kearns here may have put a bullet from it into
our suspect. We have to keep it for evidence purposes, even though he’s not getting
charged.”

“Fair enough.” Wendt left the two men and returned into the department.

“Let’s get some chow,” Farrell said.

“Can we stop by my place first? It’s only a block away. I want to grab a quick shower
and a change of clothes. I smell like jail funk.”

“Sure,” Farrell agreed. They walked to Farrell’s Oldsmobile and drove the block to
Kearns’ apartment on Park Street. But when Kearns led them to the exterior door leading
upstairs to the apartments he found his key no longer fit the lock. He was about to
go into the bar and locate the owner, Johnny Costanza when the gruff Italian-American
came out to meet him.

“Hi, Johnny,” Kearns said. “I was just coming to find you. For some reason, I’m locked
out.”

“Sorry, Kevin,” Costanza said. “I have to evict you.”

“What for? I’m paid until the end of the month.”

Costanza handed Kearns a roll of cash. “I know. Here’s your refund. I already packed
all your stuff. It’s boxed up in my office.”

“What gives?” Kearns demanded. “Why are you putting me on the street?”

“Were the Alameda cops here today?” Farrell interjected. Kearns looked quizzically
at Farrell and then back at Costanza. The tavern owner looked down and slowly nodded.

“Jesus Christ,” Kearns said. “So while I’m locked up in their jail, the Alameda cops
toss my room? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Costanza nodded again.

“And they ‘advised’ you to kick Kevin out, didn’t they?” Farrell asked.

“What can I do?” Costanza pleaded. “I run a legal place; you know that. But to the
cops, it don’t matter. They want to shut me down, they shut me down. They can have
the Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, or the county Health Department, find
any reason they want.” He put his hand on Kearns’ arm. “I got to run a business in
this town, you know? I got a family, Kevin. I go against the cops, I’m out of business.
I’m sorry.”

“Forget it, Johnny,” Kearns said, deflated. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I threw in a couple hundred extra bucks for you keeping the room so clean,” Costanza
said. “No hard feelings, huh?”

Kearns examined the roll of cash he was given by Costanza. “I appreciate the thought,
Johnny, but I pay my own freight.” He peeled off several bills and stuck them in the
pocket of his former landlord’s shirt. “Where’s my stuff?”

“Follow me.”

Kearns and Farrell were led into an office by Costanza, who left them alone and returned
to the bar. Two cardboard boxes were stacked on the floor. Kearns opened them and
found his meager collection of clothes, toiletries, and possessions loosely piled
inside. He sifted through until he found a pair of combat boots.

“Going hiking?” Farrell asked. Kearns ignored him and thrust his arm inside one of
the boots. A moment later, he came out with the thick envelope of cash given to him
by Farrell the night before.