OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  Halfway through basic training Vincent learned that his brother Paul had been killed in action near Da Nang. He was given hardship leave to return home, but when he arrived in Daly City he found his mother gone. She had already received notice of her son’s death, packed up, and returned to the Philippines. She left behind nothing but a faded black-and-white photograph of her and Vincent’s father, and Vincent’s birth certificate. He returned to finish his basic training and was shipped to Vietnam.

  Southeast Asia was good to Vincent Avery. The year was 1967, and most of Saigon was still safe for rear echelon occupational troops. Vincent was assigned to a logistics company, and in that role not only avoided direct combat, but soon discovered he had a knack for embezzling and trafficking in black market goods. His job gave him access to vast storehouses of virtually every kind of material needed in a war zone, and his analytical mind, in concert with his already well-developed ability to scam the system, served him well.

  He enjoyed his tour in Vietnam. He’d grown up in a city, and felt at home in Saigon’s overcrowded streets. That Avery was treated as a foreigner in no way bothered him. He’d been treated as an outsider all his life. His regular duties allowed him a lot of free time, and when he wasn’t performing them he was making under-the-table contraband deals and raking in cash. He spent it exploring the city, visiting brothels, and smoking dope.

  When Avery’s tour in the army ended he returned home, for lack of a better place to go. Many of his friends had been taken by the war, were in prison, or had simply gone. The streets were the same. They hadn’t changed and never would.

  He was without direction, and actually considering returning to the army, when he’d heard the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office, across the bay, was actively recruiting veterans. On a whim he took the examination, did well, and was offered a slot in the impending recruit academy. That was over twenty years ago.

  Sergeant Vincent Avery smoked his cigarette halfway, then dropped it and entered the bar past two Hispanic men who were leaning against the entrance with folded arms. They wordlessly stepped aside, giving him ground.

  The interior of the bar was dark, and the odor of secondhand smoke was heavy in the room. A fat Mexican man in a sleeveless shirt was behind the bar. He had a dirty towel over one shoulder, and gave Avery an even dirtier look as he went past. Four or five Hispanic men in advanced stages of intoxication sat on mismatched bar stools and pretended not to notice the tall man in the suit as he walked by.

  Avery walked to the jukebox, its Plexiglas front stained brown by endless exposure to cigarette smoke and countless spilled drinks. He inserted several coins into the slot and soon the room was filled with raucous Spanish music laden with jaunty accordion riffs. He looked over at the bartender, who nodded and reached under the bar for the volume control. The music got louder.

  Avery strode to the rear of the establishment, where an old-fashioned, partitioned wooden phone booth was situated near the men’s bathroom. He stepped in and shut the doors. The interior smelled like vomit and the walls were scarred with graffiti, most of it describing various sex acts and the names and numbers of the women who allegedly performed them.

  He inserted coins and dialed a number from memory. He let it ring twice and hung up. Then he lit another cigarette. He had almost finished it when the payphone rang.

  “Que pasa?” said Avery.

  “Don’t ‘que pasa’ me, motherfucker,” came a Spanish-accented voice, thick with emotion. “It went down for shit, and it’s your motherfuckin’ fault.”

  Avery took the receiver from his ear and let it hang while he lit another cigarette from the glowing tip of the previous one. He could still hear the voice on the phone, its torrent of profanity continuing unabated.

  He smoked in silence for several long minutes when he finally heard a break in the stream of abuse emanating from the receiver. He returned it to his ear.

  “You still there?” the voice demanded. “You’d better be there, motherfucker, or-”

  “Or what?” Avery said. Silence was his answer.

  “I don’t like the way things went down any more than you,” Avery said, his voice calm. “But that’s the way it went down. It was your brother’s play, remember? You want to cry about it, go ahead. I got better things to do.”

  “Easy for you to say,” the voice said. “It ain’t your brother who was shot to fucking pieces.”

  “Sometimes,” Avery said, “when you play rough people get hurt. Your number comes up, it’s your time. Gabriel taught you that himself, didn’t he?”

  “Fuck you. First you said it was only gonna be Mendenour. Then he brought in his dickhead partner. You never said nothing about no third dude. Who else you got you ain’t tellin’ me about?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You heard me.”

  Avery held the phone away from his ear for a second time, spit out his cigarette and ground it under his toe. When he returned the receiver to his mouth he spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Listen up, motherfucker, and listen good,” he said, his tone switching to low and hard. “What’s done is done. I didn’t know Trask was going to bring a rookie with him.”

  “So you say.”

  “Your brother was the one supposed to be running the show,” Avery reminded. “You were there with him, not me. Don’t blame me you got caught flat-footed.”

  “Fuck you,” the voice said again.

  “I’m getting tired of your mouth,” Avery said. “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to, and who’s calling the shots. You want to talk shit, or help me make it right? Keep talking shit and we’ll both go down. It ain’t going to take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who you are and where you were this afternoon. Not with your brother lying on a slab in the county morgue. You want this fixed, or not?”

  “If I don’t?”

  “You already know the answer to that,” Avery said. “Fuck around with me, and you’ll be lying next to Gabe in a county freezer.”

  There was a long silence. “Okay,” the voice on the phone finally said. “You still call the shots. But I run this end now, not my brother. He’s dead, remember? And I ain’t forgetting how he got it.”

  “Fair enough,” Avery said. “You ready to listen?”

  “I’m cool.”

  “All right,” Avery said. “Here’s where it stands; I’m betting the rookie doesn’t know shit, but I need some time to be sure. I have to wait and see what the investigation brings up. In the meantime, you’ve got to get out of the Bay Area.”

  “Already ditched the wheels and the hardware,” the voice said. “I ain’t stupid. I’d already be on the road south ‘cept I had to stick around and wait for a phone call from the dude who got my brother killed today.”

  Avery ignored the last comment. “When you get south, call me. You know how.”

  “I know how to find you,” the voice said.

  “And watch your ass,” Avery cautioned. “You’ll be wearing a felony want within a couple of days.”

  “Ain’t no thing. That’s an old suit to me.”

  “Get going,” Avery said.

  “One more thing,” the voice said.

  “What?”

  “I’m gonna have pig’s blood for my brother, you hear me? I want the fucker who did him.”

  “You looking to go back inside?”

  “Give him to me. If I can’t get the pig I want, I’ll have to settle for another pig. They all stink the same. You get my meaning?”

  “Don’t threaten me,” Avery said.

  “Ain’t no threat. I get the motherfucker who done Gabe, or it’s full-on between you and me.”

  “That’s how it is?” Avery said.

  “That’s how it has to be,” the voice affirmed.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Avery said.

  “You do that.”

  “Adios,” Avery said, and hung up.

  Chapter 10

  It was nearly 10:00 P.M. when Paige return
ed. She was still slightly out-of-breath from a half-hour of wrestling with Nautilus machines and forty-five minutes of climbing the Stairmaster 6000. Her oversized T-shirt was soaked, and a faint glimmer of sweat still covered her face. She could hear Kearns in the bedroom.

  “Is your idiot friend gone yet?” she called out.

  “He isn’t my friend,” came the reply. “And yes, I got rid of him.”

  She got a glass of water from the kitchen and walked down the hall into the bedroom. When she saw Kearns her eyebrows lifted.

  Kearns was shirtless and barefoot, and his hair was wet. He’d obviously just emerged from the shower. He was busily packing what few belongings and clothing he possessed into an olive-drab army duffel bag with his name stenciled on the side in faded block letters. He looked up when she entered.

  “It wasn’t my idea for Danny to show up uninvited,” Kearns said before she could speak. “I didn’t even know the slimy bastard knew where I was staying.”

  “Every deputy district attorney in Alameda County knows we’re an item,” she said. “I suspect it’s the same for the deputies.”

  “I’m sorry for the notoriety,” he said. “I never meant to cause you grief at your work.”

  “You say that like you think I’m ashamed of you.”

  Kearns looked at her but didn’t say anything.

  “What are you doing?” she finally asked.

  “It’s time I left,” Kearns said softly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Kearns took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. “We both know we’re on the far side of over,” he said. “I didn’t plan on staying more than a few days after I got out of the academy, and before you know it, a few weeks became a few months. And those months have done nothing but bring out our differences. Doesn’t mean either of us did anything wrong.”

  “Kevin,” she started to say, but he silenced her with an upraised hand.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “The most important thing is that we cared about each other when it mattered. We were there for one another. That’ll never change. Other things do. I’ve overstayed my welcome. You know it, I know it, and it’s time I moved on.”

  Paige closed her eyes and nodded slightly. “I wish I could say you’re wrong,” she said.

  Kearns closed the duffel’s hasp and sat down on the bed. He donned his socks and boots, then stood and slipped into a T-shirt.

  “This was coming for a while,” she said.

  “I know,” he said.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to tell Dad,” she said. “He thinks the world of you.”

  “Too bad he’s the wrong Callen,” Kearns said.

  She bowed her head and her shoulders slumped. “He was hoping you and I were going to get married. He probably already had the names for our children picked out.”

  “Don’t worry about telling your father,” he said, clipping on his revolver. “I’ll be seeing him tomorrow morning at his house. He’s representing me. I’ll tell him then.”

  “You’re were going to tell me about the shooting today,” Paige said, looking up. “Some of the bailiff’s were talking about it when I was leaving court this afternoon, but I didn’t know at the time you were involved. I heard it was bad.”

  “From Danny?”

  “It was the first thing he said when he got here. He wasn’t in the door a minute.”

  “He’s an ass,” Kearns said.

  “Was it?” she asked.

  “Was what?”

  “The shooting,” she said. “Was it bad?”

  “Two deputies got killed,” he said. “I didn’t. Wasn’t as bad for me as them.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No point,” Kearns said, shrugging into his coat and picking up his duffel. “It’s drama you don’t need.” He walked past her, down the hallway and towards the door. She followed.

  When he reached the door he turned back and dug a hand into his hip pocket. He came out with a key, and put it on the table.

  Paige set her still-full glass of water on the table next to it, stepped forward, and wrapped her arms around Kearns’ neck. She gave him a long, deep, hug and finished with a soft kiss. Her cheeks were damp, but he couldn’t tell if it was the sweat from her workout, or something else.

  “Take care of yourself, Deputy Kevin Kearns,” she said.

  “I’ll do my best.” They separated, and he opened the door. “If I forgot anything I’ll be back, but otherwise you won’t have to worry about me pestering you if we run into each other at work.”

  “I’m not worried. Maybe we can have dinner sometime,” she said. “Once we have a little time and space between this. Talk stuff over.”

  “Sure,” he said, knowing Paige was simply being polite. They’d said all they needed to.

  “Give me a call,” she said.

  “Something I wanted to ask you,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Okay,” she replied, wiping her eyes on her forearm.

  “You know a deputy D.A. named Derlinger?”

  “Myron Derlinger?” she asked.

  “That’s him.”

  “I know him. We got hired at the D.A.’s office at about the same time. Why?”

  “He’s the deputy D.A. assigned to my O.I.S. investigation. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Watch your back,” she said.

  Chapter 11

  When Bob Farrell opened his apartment door he found Kevin Kearns standing on his doorstep holding an army duffel bag. It was almost midnight.

  “Evening, Bob,” Kearns said wearily.

  “Hello Kevin,” Farrell said. “What brings you to my door?” He was still wearing his dress shirt, but had doffed the coat and tie. A lit cigarette drooped from his lips, and Frank Sinatra was crooning on the stereo from somewhere within the apartment.

  “It’s late, I got no place to go, and I’m too tired to scrounge a hotel. You mind if I crash here tonight?”

  “Of course not,” Farrell said, stepping aside and motioning for Kearns to enter. “Come on in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was just about to pour myself a drink,” Farrell said. “You look like you could use one yourself.”

  “Could I ever.” Kearns set his bag inside the door and took off his coat. Farrell went into the kitchenette and retrieved two glasses.

  Farrell’s North Beach apartment was in the four-hundred block of Lombard Street. He’d been living at that location for over ten years, long before he’d retired from the S.F.P.D. at the rank of inspector. For a bachelor who was as rough-around-the-edges as Farrell, Kearns was perpetually impressed with how generally neat he maintained his living space.

  Farrell tamped his cigarette out in an ashtray and filled two glasses with ice. Kearns watched as he poured a generous helping of Kentucky bourbon into each, and a bit of water into Kearns’ glass.

  “When are you going to give up those damned cancer sticks?” Kearns said. “After all the crazy stuff you’ve survived, it’d be a damned shame to have tobacco do you in.”

  “Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  “No bullshit?” Farrell had been a chain-smoker as long as Kearns had known him.

  “No bullshit,” Farrell acknowledged with a nod. “Figure it’s about time. Been puffing on cigarettes since I was in high school.”

  “I didn’t know they made cigarettes back in the days of King Arthur.”

  “Uproarious,” Farrell said, handing Kearns his drink.

  “What caused the sudden epiphany?” Kearns asked. “Finally get around to reading the Surgeon General’s warnings printed on the packages?”

  “Actually,” Farrell said, “it was a case I was working on. I spent the last couple of weeks working out every day as part of a worker’s comp fraud caper. By the end of the two weeks I was starting to feel pretty healthy, and for the first time that I can remember the cigs didn’t taste so good.”

&n
bsp; “Giving up smoking is a great idea, Bob. So is getting regular exercise. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  “Sure thing,” Farrell said. “But don’t expect me to start jogging on the beach at sunset with you anytime soon. And don’t even think about nagging me to quit drinking. I said I’m going to try to quit smoking and get in a little better shape, not become Jack LaLanne.”

  “Who’s Jack LaLanne?” Kearns asked.

  “You’re too young to know,” Farrell said. “How are you holding up, Kevin?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Shitty day, huh?” He handed Kearns his glass.

  “Not as bad as the day I met Vernon Slocum,” Kearns said, “or the day he stuck me, but without a doubt in my top three shittiest days ever.” He held out his glass.

  “Land of the free,” Farrell said, raising his drink.

  “Home of the brave,” Kearns said. They clinked glasses.

  “I gather by your arrival things aren’t going so well with Paige?”

  “They’re not going at all,” Kearns said. “We broke up tonight.”

  “The shooting today have anything to do with it?”

  “It was only a catalyst. We were already on the way to splits-ville. The shooting was more drama we didn’t need. It nudged the break-up along, that’s all.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Farrell said. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Me either. We came together during the Raymond Cowell thing, but after it was over I think we both realized we didn’t have that much in common.”

  “You mean other than saving her life a couple of times?” Farrell said. Kearns shrugged and sipped some bourbon.

  “Don’t let it get you down,” Farrell said, “and don’t let the way you two ended detract from the good stuff you shared together.”