OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  “But I ain’t done talking,” he said.

  Chapter 26

  “I’m sorry,” Kearns said.

  “What the hell do you have to be sorry about?” Farrell asked.

  Farrell and Kearns were in the study of Judge Callen’s Gold Coast mansion, and Farrell, as usual, was pouring drinks. He handed the Judge, who was seated in the high-backed leather chair behind his mahogany desk, a double scotch. Callen could only nod his thanks as he was in the midst of an animated telephone conversation with Sheriff Charles Strummer.

  Farrell poured an equally-strong bourbon for himself, and handed Kearns a bottle of cold Anchor Steam from the mini-fridge under the bar.

  “For interrupting your respective evenings, and for dragging you and Judge Callen into another one of my messes.”

  “Forget it,” Farrell said.

  “Thanks Charlie,” Callen said into the receiver. “We’ll definitely stay in touch on this. Goodbye.”

  “I owe you an apology too,” Kearns said to Callen.

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” the Judge said, hanging up the phone. “I’m glad I was able to be of help.”

  “I thought...after today...” Kearns said.

  “You thought I wouldn’t stand by a friend?” Callen asked. “You should know me better than that, Kevin. Disappointed as I may have been that things didn’t work out between you and Paige, I am nothing if not a man of my word. I told you once before, after the second time you saved my daughter’s life, I would always be in your debt. That doesn’t change, regardless of the status of your relationship with her.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “You’re uncharacteristically silent,” Callen said to Farrell. “I’ve also noticed you’re not smoking. Two things which are highly out-of-place for you.”

  “He’s still quit,” Kearns announced.

  “This whole deal stinks,” Farrell said, almost to himself.

  “Don’t give up yet,” Kearns said. “Quitting cigarettes is tough.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Farrell said. “Your gunfight yesterday could be chalked up to circumstance and doing the job. It was something that theoretically could have happened to any rookie who was at the wrong place and wrong time through no fault of their own. You didn’t get to choose your field training officer, and you certainly can’t account for what kind of shit he was into before he got assigned to you.”

  “That’s true,” Kearns said. “Or so I thought until tonight.”

  “But the attack this evening was not circumstance; it was personal,” Farrell said. “No doubt about it. Two guys armed with a shotgun and a fully-automatic weapon were lying in wait at your home address.” He sipped bourbon. “Your unlisted home address.”

  “It isn’t my home anymore,” Kearns said. “I moved out, remember?”

  “Did you tell anybody at your department that?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to,” Kearns said. “I’m supposed to notify my watch commander of a change-of-address within twenty-four hours. Since I was on administrative leave, I figured I’d do it tomorrow morning when I conducted my mandatory check-in call. I didn’t think a few hours would matter. I also don’t have a new address yet to provide the sheriff’s office. I was going to check into a motel, and give the sheriff’s office that address.”

  “That’s right,” Farrell said. “I heard you tell Sergeant Tarant you were returning to Paige’s place to retrieve something.”

  “My credit card. I needed it to get the motel room.”

  “I thought you were staying at Bob’s place?” Callen said.

  “My daughter showed up unexpectedly,” Farrell answered before Kearns could. “She’ll be staying with me a while.”

  “She’s in law school, is she not?”

  That’s right,” Farrell said. “Just completed her first year at Creighton. She’s on summer break.”

  “That’s splendid,” the Judge said. “Both our daughters have chosen the law as their profession. Remarkable coincidence, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes it is,” Farrell said.

  “Hopefully I’ll get a chance to meet her?”

  “I’d like that,” Farrell said. “We’ll make it happen.”

  “Do you know Bob’s daughter?” Callen asked Kearns.

  “I do,” Kearns said softly.

  “Of course you do,” Callen said. “Now I remember; you became acquainted not long after you met Bob.”

  Kearns only nodded.

  “I’m sorry for going back to Paige’s tonight,” he said to Callen. “I didn’t intend to bring my troubles to her door. Please convey that when you speak with her.”

  “Of course,” Callen said. “I’ve phoned Paige already. She’s not thrilled, but on my recommendation agreed to take tomorrow off and stay with her aunt in Napa for the weekend, just in case.”

  “I’m glad,” Kearns said. “I want her safe.”

  “That makes both of us,” Callen said.

  “Speaking of phone calls,” Farrell said, “how’d it go with Sheriff Strummer?”

  “Interesting,” Callen said, sipping scotch. “He’s got a lot on his mind right now. He’s running the sheriff’s office with an undersheriff who’s gunning for his job, has three murdered deputies on his hands, and a re-election campaign heating up. He told me he had no idea Fresco terminated Kevin’s probation.”

  “I figured as much,” Farrell said, “by the way Lieutenant Pickrell did it. Did you inform Strummer about Kevin’s plans to go to the press?”

  “I did,” Callen said. “It certainly got Charlie’s attention.”

  “But I don’t have any plans go to the press,” Kearns interjected. “First I heard of it was when you two brought it up. I simply followed your lead.”

  “You know it,” Farrell said, “I know it, and Judge Callen knows it. Pickrell doesn’t.”

  “That was a very well-played,” Callen said to Farrell. “Truly inspired.” He raised his glass.

  “I must say,” Farrell said, raising his own glass in acknowledgment from across the room, “it worked out better-than-expected. Did you see Pickrell’s face? He looked like a man staring up at the gallows. Thanks for playing along.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “What’s Sheriff Strummer going to do?” Farrell asked.

  “He formally advised me, as Kevin’s attorney, that he is nullifying Undersheriff Fresco’s termination of probationary status, effective immediately.” He looked at Kearns. “As of right now, you are still officially a probationary deputy on administrative leave pending the outcome of your two officer-involved shooting investigations.”

  “Abracadabra,” Farrell said. “You’re a deputy again.”

  Kearns produced a smile. “You two characters are amazing.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Callen said dismissively. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “I’m not going to tell you to think nothing of it,” Farrell said with a grin. “You owe me.”

  “I’m in both your debt. Sheriff Strummer’s, too.”

  “Sheriff Strummer is aware of that,” Callen said. “He asked me to ask you, as a personal favor, if you would refrain from speaking with the press?”

  “Like I said, it was never my intent to talk to any reporters,” Kearns said. “That was Bob’s bluff.”

  “Once again,” Farrell said, “I know it, you know it, and Judge Callen knows it. Sheriff Strummer doesn’t need to know it yet. Let’s keep it that way for a while. It’ll improve your job security.”

  “If that’s the way you want it,” Kearns said. “As far as the sheriff, Undersheriff Fresco, or Lieutenant Pickrell are concerned, I’m ready, willing and able to show my face on the six o’clock news.”

  “That’s good,” Farrell said. “As long as they believe that, they won’t terminate your probation. They can’t control you if you’re a citizen.”

  “There’s something else Charlie believes,” Judge Callen said. “H
e’s been a cop for too many years not to suspect there’s a rotten apple in the barrel somewhere. He’s not convinced the rot ended with Mendenour and Trask’s deaths. After the attack on Kevin at his home tonight, he’s practically sure of it.”

  “He’s not alone,” Farrell said. “Tarant’s a smart guy. So is Conley. I’m certain they’ve also concluded Kevin was set up tonight by somebody within the sheriff’s office.”

  “Isn’t it possible I could have been followed to Paige’s?” Kearns said.

  “Not likely,” Farrell said. “Where would the shooters have picked you up? The Eden Station? Paige’s townhome? My apartment?”

  “Maybe,” Kearns offered.

  “Not a chance,” Farrell said. “The guys who hit you weren’t the subtle type. If you’d been tagged at one of those locations, you’d have been gunned down on sight. My best guess is the gunmen were given your address, but not a description of your vehicle, because it’s not in the sheriff’s personnel roster.”

  “I lost you,” Callen said.

  “Law enforcement agencies are required to keep an up-to-date roster of their personnel, and their home addresses, in case they need to be recalled in the event of an emergency,” Farrell explained. “There’s no requirement for agencies to keep a record of their sworn officer’s vehicles.”

  “Couldn’t anyone at the sheriff’s office run Kevin’s name in the Department of Motor Vehicle computer to find out what kind of car he drives?” Callen asked.

  “That’s true,” Farrell said. “But doing so would create a permanent record of who logged on to the State of California database to complete the D.M.V. inquiry. Only sworn officers have access to the state computer database, and you need a password to get in. I’m sure whoever sent those two pistoleros after Kevin knew that, and wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a trace. I’d be surprised if Denny Conley hasn’t already checked the A.C.S.O.’s computer logs, or had someone do it for him.”

  “I think you’re right about them not knowing my vehicle, Bob,” Kearns said. “Remember, I didn’t drive into Paige’s townhome complex. I hopped the fence.”

  “I thought of that,” Farrell said.

  “I hate to believe it’s a sworn officer who’s behind this,” Judge Callen said, “but I must admit, it’s becoming almost conclusive.”

  “Believe me,” Farrell said, draining his drink. “I don’t like it any better than you.”

  “Do you think it was Danny Gregory who set me up?”

  “I don’t think so,” Farrell said. “I think his death was a case of mistaken identity. You told Sergeant Tarant about his visit last night, and how it ended. Maybe he was coming back to apologize? It would explain the beer he was carrying.”

  “I know Danny pretty well,” Kearns said. “I doubt he came back to apologize. It’s more likely he came back to make another pass at getting me to divulge details about the shootout in San Lorenzo.”

  “One could infer that Deputy Gregory looks enough like you in the dark to fool somebody who doesn’t know you well,” Farrell said, heading back to the bar. “And the fact that he was on your porch when he got smoked makes it probable the gunmen thought they were getting you.”

  “The surviving gunman,” Callen said, “the one who got away? He’d know by now Kevin is still alive.”

  “He surely does,” Farrell conceded. He refreshed his drink, and accepted the Judge’s empty glass.

  “What does that mean?” Kearns said.

  “Like I said, it means this is personal,” Farrell said. “Somebody is gunning for you. And we’ve seen nothing to indicate they’re going to quit anytime soon.”

  “Why me?”

  “At this point,” Farrell said, “there’s no way to know for sure. It could be any number of reasons.”

  “Like what?” Kearns asked.

  “It’s possible somebody thinks you were part of whatever Trask and Mendenour were involved in because you were with them. That you know something they don’t want to get out. It could be revenge. Maybe Trask or Mendenour were targeted for reprisal by somebody they locked up? There’s also the pride angle.”

  “Pride angle?”

  “For some criminals retribution is a point of pride; they can’t let the killing of one of their own go unanswered. Don’t forget,” Farrell said, “You’ve put three of them down.”

  “It’s been my experience,” Callen said, “that street gangs tend to take the death of one of their members quite personally.”

  “If I had to hazard a guess,” Farrell said, “I’d bet the motive for you being targeted is retribution for the guys you dropped in San Lorenzo yesterday.”

  “You think it’s a gang thing?”

  “You told Sergeant Tarant you were positive the suspect you saw fleeing Paige’s home was the same man who fled San Lorenzo yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sure it was the same guy. I got a good look at his mug this time, too. Tarant had me look at a six-pack of photographs. I identified one of them right away. He wouldn’t confirm or deny it, but I could tell by his face I chose the picture he wanted me to. It was the same guy from both shootings, all right.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Farrell said. “It all fits.”

  “What fits?”

  “So far, every suspect you’ve engaged, the three you’ve killed, and the one who got away, are men of the same ethnic group, approximately the same age, and I’m sure the investigation will reveal they all have extensive criminal histories and prison records. That spells gang activity.”

  “If you say so.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough. I’m expecting a call from Denny Conley tomorrow,” Farrell said. “He’ll give me an update on his investigative progress.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Judge Callen asked. Farrell handed him his new scotch.

  “Keep Kevin alive,” Farrell said.

  “You don’t honestly think they’re still going to come after me?” Kearns said. “Not after what happened tonight?”

  “The smart thing would be for them to lay low,” Farrell said. “Then again, making a try for you at your home tonight and killing the wrong guy doesn’t exactly indicate genius. Like I keep saying, this is personal. I believe they’re going to keep coming.”

  “We have reason to be optimistic,” Callen said. “Sergeant Tarant hinted after you looked at the photo line-up that he knew who the shooter who got away was, and he all but confirmed your suspicion of gang affiliation. He implied the suspect might be related to one of the men Kevin killed yesterday.”

  “That may not necessarily help us,” Farrell said. “The killer Kevin put down tonight, and his sidekick who got away, were only muscle. They were merely soldiers. Even if the second shooter is caught, there might be plenty more where he came from. If we want to protect Kevin, we’re going to have to nail whoever is pushing the buttons.”

  “But you believe he’s possibly a sworn deputy?” Kearns said.

  “Didn’t say it was going to be easy,” Farrell said, draining his second drink.

  Chapter 27

  Alameda County Sheriff’s Detective Sergeant Vincent Avery lit a cigarette. Exhaling smoke, he warily scanned the vicinity around him.

  Avery was sitting on a bench in Hayward’s Birchfield Park. Across Santa Clara Street was the darkened Post Office. It was a cool night, and the poorly-lit field was largely deserted. He was wearing a cap and a full-length army-surplus coat not unlike the ones favored by the vagrants who occasionally nested in the park’s wooded recesses.

  He had chosen the location carefully. There was fifty yards of open space surrounding him, and from where he sat he could spot an approaching car or pedestrian well before they spotted him.

  In each pocket of Avery’s oversized raincoat was a handgun, and neither were departmentally-issued. In his right coat pocket was a Ruger Speed-Six .357 magnum revolver, and in his left coat pocket was a nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power stocked with fourteen cartridges. Both weapons had been taken from
criminals he’d interacted with but declined to arrest, and both had their serial numbers removed. In addition to the two handguns in his coat, he wore his departmentally-issued revolver on his hip.

  When he saw the headlights in the distance he dropped his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. Avery watched as a beat-up looking Pontiac sedan cruised to a stop in front of the park. The headlights went out, and a stocky figure emerged from the passenger side and began walking towards him. An instant later two more figures emerged from the car and followed behind the first. One of the silhouettes was much taller than the others.

  Avery flicked down the safety of the Browning with a forefinger, and put his thumbs on the respective hammers of both weapons to prevent snagging during a hasty draw from his coat pockets.

  He knew the odds were heavily against him. He might get one, maybe two, of the trio approaching him but certainly not all three. There was no doubt in his mind the three men heading his way were as armed, and as ready, as he was.

  The closest figure arrived. Arturo Cervantes was dressed in an oversized denim jacket and wore a stocking cap over his head. The men behind him were also Hispanic, and similarly clad in oversized garb and baseball caps. The tall one was quite large, and towered above the other two. Like Avery, all three had their hands concealed within their coat pockets.

  “You got my message,” Avery said.

  “I came, didn’t I?” Cervantes said. His lips curled into a sneer. Avery could tell by his eyes he was high. He could smell the alcoholic beverage on him, but guessed he’d been smoking angel dust as well. He knew phencyclidine was Arturo Cervantes’ drug-of-choice.

  “What you did today was very stupid,” Avery said. “You were supposed to go south and cool out. I only gave you the address, like you asked, because-”

  “Because you wanted me to leave,” Cervantes interrupted.

  “That’s right.”

  “I ain’t gonna leave until I get revenge for Gabriel.”

  “The rookie wasn’t going anywhere, Artie. It didn’t have to be done now.”