OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  “Like political campaigns?”

  “You catch on fast,” Conley said.

  “I remember now,” Farrell said. “Those laws were designed to provide law enforcement agencies with incentive to go after major dealers, and at the same time funnel the fruits of their crimes directly back to the agency’s anti-drug efforts.”

  “It doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to,” Conley said. “One of the unintended consequences of the law is that agencies now typically focus all of their narcotics enforcement efforts exclusively on dealers with significant assets to seize, and ignore the street level crooks.”

  “They follow the money,” Farrell said.

  “Of course. As a result, very few resources are expended on the small-time street gangs and street corner dealers. There’s no incentive for agencies to go after them because they’re very high risk and very low-yield. They don’t have the stacks of cash, palatial houses, exotics cars, and other big-ticket trinkets that bring in the asset forfeiture dollars.”

  “Aren’t the small-time, street-level dealers causing all of the carnage?”

  “Right,” Conley said. “The vast majority of homicides in this country are turf-related drug-crimes, especially those in most metro areas and in the housing projects across the nation. It’s the dirty secret every narcotics cop knows but won’t talk about. The fact that asset forfeiture laws all but guarantee an agency’s policing efforts and resources will be devoted to the dope dealer in the mansion with a Ferrari and the car-phone, and virtually none will be directed to the pistol-toting crack or heroin dealer inhabiting a street corner.”

  “The street gangs are also the ones who put up a fight,” Farrell said. “They aren’t afraid to shoot it out with the cops because they’re typically young males with a lot of testosterone and a reputation to protect. The big-time dealers go to jail peacefully and let their high-priced lawyers slug it out for them in court while they’re out on bail.”

  “Like I said, going after street dealers is high risk and low return,” Conley said. “Guys like Avery aren’t expected to waste their time with the small-time players.”

  “Until they start killing deputies,” Farrell said.

  “Then it becomes a political headache,” Conley said. “Like what the sheriff’s office is swimming in right now.”

  “I’ve seen some action against small-time dealers,” Farrell said. “S.F.P.D. used to do drug sweeps all the time.”

  “That’s usually only a dog and pony show,” Conley said. “When an occasional citizen or tourist gets shot in the crossfire between street dealers, the department responds to the public outcry by making a big production of cleaning up the streets. The area of the crime is saturated with a lot of uniformed police officers, and reporters are encouraged to ride along for the ratings bump. The evening news opens for a few days with footage of young, mostly minority males in handcuffs being stuffed into police vans. The public gets placated, people forget, and the narcotics cops go back to practicing piracy.”

  “Piracy?”

  “Sure,” Conley said. “The pirates of old didn’t waste their time attacking small fishing boats and dinghies. They plundered the rich galleons. Thanks to drug asset forfeiture laws, dope cops do the same thing. They ignore the street dealers and target the big-time players. The ones with assets. Modern narcotics cops essentially practice piracy.”

  “And you said Sergeant Avery is skilled?”

  “There’s no doubt about it. Avery has a real knack for dope work, and an even better knack for sniffing out the dealers with the most assets to seize. He definitely brings home the bacon. The command staff likes that. It makes the department look good in the eyes of the voting public and keeps the coffers full.”

  “What’s Avery like?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know him. He’s not very sociable. Keeps to himself. Has a tremendous work ethic. No family that I know of, which is probably why he has the time to do what he does. His men respect him and the bosses leave him alone because he gets results. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  “Is he going to fuck Kevin over?”

  “I don’t see why he would, but I don’t know,” Conley said. “Can’t see what could be in it for him, especially since he doesn’t seem to want to move up the corporate ladder. Honestly, I don’t think Vince Avery gives a damn about departmental politics. All he’s interested in is catching wealthy dopers, and the richer the better.”

  The waiter returned with fresh drinks.

  “One way or the other,” Farrell said, “I’ve got to find out who in your department has put the crosshairs on Kevin. If you can’t get the inside scoop because it’s an Internal Affairs matter, what can you do for me?”

  “Frankly Bob,” Conley said, “not very much.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that,” Farrell said. “Then how about giving me the pertinent info on Arturo Cervantes? Don’t tell me you don’t have it; you’re the lead investigator in the criminal case and he’s the prime suspect.”

  “Of course I have it. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea to give it to you.”

  “Come on, Denny. Cervantes obviously knows who the inside man in the sheriff’s office is. That’s the guy who must have pointed him at Kevin.”

  “What would you do with the information if I did give it to you?” Conley said. “Most of the cops in California are working overtime beating the bushes for Arturo Cervantes. He’s public enemy number one right now. You really think you have a shot at nailing him before they do?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think,” Farrell said. “I have to try. It’s obvious you’re not going to help me figure out who’s gunning for Kevin from your end, so I guess I’ll have to do it on my own.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You heard me,” Farrell said.

  “You think I’m part of this?”

  “No,” Farrell said, “but I can’t rule it out. I’ve known you a long time. You’re too good a detective not to have your own inkling about who’s pulling the strings. I think it’s more likely you’re taking the path of least resistance. Trying to stay out of it to save your own skin,” he drained his drink and set down the empty glass, “or covering for somebody else.”

  “I can’t believe you just said that to me,” Conley said, his face going slack.

  “I don’t care what you believe,” Farrell retorted. “My friend Kevin has survived two attempts on his life within the past two days. The first one might have been bad luck, but the second was a hit which was directed by someone within your agency. If you think I’m going to sit here and sip cocktails while whoever did it lines Kevin up for another turkey-shoot you don’t know me very well. Far as I’m concerned, you’re either with me or against me.”

  “How can I convince you I’m on your side?”

  “Give me everything you’ve got on Arturo Cervantes.”

  Chapter 34

  “How long do you think you’ll be in San Francisco?” Kearns asked, as he walked Jennifer down Lombard Street to Farrell’s apartment. He was forced to park a block away.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t planning to be here at all.”

  “I know.”

  They reached Farrell’s building and she began sifting through her purse for the key. Kearns scanned up and down the block, his eyes straining in the darkness to spot the tail. He saw nothing out of the ordinary except a typical Friday night throng of vehicles and pedestrians.

  “You seem a bit jittery,” Jennifer said as she opened the security door. “Your head’s been on a swivel all evening.”

  “Nervous habit,” Kearns said.

  “Not likely,” she said. “I know you. You’re not the nervous type.”

  “The past couple of days have me a little spooked, that’s all.”

  ”You’re not obligated to walk me up.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m old school. I’ll make sure you get inside.”

  “I don’t know if y
ou’re being a gentleman or being paranoid,” she said, but allowed Kearns to follow her into the lobby and up the stairs.

  When they reached Farrell’s apartment door she turned to face him.

  “I’m sorry you got roped into filling in for Dad tonight,” she said. “You didn’t have to come all the way into the city.”

  “I didn’t mind at all,” Kearns said honestly. “The food was everything Bob claimed, and the company was excellent.”

  “Now you’re teasing me,” she said. “I certainly wasn’t the ideal dinner date, unless you’re into weepy women with black eyes.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “It was great seeing you. Best thing that happened all week.”

  “About that,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea if we see each other again. I don’t know where my head is right now. Technically I’m still in a relationship. I don’t want to give you,” she paused, “the wrong impression.”

  “What impression would that be?”

  “You know,” she said. “That we-”

  “That we what?”

  “Damn your plainspoken Midwest ways,” she said, blowing aside the lock of her red hair covering her shiner. Kearns only smiled.

  “You want to come in for a drink?” she said. “Just one,” she cautioned.

  “Only if you don’t give me the wrong impression,” he said.

  “Come on in,” she said, pushing open the door. “I could use a beer myself.”

  Jennifer turned on the lights, took off her coat, and got two bottles of Anchor Steam from her father’s refrigerator.

  “You want a glass?” she said, holding up the beers.

  “It’s already in glass,” Kearns pointed out.

  “So it is.” She handed him a beer.

  “To your very good health,” Kearns said, raising his. “I’d toast your beauty, but you’ve already got that angle covered.

  “That’s the corniest line I’ve ever heard,” she said, but raised her bottle and drank. He thought he detected her blushing slightly, but maybe it was only the way the streetlights on Lombard Street filtered in through the blinds.

  “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Jennifer motioned to the apartment’s interior. “It smells different in here since Dad quit smoking. I don’t feel like I’m in my father’s home. It’s weird.”

  “It’s a bit weird all right,” Kearns said. “But it’s a good weird.”

  “Was his quitting your doing?”

  “Are we talking about the same Bob Farrell? Nobody I ever met could make your father do anything he didn’t want to do.”

  “Then why’d he quit?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it has to do with a woman.”

  “Really?” Jennifer said, suddenly animated. “Dad’s got a squeeze?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Kearns said. “I think he’s got someone he’s interested in. Quitting cigarettes could be part of that.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A psychiatrist.”

  “Good grief,” she said. “That woman has her work cut out for her.”

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions,” he said. “I’m not positive Bob has the hubba-hubbas for this gal. All I’m saying is that I’ve seen some changes in him lately. Since they’re healthy changes, I’m not complaining.”

  “What changes?”

  “In addition to quitting smoking, Bob’s been exercising,” he said, “if you can believe it. He’s been getting up early and jogging along the Embarcadero. He’s also started wearing a fancy new cologne, and plenty of it.”

  “How do you know it’s new?”

  “Because his old scent was bourbon, cigarettes, and Listerine.”

  “That’s Dad’s signature fragrance all right,” she said. “You sure it wasn’t you who got him to make all those lifestyle changes?” she said.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because Dad cares about you. He values your opinion. Mom and I have been nagging him to quit smoking for years, and now he does it? I figured it had to be your influence.”

  “You actually think Bob values my opinion?” Kearns said incredulously.

  “You’re sweet,” Jennifer said, “but you’re thick in the head. Of course he values your opinion. You’re like-”

  “You’re not going to say, ‘the son he never had,’ are you?”

  “I was going to say his best friend,” she said. “Did someone else imply he was a father-figure?”

  “My shrink,” he said. “Not that I’m crazy,” he quickly added. “The department is making me see a psychiatrist.”

  “That makes it better how?” she said.

  “That didn’t come out the way I intended,” he said.

  “I get the idea,” she said. “Is your shrink the same one Dad is sweet on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you’re telling me your psychiatrist, who’s met both you and my Dad, perceived a father-son connection between you two?”

  “What exactly are you getting at?” Kearns asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, noticing the confused expression on his face. “I assumed you knew.”

  “I always figured Bob kept me around to help with his private investigation business,” Kearns said, “and out of a sense of obligation over what we’d been through together in the past. I never got the impression he was particularly fond of me.”

  “You really are stupider than Jupiter,” she said. “Dad’s gruff, but when he cares about something he cares very deeply. He doesn’t always show it so well, that’s all. He’s intensely loyal, if you haven’t figured it out. He doesn’t tell me he loves me. It’s not his way. But I know he does.” She looked out the window for a moment. “You too.”

  Kearns set his half-consumed beer on the table. He was having difficulty digesting what Jennifer said. “I should get going.” She nodded, and set her own drink down as she followed him to the door.

  “Thanks for taking me out to dinner, Deputy Kearns,” she said, opening the door.

  “Believe me when I say it was my pleasure.”

  “Hey Kevin,” she said, as he started to walk through the door. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?” There was the same mischievous glint in her eye he’d seen in her father too many times to recount.

  Kearns suddenly pulled Jennifer close and kissed her fiercely, before she could react.

  “To answer your question,” he said, as he released her a full minute later and headed for the stairs. “I may be stupider than Jupiter, but I’m honest as hell.”

  “That was rather unexpected,” Jennifer said, somewhat dazed.

  “I won’t apologize,” he said from the stairwell. “I’ve wanted to do that forever. I figured I may not get another chance.”

  “You only saying that because of the recent attempts on your life,” she said.

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “I did it because of something your father taught me. Goodnight.”

  Chapter 35

  Alameda County Sheriff’s Detective Ed Cason sat comfortably hunkered down below the dashboard of his parked truck. He got lucky and found a rare vacant parking space on Lombard, saving him from having to circle the block. He was fifty yards away from the building Kearns and his date entered, and had a limited, but adequate, view. It was the best he could hope for in such a densely-populated neighborhood and during an evening where the dim light, fog, and steady stream of pedestrians made visual observation a challenge.

  “He’s tucked in for the night,” Cason spoke into the Handie-Talkie. “He won’t be leaving until morning.”

  “How can you be sure?” Avery’s voice crackled over the transceiver.

  “Did you get a look at the girl he was with?”

  “Only from a distance.”

  “If you’d seen her up close like I did,” Cason said, “you wouldn’t ask if Deputy Kearns was staying the night. He’d have to be an idiot or a homo to walk out on a gal like that.”

  “Did y
ou figure out which building he went into?”

  “Yeah. I made the apartment, too. One floor up on the right. It faces the street.” Cason broadcast the address to his supervisor. “The two lovebirds were thoughtful enough to turn on the lights as soon as they went in. I could see the ginger broad through the window.”

  “You certain he isn’t going anywhere?”

  “Positive,” Cason said. “Unless he’s a eunuch.”

  “You in good spot?”

  “Good enough,” Cason said into his portable radio. “I’ve got eyes on the door.”

  “If you’re sure he’s settled for the night,” Avery said, “I’m going home.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a little after twenty-one-hundred hours. I’ll call the next team on the rotation and they’ll relieve you sometime after midnight.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss,” Cason answered. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Avery switched off his portable transceiver, put his car in gear, and took Broadway to the Embarcadero. He pulled over at the first pay phone he saw on the way to the Bay Bridge.

  Back on Lombard Street, Ed Cason reached behind the seat for the empty Gatorade bottle he always kept stashed there. He’d had to take a piss for nearly an hour, and the wide-mouthed, glass Gatorade bottle was the preferred receptacle. Urinating while seated in a car required a bit of contortion, but could be easily managed as undercover cops everywhere could testify. The biggest challenge was to look nonchalant while pedestrians passed by on the busy sidewalk close enough to touch. Fortunately the fog and diminished light provided some welcome cover. Within a minute or two, Cason was zipping up his trousers and sighing in relief.

  Unfortunately, while distracted with the task of voiding his bladder as he sat in a truck parked on well-travelled, metropolitan street, Detective Cason failed to see the door he was supposed to be monitoring briefly open and shut.

  By the time he looked up from his no-longer-empty Gatorade bottle, Deputy Kearns was gone, and Cason didn’t even know it.