by Lynch, Sean
“We’re a little past pointing fingers, aren’t we?” Avery said calmly.
“Fuck you, Avery.”
“No,” Avery said, still keeping his tone even, “fuck you. I told you how to play it, and for the second time I handed you the rookie on a plate. Once again you wouldn’t listen to me. You had to do it your way. The rookie is still alive, you got a couple more of your boys aced, and this time you got your ass handed to you by a woman. How’s that going over with your crew?”
The meaning of Avery’s insult was clear. What little respect Cervantes hadn’t eradicated during his mishap-laden campaign to avenge his brother and assert a leadership role in the Alvarado Nortenos was surely gone. If all his other failures weren’t enough, getting bested by a female during a gunfight was politically non-survivable in the machismo world of the Hispanic gangster.
Cervantes thumbed back the Taurus’s hammer and aimed the weapon directly at Avery’s face. “I’m gonna-”
“Shoot me?” Avery cut him off. “Go ahead. If you do, you might as well shoot yourself right after. Kill me and you’re a dead man, and you know it.”
Avery withdrew a package of menthols from his pocket and lit one. He tossed the cigarettes and lighter onto the kitchen table.
“You need my help,” Avery said, exhaling mentholated smoke. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Can’t go back to your crew. Not after getting five of them killed. Certainly not after getting shot up by a broad.”
Cervantes glared at Avery, the gun trembling in his hand.
“Every cop from here to the Rocky Mountains is looking for you,” Avery went on, “and now your own crew is undoubtedly gunning for you as well. You haven’t got any travel money, can’t reach out to anyone from your crew, and if you could get to one of your stash houses, which I doubt you could in your condition, all you’d find is a bullet with your name on it waiting for you. Blood out, remember?”
“That’s your story,” Cervantes said, but the defiant tone was gone.
“Put the gun down, Artie. I’m the only friend you’ve got.”
Cervantes slowly lowered the weapon’s hammer and set the gun on the table.
“Okay,” he said. He lit one of Avery’s cigarettes with a shaking hand.
“Relax,” Avery said. “I’ve got money, and I can get you out of the Bay Area until things cool down. But you’ve got to start listening to me and doing what I tell you.”
“Okay,” Cervantes repeated, deflated.
“First thing,” Avery continued, “is to get your wounds treated. Come on,” he said, motioning to Cervantes. “I’ve got a first aid kit in the bathroom. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Bring it out here,” Cervantes said. “I can barely walk.”
“No way,” Avery said. “I don’t want you bleeding all over my kitchen floor. Let’s go, I’ll help you.”
Avery walked over and helped Cervantes stand. He grimaced when Avery pulled him to his feet. Leaning on Avery, Cervantes was able to make it to the downstairs bathroom.
“Sit on the edge of the tub,” Avery said, “and take off your coat.”
Cervantes complied, nearing exhaustion. “You got anything to drink?” he asked. “Something to take the edge off?”
“Sure,” Avery said. “I got vodka, tequila, and beer. Whatever you want. Soon as I get you patched up.”
“Tequila.”
Avery opened a cabinet and withdrew a first aid kit, as Cervantes slowly wriggled out of his jacket. Each movement brought fresh shivers of agony through Arturo’s right side.
“Shit,” Avery said, as he dropped the kit to the floor. He went down on one knee to pick it up.
“This really hurts,” Cervantes said, as Avery knelt.
“Not as much as this will,” Avery said, drawing the Davis .25 from his ankle holster. As Cervantes’ eyes widened he shot him twice in the face. He shoved his body back into the tub, to prevent any of the blood from staining anything he couldn’t readily clean up. He needn’t have worried. The two sub-sonic .25 ACP rounds didn’t even penetrate the back of Cervantes’ skull.
Avery threw his cigarette into the toilet, exited the bathroom, and retraced his steps. The only blood residue he located in his house was a small patch on the back of his kitchen chair, and a smear on the sliding-glass door. Both were easily removed with spray cleaner and a paper towel.
He was replacing the cleaner under the sink when his pager beeped. Avery didn’t recognize the number, but noticed it was from a 510 area code; Oakland. He called the number from his kitchen phone.
After two rings a man’s voice with a slight Hispanic accent answered. “Avery?”
“Yeah,” Avery said. “Who’s this, and how did you get this number?”
“You know who it is.”
“What do you want?”
“A meet. Jingletown. One hour.”
“I’m busy right now,” Avery said.
“Make time.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because if you don’t,” the voice said, “We’ll come looking for you.”
Chapter 43
Judge Eugene Callen stepped out into the early afternoon sunlight from the main entrance of the San Francisco Police headquarters on Bryant Street. Jennifer Farrell stood alongside him, wearing a pair of sunglasses, a skirt, a blouse and heels. Behind them stood the imposing bulk of Norm Hynds, clad in a suit to cover the two revolvers he wore. His gray hair was neatly combed and his lower lip was distended by a chaw of tobacco.
Waiting for them on the steps of the police administration building was mob of reporters, their bulky video cameras and microphones at the ready. Judge Callen had seen to that. He’d spent the morning telephoning the various Bay Area media outlets and informing them of the time and location of Jennifer’s interview with the San Francisco police inspectors.
As the crush of reporters moved up the steps to meet them, Callen held out his hand. Putting on his glasses, he made an elaborate gesture of removing and unfolding a piece of paper from his pocket.
“My name is Eugene Callen,” the Judge began, in his voice honed by a lifetime of courtroom speaking. “I am the attorney representing Alameda County Deputy Sheriff Kevin Kearns and his friend Jennifer Farrell. As you are all aware, there have been several attempts on Deputy Kearns’ life within the past several days, culminating with a violent assassination attempt last night here in the City of San Francisco. It is my assertion, and I believe an independent investigation will verify this assertion, that these murderous acts have been directed by rogue elements within the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department. It is my intention to bring civil action against individual members of the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office responsible for these crimes, who will be identified in due time.”
The Judge continued. “As many of you already know, there are several ongoing investigations into systemic corruption within the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office, including inquiries by the Attorney General’s Office and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I would refer you to their offices for details on the progress of their respective investigative efforts.” Callen folded the paper, which was blank, and replaced it into his pocket along with his glasses.
“What about Deputy Kearns?” an African-American reporter from KTVU asked, shoving her microphone forward. “Where is he?”
“In light of the repeated attempts on his life,” the Judge said, “I cannot divulge his whereabouts at this time. Especially since it is obvious only someone from within his employer’s office could have provided his previous whereabouts to his would-be killers.”
“Are you saying he’s hiding?”
“No,” Callen said. “Deputy Kearns is surviving. That’s all I have to say at this time. Thank you.”
Judge Callen nodded at Hynds, who moved forward and elbowed a path through the crowd of reporters to Callen’s parked Mercedes Benz. He held the door for Jennifer and the Judge, and then got in behind the wheel. A minute later the car was well away fr
om the S.F.P.D. headquarters and heading for the Bay Bridge.
Jennifer took off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. “I’m glad that’s over with,” she said. “What an afternoon.”
“You did fine,” Callen assured her. “Your interview went perfectly, and you handled yourself beautifully. Your father would be proud. You’re going to make a fine attorney.”
“I meant the reporters. I hate the attention.”
“I’m not particularly fond of it either,” Callen agreed.
“Then why did we do it?”
“To put pressure on the sheriff, and more specifically, those inside his office who are directly involved in this conspiracy. Also to protect you. The higher your profile, the less likely you are to be targeted for reprisal.”
“Won’t that piss the sheriff’s office off?”
“You bet it will,” the Judge said. “That’s what your father is betting on.”
“Why? Won’t that make these people come after us even harder?”
“They’re already after us,” the Judge said. “You should know that better than anyone. We have to finish this. We must see it through to its conclusion. I, for one, don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. Pissed off people don’t think straight. They make mistakes.”
“Mistakes we can exploit,” Hynds said over his shoulder from the front seat.
“What happens next?” she asked.
“Nothing, I hope. I’ve already spoken with the San Francisco County deputy D.A. assigned to your case, and he assured me you’re not going to be charged. A ruling of self-defense will be formally announced by the end of the week.”
“What’s our next move?”
“Keep each other alive,” the Judge told her. “Let your father do what he does best.”
Chapter 44
Farrell and Kearns watched Avery’s departmentally-issued Ford back out of his garage and drive away. They were seated in a rented pick-up truck half-a-block down the street.
“Aren’t we going to tail him?” Kearns asked.
“We were,” Farrell said. “But I just got a better idea. Come on.”
Kearns followed the older man as they dismounted the truck and strolled towards Avery’s house.
“Don’t look around,” Farrell admonished him.“ Act casual, like we live in this neighborhood and are out for an afternoon stroll.”
“Don’t worry,” Kearns grunted. “I’ve got a lot of practice acting casual while you commit felonies.”
“What makes you think I’m going to commit a felony?” Farrell asked.
“I know you.”
Farrell walked to the front door of Avery’s house as if he owned the place. The small porch blocked visibility from the houses on either side, and across the street was only a small guest parking lot. “It’s perfect,” Farrell said. “No sign of an alarm, either. Ring the doorbell, just in case.”
Kearns pushed the buzzer twice and waited. No one answered. Farrell withdrew the worn leather case containing his lock-picks from his pocket and set to work on the lock. Less than thirty seconds later he was opening the door and gesturing for Kearns to enter.
“I’m always impressed by how well you do that,” Kearns said, closing the door behind them.
“Like I told you before,” Farrell said, re-pocketing his lock-picks. “Thirty years as an inspector in the S.F.P.D. Burglary Unit has to count for something.”
Farrell pulled out two pairs of latex gloves from his pocket and handed one to Kearns. “We’ll do a quick sweep of the place to make sure there aren’t any pets or other surprises inside, and then begin a systematic search. We’ll start from top to bottom and move fast. For all we know Avery went out for a sandwich and will return in a few minutes.”
“I’m fine with fast,” Kearns said. “The sooner we’re out of here the better.”
Avery’s house was neat, but clearly the home of a bachelor. While the furnishings weren’t cheap or in bad taste, there was nothing about the domicile which indicated a feminine presence.
Kearns followed Farrell upstairs. They quickly checked the master bedroom and spare room and found nothing out-of-the ordinary. An unmade bed was all Kearns noted. They went back downstairs to complete their sweep of the rest of the house.
“You finish the downstairs,” Farrell said. “I’ll check out the garage. I’ll meet you back in the kitchen in a minute and we’ll start our detailed search.”
Kearns nodded, and Farrell entered the garage through the interior door. Kearns checked the dining room, kitchen, and peeked out the back sliding-glass door to view the rear yard. He was relieved to find no doghouse or other telltale indication of a pet.
When Kearns opened the door to the downstairs bathroom, he suddenly leaped back and drew his revolver. An instant later, his heart still pounding in his chest, he stepped in and examined the body lying in the tub more closely.
“I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” he exhaled. He holstered his .45 and went to find Farrell.
When he entered the garage, he found Farrell standing on a ladder set up in the garage beneath an overhead shelf. His head and shoulders were buried behind an assortment of outdoor recreational items common to residential garages everywhere.
“What the hell are you doing up there?”
“Look on the ground,” Farrell answered, his voice muffled by the small flashlight between his teeth. “Under the ladder.”
“It’s only sawdust,” Kearns said.
“Correction,” Farrell said, emerging from the shelf with a heavy cardboard box he was obviously straining to balance. “It’s freshly disturbed sawdust. Catch.”
He tossed the box to Kearns, who found it heavier-than-expected. Farrell’s arms and head again disappeared, and when he re-emerged this time he was holding a Tupperware container which looked at least as heavy as the cardboard box.
Farrell descended the ladder, out-of-breath. “I found the ladder set up in the middle of the floor, and a bunch of cedar flakes on the ground under it. Figured I’d take a look. There’s a hidden compartment up there cut into the drywall.”
“Cedar flakes?”
“Dope dealers use cedar chips and sawdust to cover the scent of drugs concealed inside homes the same way they use coffee to mask the scent of drugs they’re smuggling inside luggage through an airport,” Farrell explained. “It throws the dogs off.”
Farrell opened the Tupperware bin to reveal it stuffed with bags of Mexican brown heroin and cocaine.
“I believe the honorable Sergeant Vincent Avery might be in violation of a departmental policy or two,” he said, examining the contents.
“Not to mention a few laws,” Kearns said. “This explains things.”
“It surely does,” Farrell agreed. “Open up the cardboard box.”
Kearns took out his pocketknife and cut the tape over the carton. When he pulled open the flaps Farrell whistled.
“It all fits,” Farrell said. “Like a glove.”
“There’s a fortune in here,” Kearns said, sifting through the packets of cash.
“Looks like I hit the jackpot,” Farrell said.
“Not bad,” Kearns said, “but I got you beat. Wait till you see what I found.”
Farrell followed Kearns into the house and to the downstairs bathroom. He stepped aside and executed a Wheel of Fortune wrist flourish exactly like Vanna White.
“It would appear Sergeant Avery had a houseguest,” Farrell said as he leaned over to examine the body. “He’s still warm. He got it within the last hour.”
“Do you recognize him?” Kearns asked. “I sure as hell do.”
“This is Arturo Cervantes,” Farrell said. “Avery is covering his tracks.”
“Saves me the trouble,” Kearns said.
Farrell stood up and rubbed his chin a moment with the back of his latex-gloved hand. “There isn’t much time,” he finally said. He strode rapidly to the kitchen.
“What gives?” Kearns said.
“Go int
o the garage and find an axe, a crowbar, or a large hammer,” Farrell said to Kearns. “Anything that can do damage to a door.” He removed his notebook and picked up the receiver to Avery’s telephone.
“What for?”
“I’ll tell you later. Just do it.”
Kearns complied. Farrell found the number he was looking for and dialed the phone.
“Steve?” Farrell said, when the call was answered. “I’m in Castro Valley, at Avery’s residence.” He gave the address. “There’s no time to explain. This thing’s blown wide open, but we’re on the clock. We’re going to have to move quickly.”
“What do you need me to do?” the voice on the other end asked.
Farrell told him.
Chapter 45
Avery leaned nonchalantly against his car, smoking, though he was anything but nonchalant. His wary eyes continually glanced up and down the street behind his Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses. He’d done a couple of lines of coke from the stash in his medicine cabinet before leaving his house to combat the fatigue, which was setting in hard.
His Granada was parked on 31st Avenue, a block north of East 14th Street, in the heart of Oakland’s Fruitvale District. The neighborhood was almost exclusively Hispanic, and known to the locals as Jingletown. It was also known to the police as one of the most violent gang and drug-infested regions of one of the most violent cities in the Continental United States of America.
Though it was quite warm outside, Avery was wearing his suit coat to conceal the Kevlar vest under his dress shirt and tie. In addition to the duty revolver on his belt, and the cheap, cast-zinc .25 semi-auto on his ankle, he again had the sanitized Ruger revolver and Browning 9mm in the pockets of his jacket, ready for instant use.
Avery didn’t have to wait long. Before he finished his first menthol, two cars turned slowly onto 31st from East 14th Street. The first was a dropped Caprice, with shiny rims inside mag whitewalls and a custom pearl-white paint job. The second vehicle was even more garish. It was a 70’s Camaro painted a purple metallic-flake. Both vehicles pulled to the curb behind Avery’s Ford.