by Sean Lynch
“Yeah; and plenty of cash to buy what I don’t. Thanks.”
“I’ll need a phone number,” Wendt chimed in to Paige. “I want to be able to reach you. There’s no telling how long you’ll be gone.”
“It won’t be very long,” Paige said. “I promised Dad I’d leave for a while, but I didn’t say anything about the duration of my involuntary exile.”
“Quit playing games,” Wendt scolded her, unable to conceal the irritation creeping into his voice. “Haven’t you figured out this guy coming after you isn’t screwing around? Three people are dead, your father was almost killed, and there’s nothing to indicate he’s going to stop until he gets you. Have you forgotten you’re his primary target?”
“Get with the program for once, will you?” Farrell joined in. “Can’t you see that short of surrounding you with a SWAT team twenty-four hours a day, which the Alameda police department doesn’t have the resources to do, Randy can’t protect you? If you insist on staying, all you’re going to do is give your stalker more opportunity to take you out. Your father knows this; why don’t you?”
“I’m worried about Dad,” she said. “I need to be with him right now.”
“No, you don’t,” Farrell said. “Your father’s safe.” He tilted his head toward the uniformed cop down the hall. “He’s protected here; you’re not. He wants you out of danger. You saw yourself how agitated he got after arguing with you. If it puts him at ease, knowing you’re safely away from here, he’ll rest better and heal faster. Think of him.”
“In that respect, I have to agree with you; Dad’ll blow a gasket if he thinks I’m in jeopardy. I made a promise to go away; I’ll keep it. I’m just not pleased about it.”
“You’re not alone. None of us are pleased with the situation right now,” Farrell said.
“We won’t be happy until this guy is nailed and jailed,” Wendt said. “Now go to the wine country, visit your family, and try to relax. You can call me every day if you want. I’ll keep you up to speed on the investigation. Who knows, maybe we’ll get a break? In any case, with you gone, the Judge will rest easier knowing you’re safe. And we can devote our energy to catching this freak without worrying about protecting you.”
Paige nodded. “All right, I’m going.” She looked up at Kearns. “Do I have to go with him?”
“The Judge is paying Kevin to protect you,” Farrell said. “He already pulled your ass out of the grease once already. Or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget,” she said. “I just don’t like it, that’s all.”
“You don’t like it?” Kearns echoed.
“Could you try to not be difficult for once?” Farrell asked her. “Please? If not for your own safety, then for your father’s sake?”
“I agreed to go, didn’t I?” she said. She pointed a finger a Kearns. “Don’t even think about bossing me around,” she admonished him.
“Give it a rest,” he said. “I got roped into this, same as you.”
Paige held her tongue and headed for the elevators. Kearns shrugged and followed after her.
An hour later, they were passing through the vineyards of the Napa Valley. Paige hadn’t spoken a word, nor looked in Kearns’ direction, the entire journey. Ten miles south of Napa, Kearns broke the silence.
“Your aunt lives in Napa?” She ignored the question. “I seem to recall your father mentioning a ranch. Is the ranch in Napa, or somewhere outside the city limits?”
Again Paige ignored him. He let out a long sigh.
“Ms Callen, you’re eventually going to have to speak to me.”
“Why?”
“For directions, if nothing else.”
“When you see the exit for highway 121, take it north,” she said. “I’ll direct you from there.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They drove on in silence. Once through the sleepy town, Paige gave curt instructions until they veered off on a private dirt road approximately fifteen miles north of Napa. A half mile in, the road began to climb steeply. Kearns went up a sharp grade another five minutes, past a seemingly endless sea of planted grapes, until the Jeep crested the hill. In the basin below, surrounded by oak trees, the lights of a house twinkled at them.
“This is it,” she announced as Kearns eased the Jeep past a wrought-iron-topped brick gate and onto a large circular stone driveway.
“Doesn’t anybody in the Callen family live in a regular house?” Kearns remarked, taking in the property. Paige didn’t answer. She got out of the car and headed up a stone path to the house. He stepped out of the car after her but stopped at the driver’s door.
The large, elaborate two-story structure was comprised of stone, and like many of the wineries and homes in Napa Valley, had an almost medieval appearance. Kearns could see two structures on each side of the home, one of which he surmised was a guest cottage by its size and proximity to the main house. The other building was as big as the house and set much farther back; a barn or storage facility, he thought.
A porch light came on and Kearns looked up to see Paige greeted by a tall, handsome woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, and who bore a noticeable resemblance to Judge Callen. She was wearing jeans and a sweater. Paige and the woman embraced.
“Aunt Elsa,” he heard Paige say. He thought he sensed emotion in her voice.
“It’s wonderful to see you,” the woman said. “Even under the circumstances. It’s been too long.”
“I know,” Paige said. “I’ve been so busy with work, and–”
“Never mind,” Elsa told her, stepping back from their embrace. “You’re here now.” She put her arm around Paige’s shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”
The two women started to enter the house, arm in arm, leaving Kearns standing awkwardly beside the Jeep. He was about to clear his throat when the woman turned around.
“Good grief, how rude of me,” she said, leaving Paige in the doorway and approaching Kearns. “Paige, you didn’t introduce me to your gentleman friend.”
“He’s neither a gentleman nor my friend,” she answered from behind her aunt. “And he was just leaving.”
“I’m Kevin Kearns,” he said, disregarding Paige’s comment and accepting Elsa’s outstretched hand. She had a strong handshake and her palm was thick with calluses of someone who works outside with their hands. She also had striking blue eyes, like Paige. Kearns liked her immediately.
“Elsa Callen,” she introduced herself. “It’s good to meet you. You’re leaving?”
“Yes,” Paige interjected. “He was just leaving. Isn’t that right, Mr Kearns?”
“That wasn’t the deal and you know it,” he said.
“Deal?” Elsa asked, looking from Kearns to Paige. “What deal?”
“You brought me to Napa. Your job is done. You can be on your way now.”
“No dice,” Kearns said flatly. “My partner made your father a promise; I’m here to keep it for him.”
“Hold on a minute,” Elsa said, puzzled. “Before anybody stays or goes, I think I should know what’s going on.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Paige said. “He’s not staying; that’s final.”
Elsa looked to Kearns. “What’s this about?”
“I’m being paid by Judge Callen to physically protect Paige. I’m not leaving her side, at least not until I get the word from the Judge or my partner. For the record, I’m no happier about it than she is, but that’s how it stands.”
“Is this true, Paige?” Paige’s silence and scowl were her answer.
“I see,” Elsa said, biting her lip. “Gene isn’t a man to be trifled with. He may be my brother, but I wouldn’t cross him.” She turned back to Kearns. “It looks like you’ll be staying.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he said.
“It’s no bother.” She smiled, showing a lot of white teeth. She scratched her chin. “I’ve already made up one of the guest rooms for Paige. You’re welcome
to the couch tonight; I’ll make up another room for you tomorrow.”
“Thank you kindly,” Kearns told her, “but I’m sure my presence under the same roof would upset Ms Callen. I’ll sleep in the car, if you don’t mind.”
“The guest cottage!” Elsa exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “It’s been so long since it’s been used, I almost forgot about it. You’re welcome to stay there, Mr Kearns, if you don’t mind the chill. It’s a bit musty inside, but if we open the windows, it’ll air out in no time. It has its own bathroom and shower. A kitchenette, too.”
“That will be fine. And my name is Kevin.”
Elsa took a moment to appraise him. “So it is, Kevin,” she finally said. “Help yourself; the cottage is unlocked.”
“Thank you. May I ask a question or two about the property?”
“Fire away.”
“Is this road the only way in?”
“It is, unless you don’t mind a three- or four-mile overland hike.”
“Do you have an alarm system?”
“Sure do; want to see it?” Elsa put two fingers into her mouth and whistled. Seconds later, a huge yellow Labrador came bounding from the house. He flew past Paige and into the yard.
“Kevin, meet Cody; my alarm system.” Cody ran up to Kearns, his tail wagging furiously. Kearns knelt and rubbed the dog’s neck and ears.
“That’s my Cody,” Elsa chuckled. “Part roommate, part child, part alarm system, and full time pain in the ass.”
“He’s beautiful,” Kearns said, grinning. He stood up. “With your permission, I’ll be turning in. It’s been a long day. Thank you for your hospitality, Ms Callen. It was nice to meet you.”
“It’s Elsa,” she corrected him. “And those questions you asked just now; do you think Paige’s stalker would actually follow her all the way out here?”
“We don’t know much about him,” Kearns said, “except that he’s a very determined individual. Goodnight, Elsa.”
Kearns headed for the guest cottage with Cody following behind him. Elsa watched them disappear into the darkness. After Kearns left, she mounted the steps and gave her niece a reassuring hug. Paige, too, had been staring after Kearns as he left, a fact which did not go unnoticed.
“I like him,” Elsa said. “He’s seems like a fine young man. He has honest eyes. Good-looking fellow, too.”
“Christ, Aunt Elsa; you’ve known him all of five minutes.”
“Some things you just know,” she observed. “Let’s get you settled in.”
CHAPTER 29
“Thanks for meeting me for a drink,” Sergeant Wendt said to Farrell. He took a seat across from Wendt at a secluded booth in the back of the tavern where until only a few days ago, Kevin Kearns had resided upstairs above the bar. It was a little after ten in the evening.
“No problem,” Farrell said. “I’m always thirsty.”
“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” the Alameda police sergeant grumbled. “I have a fresh murder, an open stalking investigation, and an attempted murder against one of the island’s wealthiest, most prominent, and politically connected citizens to solve; it’s the perfect time to kick back and relax with a cold one.”
“Sounds like you need a drink more than me,” Farrell smiled. He lit a cigarette and motioned for the waitress. She started towards their table but was intercepted by her boss, Johnny Costanza, who sauntered over.
“Double bourbon over ice,” Farrell told him. Costanza gave Farrell a nod of recognition and turned to Wendt. “Usual, Randy?”
“Sure, but make it light on the vodka; I’ll be back at work later tonight.” Costanza left for the bar.
“It’s a bad sign when the bartender knows your poison without having to order,” Farrell said. “It’s a worse sign when he knows your name.”
“This place is an unofficial cop hangout,” Wendt explained, “since it’s only a block from the station.”
“Convenient,” Farrell said.
“I used to be a regular after my second divorce and before I remarried; now, not so much.” Wendt leaned back in his chair.
“I’m glad you reached out,” Farrell said. “We need to compare notes. There’s also something I wanted to discuss with you I couldn’t back at the hospital.”
“Not many notes to compare. The investigation’s become a full-blown clusterfuck. I spent the rest of the afternoon after I left you at the hospital getting my ass chewed by the chief, as if this crime wave was my fault. He summoned an emergency meeting with the district attorney, and together they’re doing their best to make my life a living hell.”
“That’s what bureaucrats and politicians do,” Farrell said.
“I don’t blame them, actually. It’s a pretty heavy-duty crime for this little island, and it’s generating heat. We have a young, attractive, female deputy DA who’s being stalked, her father, a retired superior court judge, was almost killed, and a deputy DA who’s DOA, all within the same week and the week ain’t over. It’s like a fucking made-for-TV movie. And you’d better believe the press is all over it. That’s why I wanted to meet with you; I had to get out of the station or I was going to shoot somebody.”
“I thought it was the pleasure of my company.”
“Fat chance,” Wendt said. “And it gets worse. Tomorrow, they’re going to start up a task force.”
“A task force?”
“You were SFPD; you know the drill. Assemble an all-star team of detectives from the department, the sheriff’s office, and the DA’s inspector’s office, and throw as many resources as possible at the case. Put out a daily press conference. Makes the public feel like a lot is being done.”
“Most of the investigative task forces I worked on,” Farrell said, “were a smokescreen designed to kick up dust and send a message to the public that no expense was being spared to solve the crime. Sometimes they worked, but usually the task force was really only about damage control and repairing the department’s battered reputation, mitigating liability and spreading the blame when things went to shit. You ever notice when a case is successfully resolved by a task force, every department on the team wants to claim the win, but when it goes bellyup, the task force provides each player with somebody else to point the finger of blame at?”
“It’s no different in this instance,” Wendt said. “What makes it worse is that we’re no closer to identifying the stalker than we were on Monday morning. I don’t think a task force is going to change that.”
Johnny Costanza returned with their drinks. “Kevin find a place to live yet?” Costanza asked, setting the drinks down on the table. He gave Wendt a disapproving glance. Wendt accepted his drink without acknowledging the bar owner.
“Kevin’s doing all right,” Farrell said. “He doesn’t harbor you any ill will; he knows it was out of your hands.”
“Sure as hell was,” Costanza said, sending another glimpse Wendt’s way before heading back to the bar.”
“Let’s talk about another topic,” Wendt said. “This Callen thing gives me a headache. You said you had something else on your mind?”
“How well do you know Officer McCord?”
“Not very well,” Wendt said, downing some vodka and orange juice. “Came on the force about ten years behind me. Charismatic guy; real popular with the newer recruits. Tips a few.”
“You don’t socialize with him?”
“No,” Wendt answered. “It’s a small department; everybody knows everybody. But no, we don’t swing in the same circles. Why do you ask?”
“I stopped by the crime scene at Judge’s Callen’s today before I met you at the hospital.” Farrell exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Ran into the friendly and courteous Officer McCord.”
“How did that turn out?”
“He assaulted me,” Farrell said evenly. “In front of a half dozen witnesses, several of whom were cops. One of them had to pull him off.”
“Joe McCord is a very large guy,” Wendt said. “You’re lucky he didn’t hurt
you.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” Farrell said.
Wendt’s eyes darkened. “So why ask me about it? I already told you what McCord’s problem with you is. Your beef is with him, not me.”
Farrell sipped bourbon. “Thought I could do you both a favor,” he said.
“How’s that?”
“I understand that McCord’s got a hard-on for me. And I definitely get that he has a problem controlling his temper. I don’t intend to file an internal affairs complaint against him; at least, not yet. That ain’t my style; I don’t pitch accusations against fellow cops. But I’m done getting threatened and way past done getting assaulted.”
“OK, Bob; I still don’t see how this is my problem.”
“You’re a violent crimes detective, aren’t you?”
“You know I am.”
“Then it is your problem. You’re the guy who’s going to have to clean up the mess if McCord doesn’t steer clear of me. Just because I’m not looking for trouble doesn’t mean I’m not prepared for it. You can tell him I’ll let today go; this one’s on the house. But the next time he decides to get stupid with me, he’d better be ready to go all the way to the hospital or the morgue.”
“I’ll pass it along,” Wendt said dryly.
“I appreciate it,” Farrell said, finishing his drink. He stood up, ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, and dropped a couple of bills on the table.
“So what’s your next move, Sherlock?” Wendt asked.
“I’ll let you know when I do,” Farrell told him. He waved a goodbye and walked out of the bar.
Farrell strolled to his Oldsmobile and got in. He pulled out and proceeded on Park Street until he reached the bridge into Oakland. He was halfway across when the blue-and-white flashing lights lit up his rearview mirror. Farrell traversed the bridge, then pulled directly into the middle of the parking lot of Nikko’s Café and stopped. Nikko’s, a twenty-four-hour eatery situated on the border between Oakland and Alameda and only a block away from the on-ramp to the Nimitz Freeway, always had a few Oakland PD and CHP cars parked in its generous lot.
Farrell extracted his Retired San Francisco police department inspector’s badge and put both hands on the steering wheel with the badge in plain view. He waited for the cop to approach.