by Sean Lynch
“Evening, Officer,” Farrell said when the cop reached his driver’s side door.
“Step out of the car,” a voice commanded.
“Aren’t you going to ask for my license and registration first?” Farrell asked.
“Step out of the car.”
“I’m a retired cop and I’m lawfully armed,” Farrell announced loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear. A group of café patrons and loiterers watched the traffic stop with rapt attention. Several cars were blocked from leaving the lot by the traffic stop, forcing their drivers to act as involuntary witnesses.
“Step out of the car; I’m not going to ask you again.”
Farrell complied. He reached through his open driver’s window and unlatched the door from the outside, never putting either of his hands out of sight even for a second. He got out, stood up, and kept both his hands well above his elbows, his gold badge glinting in the flashing lights of the police car.
The cop was young, with a crew cut and a cherubic, sneering face. He had his right hand on the butt of his revolver at his side.
“Don’t you even want to see my identification?” Farrell asked with a smile.
“I know who you are,” came the curt reply.
“Why am I being pulled over?”
“You were weaving in the lane back there,” the cop answered.
“No, I wasn’t,” Farrell said.
The officer’s sneer became more pronounced. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”
“One drink,” Farrell said. “Not enough to be DUI, even in Alameda.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Where’s Officer McCord?”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Farrell asked loudly. “Officer McCord; you know, the guy who put you up to following me from the bar and pulling me over?”
Just then, a tall African-American Oakland police officer walked out of Nikko’s to cover the Alameda cop.
“Code four,” the Alameda officer said over his shoulder, extending four fingers of one hand. The tall African-American nodded and began to reenter the café.
“Code eight!” yelled Farrell. The Oakland cop whirled around.
“It’s OK,” the Alameda cop said. “I’m cool. Code four.”
“It’s not code four,” Farrell called out, holding up his badge. “And it’s not cool. I’m a retired San Francisco police inspector and I’m being unlawfully rousted by this police officer. He says I’m drunk driving and I’m sober as a judge.”
The Oakland cop stopped mid-stride. The Alameda cop put his hand out. “It’s OK,” he insisted. “I’m code four.”
“I told him I’m armed,” Farrell shouted. “How the hell can it be code four if only one officer has an armed man detained and he’s refusing cover?”
The Oakland cop said something inaudible into his portable transceiver. Seconds later, another Oakland cop emerged from Nikko’s. This cop was older, Caucasian, and had a potbelly and sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves. Together they approached Farrell and the Alameda officer who’d pulled him over.
“What do you got?” the sergeant asked the Alameda cop.
“Possible DUI,” the cop said hesitantly.
“Bullshit,” Farrell said. “This is bogus.” He held out his badge case, which also contained his Retired SFPD identification. The sergeant accepted it and looked it over. Then he looked over Farrell, paying particular attention to his eyes. One of the cars blocked in by Farrell’s car began to honk. Soon, other car horns began to join in.
“What was the probable cause for the stop?” the sergeant asked.
“He was weaving in the lane,” was the nervous answer.
“That’s also bullshit,” Farrell said. “He followed me from a bar on Park Street.”
“You been drinking?” the sergeant asked Farrell.
“Just one. And I was having it with an Alameda Police sergeant named Wendt who can vouch for me.”
The Oakland sergeant turned back to the Alameda cop. “He doesn’t look lit up to me. Why haven’t you started your field sobriety tests?”
“I was waiting for my cover officer,” the cop stammered.
“Then why did you wave me off?” the African-American cop asked.
“Because this is nothing more than a roust,” Farrell answered for him.
“Why would the Alameda cops be rousting a retired SFPD guy?” the sergeant inquired, looking from Farrell to the Alameda cop.
“It’s a long story. The short version is because I’m a private investigator working a case in Alameda and there’re a few cops that aren’t happy about it.”
“He’s drunk driving,” the Alameda officer insisted hotly. It was getting hard to hear with the honking of the horns.
“There’s a CHP car in the Nikko’s lot,” Farrell pointed out. “That means there’s a chippie inside Nikko’s. They have portable Breathalyzer devices. I’d be glad to take a breath test right now.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the Oakland sergeant said. He handed Farrell back his badge and ID case. “You’re free to go, Inspector,” he said.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Farrell said.
“How long you been wearing a badge?” the sergeant asked the Alameda officer.
“Three years.”
“You act like it was three minutes. Ain’t you been taught that you don’t jack up cops, or retired cops, or cops’ families? It’s one of those rules you won’t find in your general orders handbook but that everybody wearing a badge knows.” He shook his head in disgust. “Get the hell out of here,” he told the young cop. He glared at Farrell. “Both of you. You’ve taken up enough of my lunch hour.” He and the African-American cop returned to the restaurant.
Farrell pocketed his badge and headed to his car.
“You skated this time,” the Alameda cop bellowed over the cacophony of car horns. “You’d better watch your back.”
“Give McCord a message from me,” Farrell said. “Tell him this just got personal.”
CHAPTER 30
At the sound of knocking on the cottage door, Kearns jumped up from where he’d been doing pushups on the floor and slipped into his trousers. He opened the door to find Elsa Callen standing there.
“Good morning, Kevin,” she said. “I figured you’d be up. I hope I’m not disturbing you?” She noticed the jagged network of scarring across his muscular abdomen and chest.
“Not at all,” he said. “Been up since dawn. Please come in.”
“Nope,” she said with a smile. “I came to invite you over to the house for breakfast. You look like a fella who can put away a solid meal in the morning.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he said.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said over her shoulder as she turned and headed back to the house. “Back door’s unlocked.”
Kearns slipped on his socks and shoes and put on a sweater over a T-shirt. While he was certain the afternoon would be sunny and hot once the fog burned off, he’d discovered Napa Valley mornings are damp and chilly. He took a moment to slip the .45 into his waistband over his right hip and pocket a spare magazine before leaving the guest cottage for the main house.
Kearns was greeted at the rear kitchen door by Cody, who met him with ears down and tail wagging. He gave the big yellow Labrador a scratch behind the ears and a hug. “Help yourself to coffee,” he heard Elsa’s voice from inside.
Kearns entered a kitchen the size of a military chow hall. The inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee assailed his nostrils. He followed the scent to a large stainless steel pot on a ten-burner stove. In the center of a large oak table was a plate of sweet rolls.
Elsa Callen appeared from within a walk-in pantry carrying a fifty-pound bag of puppy chow. Kearns rushed to take the bag from her. Cody’s tail wagged furiously. “Let me get that,” he said.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Elsa waved him off. “Been doing this every day for years. Keeps me young.” She tilted the
bag into a large ceramic bowl, and before it was filled, Cody’s nose was buried in the dish.
“Cody hasn’t been a puppy for a couple of years,” she explained, “but you’d never know it.” She returned the bag to the pantry. “What’ll it be?” she asked when she emerged. “Eggs? Pancakes? You name it, I’ve got it.”
“You’re too kind.” Kearns smiled, putting up his hand. “Just coffee, please, and the pleasure of your company.”
“You’re a charmer, you are,” Elsa chuckled. She retrieved two mugs from a cupboard and poured two doses of steaming java. “Cream or sugar?”
“Neither.”
“Good for you; that’s the way men should drink coffee.” She sat on a stool in the nook and motioned for Kearns to sit as well.
“Is Paige up?” he asked, taking a tentative sip and sitting down.
“No, and I didn’t want to wake her. She looked exhausted when you two arrived. I could hear her tossing and turning all night.”
“She’s been through a lot this week, that’s for sure.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Elsa asked, looking at Kearns over the rim of her mug.
“Of course not; I’m the intruder here. Ask away.”
“I couldn’t help but notice you two weren’t hitting it off too well,” she began. “I realize it’s none of my business, and I apologize if I’m prying, but I’d like to know what’s going on between you and my niece? Is there anything more between you other than merely protecting her?”
“Valid question,” Kearns said. “No apology necessary. We are not an item, if that’s what you mean. In fact, Paige would find the notion pretty amusing, if not actually insulting.”
“I’m confused; if she’s reluctant to be protected by you, why did she consent to it?”
“It might save you some fishing if I just told you what’s going on,” he offered.
Elsa smiled. “It would at that.”
“I’m here essentially for the same reason Paige is and just as reluctantly; I got convinced to come against my wishes. In Paige’s case, it was her father who coerced her here. In my case, my partner hoodwinked me into the trip, on Judge Callen’s say-so. She’s here to lay low; I’m here to see nobody hurts her. It’s that simple.”
“Are you a police officer? You look like one.”
“I was once. Now I work as a private investigator.”
“And you couldn’t refuse this assignment?” Elsa asked.
“I’m not in a position right now to refuse work,” Kearns admitted.
Elsa took this in, looking into her coffee. After a moment she looked back up at Kearns. “Well,” she said, “for what it’s worth I’m glad you’re here, even if Paige isn’t. You look like a guy who can take care of himself. And it sounds like Paige is in serious danger.”
“You’d never know it by watching her,” he said. “She seems more incensed at having her work schedule disrupted than she does about having a homicidal stalker hunting her.”
“You’re wrong there,” Elsa corrected him. “Paige is a Callen, and like her father, has an iron will; it’s genetic. Her frosty exterior is a result of the way she was raised; it’s practically her heritage. But I know her and she’s scared. She’s terrified from the top of her head to the tip of her toes; don’t you believe otherwise.”
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” Kearns asked.
“Don’t let Paige’s icy front fool you,” Elsa said. “I remember the little blonde girl who spent every summer here riding horses and romping in the sun. Under that shell is the sweetest, most adorable person you’d ever want to meet.”
“That’s certainly a revelation,” Kearns said, shaking his head. “I’ve heard her called some things, and ‘sweet’ wasn’t on the list.”
“That’s from trying to be like her father. She’s spent her whole life trying to impress the sanctimonious bastard, and all it’s gotten her is a degree from the school of hard knocks. Underneath that hard-ass armor coating she puts up is a scared kid who’s still grieving her mother’s death. She portrays herself as a tough cookie, all right, but there’s a soft center inside; don’t you doubt it.”
“What about you?” he inquired. “I sense none of the famous Callen chill in your bones, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I don’t mind; that’s an easy one to answer. Growing up, my big brother was always the serious one and I the carefree simpleton. He wanted wealth and power and all I ever wanted was a home and family.”
“You’ve surely done all right in that regard,” Kearns said. “This place is beautiful.”
“I know. Shameful, aren’t I? I love the place. Fell in love with it almost forty years ago when I first laid eyes on it, and the love affair never ended. We sold the interest in the winery a few years before my husband passed away. This has been my home since I was a newlywed.”
“And Paige spent all her summers here?”
“Since she was old enough to walk. Her parents had a pretty stormy relationship. She ended up here for a variety of reasons, not all pretty ones.”
“Is this so terrible a place for a kid to spend the summer?”
“Not at all,” Elsa said. “We loved having her, especially my son, Mark. Paige was like a baby sister to him. But even a small child senses things. She knew her parents were having troubles and why she was here instead of home with them. It’s a tough thing for a child to have to deal with.”
“You mentioned you have a son; is he still close to Paige?”
“No. He died of leukemia when he was sixteen.”
“I’m sorry,” Kearns said. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
“You didn’t,” Elsa reassured. “I’m at peace with it.”
Before either could speak again, Cody let out a short bark and raised his head towards the hallway. An instant later, Paige walked in, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She was wearing an oversized flannel shirt, and her long legs ended in bare feet. She frowned when she saw Kearns.
“Good morning,” Elsa said. “Join us for breakfast?”
“No, thanks,” Paige answered grumpily. “I just lost my appetite.”
Kearns winked at Elsa and stood up. “That’s my cue; thanks for the coffee.”
Elsa stood also. “My pleasure. I enjoyed our talk.”
Kearns headed for the kitchen door but stopped before reaching it. “Is there anything either of you need from town?” he asked. “I need to get some clothes and toiletries; thought I’d make a run into Napa.”
“I certainly do need a few things, but you’re not getting them for me,” Paige said.
“I have to do some grocery shopping myself,” Elsa said, “now that I have guests. I noticed you two vagabonds didn’t arrive with much more than the clothes on your backs last night. We could hit some clothing stores and get lunch in town, make a day of it. How does that sound?”
“It would be lovely,” Paige said, “if we could go without him tagging along.”
“No dice,” Kearns said. “I made a promise, and I intend to–”
“I know, I know,” Paige cut him off, sighing. “Duty, honor, country. The almighty Judge Eugene Callen wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“You don’t have to be such a grumpy bear,” Elsa admonished her. “What you need is a little breakfast to brighten your perspective. How about blueberry pancakes?”
A smile started at the corners of Paige’s mouth. “You know they’re my favorite.”
“How about you, Kevin? Sure I can’t interest you in some blueberry pancakes?”
“I’m going to get a shower,” he said. “Thank you again for the coffee.” He gave Paige a stern look. “And please don’t leave for town without me.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Elsa assured him. Paige harrumphed.
As soon as Kearns was gone, Paige plopped heavily onto the stool he had vacated. She stretched and yawned. Her black eye was beginning to fade, and the abrasion on her nose was almost healed. Els
a began the makings of pancakes.
“I don’t know why you’re being so damned friendly to him,” Paige complained.
“And I don’t know why you’re being so unfriendly. He seems like a fine young man. He has excellent manners and he’s very easy to talk to.”
“He’s a thug, Aunt Elsa. He’s as crooked as they come, like all of Dad’s cronies.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Elsa said, cracking eggs. “I like to think I’m a fair judge of character. I get a good read from him.”
“Hah,” Paige scoffed. “You don’t know him like I do. He and his even more crooked partner chased halfway around the country last year, searching for a fugitive and breaking every law they could along the way. They were practically on the FBI’s 10 Most Wanted list.”
“What did the fugitive do?”
Paige paused before answering. “He was a serial child killer,” she said.
“Did they catch him?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“It would seem Kevin and his partner are pretty good at what they do,” Elsa commented. “That’s the kind of person I want protecting you.”
“He broke the law. I’m supposed to condone that?”
“I’m sure he had his reasons.”
“You always did see the good in people,” Paige said.
Elsa set down the bowl of pancake batter and faced her niece. “Do you know what your problem is?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Your problem is that you always see the bad. And on top of it all, you have such a black-and-white outlook on things. Life isn’t black and white; things aren’t always either good or bad. Usually in life, things are kind of gray. A lot of good people do bad things, Paige. And occasionally, some bad ones do some good. Kevin Kearns may have done some things you don’t approve of, but he’s here looking out for you.” Elsa’s brow furrowed. “Despite your lack of gratitude.”
“Aunt Elsa,” Page countered, “I’m not nine years old. I don’t need a babysitter or a bodyguard. And if I did, I sure wouldn’t choose him.”