The Fourth Motive
Page 32
Farrell wasn’t finished. He raised the lead-filled sap as high as he could, and with all his might brought the blackjack down on Wendt’s right knee. This time Wendt didn’t gasp; he screamed and fell to the sidewalk.
Wendt tried to reach the revolver on his hip, but his numb fingers fumbled the draw. Farrell smacked his hand with the sap and the gun fell to the pavement. He leaned over and recovered the revolver. Farrell ejected the cartridges and tossed it to the lawn twenty feet away. Wendt looked up at him in agony, holding his knee with both hands.
“Here’s the deal,” Farrell said. He pocketed the sap and withdrew an unfiltered Camel. “You’re going to turn in your badge today.” He put the cigarette to his lips and lit it with his trusty Zippo. “You don’t deserve it.”
“Like hell I will,” Wendt said through clenched teeth.
“Then I’ll show up at your house this afternoon and introduce myself to your wife. Is she a photography fan?”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll also show up at McCord’s funeral tomorrow.” He exhaled smoke. “Cop funerals are typically very popular events. They’re usually attended by the mayor, city council members, business and civic leaders, and cops from every corner of the state. Can’t wait to see their faces when they get a peek at my photo collection.”
Wendt stared bullets at Farrell but remained silent.
“What’s the matter, Sergeant? No ‘fuck you’ for me this time?”
“Don’t,” Wendt said weakly.
“And finally, to really show you how much I care, I’ll mail the pictures of your rendezvous with Joe McCord’s wife to Dennis McCord. He’s only got one testicle, I hear. Apparently, some guy you sent him to rough up shot the other one off. I’ll bet he’ll be thrilled to open that special-delivery package from the post office. Especially when he finds out you were porking his dead brother’s wife the day before he was put in the ground.”
“Please don’t,” Wendt pleaded.
“What am I thinking?” Farrell said, slapping his thigh. “I don’t have to mail the pictures to McCord’s brother; he’ll be at the funeral tomorrow, won’t he? I can save myself a stamp and deliver them in person.”
Wendt started to cry. “Please,” he repeated.
“It doesn’t have to happen,” Farrell told him. “Turn in your badge. Today.”
“I’m ten years from my pension,” Wendt begged. “I’ll have nothing.”
“Then file for a bogus medical retirement, like your deadbeat, malingering pal Lerner. Worker’s compensation fraud among cops is epidemic these days.”
“But I don’t have a disabling injury,” Wendt said.
Farrell suddenly withdrew the blackjack once more from his pocket and struck Wendt’s knee again with all his might. Wendt howled in pain, his anguished cry ending in sobs.
“Now you do,” Farrell said.
CHAPTER 52
When Farrell opened the door to his apartment, he found Kevin Kearns standing there. A week had passed since the shoot-out at Judge Callen’s house in Alameda.
“Hi, Kevin,” Farrell greeted him. “Come on in.”
“Howdy, Bob,” Kearns said, shaking his hand.
“What brings you to my humble abode?”
“Came by to get the rest of my stuff.”
“Actually, I was half expecting you to move back in,” Farrell said. “But it sounds like you found a place of your own.”
“I’m staying at Paige’s condominium.” His face flushed.
“Nicely done,” Farrell chuckled.
“It’s only for a couple of weeks until I start the Alameda County Sheriff’s Academy.”
“So I heard. Congratulations. I guess I’ll be calling you ‘Deputy Kearns’ again before too long.”
“I guess so.”
“Won’t that create a conflict of interest between you and Paige?” Farrell teased. “You two lovebirds working for the same county?”
“That won’t be an issue, at least for a while, anyway. Paige is taking a sabbatical from the district attorney’s office. She’s got a lot of unused vacation to catch up on.”
“No kidding?”
“For a few months, at least until her condominium gets repaired, she’s going back to Napa to live with her aunt.”
“Good for her,” Farrell said. “Lord knows she deserves some rest and recreation.”
“And that’s not all,” Kearns added. “Her dad’s going with her. Until his mansion is rebuilt, Judge Callen’s going to stay at the ranch in Napa also.”
“I’ll be damned,” Farrell said, shaking his head.
“Undoubtedly,” Kearns said. “What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?” he asked.
“Now you’re speaking my language.” Farrell slapped him on the back. He led Kearns to the kitchen table and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. “Anchor Steam OK?”
“If it’s cold and wet, it works for me.”
Farrell poured himself a Jim Beam over ice and sat down across from Kearns.
“To a job well done,” Farrell toasted, lifting his glass.
“To surviving a job well done,” Kearns added. They clinked glasses.
They drank in silence a while. Kearns finally spoke.
“I want to thank you, Bob.”
“What the hell for?”
“You know what for. I didn’t want to take this job, and you brought me in kicking and screaming. Thanks to you, I now have a law enforcement career back on track and a lot of money in my pocket.” He looked into his beer. “And I met Paige.”
“You have Judge Callen to thank for the career and the money,” Farrell said. “Paige was all your doing.”
“Judge Callen made good just like you said,” Kearns said. “He made a call, and next thing you know, I’m hired by the sheriff’s department. I’m scheduled for the upcoming academy. He also paid me. A lot. Wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Enough to make me feel guilty.”
“Hell,” Farrell quipped. “If you knew how much the Judge paid me, you wouldn’t feel guilty; you’d feel cheated.”
“I still feel guilty.”
“Because of the money,” Farrell grinned, “or because you’re banging his daughter?”
“Jesus, Bob!”
“Take it easy,” Farrell laughed. “I’m only pulling your chain. I had to lighten things up; I thought for a second you were going to give me a hug.”
“I ought to strangle you,” Kearns said, shaking his head.
“I almost forgot,” Farrell said, snapping his fingers and standing up. “Wait here.” He left the kitchen and went into the bedroom. When he emerged a moment later, he was carrying a box the approximate size of a book. “I got you a present.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Just open it,” Farrell ordered, reaching for his cigarettes.
Kearns did. Inside was a brand-new, five-shot, blue-steel, concealed-hammer .38 special Bodyguard revolver, identical to the one Farrell had been using since a rookie.
“The sheriff’s department will issue you a duty gun, but I figured you needed an off-duty piece. Smith & Wesson,” Farrell beamed. “Workingman’s gun.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Kearns said. “Thanks, Bob.”
“You know,” Farrell began, lighting a cigarette, “just because you’re working full-time as a deputy sheriff doesn’t mean you can’t moonlight doing private investigation work with me on the side.”
“I should have known there’d be a catch,” Kearns groaned.
“Just think it over,” Farrell said. “It’s all I’m asking. We do good work together. Once you graduate the academy and get settled in at the sheriff’s department, you’ll have loads of free time.”
“You can drop the sales pitch, Bob,” Kearns relented. “When that time comes, I’ll give it some thought.”
“That’s the spirit. Don’t forget, we’re a team, you and me,” Farrell r
eminded him. “Like Cisco and Pancho.”
“More like Dracula and Igor,” Kearns muttered.
“Shut up and drink your beer.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks go out to my stalwart literary agent, the inimitable Scott Miller of Trident Media Group. He always gets it done. His counsel, stewardship, and support are deeply appreciated.
I cannot convey how grateful I am to my outstanding editor, Emlyn Rees. I was reluctant to attempt this book, and Emlyn convinced me to plunge ahead. Without his encouragement, this work would not have come to be. He prodded me out of my comfort zone. This made me a better writer and I hope a better person. Thanks, Emlyn, you inspirational bastard; I’m truly in your debt.
A nod goes out to the Calaveras Crew and the Usual Suspects; one group I treasure and the other I fear. Good luck figuring out which.
Most importantly, inexpressible thanks go to Denise, Brynne, and Owen. Today, tomorrow, and forever. You know the rest.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sean Lynch was born and raised in Iowa. When not outdoors shooting his BB guns, Sean could be found reading crime and science fiction, paranormal and military non-fiction, and trying to persuade his parents to let him stay up past bedtime to watch the late-show creature feature.
After high school Sean obtained a Bachelor of Sciences degree and served in the U.S. Army as an enlisted Infantryman. He migrated to Northern California’s San Francisco Bay Area, where he recently retired after nearly three decades as a municipal police officer. During his Law Enforcement career Sean served as a Sector Patrol Officer, Foot Patrol Officer, Motorcycle Officer, Field Training Officer, S.W.A.T. Team Officer, Firearms Instructor, S.W.A.T. Team Sniper, Defensive Tactics Instructor, Juvenile/Sexual Assault Detective, and Homicide Detective. Sean concluded his career at the rank of Lieutenant and as Commander of the Detective Division.
A lifelong fitness enthusiast, Sean exercises daily and holds a 1st Dan in Tae Kwon Do. He still watches late-night creature features. Sean is partial to Japanese cars, German pistols, and British beer.
SeanLynchBooks.com
twitter.com/seanlynchbooks
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