The Fourth Motive (26 page)

“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.

“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.