“Deal,” he echoed. “And my name is Kevin.”
They returned to the front of the house to an expectant Elsa. Kearns opened the Jeep’s
doors for the two women, and a forlorn Cody stared at the trio mournfully as they
clambered in without him.
“We’ll be back before sundown,” she informed the Labrador as the Jeep pulled away
from the house.
Elsa assumed the role of tour guide during the ride into Napa, showing off points
of interest and naming the wineries as they passed them. When they reached town, she
directed Kearns to a shopping center.
“We’ll get our dry goods first,” Elsa announced, “and our groceries last. Paige and
I are going to look for clothes; if you want to avoid the girlie shopping, we can
meet you later.”
“Sorry, Elsa,” Kearns said, “but I’m going to stay with Paige.”
Paige started to scowl again but checked herself and said nothing in protest. Kearns
followed dutifully behind them as they entered the various stores on their spree.
Elsa seemed delighted to be with her niece and doted on Paige as they shopped. Within
an hour, Kearns was relegated to carrying their purchases and loaded down with packages
and bags like a golf caddy.
At a sportswear outlet, Paige again departed for the dressing room. Elsa nudged Kearns.
“My niece is a pretty thing, wouldn’t you say?”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Tell me, Kevin, are you married?”
“No, ma’am,” he replied, suppressing a smile. “Why?”
“Just curious,” she said. She left him to go across the store to examine shoes, leaving
him standing alone outside the women’s dressing room.
A moment later, Paige emerged from the dressing room, walking backwards to admire
herself in the mirror. She was wearing a brightly-colored sundress that featured a
plunging neckline and was short enough to display her outstanding legs.
Not realizing her aunt had departed, she said over her shoulder, “What do you think?
Too racy?”
“Not at all,” Kearns said.
At the sound of his voice, Paige whirled, blushing. Her eyes flashed in anger. “I
thought you were my aunt.”
“You’re mistaken.”
Elsa reappeared. “Honey,” she exclaimed, “that dress was made for you! You should
get it.”
“Apparently Mr Kearns… er… Kevin, shares your opinion.”
“You have good taste,” Elsa told him with a laugh. “Funny; you don’t look like a man
who keeps abreast of ladies’ fashion.”
He grinned, holding up two crossed fingers. “Are you kidding? Me and Calvin Klein
are like this.”
Even Paige couldn’t suppress her laugh.
“What do you say we take a break and get some lunch?” Elsa suggested.
“Good idea,” Paige said. “I’m famished. Give me a minute to get out of this dress.”
“No, you don’t,” Elsa said. “You look perfect just the way you are. You’re leaving
that on.”
“You should trust your aunt,” Kearns said.
Paige looked from Elsa to Kearns and blushed again, this time deeper than before.
Kearns thought he detected a faint smile grace her features. To his surprise, she
didn’t protest, and they left the shop with her still wearing the new dress.
After depositing their purchases in the Jeep, Elsa, Paige, and Kearns ended up in
one of the many sidewalk cafes adorning downtown Napa. Elsa ordered a glass of white
wine, Paige a margarita, and Kearns a draft beer.
“The first order of business after lunch,” Elsa declared to Kearns after they’d placed
their orders and sent the waiter off, “is to get you some new clothes.”
“Hold on a minute,” he protested. “I only need a few items. My clothes are fine.”
“For a vagrant,” Elsa said.
“If I have to endure Aunt Elsa’s shopping fetish,” Paige pointed out, “so do you.”
After dining, Kearns found himself dragged from shop to shop. He was forced to try
on multiple items of clothing and parade out of the dressing room for the women’s
snickering approval.
“He’s a very handsome young man,” Elsa mentioned to Paige when Kearns had once again
returned to the fitting room. “He’s so muscular and athletic-looking.”
Paige wrinkled her nose at her aunt. “That’ll be enough of that,” she cautioned. “You’re
about as subtle as a flaming arrow. I’m on to your little games; cease and desist
right now.”
“But you agree he’s handsome?”
“If it will shut you up on the topic, yes, I’ll agree; he’s not a bad-looking guy.”
“Why, thank you,” Kearns chirped from behind Paige. He winked at Elsa, who began to
laugh.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Paige howled, glaring hotly at her aunt. Kearns
stifled a chuckle.
“Can we go now?” Paige demanded, ignoring the laughter.
CHAPTER 32
Ray left at sundown, ensuring he had a full tank of gas in his Hyundai before departing.
His mother watched from the window as he loaded the car with everything he would need
for his big weekend. He didn’t acknowledge her before he drove off.
Earlier in the afternoon, he’d called the Alameda County district attorney’s office
from a pay phone and asked to speak with Deputy DA Paige Callen. Ray identified himself
to the secretary who answered as one of the contractors who was conducting repairs
on her fire-damaged condominium. He claimed he needed her signature on a materials
order to continue work. The secretary informed him Ms Callen would be both out of
the office and out of town for at least the following two weeks. He asked the secretary
for Ms Callen’s phone number and was curtly told she could not divulge that information.
He asked where she was vacationing, and was again advised that was also information
not to be divulged. Ray thanked her and hung up.
He returned home and thumbed through Paige’s address book. Under the heading Aunt
Elsa - ranch, he noted the rural route address in Napa. Pulling out a map of California,
he verified the location as north of Yountville on highway 29, approximately halfway
between Napa and St Helena.
Ray used the remainder of the afternoon before departing to take a nap. He wasn’t
going to leave until nightfall and wanted to be as rested as possible for the journey
ahead.
This time, there would be no mistakes.
CHAPTER 33
The sun was barely above the San Francisco skyline by the time Farrell guided his
Olds down into the parking garage under his Lombard Street apartment. Not that it
mattered; it had been a typical San Francisco summer day, overcast, foggy, and cold.
He’d spent the morning in his apartment, chain-smoking and phoning in favors from
colleagues who were still on the force and still had access to computerized databases.
The Bay Area law enforcement community was a close-knit one, even between different
departments within the region, and Farrell was counting on the fact that there was
always somebody in one department who knew somebody from every other and who knew
all the gossip. Turned out he wasn’t wrong.
He spent the afternoon visiting two different cities in the East Bay. He took his
work camera with him, an expensive 35mm Nikon with a telephoto lens, and ended up
getting lucky and taking more pictures than he anticipated. First, he drove to Pinole,
and then to Antioch, both blue-collar suburbs east of San Pablo Bay. As evening wore
on, a satisfied Farrell waded through the heavy commuter traffic back into the city.
He stopped at a pharmacy on Van Ness that offered overnight film developing and dropped
off the two rolls of 35mm he’d shot during the day. When he finally pulled his car
into his designated stall in the underground garage of his apartment building, he
was tired, hungry, and needed a drink.
Farrell climbed wearily out of his car and stretched. His watch read a little after
7pm. He still had time to get a shower and a cold drink, and make a check-in call
to Kearns at the phone number Paige Callen had given him for her aunt’s ranch in Napa
before meeting Jennifer and her fiancé for a late dinner.
Farrell was locking his car when he caught the flash of movement out of the corner
of his eye. He dropped the keys, pivoted, swept aside his trench coat and jacket,
and almost had his hand on his Smith & Wesson .38 when the first blow landed. It was
more than a fist and struck him on the side of his head with enough force to light
fireworks in his eyes and rubberize his legs. He kept his feet, but only because the
impact sent him careening into his own parked car.
He could vaguely discern the outline of a very large man looming in front of him,
and felt his leaden fingers tug on the wooden grips of his revolver. He fought to
bring the weapon clear of its holster and to bear on his assailant.
Farrell’s gun never left the holster. Another hammering blow, also from an object
harder than a fist, hit him in the kidney from the opposite direction. This one was
paralyzing, and Farrell’s body convulsed. He slid down the side of his Oldsmobile
to his knees, where he remained for only an instant before the first attacker struck
him in the head again.
He toppled to the concrete, fighting to remain conscious. He was on his back and unable
to move. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs, and when his vision came back into focus,
he saw two pairs of boots in front of his face. He looked groggily up towards their
owners.
Above him stood two men, one of whom he recognized. It was the short, fat plainclothes
cop who’d accosted him on the steps of the Alameda Police Department along with Officer
McCord, the one who was working in records due to an alleged back injury. He was carrying
a sawed-off baseball bat. Next to him stood a very tall, slovenly, stoop-shouldered
man whose resemblance to McCord was unmistakable. In one of his hands was a black
leather sap. With his empty hand he reached down and removed Farrell’s revolver from
his belt.
“Former Alameda Police Officer McCord, I presume,” Farrell said woozily. The horizon
was tilting and he struggled to keep from passing out.
“That’s right, motherfucker,” a deep voice, thick with fury, replied. “How’s it feel
to be on the other end?”
“Peachy,” Farrell slurred. He was kicked in the stomach for his answer.
“Does that feel peachy?”
Farrell curled into a fetal position, agony rippling through his torso. It was a full
minute before he was able to speak again.
“Where’s your brother?” he sputtered. “You know, the one who still has a job?”
This time, the kick came from the short cop and walloped into Farrell’s upper back.
“I thought you were on modified duty,” Farrell coughed when he could again talk. “Wouldn’t
want you to strain your back.”
“My back’s just fine.”
“So I see. Last time I saw you two knuckleheads, it was at the end of your own shotgun.”
“We didn’t forget.”
“Got twenty years on each of you, and you still come two-on-one with bats and blackjacks.
You really are a couple of pussies. Should have known by how easy you gave up your
sidearms.”
The short cop moved in, raising his cut-down bat, but McCord stopped his arm. Farrell
began struggling to his knees. McCord let him.
“You’re one to talk,” McCord said. “Pulling a shotgun on us; pretty fucking cowardly.”
“I did what I did to save a little girl,” Farrell said. “I’m not sorry. You two knew
the score. You’re trained cops and were both armed; you didn’t like what was going
down, you could have made a move.”
“And you’d have cut us down with the scattergun,” McCord said. “Some choice.”
“I didn’t, though, did I?” Farrell leaned on his car and got shakily to his feet.
He kept one arm posted on his car’s hood, the other held tight against his stomach.
“No,” the short cop agreed. “You didn’t shoot. Bet you’re wishing now you did.”
“You’re wrong,” Farrell corrected him, his breath gradually returning, enabling him
to speak in a semi-normal tone. He tried to stand fully erect but the pain in his
gut wouldn’t let him. “I don’t shoot cops; I’m one of the good guys. Hell, I even
returned your revolvers.”
“Listen to this guy,” the short cop sneered to McCord. “He thinks he did us a favor.”
“Some favor,” McCord chided. “We were laughingstocks. We got suspended for losing
our guns. Guys didn’t want to work a beat with us.”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” Farrell said, looking from one of his assailants to the
other. His head, though throbbing in anguish, was beginning to clear. “Yours didn’t
have to be a career-ender. That was your choice, not mine.”
“The hell it was. You fucked up my whole life.”
“Shit happens to all of us, McCord,” Farrell said. “We don’t always get to deal the
cards; we only get to play them. Your hand didn’t have to mean dealing yourself out
of a job; you did that all on your own. If it makes you feel better blaming me for
your failure, so be it. But I’m done getting fucked with by you, your dim-witted brother,
and your half-witted sidekick here.”
“Oh, yeah?” McCord said. “You think I’m the one fucking with you?”
“Damn straight. You’ve already beat the hell out of me; what more do you want? Do
I have to listen to your whining, too?”
“Do something about it,” McCord challenged. “Call your buddies at SFPD if you still
have any. Only thing is” – he showed his yellow teeth – “me and Tommy here have about
fifteen Alameda cops who’ll swear we’re playing poker at a bachelor party in El Cerrito
right now.”