The Fourth Motive (42 page)

“For a part-time detective,” Kearns said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 51

 

 

Sergeant Randy Wendt walked out of the house, tucking in his shirt. His hair was disheveled
and his suit coat and tie were slung over the crook of his arm. He didn’t see Farrell
walk up behind him. Farrell had a manila envelope in his left hand, and his right
was tucked inside the pocket of his raincoat.

“Good morning, Sergeant Wendt,” he exclaimed loudly.

Startled, Wendt turned around.

“Bob Farrell,” he said with a grunt. His eyes darted briefly back to the house. “What
the fuck do you want?”

“Not very friendly today, are we?”

“Why should I be? I’ve got a dead cop on my hands, thanks to you.”

“How is that my fault?”

“If you and your idiot sidekick had called us when you first learned who Ray Cowell
was, maybe McCord would still be alive.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Farrell said. “Don’t blame me for your incompetence.
It isn’t my fault we discovered his identity first. Besides, if we’d called the cops,
you’d have pissed away days building probable cause, writing warrants, and getting
permission from bureaucrats. Paige Callen and her father would be dead alongside McCord
and Deputy White.”

“What do you care? You got paid, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Farrell gloated. “Handsomely, too. I could buy a small Caribbean island with
what the Judge paid me.”

Wendt glared at Farrell. “I’m busy,” he said. “I’ve got things to do. McCord’s funeral
is tomorrow.”

“The funeral is at Saint Joseph’s Basilica in Alameda, isn’t it?”

“Don’t tell me you plan on attending?” Wendt said. “There was no love lost between
you and McCord.”

“That depends on you,” Farrell said.

“On me?”

“Here you go, Sergeant.” He handed Wendt the manila envelope. “I brought you a present.”

“What’s this?”

“You weren’t being honest with me,” Farrell said as Wendt accepted the envelope. “You
told me you didn’t know Officer McCord very well. I believe you said, ‘We don’t swing
in the same circles’. You lied to me, Sergeant Wendt.”

“Says who?”

“Says the facts; I checked. I’m a detective, remember?”

“You don’t know shit,” Wendt challenged. But his eyes looked worried.

“I know you were his primary training officer and the best man at his wedding.”

“Big fucking deal. I trained a lot of new recruits. And you know yourself cops get
married and divorced like other people buy cars. I’ve been the best man at so many
weddings, I could be ordained.”

“I know some other things, too,” Farrell went on. “I know you were the one who strong-armed
Kevin Kearns’ landlord into evicting him. And I know it was you who set me up for
the stomping I took in the garage at my apartment in San Francisco. You invited me
for a drink to give Joe McCord time to stage his brother and his pal Lerner in my
garage. And when I left the bar too soon, you had me pulled over to buy time for the
setup.”

A wicked smile etched across Wendt’s face. “Even if I did, you can’t prove anything.”

“I don’t have to; I’m not a court of law. Take a look in the envelope, why don’t you?”

Wendt opened the envelope. It was full of 8x10 high-resolution photographs. Sergeant
Randy Wendt was depicted in every one of them.

“I initially thought it was McCord who set me up,” Farrell said. “So I went to his
house in Pinole to begin a tail to get some dirt on him; I wanted some leverage to
make him leave me alone. But the funniest thing happened; not five minutes after he
left for work, you showed up. You went into his house and you stayed there for almost
two hours.”

Wendt’s face turned red. He sifted through the pictures. Farrell went on.

“You’ll notice from the first several pictures,” Farrell pointed out, “you’re wearing
your suit when you go in. But when you come out, you’re putting on your shirt, just
like today.” He grinned. “I believe we’re standing in front of the late Officer McCord’s
house right now, aren’t we?”

Wendt’s face went from red to white.

“Those last few pictures, on the bottom of the stack,” Farrell explained, “the ones
where you’re playing naked leapfrog with McCord’s chubby wife? I took those through
the window. You should tell her to close the blinds, Randy; you never can tell who’s
watching.” His grin widened. “With a telephoto lens.”

Wendt finally shuffled through the stack to the last photograph. His hand trembled
slightly when he held it.

“That last one I took of your wife and kids in Antioch,” Farrell said. “To prove that
I know where you live.”

“You son of a bitch,” Wendt snarled. He dropped the pictures and threw his right fist
at Farrell’s head.

Farrell knew the punch was coming before Wendt did, and his hand darted out from his
pocket. He was wielding the leather sap McCord’s ex-cop brother had used on him. Farrell
slammed the blackjack against the inside of Wendt’s right forearm, and then his left,
as he swung punches. Both of the detective sergeant’s arms fell limply to his sides.
He gasped in pain.

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 reminded him.
“Like Cisco and Pancho.”

“More like Dracula and Igor,” Kearns muttered.

“Shut up and drink your beer.”