The Fourth Motive
Page 2
In truth, the Judge wasn’t confident. A lifetime of watching criminals escape justice on a daily basis had left him with no illusions about what the police could do to protect his daughter.
Wendt was immediately on guard. He knew Judge Callen’s reputation too well to swallow the sudden switch from challenge to condescension, and he could see the plotting lights in the older man’s eyes when he spoke. The detective sergeant sympathized; if someone threatened one of his kids, he’d do anything he could, the law be damned, to keep them safe. But he had a job to do, and keeping the victim’s father from interfering in a felony investigation was part of it.
“I know what you’re thinking, Your Honor,” he said. “You need to leave this to us. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I understand perfectly.” The Judge stood up. “Don’t let me keep you from your work, Sergeant. Thank you for explaining the status of the case to me.”
Wendt stood also. “I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter. Know that we’ll be giving this case top priority. If there is anything I can do for you–”
“Actually, there is,” the Judge cut him off. “I’d like to be kept apprised of the investigation as it progresses. Say, a daily phone call?”
Wendt knew he didn’t have the power to refuse the Judge’s request. He was more than aware his police chief and Callen were thick as thieves, and even if he were to decline to reveal the details of the investigation, the well-connected old judge could easily obtain the information from any number of other sources within the department. At least if the daily report to Callen was coming from him, Wendt could edit the information as needed.
“Of course. Call me anytime.” He handed the Judge one of his business cards.
Judge Callen started for the door. With some effort, he pivoted on his cane and turned back to the Alameda detective.
“I have one more question, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Wendt replied warily.
“Do you believe, professionally or personally, that the attack on my daughter today is a ‘one-time deal’ as you said?”
Wendt studied his fingernails for a moment before answering.
“No, Your Honor. He’ll be back.”
“I thought the same. Good day, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER 3
Ray Cowell cursed loudly and slammed his fist into the dashboard of his Hyundai sedan as the flashing blue lights of an Alameda police motorcycle reflected in his rearview mirror. He braked sharply and checked his speedometer, which read an unpleasant forty-four miles per hour. Ray pulled to the curb and eased his car to a halt.
The motorcycle, a big Harley-Davidson, pulled in behind his car and its rider dismounted. Ray glanced nervously at the gym bag sitting innocently on the passenger seat next to him. The motorcycle officer, a broad-shouldered Caucasian with a light complexion, was almost at his door.
“Good morning, sir. May I see your driver’s license and registration, please?”
Reaching for his wallet, Ray replied, “Certainly, Officer. Did I do something wrong?”
Accepting the license, the cop ignored Ray’s question until he had ensured the image adorning the document matched the face of the car’s driver.
“I stopped you for speeding, Sir. Do you know how fast you were going?”
“I was only doing twenty-five, Officer. That’s the speed limit here on Lincoln Avenue. I know because I take this route every day to work.”
“Sir, I clocked you on radar at over forty miles per hour. I’m going to have to issue you a citation. Please wait here.”
Ray felt his blood begin to boil. As the motorcycle cop turned to walk back to his bike to write the ticket, Ray got out of his car.
“Hey, Officer, wait a minute…–”
The cop whirled to face Ray with a speed that startled him.
“Sir, I told you to remain in your vehicle. It’s for your own safety and mine.”
The cop strode from Ray to his Harley, opened the saddlebag, and brought out a black leather citation book. He began to write.
“Officer,” Ray called out, his voice rising. “I wasn’t speeding. This is total bullshit. Why don’t you fill your quota with somebody who deserves a ticket? You only pulled me over because I’m a white guy and have the money to pay the fine. Why don’t you hassle one of the niggers or Mexicans? Why are you picking on me?”
The cop ignored the racist jab and continued scrawling his citation. Ray wouldn’t let it go.
“That’s right. You heard me. I know how gutless you cops are. Too afraid to pull over a nigger or a car full of Mexicans, so you hammer the law-abiding taxpayer. You only pulled me over because I’m white,” he repeated.
“That’s odd,” the cop replied sarcastically. “My radar gun must be malfunctioning. I had it set on ‘Asian’.” He made an elaborate gesture of picking up his radar gun and examining it. “My mistake; the radar gun is working fine.” He looked directly at Ray. “It was set on ‘Asshole’.”
Ray fumed. He took several steps towards the officer. The cop set the radar gun and his citation book down on the motorcycle seat.
“I already told you to remain in your car.”
“It’s a free country. I’ll stand wherever I want.” Ray’s entire body was pulsing with fury. He folded his arms and glared at the cop.
The Alameda cop strode forcefully up to Ray. Ray suddenly noticed that while the cop was about his height of five-foot-ten-inches, he was at least thirty pounds heavier than Ray’s one hundred and fifty-five pounds. Most of it looked like muscle.
“You’re right; it’s a free country,” the cop said, “and you can stand wherever you want. But if you take one more step closer to me, you’re going to be enjoying your freedom in the hospital. And then jail. Do I make myself clear?”
Ray was trembling with rage but held his tongue. The last thing he needed was to get arrested. It had been such a good day until now, and he didn’t want to ruin it with his temper. His temper was always getting the best of him; that’s what his ex-girlfriend Maritay used to say.
“I’m sorry, Officer,” Ray said, his tone calmer. “I’m upset. I think you’re making a mistake on my speed. I just went to court last month on another bogus ticket one of your buddies gave me.”
The cop finished his citation and extended the book and a pen to Ray.
“Press hard; you’re making three copies. If I’ve made a mistake, we can hash it out in court. This isn’t the time or the place.”
“You’re right,” Ray said, signing the ticket with a flourish. “I’ll see you in court. I want your name and badge number.”
The cop peeled off the yellow copy of the citation and handed it to Ray. “My name and badge number are already on the ticket. Have a nice day.” He walked backwards to his motorcycle, keeping Ray in sight.
“You have a nice day too, Officer,” Ray said. Under his breath, he muttered, “I hope you crash your motorcycle and get crippled for life.”
The cop grinned and fired up his Harley. Apparently, he had heard Ray’s muttering. He kicked his bike into gear and sped off.
Ray stood in the street and clenched his fists as the motorcycle roared away. He crushed the ticket into a ball in his hand and got back into his car, slamming the door.
After several minutes, Ray was calm enough to drive. Making sure to remain at the speed limit, he continued west on Lincoln Avenue and then north on Constitution Way, which took him into the Posey Tube.
Once through the Tube and into Oakland, Ray guided his Hyundai west through the metro traffic until he reached the Port of Oakland complex. He parked in the Maersk Shipping parking lot on Ferry Street. As he got out of his car, he grabbed the gym bag from the passenger seat.
Opening the trunk, he tossed the half-open gym bag in amongst the spare tire and assorted tools. A small amount of sand was leaking from the partially-zipped bag. Ray took a moment to zip the bag fully closed, cursing as the ski mask inside briefly fouled the zipper.
It was just Ray’s luck that his closest cubicle neighbor was constantly inflicting his musical choices on the office via a cheap clock radio on his desk. This morning, as if the workday weren’t already going badly enough, Ray was being subjected to the annoying warbles of Terence Trent D’Arby. Ray despised today’s top 40, MTV video crap. His preference was for the Sixties folk music of his youth on the oldies station.
“Morning, Ray. Boss already noticed you’re late. Thought I’d warn you. Good luck with an excuse.”
Ray lit a cigarette from a pack in his desk drawer, and extended his middle finger as his co-worker turned his head. When he was sure the unwelcome intruder had gone for good, he removed a piece of typing paper from inside his desk, carefully using his handkerchief to prevent leaving any fingerprints. He inserted the paper into his typewriter. Still using the handkerchief, he produced a plain white business-sized envelope and placed it next to the typewriter. He began typing.
It had been a good day. Despite that prick of a cop and a speeding ticket, it had been a splendid day. And it was shaping up to be a damned good week. Ray would make certain of that. This week would be one to remember.
One for the books.
CHAPTER 4
Paige came downstairs clad in a pair of jeans and a sweater dug out from the closet in her old room. Her hair was still damp, and she’d tied it up with a wide band taken from a collection of hair accessories she had left over from her high school days. The hairband did an adequate job of concealing the bald patch over her left ear created by the ER doctor when she shaved away her locks to sew the gash there. The hairband, coupled with her lack of makeup, gave Paige the appearance of looking much younger than her twenty-eight years.
The Judge was seated in the kitchen and looked up when he saw Paige. A mostly empty glass of scotch was on the table in front of him next to a just-opened bottle of Dewar’s. He stood when she entered.
“Sometimes,” he said, “you are the spitting image of your mother.”
“It’s the hairband, Dad,” Paige said. Her nose wrinkled when she saw the bottle.
“Maybe it adds to the effect,” he said, sitting down again, “but it’s still true. You look more like I remember your mother every day. Can I pour you a drink? Might do you good.”
Paige sat down. “You know I don’t drink very often; especially on workdays.”
Judge Callen stiffened. “You’re not going to work today; I forbid it.”
“I have a caseload, Dad,” she said, consciously tempering her reply. Paige hated it when her father patronized her with his courtroom tone. “I’ve already missed a preliminary hearing this morning, and the afternoon’s booked solid.”
“Surely after what happened this morning you can take the afternoon off? My God, you were–”
“It’s not a big deal,” she interrupted her father. “I’m OK. I’ve handled far worse crimes than this one.”
“Horseshit,” he countered. “You were the victim today, not an impassive third party processing the victim through court. There’s a difference.”
Paige struggled to maintain her cool. Her body ached, her head hurt, and she was still rattled from the attack. She didn’t need another argument with her father on top of it all.
“That lunatic is still out there,” the Judge went on. “Maybe he’ll be at the courthouse, waiting for you there? Maybe he’s been following you for some time? He called you by name; that’s what the detective said. I’m worried.”
Paige could indeed see concern behind her father’s eyes. She knew him as an aloof, impassive personality who prided himself on his gruff, professional demeanor. It was said of Judge Callen that he once sentenced a man to the gas chamber and ordered the bailiff to bring donuts and coffee in the same breath.
Yet Paige noticed since her mother’s death two years ago and his subsequent retirement, the Judge seemed increasingly frail. More fatherly and less the imposing figure of discipline and propriety who had ruled her life as firmly as his courtroom.
“Dad, this guy is just some kind of a nut. I’ll probably never hear from him again. Anyway, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a lowlife thug scare me. I’m not afraid of this jerk.”
Even as she spoke, she knew she was lying. She had been terrified beyond anything she’d ever experienced before and would be looking over her shoulder for a long time to come.
“Besides,” Paige said with a certainty she didn’t feel, “I’m confident APD will identify and arrest him soon.”
The Judge’s brow furrowed in doubt. “Who are you kidding? The cops don’t have squat, and you of all people should know it. For this creep to get caught would take one of three things. One, he’ll turn himself in. Not likely. Two, somebody else will turn him in. Possible, but still highly unlikely. Three, he’ll get caught in the act. Assuming someone is there to catch him at the time of the attack, which is of course at his leisure and discretion. And further assuming he is caught in the act before doing you harm.”
“So what do you want me to do? Dig a hole and hide in it? Move to Tibet?”
“One thing you could do,” the Judge said, averting his eyes, “is move back here to the house. You’d be safer here where I could keep an eye on you.”
“I’m not moving back home, Dad. How many times do we have to go over this?”
Ever since the death of her mother, the Judge had been trying to entice Paige into moving back into the mansion. She was currently residing in a condominium on Bay Farm Island, adjacent to the Harbor Bay health club. Judge Callen never tired of dropping hints that the house was too big for him to maintain, even with Mrs Reyes, his housekeeper, coming every other day. And though Paige visited her father for lunch at least once a week, he never relented in his not-so-subtle demands for more of her time.
“You know I enjoy spending time with you here at the house. But I have my own life. I need my space.”
Paige couldn’t believe her own ears. She sounded like a college freshman ditching her first boyfriend, instead of a nearly thirty year-old deputy district attorney working for one of the largest counties in California.
The Judge stared forlornly at his feet. Paige stood, wrapped her arms around him, and gave him a hug. “Dad, I love you. And I know you believe you’re looking out for my best interests. But I’m a big girl now; I can handle this.”
Judge Callen grinned, a warm glow spreading across his craggy features. He adored his daughter Paige and, despite his best efforts, could not restrain himself from using every opportunity to convince her to move back home with him. He knew it was a flagrant indicator of old age but did it nonetheless.
Paige disentangled herself from her father. “I’ve got to get to the office. I’ll barely have time to run home and change before lunch is over.”
“I wish you’d reconsider taking the day off.”
“Bye, Dad,” she said, ignoring his question and giving him a peck on the cheek. She started for the door. “I’ll need to borrow your car; mine’s still at the beach. I’ll bring it back tonight.”
“Keep it as long as you like,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Paige,” the Judge said, “I want you to know I love you. I’d do anything to ensure your safety. Anything.”
Paige turned back to her father, puzzled at the odd look on his face. She couldn’t remember ever seeing that expression before, and it momentarily alarmed her.
“Of course I know you love me. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
The Judge waited until he heard his Mercedes pull out of the garage, and the garage door close, before retrieving his cane. He lumbered to his study and sat down behind his large mahogany desk. There
he opened the top drawer and withdrew a worn and elegantly embossed address book. Putting on a pair of reading glasses extracted from his pocket, he thumbed through the book until he found the number he was seeking. He reached for the phone on the desk and dialed a series of numbers.
“Bayfront Realty,” a woman’s voice answered. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Sandy Altman, please.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr Altman is in a conference. May I take a message?”
“Yes. Could you relay to Mr Altman that Judge Callen called? I need to speak with him; it’s rather urgent.”
“Please hold,” the woman’s voice said. “I’ll see if Mr Altman can be interrupted.”
A moment later another voice came on the line. “Gene? That you?”
“Yes, Sandy, it’s me. If I called at a bad time–”
“Hell no, Gene. I’ve instructed my secretary to tell everybody I’m always in a conference; that way, I can screen the deadbeats. What can I do for you?”
“Sandy, I have a favor to ask. It’s personal and important.”
“You name it; heaven knows I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing,” the Judge replied. “But I have a serious problem. Somebody is stalking Paige. She was attacked this morning.”
“Oh my God; is she all right?”
“She’s all right for now, but this stalker is a real psychopath. He beat her up and shot her in the head with some kind of a toy gun. She believed at the time it was a real gun and she was going to be executed.”
“Paige must have been petrified,” Altman said. “Was it a random thing?”
“Apparently not. The bastard called her by name and said something menacing about meeting again.”
“The cops have any idea who this dude is?” Altman asked.
“Not a clue.” The Judge paused, carefully choosing his next words. “Sandy, I can’t sit on my hands waiting for the police. We both know how that usually works out. Not when Paige’s life is at stake.”