The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  “This job is different,” Farrell told him. “It’s a criminal matter. Not some low-rent worker’s compensation fraud gig, or taking dirty pictures of a philandering husband. It’s lucrative, too.”

  Farrell withdrew a fat envelope from his suit pocket and tossed it on Kearns’ cardboard tabletop. Kearns picked it up and thumbed through the denominations.

  “There’s over ten thousand dollars in here,” he whistled.

  “Damn right,” Farrell said. “That’s half my retainer. It’s yours if you’re with me. There’ll be plenty more.”

  “You’re moving up in the world,” Kearns said, his eyebrows lifting. He tossed the money back on the table. “Sorry, Bob, but I still have to refuse.”

  “Why? What do you have against private investigation work? Or is it me?”

  “Of course it’s not you. I need more, that’s all. You forget you have a police pension coming in. PI work is too unstable; too hand-to-mouth. I need to build a future and put away something to fall back on. Private investigation, especially as a freelancer, doesn’t pay the bills consistently enough.” He gave Farrell a disdainful look. “Or justify the risk.”

  Farrell appraised Kearns, his eyes narrowing. “This is about Jennifer, isn’t it?”

  At Farrell’s mentioning his daughter’s name, Kearns’ stomach tightened. Since meeting her during the course of their hunt for Vernon Slocum, a day didn’t pass without him thinking of her.

  “Huh?” Kearns said, looking away and confirming it was. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, you redneck. You never were much of a liar.” He smacked himself on the forehead with his palm. “Of course; why didn’t I see it before? That’s why you’re busting your ass to get a college degree and a steady job. You don’t believe a girl like Jennifer would go for a guy like you if he was a self-employed private eye. Some detective I am; I should have smelled this months ago.”

  Kearns said nothing in reply, but his eyes told Farrell he was right. After a long pause, he said, “What do you want me to say? That you’re wrong?”

  “Hey, kid,” Farrell put his hand on Kearns’ shoulder. “I didn’t realize what was going on with you. I’m sorry.”

  Kearns’ shoulders slumped. “When we were trailing Slocum and I met your daughter, I thought she was something real special. Who wouldn’t? She’s one in a million. But it’s more than Jennifer. It’s the thought that somebody like her wouldn’t give a second look to a guy like me. Not where I am, and what I am, right now.”

  “I’m an idiot, Kevin. I forgot what walking hard-ons guys your age are.”

  “Jesus, Bob; that’s not what I meant.”

  “Of course it is,” Farrell corrected him. “I know how you young bucks think. Hormones dominate your world. When you get to my age and you start having feelings for a woman, it’s easier to keep your little head from controlling your big head. Don’t you remember what your drill sergeant taught you?”

  “My drill sergeant taught me a lot of things,” Kearns said. “Mostly four-letter words.”

  “He should have taught you ‘If you get the urge to marry, quell it. It’s much cheaper to simply find a woman you hate and buy her a house.’”

  “I seem to remember something along those lines in our barracks discussions,” Kearns said.

  “After two divorces,” Farrell said, “I’ve come to believe in the wisdom of those sage words. Most of the really important stuff a young man needs to know he can learn from a drill sergeant.”

  “I agree. And who said anything about marriage?”

  “Look, Kevin,” Farrell said. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re good enough for Jennifer; problem is, you don’t think you are. Besides” – he grinned – “if she turns out anything like her mother, you’ll be glad you dodged her.”

  “If you’re trying to console me, you’re failing,” Kearns said.

  “Never mind,” Farrell cut him off. “Would you at least consider my proposal?”

  “I already declined it.”

  “Not yet, you haven’t. Trust me; you’ll dig this job.”

  “All right, I’ll bite. Tell me about it.” Kearns sat back down on the bed. “But just because I’m listening to your pitch doesn’t mean I’m going back in with you.”

  “Fair enough. Do you remember last year when we had to go to federal court in San Francisco?”

  “How could I forget,” Kearns said. “I was afraid they were going to throw us in jail. You kept saying, ‘Relax, Kevin’, which, coming from you, made me even more scared.”

  “Very funny. Anyway, do you recall a pretty blond deputy DA from Alameda County who was present in the courtroom? Looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine?”

  “How could I forget her? Full of herself. Thought she was a real hard case. Great legs but a ball-buster. Had a major problem with you, if I recall.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about her?” Kearns asked.

  “Her name is Paige Callen. Somebody is stalking her. Attacked her on the beach in Alameda today. Cops got nothing. Looks like a preplanned thing; very personal.”

  “So how do you figure into this?”

  “Her father is Iron Gene Callen,” Farrell said. “That name mean anything to you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Hell yes. He’s retired now, and a widower, but in his day, he was the most powerful judge in Alameda County history. I’m talking old-school, political-machine powerful. Reagan tapped him for a cabinet post and he refused.”

  “Governor Reagan or President Reagan?”

  “Both. He’s also richer than a pharaoh, owns half the real estate in Alameda and San Leandro.”

  “He’s your client?”

  “Roger that,” Farrell said. “He wants me to track down the creep who’s stalking his daughter. And he wants her protected while I’m doing it. That’s where you come in.”

  Kearns squinted at Farrell. “No offense, but why does this Judge Callen guy want to hire you? If he’s the big shot you claim, why not commission one of the large PI firms?”

  “Valid question. I asked Judge Callen the same thing. He knows our track record. He wants the job done by a private investigator with a history of this type of manhunt. Someone who knows the territory. Someone discreet. Somebody who finishes what they start.”

  “Somebody not afraid to get his hands dirty?”

  “That could be part of it,” Farrell admitted.

  Kearns bit his lip. “He hired you because you bagged Vernon Slocum, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Farrell said flatly. “He did. And he’s willing to pay.”

  “Holy shit,” Kearns said. “I always knew you were crazy, but this is insane; even for you.”

  “It’s just another job, Kevin. Same as any other except it pays more, a lot more. I need your help.”

  “It’s not ‘just another job’. You’re being hired by the parent of a deputy DA who hates our guts, has the means to do something about it, and would like nothing more than to see you and me showering together in San Quentin every morning for the rest of our lives.”

  “Kevin,” Farrell persisted. “If you come in with me on this case, it’s not only money that’s going to be coming your way. Iron Gene Callen has serious juice. He’s the financial director for the Alameda County sheriff’s and district attorney’s reelection campaigns. One word from him and you get a no-questions-asked appointment as a sworn deputy to the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department. Iron Gene makes a phone call and you’re in. You could be in the next academy.”

  Kearns sat up straighter. Farrell knew he had his undivided attention.

  “You already spoke to him about me?”

  “Of course,” Farrell said. “I told him I needed to bring on a partner. I didn’t specifically name you, but I think the old bastard suspects who I was referring to. He’s read our entire file.”

  Kearns leaned closer to Farrell. “What would I h
ave to do?”

  “Nothing we haven’t done before. Mostly bodyguard duty. Shadow Paige Callen. Be prepared to intervene in the event of another attack. Help me track down the asshole stalking her.” Farrell’s voice lowered. “Convince him to leave Judge Callen’s daughter alone.”

  “Now I get it,” Kearns said. “That’s the real reason this Judge Callen guy didn’t hire a reputable private investigations firm. He wants this stalker’s ticket punched.”

  “Like I said, Kevin, you’re a born detective.”

  “Shit, Bob, even if I wanted to partner up with you again, I don’t even own a gun anymore. Or a permit to carry it concealed. My revolver is still locked away in the evidence room at the Omaha police department.”

  “Got that covered.” Farrell winked. He extracted a folded paper from his inside pocket. “I told you Iron Gene has juice, didn’t I? Fill this out and I’ll give it to the Judge tomorrow morning. You’ll have your CCW permit approved by tomorrow night.”

  Kearns accepted the form from Farrell. On examination, he found it to be a county application for a permit to carry a concealed weapon.

  “A bit of a presumption, wasn’t it?”

  “Not at all. I need you on this one, Kevin. We’re a team, you and me. We both know I can count on you in a pinch and then some. We belong together; like Holmes and Watson.”

  “More like Martin and Lewis. And I’m still unarmed.”

  “Not for long,” Farrell said smugly. He reached back into the pocket of his raincoat and withdrew a heavy parcel wrapped in an oiled cloth. He thrust it at Kearns.

  “Open it. Christmas came early.”

  Kearns peeled away the cloth to find a large-frame Smith & Wesson revolver with a four-inch barrel. The model number on the barrel read “58” and the caliber was .41 magnum. The weapon had a bit of the bluing worn off at the crown of the muzzle and cylinder, undoubtedly from holster wear, but had been well maintained and smelled of oil. Kearns opened the cylinder to verify the handgun’s unloaded status.

  “My old uniform duty gun before I made inspector. She shoots straight and hits hard.” Farrell handed Kearns a box of fifty hollow-point .41 magnum cartridges and a brown leather belt holster.

  Kearns hefted the big wheelgun. “If I get attacked by a charging rhinoceros, this ought to do the trick.”

  “What do you say? Can I count on your help?”

  “Give me a minute to think it over, will you? Last time I signed on with you, I got shot at, beat up, arrested, and carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

  “That was a fluke. Nothing like that is going to happen on this job. Trust me.”

  Kearns’ jaw dropped. “Trust you?”

  “All right,” Farrell said, showing his palms. “Poor choice of words.”

  “This judge who hired you, can he really get me appointed to the sheriff’s department, despite the Feds blackballing me?”

  “He can. He has the sheriff’s and DA’s ear.”

  “OK; against my better judgment, you’ve convinced me.” He took a deep breath. “I’m in.” Both men stood up and Kearns extended his hand. Farrell shook it triumphantly.

  “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to regret this,” Kearns said. “When do I start?”

  “How about now?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Paige ignored the furtive glances of the other gym patrons and concentrated on regulating her breathing and keeping a steady pace on the StairMaster machine. She realized the large-frame sunglasses she was wearing were out of place inside the health club, particularly before sunrise, but considered them less conspicuous than the purple, crescent-shaped bruise surrounding her left eye.

  She was listening to Madonna’s new album, Like a Prayer, through the earphones on her yellow Sony Walkman cassette player. The same earphones which had been ripped from her head by a masked man the day before.

  Paige had risen even earlier than usual, unable to sleep. Her night had been consumed by sweat-soaked dreams of the attack on the beach, and she’d finally given up on slumber entirely. She opted instead to be at the Harbor Bay health club near her condominium when its doors opened at 5.30am for a pre-dawn workout.

  Paige’s body ached, her shoulders and back especially, from being body-slammed to the beach the previous day. She might have skipped her daily workout entirely if not for her fierce determination to ignore the assault and get on with her life.

  As Paige pumped her legs up and down on the stair machine, she replayed the attack and its aftermath over and over again in her mind. She’d been racking her memory for a recollection of the raspy voice of her assailant, to no avail. Nothing about the man’s cigarette-scarred speech was remotely familiar, and she was certain if she had heard that distinct tone of voice before, she’d remember it. Especially after hearing the same voice again on the phone in her office yesterday afternoon.

  She’d dutifully reported the threatening phone call to Sergeant Wendt but rejected his immediate demand to come down to her office in person to interview her and take another statement. Paige had had enough of cops by yesterday afternoon, and responded to Wendt’s insistence by hanging up on him. She realized it was rude but didn’t care. She had a busy afternoon in court waiting for her and wasn’t afraid of offending the Alameda cops.

  Paige was well aware the Alameda cops nicknamed her “Ice Queen”, and not merely for her routine dismissal of certain officers’ constant sexual advances. She knew most of the cops felt she undercharged their cases, pled them away too readily, or failed to charge them at all without due consideration for the work they put into them. To Paige, unlike her father, what the cops thought of her mattered not in the least. She did her job professionally, correctly, and by the book, and if some facet of a case was improperly completed, it was usually at the law enforcement end of the transaction. Paige was not about to waste her office’s limited time and budget on go-nowhere, bullshit cases which would embarrass the DA and divert her from more pressing criminal matters that actually had a chance of successful prosecution.

  Many times over the past couple of years, an outraged beat cop or detective would storm into her office and demand an explanation for what they perceived as her dereliction of duty in failing to prosecute one of their cases.

  Each time Paige, would reply in the same manner. “I don’t make the rules,” she would remind the cop, “I just enforce them.” Then she would point out to the simmering officer what problems his case had that resulted in the failure to advance its prosecution. Often, the issue stemmed from investigative oversight, the overzealous cop’s bending of the rules, or just plain shoddy police work. Other times, political or financial considerations brought the prosecution to a halt; a harsh reality of working for an elected official who kept his job at the whim of the voting public.

  Paige figured she wasn’t in her line of work to make friends or secure close-knit relationships with members of the police community. She was there to prosecute criminal cases, when possible, and if the case was weak or poorly prepared, then her duty was to abort it before the case tainted the police agency’s reputation, besmirched the DA’s office, or unnecessarily added to the already immensely overburdened criminal court system.

  Sometimes, Paige wondered if her pathological adherence to following the rules was a reaction to her father’s pathological, and legendary, habit of bending them. She wasn’t sure.

  What she was sure of, was that it was nineteen eighty-nine; not nineteen fifty-nine. The criminal justice system she was part of had no place for backroom deals, kickbacks, and the shady political maneuvers of her father’s era. Paige Callen was determined that none of the still-whispered rumors of corruption that had plagued her father throughout his career were going to haunt her. Paige was going to do it by the book. When it came to her law career, nobody was ever going to be able to say she was her father’s daughter.

  Paige ran a forearm across her brow in an attempt to wipe away fatigue along with her sweat. She’d spent last evening at home i
n her condo watching television in the hopes she could unwind and divert her thoughts from the day’s stark events. Not even Major Dad, 21 Jump Street, or Murphy Brown could distract her from thinking about what had occurred on the Alameda shoreline. And not even aspirin and a long, hot bath diminished the accumulation of aches and bruises left by her attacker. Before finally turning in for a fitful night’s sleep, she checked to make sure her alarm was in working order and left the lights on in the hallway, something she had not done since childhood.

  Whatever hope Paige held out that her attacker wouldn’t return faded the instant she’d heard his voice over the phone. And Sergeant Wendt’s repeated reminders to be careful echoed in her mind, convincing her that she should heed the police detective’s advice.

  Still, a part of her refused to acknowledge further danger from the attacker and persisted in trying to rationalize away the mounting fear that nagged at her consciousness. This was the educated, rational, in-control component of her personality, and its voice was a potent one. As Paige climbed up and down on the StairMaster, in the brightly lit and increasingly crowded health club, that voice, and the logical reasoning behind it, appeared to have the power to overcome the fear she’d experienced since the assault.

  But when Paige was alone, like last night, waking to every tiny sound, real or imagined, that rational, in-control voice became a tiny squeak.

  This morning, however, refreshed by exercise and the light of day, Paige found her confidence returning. She would be careful, as Sergeant Wendt had admonished. She wouldn’t give her stalker a chance. She would remain in public. She would work out at the health club and avoid the beachfront jogs; at least for now. She would notify the police of anything unusual or out of the ordinary. She wasn’t going to let herself become a frightened schoolgirl peering behind the closet door for the boogieman. She was an experienced criminal prosecutor, well versed in the world of crime and with no intention of becoming like so many of the victims she dealt with every day in court.

  Or so she hoped.