The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  The sound of the revolver was very loud, and the bullet struck ski-mask full in the chest. He staggered back, reeling. To Paige’s astonishment, however, he not only didn’t fall but recovered enough to raise his own gun and point it at the blond man who had just shot him.

  Blondie fired once more, from the hip, as he leaped over the hood of Paige’s Saab. Ski-mask opened fire and sent a torrent of bullets in his direction. The sound of the shots from ski-mask’s gun weren’t as loud as the revolver’s, but there were a lot more of them. She lost count of the gunshots as round after round tore into the chassis of her wrecked car. She didn’t know how many times ski-mask fired, but it seemed like a hundred. The bullets shattered what was left of her car’s windshield and side windows, raining a shower of glass particles onto the pavement.

  The next thing she saw was ski-mask running for his car, which still had its engine running. She watched as he ducked into the open driver’s door, where only a moment before he’d been trying to drag her inert body. Her attacker was making his escape.

  What relief Paige may have felt at her assailant’s exit was quickly drowned in a tide of fear as she realized her legs lay in the path of one of the Mercury’s wheels. With a Herculean effort, she willed her paralyzed body to roll and scooted clear of the tires just as the blue sedan gained traction and sped away.

  As the car fled, the blond man emerged from behind her smashed and bullet-riddled Saab and assumed a two-handed shooting stance. He fired four times at the fleeing blue vehicle with no apparent effect.

  Paige felt waves of pain and dizziness flood over her, and her vision blurred. She felt hands again on her shoulders. The fuzzy contours of the blond man’s face filled the void in front of her.

  “Relax,” a faraway vice soothed. “You’re safe now.”

  After hearing his voice, Paige was even more certain she’d previously encountered the man somewhere and was frustrated she couldn’t recall where or when. Before she could ponder further on his identity, darkness enveloped her.

  CHAPTER 15

  Paige walked to her father’s door, ignoring Sergeant Wendt, who followed silently behind her. She hadn’t spoken a word to him in over an hour. She paid no attention to the blood-red Oldsmobile parked on the curb across the street from the house.

  Wendt had driven Paige to her father’s from the Alameda hospital emergency room in his unmarked police sedan. It was her second visit to the facility in as many days; she was taken there by ambulance from the scene of the crash and attempted kidnapping. Although she was still a bit woozy from the repeated stings of the stun gun, and now had an abrasion on her nose and forehead to add to the black eye and stitches, she was otherwise unhurt.

  Sergeant Wendt had arrived at the emergency room shortly after Paige. As she was being treated, he barraged her with questions until he realized her angry silence was all he was going to get for answers.

  Mrs Reyes’ eyes widened when she opened the door.

  “Paige–”

  “It’s all right, Mrs Reyes,” Paige said, giving the woman a hug. “It looks worse than it is.” She was all too aware of her battered and scruffy appearance.

  “Come inside,” the housekeeper insisted, taking Paige by the arm. “Your father is waiting for you.”

  Instead of allowing Mrs Reyes to lead her into the house, Paige stopped at the base of the staircase. “Dad will have to wait. I feel like hell. I need a hot shower and to put on some clean clothes.” She looked over her shoulder and gave Wendt a contemptuous look. “You can take Sergeant Wendt to see Dad, though; I’m sure he can’t wait to give his report.”

  Wendt shook his head but said nothing. Paige went upstairs. Mrs Reyes led the police sergeant into the study.

  Judge Callen was sitting across from Bob Farrell. Farrell was smoking and both men had drinks, even though it was not yet noon. Wendt’s eyebrows rose. Farrell stood up.

  “Hello, Sergeant Wendt,” Judge Callen said. “Allow me to introduce–”

  Wendt cut him off. “I know who he is.”

  Callen looked quizzically from Wendt to Farrell. “We’ve met,” Farrell acknowledged. “How are you, Randy?”

  “What the hell is he doing here?” Wendt demanded, ignoring Farrell’s greeting.

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant Wendt,” Judge Callen said in a mock tone. “I didn’t realize my guests required your approval.”

  “You know what I mean,” Wendt snapped.

  “No, Sergeant Wendt, I don’t. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  Wendt put his hands on his hips. Farrell smiled like a Cheshire cat and exhaled smoke through his nostrils. The Alameda detective sergeant took a deep breath and counted to ten before answering. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  “Your Honor, I can only assume if this con man is in your parlor, you’re thinking of hiring him. I’d heard he was passing himself off as a legitimate private investigator. All I can tell you is hiring Robert Farrell would be a mistake.” He looked directly at Farrell. “A big mistake.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” Farrell said.

  “Then I’ve already made it,” Callen said. “Mister Farrell is currently in my employ.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Wendt told the Judge.

  “Arguably,” Callen responded, “neither do you.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, Sergeant, that while I appreciate the hard work you and the other members of your department are expending to protect my daughter and apprehend her stalker, I felt a little more expertise was called for. I hired Mister Farrell to consult in the matter.”

  “Expertise?” Wendt pointed an accusing thumb at Farrell. “Him?”

  “Yes,” Callen said. “Mister Farrell is uniquely qualified to assist in this investigation. You have to admit, this crime appears to be a bit outside your department’s capabilities.”

  “I don’t have to admit any such thing,” Wendt said. “And if you let him get anywhere near this investigation, you’d better be prepared for the worst.”

  “Could it get much worse?” Farrell spoke up. “From what I hear, during the past twenty-four hours, the Judge’s daughter has been stalked, assaulted, potentially raped and murdered, threatened, harassed by phone at her place of employment, burned out of her home, rammed in her car, assaulted again, and nearly kidnapped. And you think I’m going to fuck up your investigation? At this rate, she’ll be dead and buried by sundown.”

  Wendt’s face reddened.

  “Mister Farrell’s worth has already proven invaluable,” Judge Callen said.

  “How’s that possible?” Wendt asked incredulously.

  “Why do you think the Judge’s daughter isn’t a hostage or dead right now?” Farrell inquired.

  “No thanks to you; a citizen intervened,” Wendt answered, his suspicion aroused by the insinuation in Farrell’s question. “A passing motorist came to her aid. Paige got lucky.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Farrell said. “Who was this citizen?”

  “We don’t know yet. He’s refusing to answer questions until he gets an attorney. We’re still working on it. I’ve been with Paige at the hospital.”

  “By the way, thank you for phoning me from the emergency room and letting me know what happened and that Paige was all right,” Judge Callen said. “I’m grateful.”

  “My pleasure,” Wendt said. “As far as the identity of the motorist who rescued Paige, we’ll know who he is soon enough. When I called the station from the ER, he was just getting booked. Apparently, he’s refused to give his name and was carrying no identification. His car wasn’t registered to him, either; it was a rental. We’ll get his fingerprints back from the FBI within a few hours. Why do you want to know?”

  “I already know who he is,” Farrell grinned. “Have you run the serial number on his gun yet?”

  Wendt tilted his head. “How did you know he had a gun?”

  Farrell’s grin widened.
/>   “May I use your phone?” Wendt asked.

  “Be my guest,” Callen offered, pointing to the phone on his desk with his cane. Wendt picked up the phone and dialed. After a moment’s hushed conversation, he hung up. He turned to face Farrell and the Judge. The redness in his face was replaced by bemusement.

  “His gun is registered to you,” the sergeant said.

  “That is correct,” Farrell said.

  “You put a tail on Paige, didn’t you?”

  “Correct again.”

  Sergeant Wendt’s shoulders slumped. “How long?”

  “Since last night.”

  “You should have told me, Your Honor,” Wendt said.

  “I could have,” Callen said. “I felt it best to be discreet. Turns out I was right.”

  Wendt’s disapproving gaze bounced between Judge Callen and Farrell, then faded to resignation. “I tried to do the same thing myself. Yesterday afternoon, after Paige got that crank call at work, I requested approval from my command staff to authorize overtime for a couple of our SWAT guys to start shadowing her,” he said. “I was hoping to get an answer later today after the command staff meeting.” He rubbed the back of this neck. “The SWAT commander was already drawing up an operations plan.”

  “Unfortunately,” Farrell said, “while your department was making plans, Ms. Callen’s stalker was executing his.” He took a final drag on his smoke and put it out in an ornate marble ashtray.

  “As I already noted,” Callen said, “I appreciate the effort you and your department are expending on Paige’s behalf. But quite frankly, as Mister Farrell has clearly demonstrated by his contribution to the case, your efforts are not enough. Had I not retained him, Paige would at this very moment be a captive” – his voice hardened – “or worse.”

  “My lieutenant is going to be really pissed,” Wendt muttered.

  “He shouldn’t be,” Callen said. “One would think your department would welcome any additional help.”

  “Normally they might, but not from you,” Wendt said, addressing Farrell. “You’re not very popular among Alameda cops.” He gave Farrell a sideways look. “There are a few cops I work with, and one ex-cop in particular, you would be well-advised to avoid.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Farrell’s smile faded.

  “Not at all. Giving some friendly advice.”

  “That’s what you call friendly?”

  “What do you expect?” Wendt said. “You took a couple of our cops hostage; you even relieved them of their guns. Did you think they were going to forgive and forget? And then, thanks to some hush-hush deal you worked out with the Feds, you didn’t get held to answer for it. One of those cops was never the same. He quit the force not long after your little escapade. Fell into the bottle, lost his family; the whole nine yards. He still has friends on the force. Friends you probably wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, Mister Farrell.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” Farrell said, “but I’m not sorry for what I did. If I hadn’t made that play, a seven year-old Alameda girl would be dead.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Wendt countered. “I was the poor bastard who was stuck investigating your mess: the shooting gallery at the Ballantine home, the car chase and crash, and the kidnapping of two uniformed Alameda cops at gunpoint. You didn’t have to play it like the lone ranger. If you had called us in the beginning–”

  “Kirsten Ballantine would be dead,” Farrell finished for him. “You would have bollixed it up just like you did protecting the Judge’s daughter today. Cops would have swarmed all over the neighborhood, and Slocum would have smelled them a mile away. It’s not your fault, Randy; that’s just the way it is. Cops have to follow rules. Bad guys don’t. I know; I was a cop for thirty years, remember?”

  “That’s a load of crap,” Wendt said.

  “That’s a fact.” Farrell extracted another unfiltered Camel from an inside pocket and lit it with his worn Zippo.

  “Gentlemen,” the Judge interceded. “The past is gone. I suggest we put our differences aside and focus on keeping my daughter safe. We still need to identify and apprehend the man determined to hurt her.”

  “I’m for that,” Farrell agreed. “What do you say, Randy? We don’t have to be at each other’s throats. And we both want the same thing.”

  “My captain’s going to go apeshit when he finds out you’re anywhere near this case.”

  “Let me handle that,” Judge Callen said. “I already have a message in to your chief. I expect a return call at any moment.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Wendt asked.

  “Not really,” Callen told him. “I’ve employed Mister Farrell, and I will continue to do so until Paige’s stalker is stopped. I’m perfectly within my rights to obtain an outside consultant. I don’t plan on interfering with your official investigation.”

  “You have the right, and the juice, to do whatever you want. But that doesn’t mean my fellow cops are going to like it.”

  “I don’t care if I ruffle a few blue feathers, sergeant. I’d rather be loathed by the cops and have Paige safe, than be toasted at the policeman’s ball and bury my daughter.”

  Wendt had no answer to that. “What about him?” he finally said, directing his thumb at Farrell again.

  “What about him? As I see it, you’re both working to achieve the same goal.”

  “I’m not so sure we are,” Wendt said. “My methods are legal.”

  “Maybe so,” Farrell reminded him, exhaling smoke. “But my methods get results.” Wendt again said nothing in reply.

  “What can you tell me about what happened this morning, Sergeant?” Callen asked Wendt, deftly changing the subject.

  “I’m not comfortable discussing details of an ongoing investigation in front of him.”

  “I thought your chief had issued you a directive to keep me informed?” Callen said.

  “That’s right, to keep you informed. Not him.”

  “Anything you can say to me, Sergeant Wendt, you may say in front of Mister Farrell. He’s acting as my agent. If you refuse, I’ll only relay your report to him later myself. I’ve already briefed Mister Farrell on the preliminary information you provided from the hospital about what happened to Paige this morning. Let’s try to be adults, shall we?”

  “I should have listened to my mother,” Wendt said. “She wanted me to become a realtor.”

  “Please sit down,” the Judge said in his paternal voice.

  Wendt relented and took a chair. Farrell resumed his seat. “May I offer you something?” the Judge asked the Alameda cop. “A soft drink? I’d offer something stronger, but you’re on duty. As you can see, Mister Farrell and I aren’t impeded by such limitations.”

  “One of the perks of being a private consultant,” Farrell teased, raising his glass.

  “No thanks,” Wendt said wearily, rolling his eyes at Farrell. “One of us should probably remain sober.”

  “Do we know any more about this man after this morning’s attack?” Callen asked.

  “Yes,” Wendt answered. “We know he’s put some effort into this. He knew where Paige lived. Knew her routine. He knew what kind of alarm system she uses and how to defeat it. He knew how to break in quietly.”

  “That’s helpful,” Farrell commented.

  “How so?” Callen asked.

  “It tells us something about him. Gives us some insight into his motive.”

  “Go on,” the Judge prompted.

  “This guy is smart. He’s motivated. Relentless. He’s executing a very elaborate plan. He’s put a high degree of thought into this operation. He’s no goofball who strikes only during the full moon, or some other irrational motive; he’s methodical.”

  “I’m not sure I agree,” Wendt said. “He was pretty reckless today. He damned near got caught during the attempted kidnapping. He tried to pull it off in the middle of a busy street at the height of the morning commute. I wouldn’t call trying to kidnap a woman in broad daylight in front of doz
ens of witnesses very smart. That’s what I’d call impulsive and reckless.”

  “It was neither reckless nor impulsive,” Farrell said. “It was actually quite clever. His tactic of hitting Paige immediately after she’d left the ruins of her burned-out condo was a bold but sound strategy. He struck when she was psychologically vulnerable.”

  “What do you mean by psychologically vulnerable?” the Judge asked.

  “People generally have an innate sense of timing,” Farrell said. “It’s how we make order of the world. If a guy gets into an automobile accident, psychologically, he might feel he’s immune to another car crash for a while. Like he’s met his quota of bad luck. Same thing if he catches a cold; he’s just as likely to catch another a week after getting over the first one, but mentally he feels like he’s somehow built up an immunity.”

  “As if he’s already had his ration of bad fortune,” Callen said.

  “Right.”

  “How does this apply to my daughter’s stalker?”

  “When I was in Vietnam,” Farrell continued, “we learned that the most effective time to counterattack was just after we’d been hit, especially if the attack had been an effective one. Psychologically, the attackers feel it’s unlikely a just-defeated adversary will mount a counterstrike. It’s called ‘initiative’. They don’t expect it. That’s what happened to your daughter today.” Farrell punctuated his conversation with a deep drag on his smoke. “When she drove away from the wreck of her condominium, even though she was distracted and upset, I’ll bet the last thing she was thinking about was that she’d be attacked again a few minutes later in broad daylight, on a busy street, on the way to her father’s house only a few miles away.”

  “Paige’s guard was lowered deliberately? Is that what you’re saying?” Callen posed.

  “I believe so,” Farrell said. “It’s a pattern. Yesterday’s dawn attack, the afternoon phone call, and then being smoked out of her home–”

  “There was a message inside her condo, and a note on her car,” Wendt added. “I see where you’re going with this.”