The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  Ray went right to work. He took a guitar string from his pocket and looped it over Mr Reyes’ head. Once it was in place around his neck, he looped it once more. He took an end of the guitar string in each hand, placed a knee in Mr Reyes’ back, and pulled with all the force he could muster.

  Mr Reyes lurched convulsively, suddenly awake, and tried to grab the razor-like wire digging into his throat. Blood seeped from the seam created by the wire and his eyes bulged. He appeared to gasp but no sound came.

  Ray pulled for more than a minute, amazed at the strength of the older man as he fought for his life. He bucked and thrashed like a horse in a rodeo. But with Ray’s weight on his back and the wire noose around his neck, the outcome was inevitable. With an explosive burst of escaping air, the wire tore through Mr Reyes’ windpipe and discharged his lungs’lungs’ captive cargo. He released his final breath and lay still. An out-of-breath Ray was careful to avoid the expanding pool of blood beneath the body as he stood up.

  To avoid the lake of blood, Ray walked around Mr Reyes in a wide circle to reach his wife. He dragged her by the feet until she was well clear of the growing stain. Ray extracted another guitar string from his pocket, since the first was irretrievably embedded in Mr Reyes’ throat. He repeated the double-loop procedure around her neck in the same fashion he had done with her spouse. Then he repeated the tug-of-war with her neck. A minute later, she too was dead. Unlike her husband, Mrs Reyes never woke up to struggle. Her lifeblood joined her spouse’s on the floor.

  Ray again carefully backed away from the body to avoid soiling his shoes with blood. He peeled off the surprisingly bloodless leather gloves and replaced them with a set of surgical rubber gloves from his pocket. He turned the leather work gloves inside out and put them back into his pocket as well.

  He retrieved Mrs Reyes’ dropped purse and removed the key ring. Ray took only the two keys to the Callen home and returned the ring to the purse. Then he opened the front door and exited the house, making sure he locked the steel gate before pulling it shut behind him.

  Ray lit a cigarette and strode casually to his faux police car. He got in, fired up the stolen Ford, and drove back to Fruitvale Avenue. He abandoned the car a block from the BART station and walked back into the parking lot where he’d left his Hyundai.

  Whistling jauntily, Ray drove back over the Miller Sweeney Bridge towards home.

  CHAPTER 21

  Paige Callen awoke to the sound of her own stifled scream and the agony of deep, painful cramps in her calves and legs. She was bathed in a cold sweat, and the blankets covering her were twisted around her body.

  She sat up in bed, wincing in discomfort, and pointed her toes to ease the aching muscles. Within a few seconds, the muscle cramps subsided. She blinked and rubbed her eyes to dispel the remnants of the nightmare that had shaken her from her slumber.

  Paige could only vaguely remember the dream; fleeting scenes of sudden violence and a claustrophobic sensation. She swept her hair from her damp forehead and got out of bed.

  She switched on the light in the bathroom. After blinking as the stark fluorescent glow evaporated the darkness, she stared into the mirror and grimaced at the image looking back at her.

  He left eye was blacker than ever. She parted her hair to examine the bald patch and stitches. The abrasions on her brow and the tip of her nose had scabbed, and she took solace knowing they were superficial enough to heal within a day or two. She splashed water on her face, slipped into a thick robe, and went downstairs for something to abate the dryness in her mouth.

  As Paige descended the staircase, she noticed a light emanating from the partially opened door of her father’s study. She peered in to find her father, also clad in a bathrobe, seated at his desk. He was wearing his reading glasses and seemed to be looking intently at something concealed from her view. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  At the sound of Paige’s entry, the Judge looked up, startled, and hastily secreted something into the open top drawer of his desk. Paige glanced at the grandfather clock across the room. Its ornate, polished brass hands read 3.11am.

  “Dad, do you know what time it is?”

  “I do. What are you doing up?”

  “I just asked you the same question,” she said. The Judge removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair.

  “I’m an old man. I fall asleep at odd hours of the day and find myself wide awake at equally odd hours of the night. What’s your excuse?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get a glass of juice from the kitchen. You want anything?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  Paige disappeared. Within a couple of minutes, she returned to the study with two glasses of orange juice. She handed one to her father and sat down on the plush couch opposite his desk.

  “Bad dreams?” he asked after taking a sip.

  “No,” she said. “What makes you think that?”

  “You’re a lousy liar, Paige,” the Judge smiled. “Always have been. That could be fatal for an attorney.”

  Before Paige could retort, a blinding bright white light filled the room from outside. After a moment, the light faded and was gone. Paige started to get up to check the window.

  “Just a patrol unit spotlighting the house,” the Judge remarked. “Letting us know it’s out there.”

  “Your doing?” she asked, settling back into her seat.

  “Sergeant Wendt’s. Standard procedure for extra attention by the sector patrol officer assigned to this beat.”

  Neither spoke for several long minutes. Paige broke the silence.

  “Dad,” she began tentatively, “I guess I owe you an apology for the way I bit your head off today. It wasn’t appropriate to do in front of strangers.”

  “Those strangers are doing everything within their power to protect you.”

  “Sergeant Wendt, perhaps,” she said. “But that Farrell character? He’s not a cop; he’s a crook. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “The hell I don’t,” she said. “I reviewed the prosecution packet on him and his just-as-crooked partner. When they walked away free and clear after all that they did, I had to stand there and watch it happen. Don’t tell me that I don’t know him.”

  “Do you know why he and his partner weren’t prosecuted?”

  “Some sort of shady deal Farrell brokered with the Feds, I assume.”

  “You assume because you don’t know,” the Judge said. “For your information, I do.”

  “Of course you do. You always know the dirty little secrets.” Paige looked skeptically at her father. “It’s how you control people. How you always get them to do what you want them to do.”

  “This is about your mother, isn’t it?”

  Paige shrugged. “I don’t want to fight with you,” she said, without refuting his statement. She instinctively knew that she could no more defend herself against her father’s clever sparring today than she could as a child. She took a slow breath and resigned herself not to get sucked into his game.

  “It’s me you have a problem with, isn’t it?”

  Paige folded her arms across her chest. “It’s what you do. And who you do it with. People like that Farrell creep.”

  “Bob Farrell had the foresight to plan for a contingency the police did not foresee,” Judge Callen said. “I don’t want to think about what would have happened to you if I hadn’t retained him and he hadn’t deployed his associate to protect you.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Paige said. “Just because you think you know what’s best for me doesn’t give you the right to make decisions about my life. And just because this Farrell jerk made a sound call, once, doesn’t change who he is or what he’s done. He’s a wrong man, Dad. End of discussion.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” Callen said.

  “We will.”

  The Judge stared at his knuckles. Paige drank her orange j
uice.

  “What shall we talk about?” he finally said.

  “Whatever you like,” she said.

  “Fair enough. How about discussing you going away for a while?”

  “You never let up.” She shook her head. “Forget it; I’m not running away from this.”

  “Who says you’d be running away? Take a vacation. Go visit your aunt in the wine country. You haven’t seen her in years, and you know she’d love to have you. You always loved the ranch so much as a child. Why not go?”

  “You know why not: I’m staying until this thing gets resolved.”

  “Its resolution could be your death,” he said.

  “Getting a bit melodramatic, aren’t we?” she taunted. As soon as she spoke, she regretted it.

  “Are we?” Callen countered. “I’d call being stalked, assaulted, having your house burned, and nearly getting abducted fairly dramatic, wouldn’t you?”

  “We aren’t in court; I’m not going to play word games with you. Lay off.”

  The Judge opened his hands. “How can I ‘lay off’? You’re my daughter. I’m your father. I don’t want to see you hurt. And I’m not convinced you’re aware of the seriousness of the situation you’re in.”

  Paige rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m aware of how serious the situation is.” She pointed to her face for emphasis. “But I’m a big girl now. And I don’t want you interfering in my life. You can’t continue to make decisions about me without my say-so. It’s got to stop.”

  “You’re willing to risk harm and go unprotected because you don’t like the company I keep? Because you think I’m breaking the rules?” The Judge pointed a finger at his daughter. “You think the man in the ski mask isn’t breaking the rules? Hell, Paige, he’s making them up as he goes along. You can’t take those kinds of chances with your life.”

  Paige stood up. “I’m not Mom,” she said softly. “You’re not going to run my life. We both know how that ended up, don’t we?”

  Her voice, though muted, vibrated with suppressed emotion. With each word she spoke, the Judge seemed to diminish in stature.

  “I was only trying–”

  “Then stop,” she commanded, cutting him off. “Just stop. I’m going to handle this in a legal and appropriate manner. Without bending the rules. That’s final.”

  The Judge nodded. His lower lip was trembling ever so slightly, and the makings of a tear began to form in the corner of one eye.

  Paige sighed. “Dad, I didn’t mean to–”

  “It’s all right,” he said, his turn to cut her off. “Why don’t you go to bed? It’s been a long day.”

  She began to reply, then thought better of it. She walked over to where her father sat dejectedly at his desk and put her arms around his shoulders. She briefly laid her cheek against his forehead. Two swollen drops of water ebbed down his weathered face. He irritably brushed them aside.

  “Oh, Dad,” she said.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Blubbering like a schoolgirl. Must be another sign of old age.”

  “I’ve got to get some sleep,” she said. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  “You’re not thinking of going in to work?”

  “Don’t start up again,” she said. “Good night.” She walked out of the study.

  Once Paige had gone, the Judge wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robe and replaced his glasses. He returned his attention to the contents of the desk drawer he’d hastily closed when Paige had entered.

  From the drawer he removed an elaborately engraved nickel-plated revolver. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 10, with the old-style, four-inch tapered barrel. The handgun had been a gift from one-time Alameda County Sheriff Tom Madigan. Judge Callen carefully opened the cylinder and inserted six .38 Special cartridges. He tucked the revolver into his waistband and wrapped his robe around it.

  The Judge spent the remaining hours until dawn examining the second object he’d removed from the top drawer of his desk. It was a framed black-and-white photograph. The picture depicted a little blond-haired girl and a tall, distinguished-looking man in judge’s robes. They were both smiling and holding hands.

  CHAPTER 22

  It was well after noon by the time Paige reached her office. She’d awakened feeling exhausted and disjointed, and found her usually chipper father in the kitchen, morose and un-talkative. Mrs Reyes had not arrived yet, which was unlike her, and the Judge was grumpy as a result. He was a man of routines. He barely noticed her kiss to his forehead as she grabbed a cup of coffee and headed out the door. She was forced to again borrow her father’s Mercedes-Benz sedan, since her Saab had been totaled in the previous day’s collision.

  She spent the remainder of the hectic morning meeting with insurance appraisers and contractors, obtaining estimates and commissioning repairs to her damaged condominium. Once she’d accomplished these tasks and ensured that work had begun, she loaded the car with enough of her smoke-scented clothing to tide her over until the repairs were completed and she could return. She would deal with the insurance claim on her wrecked car tomorrow.

  Paige parked the Mercedes in her designated spot at the courthouse and took a moment to scribble a note explaining that the car belonged to Judge Callen, so it wouldn’t be towed away by a hyper-conscientious parking technician.

  Standing on the steps of the courthouse as she approached was Deputy District Attorney C. Timothy Potter. He was smoking a Benson & Hedges menthol and ogling the female passersby as they strolled past on their way to the Park Street business district and its many shops, restaurants, and cafes. At his feet was a collection of discarded fast-food wrappers that contained the remnants of substances that left corresponding stains on the lapels of his expensive suit. On seeing Paige approach, Potter ground out his cigarette and patted down his thinning hair. Grinning to himself, he ducked inside the courthouse lobby and hid around the corner behind the door. He was certain she hadn’t seen him. The lobby was almost devoid of people, since the lunch hour was in full swing.

  As Paige entered, elbowing the courthouse door open, Potter leaped out from behind her and yelled. “Boo!” A gleeful smirk spread across his features.

  In a gasping twitch, Paige whirled to face him, her briefcase falling to the floor. Her arms involuntarily lifted to cover her head and face. Unable even to scream, her face had gone ashen white and tremors racked her entire body.

  “Paige, it’s OK,” Potter stammered, realizing how terrified she was. A sick look replaced his laughing expression. “Take it easy; it was only a joke.”

  “You fucking bastard,” she cursed, waiting for the trembling to subside. She was shaking so hard, her shoulders hurt.

  “Don’t be so uptight,” he said. “Jeez, it was just a little gag. Lighten up.” He began to straighten his tie.

  Paige reached out a fist and slammed it into his face. Potter’s head went back and his eyes momentarily crossed. He reached up with both hands and covered his bleeding nose.

  “You hit me,” he exclaimed in astonishment. “You actually hit me.” He lowered his hands to examine the blood on them.

  Paige was actually somewhat astonished herself. She stared at her own fist, not convinced she had actually done the hitting. Her skinned knuckles wouldn’t lie.

  “You fucking bitch,” she heard Potter say. “I’m going to have you arrested.”

  At Potter’s indignant threat, the volcano of tension, fear, and exhaustion that had been building to a fever pitch within Paige during the past two days erupted. She looked slowly at her bloodied fist, then at Potter’s pudgy face, and back to her fist. Her tremors vanished and she felt strangely calm. Potter’s voice seemed like it was being projected to her ears through a mile-long tunnel.

  “You’re finished; I’m going to sue your ass.”

  Paige hit him again. This time, instead of an instinctive reflex punch, she coiled her arm back and put everything she had into it. She aimed for and struck Potter’s already-bleeding nose dead-center. Potter fell s
traight down to the ground on his butt. The trickle of blood that had been ebbing from his nostrils became a river.

  Potter shook his head. A small group of onlookers began to gather.

  “I don’t fucking believe it.” he said, shaking his head. “The fucking bitch hit me again.”

  “Who are you calling a bitch?” he heard her say. When he looked up, she kicked him in the stomach. He rolled over on his side and began to retch.

  Paige sensed she was creating a spectacle but didn’t care. She knew she should be appalled but was not. As she stood in the lobby of the hall of justice with a black eye, a bruised face, and skinned knuckles, beating the crap out of a fat county lawyer, she realized she felt better at that moment than at any time in the last two days. But as fast as the euphoria of release came, it went. With her rage gone, Paige found her chest heaving, her eyes watering, and was almost unable to stand on legs of rubber.

  The giant bulk of Charlie White appeared. He pushed through the growing crowd and took Paige gently around the shoulders. He began to lead her to her office.

  “Oh, Charlie,” Paige began to sob, a flood of emotion suddenly pouring forth. “He scared me. He scared me so bad. I don’t know what came over me.” Tears streamed from her eyes.

  “It’s all right, honey,” Charlie cooed. “Let’s get you into your office.”

  At the office door, Charlie and Paige were met by Carmen, the secretary she shared with Potter. Carmen’s eyes went wide.

  “What–”

  “Never mind,” Charlie cut her off. “Take Paige into her office, get her some water, and don’t let nobody in. Nobody; you got it? And take the phone off the hook.”

  Carmen had been employed by the DA’s office long enough to know better than to argue with Charlie. Once Charlie released the shaken Paige to Carmen’s care, he returned to the lobby.