The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  “What can we do?” Judge Callen said.

  Farrell paused to drain his bourbon and inhale some more of his cigarette. “We can offer the stalker incentive to strike on our terms. Divert his energy to another target. It might expose him, draw him out.”

  “How do we do that?”

  Farrell looked down at Paige. “A boyfriend.”

  “What?” she sat up.

  “That’s right. A boyfriend.”

  “That’s ridiculous; I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “I’m not dating anyone right now. I haven’t in some time.”

  “There’s a mystery for you,” Kearns said under his breath. Paige jerked her head at him sharply. Wendt suppressed a grin.

  “I’m confused,” Callen said. “What’s a boyfriend going to do for us?”

  “Put the stalker off his game,” Farrell said. “Throw a wrench in his plans. Shake up his timetable.”

  “How?”

  “Think about it,” Farrell said. “This stalker knew where Ms Callen works, her schedule, where she lives; even what type of alarm she uses at her condominium, right, Randy?”

  “That’s right,” the sergeant agreed. “He’s done his homework.”

  “If she suddenly emerges with a boyfriend, especially one that appears to be a long-established relationship, our friend the stalker is going to be puzzled, maybe even a little pissed off. He’s going to wonder how he didn’t know about their relationship. How he missed it. And his next logical move–”

  “–Is to find out as much as he can about the boyfriend,” Sergeant Wendt finished. “Maybe try to hurt her by going after him.”

  “That’s my thinking,” Farrell said. “It’s a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got right now.”

  “It’s actually not a bad idea,” Wendt said, looking from Farrell to the Judge. “Giving the stalker another potential target would at least double our chances of luring him out.”

  “I agree,” Judge Callen said. “And given the lack of other alternatives, I concur that Mr Farrell’s suggestion, at least for the time being, is our best chance to snare this maniac.”

  Paige clapped her hands, an artificial smile on her face. “I’m delighted you’re all in agreement. There’re two problems, however, that you geniuses haven’t thought of: one, as I already noted, I don’t have a boyfriend.” Her phony smile vanished. “And two, there’s no way in hell I’m going along with your idiotic plan.”

  She turned her icy gaze to her father. “I realize you can’t control your impulse to manipulate me, but this takes the cake.”

  “Paige,” the Judge said, “we’re only trying to do what’s best to catch this criminal. If you have a better idea, we’d love to hear it.”

  “Here’s my idea,” Paige said to her father. “How about you quit trying to run my life?” She pointed her finger next at Farrell. “How about you stay away from me?” Her stare lighted on Wendt. “And how about you get busy and catch this son of a bitch? Isn’t that supposed to be your job?”

  “What about me?” Kearns asked innocently.

  “You can go to hell,” she told him. She got up and stormed out of the study.

  “I’ll get right on it,” Kearns said as she walked away.

  All four men looked at each other and shrugged. “She had a rough morning,” Wendt finally explained, breaking the silence. “She got put on administrative leave by the district attorney.”

  “What for?” Farrell asked.

  “She punched out her office partner yesterday,” he told them. “Guy’s a real asshole. He jumped out at her and yelled ‘Boo!’ Thought it would be good for a laugh.”

  “What a shitty thing to do,” Farrell said. “Doesn’t he know what she’s been through?” He ground out the remains of his cigarette in the marble ashtray.

  “He does,” Wendt said. “Which made it all the more thoughtless. Paige overreacted, of course, and punched him in the nose.”

  “That can happen,” Farrell said, “when people get startled. Reflex action; self-defense.”

  “That’s true,” Wendt agreed. “But kicking him when he was down on the ground puking isn’t. He’s pressing charges.”

  “Uh-oh,” Farrell groaned.

  “Not to worry,” Judge Callen said. “I’ve got a call into the DA and I’ve already referred Paige to a friend of mine who is a top-drawer criminal defense attorney. She’s got an appointment scheduled with him this afternoon in Oakland. Sergeant Wendt has kindly offered to escort her. I’m certain this assault and battery incident will get resolved quickly.”

  “With your juice, I’m sure it will,” Farrell said. “But it’s trouble your poor daughter doesn’t need right now.”

  “I’ll say,” Wendt concurred.

  “Probably just as well,” Farrell said, lighting another unfiltered Camel and heading back to the Judge’s wet bar to refresh his bourbon. “If she doesn’t go to work, it’s one less place her stalker can attack her. Makes our lives a little easier.”

  “It certainly wouldn’t hurt for Paige to keep a low profile for a while,” Wendt agreed.

  Paige reentered the study. The hostility had dissipated from her demeanor.

  “I want to apologize,” she said. “To each of you. I realize you’re trying to do what you think is in my best interests. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.” She sighed. “This stalker thing and this trouble at work make me feel like I’ve lost control over every facet of my life. When I walked in and heard you discussing my case, it set me off. I know that’s no excuse.” She blew a lock of hair from over her black eye. “It’s been a difficult week.”

  “So we heard,” Farrell said. “If you’d like, I can have a talk with this jerk who’s pressing charges against you. I can be very persuasive.”

  “I’ll vouch for that,” Kearns chimed in.

  “No, thank you,” Paige said quickly. “That won’t be necessary. I did it, so I’ll face it. I take responsibility for my actions.”

  “An honorable trait,” Farrell said. “Your stock rises.”

  Paige smiled weakly.

  “Will you at least consider Mr Farrell’s plan?” Judge Callen asked her, returning the subject to the previous topic. “I realize it’s something you don’t want to do. But if it has even the slightest chance of helping Sergeant Wendt catch this madman, don’t you think we ought to give it a try?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Paige relented, too tired to argue further. “But even if I agreed to the charade, where am I going to find a pretend-boyfriend?”

  “That’s easy,” Farrell announced, pointing at Kearns with his now-refilled bourbon. “Paige; meet Prince Charming.”

  “Oh, fuck,” said Paige.

  “Ditto,” Kearns said.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ray strode purposefully across the residential yards, the tools on his belt flapping against his waist as he walked. It was a little after three in the afternoon, and the quiet Dayton Avenue cul-de-sac was devoid of vehicle or pedestrian traffic.

  Ray was wearing a Pacific Gas and Electric work shirt over jeans and boots. A San Francisco Giants baseball cap topped his head, dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and his upper lip was adorned once again with a spirit-gummed theatrical mustache. Finishing the ensemble was a wide leather tool belt, complete with a flashlight and what appeared to be a walkie-talkie but was in reality a handheld police/fire scanner.

  He was also wearing translucent latex gloves, invisible to all but the closest observer. Except there were no close observers; Ray had seen to that.

  He’d been monitoring the house from inside the bed of a stolen pickup truck for several hours, hidden comfortably inside the vehicle’s camper shell. The truck was parked at the intersection of Dayton Avenue and Grand Street, half a block from Judge Callen’s home. Ray watched as black-and-white Alameda police cars rolled lazily by every hour or so. He also saw two men leave the Judge’s place and get into a burgundy-colored Oldsmobile and drive away. Both looked like cops, but from his
distance, he couldn’t make out anything but their basic features. Shortly after the Olds left, Ray saw who he believed was the slut and another man leave the house and get into an unmarked Ford sedan and drive away.

  Ray forced himself to wait another five minutes in case either of the vehicles returned, and got out of the truck. He checked his appearance in the side mirror and began to walk through the neighborhood. He made his way from property to property toward the Callen mansion, checking each house’s gas meter along the way. He even made notes on a small clipboard on his belt. The fourth house he reached was the Callen home.

  Ray went directly through the Callens’ rear gate and made a pretense of checking the gas meter. Then he walked around to the rear yard. Taking a key from his pocket, he inserted it into the rear patio door. As expected, the key worked.

  As he turned the key, he glanced at his wrist. Scrawled there, above the latex glove, was the alarm code: 4-0-3-1. Like the key, it was obtained from the late Mrs Reyes. Ray knew after opening the door he had ten seconds to enter the alarm code to prevent the alarm from activating. He gently twisted the key to minimize the sound of the lock’s tumblers and opened the door. He saw the blinking green light on the alarm panel directly across from him. The green light meant the alarm was not activated, and that he hadn’t needed the alarm code after all. It also meant someone was home, as he hoped.

  Ray stepped inside, leaving the door slightly open, in case he needed to make a hasty exit. He removed his sunglasses and pocketed them. Then, he drew his 9mm Glock from under his shirt.

  The patio door he had just entered led through a laundry room into the kitchen. The floor was tiled, and Ray padded softly and slowly to dampen the sound of his footsteps. Soon, he was through the kitchen and on plush carpet. Now able to move more rapidly, he navigated the hallway toward the house’s interior.

  Ray reached a set of French doors and peered inside. There, seated with his back to the doors, sat Judge Callen. Ray ducked quickly away.

  After peering cautiously for several long seconds, Ray relaxed. It was apparent the elderly Judge was asleep at his desk, slumped in an expensive-looking leather chair, in what appeared to be a study. He passed the study and swept the rest of the house, room by room. Though confident the Judge was alone in the big house, Ray had to be sure. Attention to detail, that was paramount. Within minutes, he’d ensured there were no other occupants besides the Judge in the big mansion. He returned to the study.

  The Judge was snoring peacefully, his chin on his chest, his reading glasses still on his nose. His hands were folded over his rising and falling stomach. Next to him on the desk was a mostly full glass of amber liquid.

  Ray lit a cigarette. He picked up the glass and tossed its contents in the Judge’s face.

  “Wake up, Your Honor,” he said, as Judge Callen sputtered to wakefulness. “Court is now in session.”

  The Judge shook his head to clear the liquid from his vision. He looked up at Ray, his eyes widening. He quickly reached under his sweater.

  The Judge’s sudden movement surprised Ray, who reflexively leaped forward and slammed the slide of his pistol against Callen’s head. The old man toppled to the floor, blood flowing from a gash over his forehead. He sprawled out and lay still.

  Ray leaned down and rolled the unconscious man over. There, in his hands, was a nickel-plated revolver.

  Ray let out a long, smoky breath. That had been close. Sometimes, even with the best planning and attention to detail, things went awry. The old bastard certainly surprised him. Who’d have expected the retired old codger to be wearing a gun, safe and snug in his own study in the middle of the afternoon? Ray put the gun up on the desk.

  Ray was disappointed. He wanted to tell the Judge what he was going to do to his daughter. He wanted the Judge to hear what was in store for her. He wanted to see the Judge’s face when he learned what awaited his only child.

  He looked down at the old man. The pool of blood from his head was growing, but he could still see the rise and fall of his chest. Ray suspected he might hemorrhage to death within the hour, but he couldn’t wait that long; he had to be sure.

  Ray put out his cigarette and pocketed the butt. He replaced his pistol in his waistband and removed a guitar string and his extra-thick leather work gloves from another pocket. He donned the gloves and was looping the guitar string around the Judge’s neck when the doorbell rang.

  He jerked upright from where he’d been leaning over the Judge. The doorbell rang again and again, and between rings there was an insistent knocking. Drawing his pistol, Ray raced from the study to a front window. He carefully parted the curtains and glanced outside.

  Parked in the driveway was a cherry-red Porsche. Standing on the porch, he presumed, was the Porsche’s owner.

  The man was short, much shorter than Ray’s own five feet ten, and wearing a double-breasted pin-striped suit. He had on Italian loafers with no socks, and he had thinning hair which looked to be dyed. The most striking thing about the man, however, was the two black eyes he was sporting, along with a strip of surgical tape over his nose.

  Ray waited long minutes for the man to go away, but he wouldn’t. Despite getting no response to his incessant doorbell-ringing and door-pounding, the man continued to do it. He tried the door handle several times between knocks and rings, and Ray was certain the man would have entered if the door was unlocked. He reasoned the man must be a regular visitor or perhaps was expected by the Judge. A relative? The whore’s boyfriend?

  Ray gritted his teeth and swore under his breath. He’d discounted the possibility of a boyfriend during the months of preplanning and surveillance he’d conducted, but now wondered if he’d missed something. He’d found no indication of a man in her life. But then, he was surprised, outraged, and almost killed by the sandy-haired man who came to her aid. Now here was another man in the picture, the man currently on her father’s doorstep. Ray nervously wondered what other surprises he hadn’t anticipated awaited him.

  Finally, after what seemed like hours, the man left the porch. But to Ray’s chagrin, he didn’t return to his car. Instead, he walked through the side gate towards the rear of the house, the same route Ray had entered. Ray suddenly remembered he’d left the rear door ajar.

  Cursing, Ray sprinted from the front of the expansive house, down the hall, past the study, through the kitchen to the laundry room. He reached the rear door just as it swung open.

  A startled C. Timothy Potter looked up when he saw Ray. Ray barely had time to put both gloved hands, and his pistol, behind his back as Potter entered.

  “Who’re you?” Potter demanded indignantly.

  “Uh,” Ray stammered, out of breath and momentarily taken aback by Potter’s bold arrival. “I’m… uh… here to read the meter. There’s nobody home.”

  “If there’s nobody home, how’d you get in? And why didn’t you answer the door? I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”

  “There’s a gas leak,” Ray lied. “Doing some repair work.”

  “Where’s the Judge?” Potter asked. “Where’s Paige?”

  “They’re… uh… gone for the day. Due to the gas leak.”

  “This doesn’t seem right,” Potter said. His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward and scrutinized Ray. “Is that a fake mustache?” He puffed out his chest. “I think I need to see some identification.”

  “Identify this,” Ray said. He brought out the Glock and placed the barrel against Potter’s forehead.

  Potter’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped as Ray fired. The deputy DA’s head snapped back as the 9mm slug tore through his skull. He crumpled to the floor.

  At the sound of the shot, a dog began to bark in one of the adjacent yards. Ray looked over his shoulder, back into the house’s interior, and was about to return to the study when a man’s voice, emanating from the adjacent yard, stopped him.

  “…was that? Sounded like a damned cannon going off.”

  Ray looked in the direction of the voice
and saw a bald man in Bermuda shorts and sandals staring directly at him through a gap in the backyard hedges. Potter’s inert body was clearly visible at his feet. His and the neighbor’s eyes met, and an instant later, the man was scurrying off, no doubt to alert the police.

  Ray needed no further urging. He ran from the rear of the house toward the truck he’d parked at the end of Dayton Avenue, as front doors opened and people stared. He still had the pistol in his hand.

  It seemed like miles to the truck. Ray jumped in, stashed his pistol, and began to frantically twist the filed-down master key he’d left jammed in the ignition. On the third twist, the engine fired up and he screeched out of the neighborhood, heading south toward the beach.

  In less than a minute, he was on Shoreline Drive. He parked along the bike path that ran parallel to the beach and turned off the engine. He rapidly stripped off his cap, leather work gloves, PG&E shirt, and mustache, as well as his trousers and boots. He was wearing a green Oakland A’s T-shirt and athletic shorts underneath. He kept the latex gloves on. Ray slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and stuffed his tool belt, clothing, and boots into a small knapsack, which he put on. He clipped the police scanner to his shorts and inserted the earpiece into his ear.

  Ray then nonchalantly got out of the truck and opened the rear camper hatch. He extracted a bicycle from the bed of the truck and walked it across Shoreline Drive to the bike path. He mounted the bike and forced himself to pedal slowly along the waterline, making a point to study the panoramic view of the San Francisco skyline looming over the Bay. He saw several police cruisers pass him as they raced toward the direction of the Callen home. As he pedaled, he switched on the police scanner. He blended in easily with the other bicyclists, pedestrians, joggers, and skaters populating the beachfront path.

  By the time Ray heard the dispatcher’s voice on the scanner, broadcasting the description of the truck, he was halfway home, cursing his bungled opportunity.