The Fourth Motive

by Sean Lynch

  Elsa pointed a pancake-batter-covered wooden spoon at her niece. “Wake up, girl. Your father is in the hospital right now, nearly done in by the madman who’s after you. And from what I understand, you could have been killed yourself a time or two recently. You’re in serious danger. And when you’re in danger, you shouldn’t be so particular about who’s in your corner.”

  Paige jumped up from her seat, her eyes flashing. “Who told you about what happened to me?”

  Elsa’s eyebrows lifted in puzzlement. “Didn’t your father tell you? He called yesterday morning to let me know you were going to be coming out to the ranch. He explained all about the attack on the beach and how your condo got burned up.” She looked up at her niece, who stood fuming over her. “He also told me how Kevin Kearns nearly got killed saving your life.” Her eyes met Paige’s. “He said Kevin was a good man and that he would protect you. After meeting Kevin in person, I agree with my brother.”

  “Wait a minute,” Paige declared angrily. “Dad tried to talk me into coming up here the day before yesterday and I declined. We got into an argument over it, in fact. You’re telling me he called you yesterday morning and informed you I was coming?”

  “Of course; I assumed you knew.”

  “That smug bastard,” Paige said. “He took it for granted he’d get me to come even after I refused. He even went so far as to call you on the phone and announce my arrival. And this was before the attempt on his life.” Her jaw clenched. “That melodramatic sickbed routine at the hospital was probably an act. I don’t believe it.”

  “Why do you act so surprised?” Elsa said. “When has your father not gotten his way, especially when it concerns you?”

  Paige slumped back into her seat and put her chin in her hands. “It’s like a bad dream I can’t wake up from,” she said in a deadpan voice, her anger dissipated. “Some whacko is out to kill me, I’m shackled with this jerk Kearns, and my own father dances me around on strings like a marionette.”

  “You poor thing,” Elsa soothed, stroking Paige’s hair. “Try not to worry. Everything will work out; I know it will. Let me get your pancakes ready.”

  “Aunt Elsa,” Paige looked up, a weary smile spreading across her face. “You’re a sweetheart, but frankly I don’t think blueberry pancakes are going to help.”

  “Could they hurt?”

  CHAPTER 31

  At 10am, the temperature had already breached the nineties. Elsa and Kearns were sitting on the porch, waiting for Paige. Cody was languishing at their feet. The front door opened and shut, and Paige emerged from the house shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight. She was clad in an oversized T-shirt, a pair of cut-off shorts, and faded Keds sneakers. Her hair was combed down, giving her a girlish appearance.

  Kearns stood up as Paige strode past.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked indignantly. “Haven’t you ever seen a woman before?”

  “Lighten up, Paige,” Elsa said. “You’re going to ruin a perfectly nice day before it even begins. And you look adorable.”

  Paige’s face scrunched. “I wish you would refrain from saying things like that in front of him.”

  “Excuse us a moment,” Kearns said to Elsa, as he firmly took Paige by the arm and led her to the opposite side of the porch.

  Paige angrily allowed herself to be dragged off, not wanting a confrontation to occur in front of her aunt. Once they were out of Elsa’s view, she jerked her arm from Kearns’ grasp.

  “Keep your paws off,” she snapped.

  “It’s time we had a talk,” he said.

  “I should say so,” she said. “If you think–”

  “Shut up,” he cut her off.

  “What did you just say to me?”

  “You heard me; shut up. I’m going to speak now. If you don’t like it, tough shit.”

  Paige’s face reddened, but she crossed her arms and held her tongue.

  “I realize you don’t like me. And that you don’t want me here. Your inability to keep from expressing your displeasure at my presence speaks volumes about your maturity.”

  Paige started to retort but Kearns silenced her with a wave of his hand. “I’m not finished, Counselor; you’ll get your chance to cross-examine.” He lowered his hand. “As I was saying, you don’t like me; I don’t much like being around you, either. But that’s the situation we’re in. Stomping your foot and pouting doesn’t change things.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m proposing a truce. I’m not saying you have to like me, or even be nice to me. Just stop being such a spoiled brat. Be civil. Would that be so damned difficult?”

  “If I don’t?”

  “Then you don’t,” Kearns said. “And your stay here becomes harder than it has to be. The hard way or the harder way; it’s your choice.”

  “For how long?”

  “Who knows?” Kearns answered. “At least until your father gets out of the hospital. In the meantime, all you have to do is sit by the pool and relax. You can’t do any good back in Alameda except draw the stalker to you and your father. And you said yourself you had some vacation coming. Where are you going to go, anyway? It’s not safe at either your father’s house or your condominium. Why not make the best of it? I promise to do my part to avoid annoying you. What do you say?” He extended his hand.

  Paige’s expression of defiance softened and she uncrossed her arms. “I must admit, you can be persuasive when you want to be, Mister Kearns. Apparently, you’ve put some thought into our dilemma.”

  “And you thought I was just another pretty face.”

  “I’ll ignore that last remark,” she said without humor. But her voice and her demeanor had lost their venom. She took his hand tentatively and shook it. “Deal,” she said.

  “Deal,” he echoed. “And my name is Kevin.”

  They returned to the front of the house to an expectant Elsa. Kearns opened the Jeep’s doors for the two women, and a forlorn Cody stared at the trio mournfully as they clambered in without him.

  “We’ll be back before sundown,” she informed the Labrador as the Jeep pulled away from the house.

  Elsa assumed the role of tour guide during the ride into Napa, showing off points of interest and naming the wineries as they passed them. When they reached town, she directed Kearns to a shopping center.

  “We’ll get our dry goods first,” Elsa announced, “and our groceries last. Paige and I are going to look for clothes; if you want to avoid the girlie shopping, we can meet you later.”

  “Sorry, Elsa,” Kearns said, “but I’m going to stay with Paige.”

  Paige started to scowl again but checked herself and said nothing in protest. Kearns followed dutifully behind them as they entered the various stores on their spree. Elsa seemed delighted to be with her niece and doted on Paige as they shopped. Within an hour, Kearns was relegated to carrying their purchases and loaded down with packages and bags like a golf caddy.

  At a sportswear outlet, Paige again departed for the dressing room. Elsa nudged Kearns.

  “My niece is a pretty thing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Tell me, Kevin, are you married?”

  “No, ma’am,” he replied, suppressing a smile. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” she said. She left him to go across the store to examine shoes, leaving him standing alone outside the women’s dressing room.

  A moment later, Paige emerged from the dressing room, walking backwards to admire herself in the mirror. She was wearing a brightly-colored sundress that featured a plunging neckline and was short enough to display her outstanding legs.

  Not realizing her aunt had departed, she said over her shoulder, “What do you think? Too racy?”

  “Not at all,” Kearns said.

  At the sound of his voice, Paige whirled, blushing. Her eyes flashed in anger. “I thought you were my aunt.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  Elsa reappeared. “Honey,” she excla
imed, “that dress was made for you! You should get it.”

  “Apparently Mr Kearns… er… Kevin, shares your opinion.”

  “You have good taste,” Elsa told him with a laugh. “Funny; you don’t look like a man who keeps abreast of ladies’ fashion.”

  He grinned, holding up two crossed fingers. “Are you kidding? Me and Calvin Klein are like this.”

  Even Paige couldn’t suppress her laugh.

  “What do you say we take a break and get some lunch?” Elsa suggested.

  “Good idea,” Paige said. “I’m famished. Give me a minute to get out of this dress.”

  “No, you don’t,” Elsa said. “You look perfect just the way you are. You’re leaving that on.”

  “You should trust your aunt,” Kearns said.

  Paige looked from Elsa to Kearns and blushed again, this time deeper than before. Kearns thought he detected a faint smile grace her features. To his surprise, she didn’t protest, and they left the shop with her still wearing the new dress.

  After depositing their purchases in the Jeep, Elsa, Paige, and Kearns ended up in one of the many sidewalk cafes adorning downtown Napa. Elsa ordered a glass of white wine, Paige a margarita, and Kearns a draft beer.

  “The first order of business after lunch,” Elsa declared to Kearns after they’d placed their orders and sent the waiter off, “is to get you some new clothes.”

  “Hold on a minute,” he protested. “I only need a few items. My clothes are fine.”

  “For a vagrant,” Elsa said.

  “If I have to endure Aunt Elsa’s shopping fetish,” Paige pointed out, “so do you.”

  After dining, Kearns found himself dragged from shop to shop. He was forced to try on multiple items of clothing and parade out of the dressing room for the women’s snickering approval.

  “He’s a very handsome young man,” Elsa mentioned to Paige when Kearns had once again returned to the fitting room. “He’s so muscular and athletic-looking.”

  Paige wrinkled her nose at her aunt. “That’ll be enough of that,” she cautioned. “You’re about as subtle as a flaming arrow. I’m on to your little games; cease and desist right now.”

  “But you agree he’s handsome?”

  “If it will shut you up on the topic, yes, I’ll agree; he’s not a bad-looking guy.”

  “Why, thank you,” Kearns chirped from behind Paige. He winked at Elsa, who began to laugh.

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Paige howled, glaring hotly at her aunt. Kearns stifled a chuckle.

  “Can we go now?” Paige demanded, ignoring the laughter.

  CHAPTER 32

  Ray left at sundown, ensuring he had a full tank of gas in his Hyundai before departing. His mother watched from the window as he loaded the car with everything he would need for his big weekend. He didn’t acknowledge her before he drove off.

  Earlier in the afternoon, he’d called the Alameda County district attorney’s office from a pay phone and asked to speak with Deputy DA Paige Callen. Ray identified himself to the secretary who answered as one of the contractors who was conducting repairs on her fire-damaged condominium. He claimed he needed her signature on a materials order to continue work. The secretary informed him Ms Callen would be both out of the office and out of town for at least the following two weeks. He asked the secretary for Ms Callen’s phone number and was curtly told she could not divulge that information. He asked where she was vacationing, and was again advised that was also information not to be divulged. Ray thanked her and hung up.

  He returned home and thumbed through Paige’s address book. Under the heading Aunt Elsa - ranch, he noted the rural route address in Napa. Pulling out a map of California, he verified the location as north of Yountville on highway 29, approximately halfway between Napa and St Helena.

  Ray used the remainder of the afternoon before departing to take a nap. He wasn’t going to leave until nightfall and wanted to be as rested as possible for the journey ahead.

  This time, there would be no mistakes.

  CHAPTER 33

  The sun was barely above the San Francisco skyline by the time Farrell guided his Olds down into the parking garage under his Lombard Street apartment. Not that it mattered; it had been a typical San Francisco summer day, overcast, foggy, and cold. He’d spent the morning in his apartment, chain-smoking and phoning in favors from colleagues who were still on the force and still had access to computerized databases. The Bay Area law enforcement community was a close-knit one, even between different departments within the region, and Farrell was counting on the fact that there was always somebody in one department who knew somebody from every other and who knew all the gossip. Turned out he wasn’t wrong.

  He spent the afternoon visiting two different cities in the East Bay. He took his work camera with him, an expensive 35mm Nikon with a telephoto lens, and ended up getting lucky and taking more pictures than he anticipated. First, he drove to Pinole, and then to Antioch, both blue-collar suburbs east of San Pablo Bay. As evening wore on, a satisfied Farrell waded through the heavy commuter traffic back into the city. He stopped at a pharmacy on Van Ness that offered overnight film developing and dropped off the two rolls of 35mm he’d shot during the day. When he finally pulled his car into his designated stall in the underground garage of his apartment building, he was tired, hungry, and needed a drink.

  Farrell climbed wearily out of his car and stretched. His watch read a little after 7pm. He still had time to get a shower and a cold drink, and make a check-in call to Kearns at the phone number Paige Callen had given him for her aunt’s ranch in Napa before meeting Jennifer and her fiancé for a late dinner.

  Farrell was locking his car when he caught the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He dropped the keys, pivoted, swept aside his trench coat and jacket, and almost had his hand on his Smith & Wesson .38 when the first blow landed. It was more than a fist and struck him on the side of his head with enough force to light fireworks in his eyes and rubberize his legs. He kept his feet, but only because the impact sent him careening into his own parked car.

  He could vaguely discern the outline of a very large man looming in front of him, and felt his leaden fingers tug on the wooden grips of his revolver. He fought to bring the weapon clear of its holster and to bear on his assailant.

  Farrell’s gun never left the holster. Another hammering blow, also from an object harder than a fist, hit him in the kidney from the opposite direction. This one was paralyzing, and Farrell’s body convulsed. He slid down the side of his Oldsmobile to his knees, where he remained for only an instant before the first attacker struck him in the head again.

  He toppled to the concrete, fighting to remain conscious. He was on his back and unable to move. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs, and when his vision came back into focus, he saw two pairs of boots in front of his face. He looked groggily up towards their owners.

  Above him stood two men, one of whom he recognized. It was the short, fat plainclothes cop who’d accosted him on the steps of the Alameda Police Department along with Officer McCord, the one who was working in records due to an alleged back injury. He was carrying a sawed-off baseball bat. Next to him stood a very tall, slovenly, stoop-shouldered man whose resemblance to McCord was unmistakable. In one of his hands was a black leather sap. With his empty hand he reached down and removed Farrell’s revolver from his belt.

  “Former Alameda Police Officer McCord, I presume,” Farrell said woozily. The horizon was tilting and he struggled to keep from passing out.

  “That’s right, motherfucker,” a deep voice, thick with fury, replied. “How’s it feel to be on the other end?”

  “Peachy,” Farrell slurred. He was kicked in the stomach for his answer.

  “Does that feel peachy?”

  Farrell curled into a fetal position, agony rippling through his torso. It was a full minute before he was able to speak again.

  “Where’s your brother?” he sputtered. “You know, the o
ne who still has a job?”

  This time, the kick came from the short cop and walloped into Farrell’s upper back.

  “I thought you were on modified duty,” Farrell coughed when he could again talk. “Wouldn’t want you to strain your back.”

  “My back’s just fine.”

  “So I see. Last time I saw you two knuckleheads, it was at the end of your own shotgun.”

  “We didn’t forget.”

  “Got twenty years on each of you, and you still come two-on-one with bats and blackjacks. You really are a couple of pussies. Should have known by how easy you gave up your sidearms.”

  The short cop moved in, raising his cut-down bat, but McCord stopped his arm. Farrell began struggling to his knees. McCord let him.

  “You’re one to talk,” McCord said. “Pulling a shotgun on us; pretty fucking cowardly.”

  “I did what I did to save a little girl,” Farrell said. “I’m not sorry. You two knew the score. You’re trained cops and were both armed; you didn’t like what was going down, you could have made a move.”

  “And you’d have cut us down with the scattergun,” McCord said. “Some choice.”

  “I didn’t, though, did I?” Farrell leaned on his car and got shakily to his feet. He kept one arm posted on his car’s hood, the other held tight against his stomach.

  “No,” the short cop agreed. “You didn’t shoot. Bet you’re wishing now you did.”

  “You’re wrong,” Farrell corrected him, his breath gradually returning, enabling him to speak in a semi-normal tone. He tried to stand fully erect but the pain in his gut wouldn’t let him. “I don’t shoot cops; I’m one of the good guys. Hell, I even returned your revolvers.”

  “Listen to this guy,” the short cop sneered to McCord. “He thinks he did us a favor.”

  “Some favor,” McCord chided. “We were laughingstocks. We got suspended for losing our guns. Guys didn’t want to work a beat with us.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes,” Farrell said, looking from one of his assailants to the other. His head, though throbbing in anguish, was beginning to clear. “Yours didn’t have to be a career-ender. That was your choice, not mine.”