The Fourth Motive (3 page)

The cop finished his citation and extended the book and a pen to Ray.

“Press hard; you’re making three copies. If I’ve made a mistake, we can hash it out
in court. This isn’t the time or the place.”

“You’re right,” Ray said, signing the ticket with a flourish. “I’ll see you in court.
I want your name and badge number.”

The cop peeled off the yellow copy of the citation and handed it to Ray. “My name
and badge number are already on the ticket. Have a nice day.” He walked backwards
to his motorcycle, keeping Ray in sight.

“You have a nice day too, Officer,” Ray said. Under his breath, he muttered, “I hope
you crash your motorcycle and get crippled for life.”

The cop grinned and fired up his Harley. Apparently, he had heard Ray’s muttering.
He kicked his bike into gear and sped off.

Ray stood in the street and clenched his fists as the motorcycle roared away. He crushed
the ticket into a ball in his hand and got back into his car, slamming the door.

After several minutes, Ray was calm enough to drive. Making sure to remain at the
speed limit, he continued west on Lincoln Avenue and then north on Constitution Way,
which took him into the Posey Tube.

Once through the Tube and into Oakland, Ray guided his Hyundai west through the metro
traffic until he reached the Port of Oakland complex. He parked in the Maersk Shipping
parking lot on Ferry Street. As he got out of his car, he grabbed the gym bag from
the passenger seat.

Opening the trunk, he tossed the half-open gym bag in amongst the spare tire and assorted
tools. A small amount of sand was leaking from the partially-zipped bag. Ray took
a moment to zip the bag fully closed, cursing as the ski mask inside briefly fouled
the zipper.

Closing the trunk, Ray nodded to the gate guard and headed into the office. Passing
other busy shipping clerks, he entered his cubicle and sat down behind his cluttered
desk. Seconds later, the head of a co-worker poked around the edge of the partition.
Ray disliked all of his co-workers, and this one was no exception.

It was just Ray’s luck that his closest cubicle neighbor was constantly inflicting
his musical choices on the office via a cheap clock radio on his desk. This morning,
as if the workday weren’t already going badly enough, Ray was being subjected to the
annoying warbles of Terence Trent D’Arby. Ray despised today’s top 40, MTV video crap.
His preference was for the Sixties folk music of his youth on the oldies station.

“Morning, Ray. Boss already noticed you’re late. Thought I’d warn you. Good luck with
an excuse.”

Ray lit a cigarette from a pack in his desk drawer, and extended his middle finger
as his co-worker turned his head. When he was sure the unwelcome intruder had gone
for good, he removed a piece of typing paper from inside his desk, carefully using
his handkerchief to prevent leaving any fingerprints. He inserted the paper into his
typewriter. Still using the handkerchief, he produced a plain white business-sized
envelope and placed it next to the typewriter. He began typing.

It had been a good day. Despite that prick of a cop and a speeding ticket, it had
been a splendid day. And it was shaping up to be a damned good week. Ray would make
certain of that. This week would be one to remember.

One for the books.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 4

 

Paige came downstairs clad in a pair of jeans and a sweater dug out from the closet
in her old room. Her hair was still damp, and she’d tied it up with a wide band taken
from a collection of hair accessories she had left over from her high school days.
The hairband did an adequate job of concealing the bald patch over her left ear created
by the ER doctor when she shaved away her locks to sew the gash there. The hairband,
coupled with her lack of makeup, gave Paige the appearance of looking much younger
than her twenty-eight years.

The Judge was seated in the kitchen and looked up when he saw Paige. A mostly empty
glass of scotch was on the table in front of him next to a just-opened bottle of Dewar’s.
He stood when she entered.

“Sometimes,” he said, “you are the spitting image of your mother.”

“It’s the hairband, Dad,” Paige said. Her nose wrinkled when she saw the bottle.

“Maybe it adds to the effect,” he said, sitting down again, “but it’s still true.
You look more like I remember your mother every day. Can I pour you a drink? Might
do you good.”

Paige sat down. “You know I don’t drink very often; especially on workdays.”

Judge Callen stiffened. “You’re not going to work today; I forbid it.”

“I have a caseload, Dad,” she said, consciously tempering her reply. Paige hated it
when her father patronized her with his courtroom tone. “I’ve already missed a preliminary
hearing this morning, and the afternoon’s booked solid.”

“Surely after what happened this morning you can take the afternoon off? My God, you
were–”

“It’s not a big deal,” she interrupted her father. “I’m OK. I’ve handled far worse
crimes than this one.”

“Horseshit,” he countered. “You were the victim today, not an impassive third party
processing the victim through court. There’s a difference.”

Paige struggled to maintain her cool. Her body ached, her head hurt, and she was still
rattled from the attack. She didn’t need another argument with her father on top of
it all.

“That lunatic is still out there,” the Judge went on. “Maybe he’ll be at the courthouse,
waiting for you there? Maybe he’s been following you for some time? He called you
by name; that’s what the detective said. I’m worried.”

Paige could indeed see concern behind her father’s eyes. She knew him as an aloof,
impassive personality who prided himself on his gruff, professional demeanor. It was
said of Judge Callen that he once sentenced a man to the gas chamber and ordered the
bailiff to bring donuts and coffee in the same breath.

Yet Paige noticed since her mother’s death two years ago and his subsequent retirement,
the Judge seemed increasingly frail. More fatherly and less the imposing figure of
discipline and propriety who had ruled her life as firmly as his courtroom.

“Dad, this guy is just some kind of a nut. I’ll probably never hear from him again.
Anyway, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a lowlife thug scare me. I’m not afraid
of this jerk.”

Even as she spoke, she knew she was lying. She had been terrified beyond anything
she’d ever experienced before and would be looking over her shoulder for a long time
to come.

“Besides,” Paige said with a certainty she didn’t feel, “I’m confident APD will identify
and arrest him soon.”

The Judge’s brow furrowed in doubt. “Who are you kidding? The cops don’t have squat,
and you of all people should know it. For this creep to get caught would take one
of three things. One, he’ll turn himself in. Not likely. Two, somebody else will turn
him in. Possible, but still highly unlikely. Three, he’ll get caught in the act. Assuming
someone is there to catch him at the time of the attack, which is of course at his
leisure and discretion. And further assuming he is caught in the act before doing
you harm.”

“So what do you want me to do? Dig a hole and hide in it? Move to Tibet?”

“One thing you could do,” the Judge said, averting his eyes, “is move back here to
the house. You’d be safer here where I could keep an eye on you.”

“I’m not moving back home, Dad. How many times do we have to go over this?”

Ever since the death of her mother, the Judge had been trying to entice Paige into
moving back into the mansion. She was currently residing in a condominium on Bay Farm
Island, adjacent to the Harbor Bay health club. Judge Callen never tired of dropping
hints that the house was too big for him to maintain, even with Mrs Reyes, his housekeeper,
coming every other day. And though Paige visited her father for lunch at least once
a week, he never relented in his not-so-subtle demands for more of her time.

“You know I enjoy spending time with you here at the house. But I have my own life.
I need my space.”

Paige couldn’t believe her own ears. She sounded like a college freshman ditching
her first boyfriend, instead of a nearly thirty year-old deputy district attorney
working for one of the largest counties in California.

The Judge stared forlornly at his feet. Paige stood, wrapped her arms around him,
and gave him a hug. “Dad, I love you. And I know you believe you’re looking out for
my best interests. But I’m a big girl now; I can handle this.”

Judge Callen grinned, a warm glow spreading across his craggy features. He adored
his daughter Paige and, despite his best efforts, could not restrain himself from
using every opportunity to convince her to move back home with him. He knew it was
a flagrant indicator of old age but did it nonetheless.

Paige disentangled herself from her father. “I’ve got to get to the office. I’ll barely
have time to run home and change before lunch is over.”

“I wish you’d reconsider taking the day off.”

“Bye, Dad,” she said, ignoring his question and giving him a peck on the cheek. She
started for the door. “I’ll need to borrow your car; mine’s still at the beach. I’ll
bring it back tonight.”

“Keep it as long as you like,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Paige,” the Judge said, “I want you to know I love you. I’d do anything to ensure
your safety. Anything.”

Paige turned back to her father, puzzled at the odd look on his face. She couldn’t
remember ever seeing that expression before, and it momentarily alarmed her.

“Of course I know you love me. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

The Judge waited until he heard his Mercedes pull out of the garage, and the garage
door close, before retrieving his cane. He lumbered to his study and sat down behind
his large mahogany desk. There he opened the top drawer and withdrew a worn and elegantly
embossed address book. Putting on a pair of reading glasses extracted from his pocket,
he thumbed through the book until he found the number he was seeking. He reached for
the phone on the desk and dialed a series of numbers.

“Bayfront Realty,” a woman’s voice answered. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to speak to Sandy Altman, please.”

“I’m sorry, but Mr Altman is in a conference. May I take a message?”

“Yes. Could you relay to Mr Altman that Judge Callen called? I need to speak with
him; it’s rather urgent.”

“Please hold,” the woman’s voice said. “I’ll see if Mr Altman can be interrupted.”

A moment later another voice came on the line. “Gene? That you?”

“Yes, Sandy, it’s me. If I called at a bad time–”

“Hell no, Gene. I’ve instructed my secretary to tell everybody I’m always in a conference;
that way, I can screen the deadbeats. What can I do for you?”

“Sandy, I have a favor to ask. It’s personal and important.”

“You name it; heaven knows I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” the Judge replied. “But I have a serious problem. Somebody is
stalking Paige. She was attacked this morning.”

“Oh my God; is she all right?”

“She’s all right for now, but this stalker is a real psychopath. He beat her up and
shot her in the head with some kind of a toy gun. She believed at the time it was
a real gun and she was going to be executed.”

“Paige must have been petrified,” Altman said. “Was it a random thing?”

“Apparently not. The bastard called her by name and said something menacing about
meeting again.”

“The cops have any idea who this dude is?” Altman asked.

“Not a clue.” The Judge paused, carefully choosing his next words. “Sandy, I can’t
sit on my hands waiting for the police. We both know how that usually works out. Not
when Paige’s life is at stake.”

“I understand. You think this creep is going to make another try?”

“I don’t know,” Callen said. “I’m not going to take the chance.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” Altman said. “What can I do?”

“I need your help. I want you to reach out to somebody for me. One of your friends.”

“Just give me the name, Gene,” Altman said, “and I’ll have him on your doorstep.”

“I want to meet Bob Farrell,” Judge Callen said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 5

 

 

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” Bob Farrell said.

“May the Holy Spirit visit you and fill your heart with contrition,” the priest’s
paternal voice responded through the confessional partition. “How long has it been
since your last confession?”

“Twenty years or more,” Farrell reluctantly admitted. “Johnson was in office. It was
before I shipped out to Vietnam.”

“The Catholic church welcomes you back,” the priest said. “You may begin your confession.”

“I’ve done something pretty bad,” Farrell began after a moment. “I’m not sure I’m
ready to confess it yet.”

“The sacrament of confession is a powerful thing. You’ll feel better after you unburden
yourself of your sins.”

“If you say so,” Farrell said. “Well, here goes; I broke into somebody’s house today.”

“That’s a very grievous sin,” the priest acknowledged.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Farrell quipped. “It was your house.”

“My house… What kind of a sick joke is this?” the priest demanded.

“No joke, Padre,” Farrell said. “You are Father Mulroney, aren’t you?”