The Fourth Motive (5 page)

“You keep your distance,” Potter stammered, “or there’s going to be trouble.”

“You’re goddamned right there’s going to be trouble, shit-for-brains,” the bailiff
growled, “and you’re going to be on the receiving end.”

One of Brown’s sausage-sized fingers snaked out and poked Potter’s chest like an iron
rod.

“You know something, shit-bird,” Charlie said to the flinching Timothy Potter, “I
used to bounce Paige here on my knee. I know her old man real well, best damned judge
to ever pound a gavel. If he knew you’d been harassing his little girl, he’d probably
volunteer his legal services in my defense after I popped you like a ripe zit.”

Paige suppressed a grin as Potter squirmed beneath the looming deputy. His beady eyes
bulged in their sockets as White poked him again for emphasis.

“You better leave him alone, Charlie,” Paige said. “If you hurt him, I’ll be buried
in paperwork for a week.”

“You’re right, honey,” White said casually, lowering his finger and stepping back.
“Besides, I don’t like to injure anybody so soon after lunch; it causes indigestion.”

As Potter tried to reclaim his composure, White turned to Paige. “Heard about what
happened this morning. Came by to let you know if you need anything, anything at all,
you just holler. Old Charlie will come a-runnin’.”

Paige gave Charlie a hug. “I’m fine,” she said. “But thank you. It’s good to know
you’re around.”

Charlie blushed. “I’d better get going.” As he walked out, he turned and pointed at
the green-faced C. Timothy Potter.

“I find out about you giving Paige a hard time again, I’ll be back to make a balloon
animal out of you, Counselor.”

Potter nodded as Charlie walked out. He waddled over to his own office and sat down
behind his desk, loosening his tie. He glared at Paige, who shook her head.

“I have half a mind to report Charlie to the district attorney,” he whined, rubbing
his chest. “For assault.”

“Go ahead, Chaz; my sexual harassment complaint will be right behind it.”

Potter was about to retort when Carmen, their perm-haired secretary, walked in.

“Sorry I’m late getting back from lunch,” she announced in her nasal voice. “Had to
pick up my dry cleaning.” Paige smiled. Potter merely nodded.

No sooner had Carmen sat down at her desk than the phone rang. “District attorney’s
office,” she answered. After a moment she called out, “Paige, it’s for you; line two.”

Paige plopped into her chair and picked up the phone, punching the illuminated button
for the waiting call.

“DA’s office,” Paige said. “Deputy District Attorney Callen speaking.”

“How’s the fucking whore this afternoon? I see you made it to work after our little
rendezvous on the beach.”

Paige’s heart rate instantly skyrocketed as she recognized the raspy voice of her
dawn attacker.

“Who is this?”

“Like I’d really give you my name. Just called to say ‘Hi’ and see how you’re doing.”

“What do you want?” Paige tried to control the tremor in her voice. She hoped it wasn’t
audible to the man on the other end of the phone.

The caller ignored Paige’s question and continued. “Bet you thought you were going
to get fucked this morning, out there in the surf, with your face in the sand and
your butt in the air. I wanted you to know I had a hard-on, but I didn’t fuck you
on purpose, even though I could have. Wasn’t that considerate of me? But you aren’t
the kind who fucks on the first date, are you, Paige?”

Paige wanted to slam the receiver down but was frozen. Each word he spoke plunged
her deeper into revulsion and anger. She gripped the receiver so tightly her hand
trembled.

“What’s the matter, Paige; not in the mood to chat?”

“What do you want?” she repeated.

“I’ll let you know on our second date, slut,” the voice crackled. “Maybe I’ll fuck
you then. Ciao for now.”

The line clicked dead in her ear. She sat, ashen-faced, staring at the telephone as
if it were a coiled serpent.

It was several seconds before Paige snapped out of her state of fury and fear. “Carmen,
get me Sergeant Wendt at APD right away,” she barked, unable to moderate the strain
in her voice. “And hold all my other calls.”

Timothy Potter, hearing Paige’s elevated tone, reappeared in the doorway of her office.
“Who was that on the phone? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Go to hell, Chaz,” Paige said, putting her face in her hands.

“Moody fucking broads,” Potter said under his breath as he slunk away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 7

 

 

“Raymond, what in the hell are you doing in my bathroom?”

Ray Cowell winced at the sound of his mother’s voice and looked up from where he was
crouched on her bathroom floor. He was rummaging through the cupboard beneath the
sink.

“I asked you a question. What are you doing in my bathroom? Is your toilet backed
up again? You need the plunger? I told you before, you wipe with more than one sheet
of tissue and sure as the sun shines, you’ll have a backed-up toilet. Raymond? Are
you listening to me?”

Ray found the object of this search; an industrial-sized can of hair spray. Shaking
it, he was pleased to find it more than three-quarters full. He stood up and looked
down at his mother.

“Relax, Ma; no need to throw a hissy fit.” He held up the can of hair spray. “I need
to borrow this for a while.”

“What are you gonna do with my hair spray? You ain’t sniffin’ that stuff, are you?
I know that’s what kids today are doing; I seen it on Geraldo. You sniffin’ chemicals,
Raymond?”

“Jesus, Ma, of course I’m not sniffing your damned hair spray. I’m working on a model
airplane,” he lied. “You spray this stuff over the paint so it won’t run.”

“Sounds pretty strange to me. Boy your age, still playing with model airplanes. Whyn’t
you get a girlfriend, Raymond? You oughta have a girlfriend. Ain’t natural, fella
your age without a girlfriend.”

“Ma, I’m going to be thirty-three years old next month. I’m not a boy anymore. I’m
a man. And you know I don’t like it when you call me ‘Raymond’. I like ‘Ray’.”

“Raymond is your God-given name and I’ll use it whenever I like. If you’re such a
grown-up man,” she nagged, following Ray out of the bathroom, “how come I still cook
all your meals? And do your laundry? And how come all you do is sit in that room of
yours and read those foul magazines. How come you ain’t got a girlfriend, Raymond?
Answer me that, Mister Grown-Up Man?”

“Leave me alone, will ya?”

“Sure Raymond, I’ll leave you alone. Next time the UPS man comes with one of your
packages, I’ll be sure and tell him you want to be left alone.”

Ray stopped in his tracks. “Ma, did something come today?”

“I don’t feel like telling you. But you might want to look on the back porch.”

“Goddamnit, Ma,” Ray cursed, “how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t let the
delivery people leave packages on the back stairs. You know what this neighborhood’s
like.”

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” she admonished.

“Go to hell, you drunk old bag. Leave me alone.”

Ray stormed through the kitchen and down the back stairs. He’d heard every one of
his mother’s lectures countless times before and was not in the mood for another round
of her biting tongue. If he’d missed a package because of her foolishness…

He had not. Plopped on the back porch was a large, flat, and relatively heavy cardboard
box. The label read ARMO-TECH and bore a Sacramento address. Ray scooped up the box
and scurried to his basement apartment. He kept the door locked at all times, and
he fumbled with the key as he juggled the cardboard box and the can of hair spray.

Ray lived in the basement apartment of his family home; the same place he’d lived
since his birth. The house was a small, one-story bungalow on Pacific Avenue in Alameda,
and sat among many others just like it. Since Ray’s youth, the once-quaint neighborhood
of exclusively single-family residences had degenerated into a series of run-down,
ramshackle homes that were now mostly segregated into low-income apartments, overpopulating
the narrow street.

Ray remembered how the neighborhood looked as a kid: freshly mowed lawns and gleaming
white picket fences. He remembered playing catch with his dad in McKinley Park, only
a block away, and coasting the flat streets on his homemade skateboard. He remembered
his neighbors, all family men like his dad, working at the Alameda Naval Air Station
or in one of the factories across the estuary in Oakland. In those days, everyone
in the neighborhood knew each other and would wave as he and his dog Skipper made
their afternoon deliveries on his daily paper route.

Ray’s dad was especially well liked in the neighborhood, and his memories of his father
were always cluttered with images of him chatting with a neighbor about politics,
or the weather, or helping someone with a do-it-yourself project. Ray recalled the
times he loaned out his push mower, or helped his buddy across the street rebuild
the engine of their old Chevy. Those days were the best ever for Ray Cowell.

Ray’s mom was thin then and had long, pretty red hair. In those days, it seemed she
was always smiling and content to be doing her duty as a wife and mother. She kept
busy with decorating projects, or cooking experiments, or playing bridge with the
other wives on the block.

It had been an idyllic life on Pacific Avenue, back in the late Fifties and early
Sixties of Ray’s childhood. But now, as the Eighties drew to a close, the neighborhood
had become transformed. Ray’s house, like most on the block, was going to pot and
desperately in need of roofing work and a coat of paint. The neighborhood itself was
no better. Battered cars lined both sides of the street, and chain-link barricades
and burglar bars had replaced the white picket fences. The neighbors, too, had changed.
Welfare recipients of African-American or Hispanic origin had replaced the largely
working-class Caucasian residents of his childhood.

Ray’s mother had changed as well. Her once-striking red hair was now gray and matted,
and her svelte figure had ballooned over the years to a grotesque parody of her former
silhouette. It seemed all she did anymore was drink vodka and yell at him.

Ray hated it when his mother berated him. He was a loyal son and deserved better.
His father, had he still been alive, would have been proud. Ray’s salary as a shipping
clerk at the Port of Oakland had kept the family home from foreclosure all these years.
If his mother did his laundry or cooked him a meal once in a while, she should be
glad to do it and grateful she had such a hardworking son, a son who kept a roof over
her head, food in her belly, and the liquor cabinet stocked.

Ray pushed open his door and went inside. Hanging from the ceiling was an armada of
model airplanes suspended by nearly invisible filament. There were Stukas, Messerschmitts,
B-17’s, Zeros, Spitfires, every conceivable type of civilian or military aircraft
from the dawn of aviation to the NASA space shuttle Challenger, which exploded only
three years back. There was even a balsa wood replica of the Wright Brothers’ famous
craft included in the collection.

Ray switched on the light and closed the door. In one corner of the room was a large
drafting table, complete with a telescoping lamp. On the table lay the to-be-assembled
components of a scale model of the Spirit of Saint Louis. There were X-acto knives
and paint brushes of various sizes scattered on the table also, as well as an assortment
of epoxies. More than a hundred tiny jars of modeling paint stood at attention in
neat rows on a shelf over the desk.

In the opposite corner of the sparsely-furnished room was a sofa bed. Next to it was
a nightstand with another lamp, a clock radio, and an ashtray.

Magazines, too many to count, were scattered everywhere throughout the small basement
apartment. There were copies of Scale Modeler, Airpower, and Aviation Weekly. There
were issues of Popular Mechanics, Guns & Ammo, and Soldier of Fortune. And in a milk
crate buried under a stack of soiled laundry in his closet were stacks of Hustler,
Screw, and his father’s faded Playboy collection.

The water-stained walls were adorned with posters of aircraft in flight and framed
black-and-white photographs. Each of these pictures depicted a tall, balding man standing
alongside an anemic-looking boy. In one photo, the boy held up a sand shark for the
man’s inspection. In another, both the boy and man wore scouting uniforms and Native
American headgear. In yet another, the boy stood drenched in water and sported a grin.
A soggy dog appeared to be struggling in his soapy arms as the man aimed a garden
hose at the pair.

Ray tossed the box and hairspray on the floor amidst the scattered periodicals and
sat down cross-legged to open the box with a penknife. The first thing that greeted
him when the carton opened was an invoice. The document acknowledged his money order
and listed his purchase as a “size medium, Class IIA Kevlar vest”. The owner’s manual
with the vest described it as “an improved, lighter, stronger Kevlar armor”, which
would “defeat .45 ACP, .357, 00 Buckshot, 9mm projectiles, and all lesser threats
to National Institute of Justice IIA Standards”.

Ray slipped the vest on and fastened the Velcro tabs to adjust the garment. He pounded
on the stiff armor with his fist a couple of times and checked himself in a full-length
mirror affixed to the inside of his closet door.

Satisfied, Ray slipped off the vest and set it down alongside a number of other items
he had laid carefully out on his sofa and covered with a blanket. He checked the other
items, taking a mental inventory.