The Fourth Motive (17 page)

“Well played, Kevin,” Farrell whistled. “Seems I’ve taught you a thing or two after
all.”

Kearns stuffed the envelope into his jacket. “At least the bush-league cops in this
town didn’t find this. I’m sure if they had, it would be gone.” He shook his head
and looked up at Farrell.

“Don’t say it,” Farrell said.

“Say what?”

“That I’m bad luck. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“Less than twenty-four hours ago, I agreed to work a job with you. In that time, I’ve
almost been killed, locked up in jail, and now I’m evicted from my apartment and out
on the street. What would you call it, Bob?”

“A minor setback,” Farrell said. “Can I at least buy you a meal?”

“Why not,” Kearns said. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

They went into the bar. Farrell ordered a double bourbon, and Kearns a draft beer.
Farrell told the grill staff to throw a couple of burgers on. The tavern was thinning
out after the lunch hour, and Farrell selected a secluded table near the back.

“So, tell me about this morning,” Farrell said, lighting a cigarette.

“Not much to tell,” Kearns answered. “I followed her out of the condominium complex
and west across the island. She was driving a metallic-blue Saab convertible with
the top up.” He took a sip of beer. “I’d forgotten how easy on the eyes she was.”

“She’s a looker, all right,” Farrell said. “I just came from a meeting with her at
her father’s house. Little banged up, but she could easily stroll the catwalk.”

“Still got the attitude?”

“Does she ever,” Farrell acknowledged. “She was extremely pissed off her father hired
us. Furious might be a better word for it.”

“She shouldn’t be,” Kearns grunted. “Wasn’t for you and me, she’d be in a dungeon
somewhere. This guy means business, Bob.”

“Tell me about him,” Farrell said, exhaling smoke.

“He’s got balls, that’s for sure. Rammed her off the road in broad daylight. Got out
of his car and went after her like the fucking Terminator. Not a big guy; he was wearing
coveralls and a ski mask. Gloves, too. He was dragging her to his car when I entered
the picture.”

“How’d it go down?”

“He had a stun gun, or Taser, whatever they call it. Didn’t see it until he nailed
me. Felt like I’d pissed on an electric fence. Almost took me out.” Kearns drained
some more beer. “I gave him a nut-shot on the way down. It rocked him enough that
he must have figured it was time to go lethal. He went for a pistol.” He looked over
his glass at Farrell. “I was faster.” Kearns drained his beer in a long gulp and held
up his glass. “You’re still buying, right?”

“Sure,” Farrell said quietly. A waitress came and took Kearns’ glass. When she had
left, Farrell said, “I’m glad he didn’t get you, Kevin.”

“You’re glad? It wasn’t for his lack of trying,” Kearns said. “He let loose an entire
magazine at me from a high-capacity semiautomatic pistol. Maybe a Beretta or a Glock;
must have been fifteen or twenty rounds.” Kearns grinned tightly. “Some of the citizens
witnessing it must have thought they were in Beirut.”

“But you got some shots of your own off, right?”

Kearns leaned across the table. “Damn straight. Hit him right in the ten-ring with
that horse-pistol you gave me. It knocked him back a step, but that’s all.” He tapped
the tabletop for emphasis. “This guy was wearing body armor. He had on a ballistic
vest under his coveralls.”

The waitress returned with a fresh beer. Neither man spoke until she’d left. Kearns
took another big gulp of beer before continuing.

“Who is this guy, Bob? A stun gun? Body armor? A military-grade pistol? You told me
this deputy DA gal had a stalker, but I didn’t expect him to be another Vernon Slocum.
She’s a good-looking woman, so I figured it was probably a lovesick ex-flame or a
co-worker with an obsession; maybe even a gang-banger she sent away who got released
from prison. But this guy? He’s something altogether different. He’s put some righteous
effort into his program. This is personal for him.”

“You’re right, Kevin; this guy has put a lot of work into his stalking. Which means
he isn’t going to give up.”

“Whoever he is,” Kearns said, “he’s got a serious hard-on for that deputy DA”

“Or her father,” Farrell said, taking a drink.

“Her father? You think this lunatic is going after the girl to get to her father?”

“Don’t know,” Farrell said truthfully. He tamped out his cigarette in a green-and-yellow
Oakland Athletics ashtray. “The cops think I’m off target, but I’ve got a hunch there
may be something to it. The Honorable Judge ‘Iron Gene’ Callen made a lot of heavy-duty
enemies during his time on the bench. He sent up Hell’s Angels, Black Panthers, and
everything in between. And when you got sentenced by Iron Gene, you got the whole
tamale. He put more people on death row than any other superior court judge in Northern
California. The word ‘leniency’ wasn’t in his vocabulary.”

“Kind of a stretch, ain’t it?”

“That’s what the cops think,” Farrell said.

“How would we even begin to know where to look for the guy if he’s from the Judge’s
past?” Kearns offered.

“Damned good question, Kevin.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Kearns asked. “I assume you have one?”

“I do,” Farrell said. “But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

“When have I ever liked one of your plans, Bob?”

“Good point.”

“What about Deputy District Attorney Callen? Is she going to like the plan?”

“She doesn’t know about it yet. Neither does the Judge.”

“And when she finds out?” Kearns asked.

“She’s going to hate it,” Farrell said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 20

 

 

Ray slept most of the afternoon. When he awoke, his head was throbbing, his testicles
were still sore, and his ribs were so painful, he had difficulty sitting up. When
he got to the bathroom, he found the vomitus he had so generously deposited across
the floor earlier now in full aromatic bloom. The odor nearly caused him to vomit
again.

Ray cleaned up the mess and took a hot shower. When he finished, he felt much better.
He washed down some crackers with aspirin and Pepto-Bismol and got to work; he was
anxious to get on with his plan. He was also fueled with rage over his failure this
morning and wasn’t about to waste it.

Ray slicked back his hair, glued on his false mustache with spirit gum, and donned
his only suit. He made sure to put on his dented body armor underneath the clean white
shirt. He reloaded his 9mm Glock, careful to put on surgical gloves before handling
the weapon or cartridges, and added a small flashlight to his side pocket. In the
opposite pocket he put his set of guitar strings, several more pairs of surgical gloves,
and a thick pair of leather work gloves. When he left the house, he could hear his
mother watching Roseanne upstairs, undoubtedly with a full glass of vodka in her hand.

Ray drove to the Bay Area Rapid Transit station on Fruitvale Avenue and stole a Ford.
It was easy to gain entry into the parked car with the slim-Jim he had fashioned from
a flat hacksaw blade. He learned how to make it from a mail-order pamphlet on improvised
tools and weapons that could be fashioned from common household objects.

The car Ray chose was a dull-gray 1985 Fairmont. He’d taken it from the BART parking
lot because the car’s owner would likely not report it stolen for hours. He drove
the car for several blocks, then stopped and removed the license plates. He also affixed
a magnetic citizens-band radio antenna to the roof of the car. The vehicle now looked
like what Ray hoped was a typical unmarked police sedan.

Swigging Pepto-Bismol in his stolen Ford on the drive to High Street, Ray went over
his plan again in his mind. He knew his key advantages were initiative and relentlessness,
and he was glad he’d forced himself out of bed and into action. He suspected the authorities
would be expecting him to lay low after the botched kidnapping attempt in Alameda
earlier in the day. That’s what most stalkers would do, but not Ray.

Ray located the house he was seeking and parked directly in front. He learned of the
home and formulated his plan, after meticulously reading the address book taken from
Paige Callen’s condominium. The book was proving to be a gold mine.

The house was a small-framed, single-story dwelling situated on High Street in Oakland.
Like most homes on the block, the house sported burglar bars on the windows and a
reinforced steel gate in place of a screen door. The East Oakland neighborhood surrounding
the house was not an environment where Caucasian men in suits were commonplace, unless
you counted the police detectives who regularly frequented the area, visiting crime
scenes.

Ray exhaled a final stream of smoke and tossed his cigarette out through the open
car window. He glanced at the digital readout on his watch; it read 9.27pm. He removed
the surgical rubber gloves from his hands and placed them into his pocket. Straightening
his tie and covering the door handle with his handkerchief, he got out of the car
and strolled confidently across the sidewalk to the house. He made certain to grind
out the discarded cigarette butt with the heel of his highly polished shoe.

Ray knew that as a white guy in a suit in this neighborhood, at this time of the evening,
he would attract attention unless he was a cop. The residents here would most likely
hide from or ignore a police officer. This was exactly what Ray was counting on. Ignoring
the furtive glances from sidewalk loiterers, he strode purposefully up the walk and
rang the doorbell.

After a moment, the door opened but the security gate remained shut. A short, plump,
middle-aged Mexican woman stood in the doorway, a cautious look on her face. She was
wiping her hands on her apron.

“Missus Reyes?” Ray asked. The woman nodded.

“I’m Detective Evans from the Alameda Police Department,” Ray announced, lowering
his voice. He briefly flashed a wallet containing a silver, seven-pointed Alameda
Police star and laminated identification card. Ray had constructed the star out of
a soup can lid, carefully cut, stamped, and polished using his modeler’s skills. He’d
learned how to make the ID card, which contained a Polaroid photo of him in his false
mustache, from a mail-order book on fraudulent documents. “I understand you are employed
by Judge Callen at his home in Alameda?” He stashed the wallet a moment after flashing
it.

She nodded again. “Who is it?” a man’s voice, thick with a Hispanic accent, called
out from the interior.

“I’m very sorry to bother you at this late hour,” Ray said sincerely, “but this is
about the recent attacks on the Judge’s daughter. It’s rather important I speak with
you. May I come in?”

A heavyset, dark-skinned man almost as short as Mrs Reyes came into view. He was wearing
jeans and a plaid work shirt. His thick hands held a beer and a newspaper.

“It’s the police,” she told her husband. “He wants to talk to me about what happened
to Paige.”

“What do you want to know?” Mr Reyes said.

“Well, sir, I have a few questions I’d like to ask your wife. I’d rather the neighbors
didn’t hear what I have to say; it’s confidential. Do you mind if I come in?”

“OK, come on in. But make it fast; the A’s game is on. They’re playing the Red Sox
in Boston.”

“I’m an Athletics fan myself,” Ray said pleasantly. “Looks like they got the American
League West already locked up.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Reyes said.

“I’ll be brief.” Ray smiled. “The last thing I want to do is keep you from the game.”
Mrs Reyes nodded at her husband and he opened the reinforced door. “Thank you,” Ray
said.

“Ask your questions,” Mr Reyes ordered once Ray was inside and the door was closed.
Ray made a flourish of taking out a notebook and pen before starting. He wasn’t invited
into the house any farther than the hallway inside the door.

“You’re the housekeeper at the Callen home, is that correct?” Ray began.

“Yes. Both of them.”

“Both of them?”

“That’s right. I help out at the Judge’s house three times a week and I clean his
daughter’s once a week. But her place burned today.”

“She’s worked for Judge Callen over twenty years,” Mr Reyes chimed in proudly. Ray
nodded studiously and made an exaggerated gesture of writing in his notebook.

“You have keys to the house?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Both of them. Why do you ask?”

“Yeah,” Mr Reyes asked. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Folks,” Ray said, “it’s just a routine precaution. We need to interview anyone who
has access to the Judge’s home: gardener, plumber, exterminator, anyone who has a
key. You wouldn’t want the Judge’s house to burn down like his daughter’s, would you?”

Mrs Reyes shook her head. Ray went on.

“And you know the access code to the alarm on the Judge’s house?”

“Of course. I have to go in and out, and the Judge can no longer walk very well. His
leg does not permit him to move around easily. To answer the door is very difficult
for him.”

“Of course,” Ray said. “I understand. What is the access code?” He was careful to
keep his gaze focused on his notebook.

“Why do you need to know?” Mrs Reyes eyed Ray suspiciously. “Why don’t you get the
alarm code from Judge Callen?”

“It’s like this,” Ray lied. “We need to change the alarm access code to be on the
safe side. But to do this, we need everyone who has the old code to verify it so we
know exactly who has permission to enter the Judge’s house. Also, the alarm company
won’t change the old code without knowing how many people currently have it.”