The Fourth Motive (21 page)

“So, this is what you do down here,” Maritay sneered in her thick accent. “Play with
toys and jerk off?” Maritay’s fleshy face and the slackened face of his mother leered
at him in contempt and triumph.

“You had no right to come down here,” he said, his own face contorting with barely
suppressed rage. “This is not your place.”

“What are you afraid of?” Maritay taunted, holding up a copy of Hustler. “That we’ll
find something we’re not supposed to?”

Maritay received a fist in the mouth for an answer. Before she could fall, Ray hit
her in the stomach. Maritay collapsed to the floor, the wind knocked out of her. His
mother shrieked and dropped the glass of vodka she was holding loosely in one hand.
She started for the stairs that led up to the kitchen. She didn’t make it.

Ray leaped over the scattered pile of magazines and grabbed the back of his mother’s
hair. Scooping up the nearest magazine, a copy of The American Rifleman, he slapped
his mother in the back of the head.

“No, Raymond,” she howled.

Ray released his hold on his mother and used both hands to roll the publication into
a baton. Then he smacked her across the head again, this time with the rolled-up magazine.
His mother fell to her knees and put her arms over her head.

“You fucking bitch,” he hissed, as he began to slap his mother repeatedly in the face
and head with the makeshift club. “I… expected… this… from… Maritay.” Ray punctuated
every word with a strike. “But… you… know… better… than… to… come… down… here.”

“No, Raymond,” she pleaded. “It was Maritay! She made me! It was her idea!”

He continued to whack his mother until she gave up trying to defend herself against
the blows and fell back blubbering to the floor. Ray struck her one more time across
the face.

“Get up, you drunk piece of shit, and get the fuck out. If you ever come down here
again, I’ll kill you. I swear it. Get out.”

Ray’s mother crawled up the kitchen stairs on her hands and knees, sobbing and wailing.
When she had gone, he turned to Maritay, who was gasping for breath on the basement
floor. He dropped the rolled-up magazine and searched the drafting table until he
found what he was looking for; his X-acto knife.

Ray pounced on Maritay. He clamped a hand over her mouth. Maritay’s eyes widened when
she saw the scalpel-like tool in Ray’s grasp.

With Maritay’s arms pinned to her sides beneath him and his weight preventing her
escape, Ray pressed the triangular blade of the X-acto knife against one of her eyelids.
She instantly froze.

“Listen to me carefully, you whore,” he said softly. “Get your things and get the
fuck out. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. No one will ever find your body,
no one. Do you understand, slut?”

She nodded faintly, conscious of the razor poised over her eye. Ray stood up. Maritay
scrambled to her feet and ran up the stairs.

Ray spent the rest of the evening putting his room back in order. He half expected
the police to arrive and arrest him, but they never did. He slept well that night.
When he awoke, he found Maritay gone.

When he arrived at work the next morning, he learned that Maritay had phoned in her
resignation. She left no reason for quitting and no forwarding address. Ray never
heard from her again.

On the way home from the shipyard that night, Ray stopped at Big B Lumber in Oakland
and purchased lumber, wood screws, and two stout locks. He reinforced the doorjambs
of the kitchen and outside basement doors, and installed the two heavy-duty locks.

Ray’s mother avoided speaking to him for a couple of weeks after Maritay’s departure
but eventually returned to her nagging self. Neither he nor his mother ever mentioned
Maritay again, and in a short time it was as if she had never existed.

But to Ray it was another loss, an easier one to adjust to than his other losses,
but a loss nonetheless. He became even more reclusive after Maritay and never again
attempted to initiate a relationship with a woman not inhabiting the pages of his
pornographic magazines.

Over time, Ray began to gradually realize that the common denominator in his troubled
life had always been women. It was a girl who lured his father to his demise, and
a woman who shattered his dream of a career in military aviation. Even his mother
had betrayed him. Perhaps all women were whores, like his father said that night years
ago in the garage. Maybe they were all sluts.

The Judge didn’t see it that way. He didn’t know what it was like to lose things.

To a whore. A slut.

Ray would teach him.

Ray had waited a long time to show the Judge what it was like to lose things.

He ground out his cigarette and ended his reverie. It was getting late and he had
much to do in preparation for tomorrow. He got up from the drafting table and went
to the closet.

Ray retrieved his army duffel bag and started to remove the contents, spreading them
out on the floor for inspection.

“Planning,” Ray whispered to himself. “Planning is the key.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 24

 

 

Bob Farrell entered his apartment, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips.
He was carrying a bundle under his arm. Kevin Kearns sat on Farrell’s living room
sofa, eyeing the older man disdainfully.

“Hi, Kevin,” Farrell greeted him, setting down his parcel on the kitchen table. “Brought
you something,” he said, unwrapping the package. Inside were a Remington Rand government
model 1911A1 .45 caliber pistol, a scabbard, a couple of spare magazines, and a box
of fifty .45 caliber cartridges. “Just like the one you used in the army, I’ll bet.
Certainly as old; borrowed it from a friend.”

“You have friends?” Kearns asked.

“Hilarious,” Farrell said. He kept his coat on. San Francisco, even in early summer,
was cold in the morning. “When I left this morning, you were sawing logs. How was
the couch?”

“Better than a park bench,” Kevin said.

“Glad you slept well. We have a busy day ahead of us.” Farrell glanced at his watch.
“We have to be in Alameda to meet with Judge Callen at noon. We’d better get going.”
He tamped out his cigarette in an ashtray.

Kearns made no effort to get up. He continued to look steadily at Farrell.

“What’s eating you?” Farrell asked, finally noticing Kearns’ sour face.

“Why didn’t you tell me Jennifer was in town?”

Farrell sighed and his shoulders slumped. “How’d you find out?”

“She called when you were out. Left a message on your machine.”

Farrell looked at his feet and patted down his combover. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell
you, Kevin. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“How long has she been here?”

“She flew in from Omaha a couple of days ago,” Farrell admitted.

“And you didn’t want me to know? Thanks, Bob; thanks a lot.” He stood up.

“It’s not what you think–”

“What am I supposed to think?” Kearns cut him off. “That I’m not good enough to see
your daughter? Apparently, that’s what you think.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I? I know exactly what you think I’m good for. I’m good enough to almost get killed
covering your ass halfway across the country, searching for Vernon Slocum. And I’m
good enough to step in the line of fire guarding that sanctimonious bitch of a DA
so you can play your PI games and bilk her father. But meeting up with your daughter,
who I haven’t seen in almost a year? That, evidently, I’m not good enough for.” Kearns’
face reddened.

“Take it easy, will you?” Farrell said. “You’re mistaken.”

“Sure, Bob. I’ll take it, all right,” he said, his voice rising. “That’s what I’m
good for, taking it. Taking your lies and getting used.”

Kearns headed for the door. Farrell stepped in front of him, showing his palms. “Kevin,
you don’t even have a place to go.”

“Thanks to you,” Kearns reminded him. “Another one of the many benefits of being Bob
Farrell’s friend: homelessness.”

Kearns started forward again; Farrell put his hands on the younger man’s chest.

“Wait a minute,” Farrell implored.

“What for? More of your bullshit?”

“Will you calm your redneck butt down and hear me out? Please?”

Kearns didn’t answer him but didn’t move. He folded his arms across his chest.

“The reason I didn’t tell you Jennifer was in town is because she asked me not to,”
Farrell said solemnly.

“I don’t believe you,” Kearns said. “Jennifer wouldn’t do that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Why?” Kearns challenged. “Why would Jennifer tell you to do that?”

Farrell rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Because she didn’t come alone.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me; Jen didn’t come alone. She brought her fiancé.”

“Fiancé?” Kearns deflated. His arms dropped.

“That’s right; Jennifer is engaged.”

“When?”

“I only found out myself about a week ago. I wasn’t supposed to know, but my ex-wife
called to gloat because Jen told her first; Ann never could keep a secret. I guess
she already met with Jen and her boyfriend and gave her approval. Jen flew out here
from Omaha, ostensibly to announce her engagement to me.”

“Where is she?”

“She and her beau are staying at the Westin in Millbrae, near the airport.”

“Together? In the same hotel room?”

“I’m afraid so, Kevin,” Farrell said. “That’s what engaged couples do in the twentieth
century. It’s called premarital sex. You should try it sometime. Would do you good.”

Kearns ignored Farrell’s sarcasm. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He
ran a hand through his hair. “So Jennifer’s engaged,” he whistled. “Who’s the lucky
guy?”

“I only met him once, when I picked them up at the airport a few days ago. He’s one
of Jen’s fellow students at Creighton Law School. Looks like one of the Kennedys.
Probably just as crooked.”

“A lawyer.” Kearns shook his head. “She’s going to marry a fucking lawyer. That’s
perfect.”

Farrell put his arm on Kearns’ shoulder. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it,” Kearns said. “I was an idiot to think I stood a chance.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Farrell soothed. “She’s my daughter, remember? If you two
had gotten together, you would have eventually killed each other.”

“That’s a load of crap and you know it. Your daughter was there for us, both of us.
When it mattered, too. Jennifer stuck her neck out to get me out of jail in Omaha,
covered my escape from the Feds at the hospital, and the first face I saw when I woke
up in intensive care in California was hers.” He looked at Farrell. “Jen’s all right,
Bob; she’s solid. I just hope her fiancé knows it.”

“I guess he’ll find out,” Farrell said.

Kearns managed a strained smile. “I’m sorry for what I said a minute ago. That stuff
about you using me and being a liar. It was out of line.”

“Don’t mention it,” Farrell said loftily. “Most of it’s true.” He grinned at Kearns.

Kearns couldn’t help but grin back. “Fuck you,” he said.

“You should have seen your face when I told you,” Farrell chuckled. “I thought you
were going to piss your pants.” He busted out laughing. “Last time I saw puppy eyes
like that was at the animal shelter. I thought for a second I might have to give you
a hug.”

“Then I surely would have killed you.”

“I’d kill myself,” Farrell said.

“I was pretty pathetic, wasn’t I?” Kearns confessed.

“You said it, not me. Come on, let’s get on the road. We’ve got work to do.”

“What makes you so sure I’m still on board with this bodyguard detail?”

“Hell, Kevin,” Farrell said, grabbing the .45 and shoving Kearns out the door, “what
else have you got to do?”

“You have a point,” Kearns conceded.

“Besides,” Farrell went on, “this stalker thing has the potential to put a lot of
money in your pocket. Mine, too. And if we play our cards right, you’ll get an appointment
to the sheriff’s department. That’s plenty of incentive from where I sit. All we have
to do keep the Judge’s daughter safe and bag the asshole trying to hurt her.”

“And not get killed in the process,” Kearns pointed out.

“There’s that,” Farrell admitted.

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 25

 

 

“I was asking myself how this day could get any worse,” Paige said to Sergeant Wendt.
He parked his unmarked police sedan behind the burgundy-colored Oldsmobile resting
in front of her father’s house. She pointed her chin at Farrell’s car. “I have my
answer; Farrell’s here.”

“Farrell works for your father,” Wendt reminded her. “He has a right to consult with
his boss.”

“I need to get a hotel,” she said, shaking her head.

“Not a good idea,” Wendt told her. “You need to stay where you can be seen.”

“You mean by someone other than my stalker?” she said.

“Not funny,” Wendt said. He opened the car door for her and they walked into the house.
Paige let them in with her key.

“I wonder where Mrs Reyes is?” Paige remarked as she and Wendt entered. “I haven’t
seen her for a couple of days.”

“Maybe she’s taken ill?” Wendt suggested. “Or on vacation?”

“I’ll have to ask Dad,” Paige said, leading them into the study. When they walked
in, two of the three men in the room stood up; her father remained seated.