The Fourth Motive (14 page)

Then all hell broke loose. He was dragging the whore to his car when he was tackled.
He didn’t even see the guy, because he was blinded by the elation he felt at having
the slut practically fall into his lap. And by his burgeoning arousal. As he’d dragged
her along, helpless to stop him, Ray could feel himself become erect beneath the coveralls.
Another grass-eater quality: distraction. Before he knew it, Ray was thrown to the
ground.

The stun gun didn’t work too well on the young blond man; one of the leads must have
snagged on the sleeve of his jacket, blunting the charge. It only dropped him to his
knees. That’s when Ray made his worst mistake.

Ray should have stepped back, drawn his pistol, and executed the son of a bitch when
he had the chance. But he didn’t; he instinctively tried to use the stun gun again,
and the guy was too fast. He blocked the Nova and punched Ray in the crotch.

Ray had never before experienced such pain. Lights danced before his eyes and he was
surprised he didn’t pass out. He dropped the stun gun and staggered back. He could
barely breathe, and his balls felt as if they would erupt like the volcanoes depicted
in the National Geographic magazines in his mother’s bathroom.

But Ray didn’t fall. He went to his knees, like his opponent, but didn’t go down.
Ray was proud of that. If he had, it would have been all over; the big blond guy would
have had him.

Through the blinding pain, Ray reached for his pistol. He almost had it out when the
blond dude pulled a gun of his own. As they simultaneously rose to their feet, his
adversary fired first and shot him square in the chest.

The bullet’s impact initially hurt less than he thought it would, a lot less than
the punch in the groin. The body armor really worked. The bullet struck the metallic
trauma plate in the center of the vest, knocking Ray back a step. The most pronounced
effect of the gunshot was that it snapped Ray out of the agonizing sluggishness created
by the groin punch. He raised his pistol and returned fire as the blond guy missed
with a second shot. Ray emptied the entire magazine of nine-millimeter bullets in
a matter of seconds. Unfortunately, by then the bastard had taken cover behind the
slut’s smashed car. Which was all right with Ray; he used the time to limp to his
car and make his getaway.

It had been a very close call. Ray knew his anxiousness to grab the whore was what
had nearly cost him his life. He’d gotten greedy and lost his focus. He’d let himself
become distracted. Now he was going to have to change the plan and the timetable to
implement it.

Haste makes waste.

Who was the blond guy? A cop assigned to protect her? Ray doubted it. If he’d been
part of a protection detail, he would have been better prepared and wouldn’t have
been alone.

An off-duty cop who happened to pass by at the time of the crash and witness the attempted
kidnapping? Possible. But if he was an off-duty cop, wouldn’t he have drawn his gun
and yelled “freeze” or “police” or something similar?

The guy sure looked like a cop. Ray’s mind struggled to find the answer. A boyfriend?

A possibility Ray couldn’t ignore. Who else but a boyfriend would follow the slut
like that?

Ray made up his mind to check into that likelihood. He knew that intelligence was
his most effective weapon. He learned that from one of the many books he’d read over
the years as a member of the military-book-of-the-month-club.

Ray’s breathing was finally beginning to calm from the argument with his mother. He
tried to let himself drift off to sleep, despite the throbbing in his scrotum and
chest. Although the bullet that struck his chest didn’t seem to hurt at the time,
when Ray got home and doffed the armor, he found a large raised welt over a deep bruise
and discovered it hurt to inhale or exhale deeply.

Ray nodded off, comforting himself, as he often did, with memories of Sissy. He remembered
the night she put him to bed with a glass of milk and promised to buy him a new baseball
glove at the end of the summer.

The last thought in Ray’s head before sleep finally took him was the memory of Sissy’s
breasts, winking at him through the dim light in his father’s garage.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 17

 

 

“What in the hell is he doing here?” Paige demanded.

“Mister Farrell is working for me,” her father answered.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Consulting.”

“It would figure you two would be acquainted,” she said. “You both share the same
ethics. Or lack thereof.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Farrell said.

Paige glared at him. “What’s your story, Sergeant Wendt? Were you aware this felon
was working for Dad?”

“Alleged felon,” Farrell corrected her. “I was never charged with any crime.” She
ignored him.

“I just found out about Mister Farrell’s involvement myself,” Wendt told her. “Believe
me, I was as surprised as you.”

“I’ll bet,” she said, returning her ire to her father. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“That I didn’t want my daughter dead.”

Paige eyed Farrell. “That guy who intervened today; I knew I’d seen him before, I
just couldn’t place him. He was with you in federal court last year, wasn’t he? He
was your accomplice during your multistate crime spree?”

“My partner, you mean,” Farrell corrected her again. “And you’re welcome.”

“For what?” she challenged.

“For saving your life,” the Judge said. “Regardless of how you feel about hiring Mister
Farrell, the irrefutable fact remains, if I had not, you wouldn’t be standing here
now berating us.”

Paige looked to Sergeant Wendt to refute her father’s claim. Wendt looked at his shoes.

She turned to her father. “You had me followed?” There were both disbelief and outrage
in her voice.

“Yes,” Farrell answered for Judge Callen. “It was all I could do at this point in
the investigation.” He met her gaze evenly. “I don’t regret it.”

“Nor do I,” Callen said. “Like it or not, you owe your safety, and quite probably
your life, to Mister Farrell’s astute judgment and proactive intervention.”

“Where were the police all this time a lunatic was stalking me and a private investigator
was following me?” Paige asked Wendt.

“Getting permission,” Farrell answered before Wendt could speak. Wendt looked up from
his feet and grunted his admission that Farrell was right.

Paige looked from Wendt, to Farrell, to her father. Her eyes flashed for a moment,
and the truth of Farrell’s words settled in. She exhaled a long breath, ran her hands
over her battered face and through her damp hair, and slumped down in what had been
Farrell’s seat across from her father. Farrell went back to the bar and began making
a drink.

“What a week,” she said to no one in particular.

“It could be worse,” her father reminded her.

“I suppose so.” The exhaustion was beginning to overtake her. “You could have told
me you had someone following me,” she said to her father.

“If I had,” he said, “you’d have asked me who it was. If I’d told you, you’d have
thrown a fit.”

“And you would have been unconsciously looking over your shoulder, which would have
potentially compromised the tail and endangered you,” Farrell added over his shoulder.

“I still don’t like it,” she said.

“Here,” Farrell returned from the bar and handed Paige a drink. “It’ll do you good.”

“I don’t normally drink,” she said, but accepted the glass.

“This is hardly a normal day,” her father said softly. Paige nodded and took a gulp
of bourbon, wincing as it burned down her throat.

“Don’t let me interrupt your conversation,” Paige said after catching her breath.
“I believe when I entered you were talking about motive.”

“Perhaps this is a discussion best left for a time when you’re feeling better,” the
Judge said.

“You mean a time when I’m not around to hear you discussing me,” she countered. “No
thanks, Dad; if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay and listen for myself.” She gestured
to the trio. “Please, go on with your debate about my stalker’s motive. I’d like to
know what you three criminal experts have come up with.”

“We were only speculating,” Wendt said, “about motive.”

“Don’t let me stop you. That’s really the heart of this case, isn’t it? Motive? The
reason why this asshole is targeting me? I’m dying to hear your theories.” She jutted
her abraded chin at Farrell. “You had the floor when I came in, Mister Private Investigator.”

“Paige,” the Judge said, “this can wait for a time when you’re not so tired.”

“You mean not so argumentative, don’t you?” Judge Callen tapped his hand on his cane
in exasperation.

“Very well, Ms Callen,” Farrell said. “The way I see it, you need to hear this discussion
anyway because you more than anyone might be able to lend insight into the stalker’s
motive.”

“I’m listening,” she said, setting down her drink and folding her hands on her lap.

Farrell took a sip of his bourbon before continuing. “This guy could have any number
of motives. We narrow the possible motives by eliminating the least likely ones. Hopefully,
that process leads us to our suspect’s motive.”

“And to him,” Wendt said.

“The first motive we can eliminate is a random act. We can take that one off the list
for obvious reasons.”

“You lost me already,” Judge Callen said. “What ‘obvious reasons’?”

“This motive would mean Ms Callen was targeted by the suspect at random,” Farrell
said. “He saw her at the bus stop, or jogging, or somewhere else without any previous
direct connection to her. It doesn’t fit this guy’s profile. Everything that’s happened
so far indicates a very personal motive.”

“I agree,” Wendt said.

“How do you arrive at this conclusion?” Judge Callen asked.

“If this stalker simply wanted to rape and murder Ms Callen,” Farrell said, “he could
have done it at the beach yesterday morning. He had her isolated and alone. But he
didn’t. He took pains to let her know he was coming back. He wants to prolong it.”
He looked at Paige. “He wants her to suffer. That’s not random; that’s personal.”

“OK,” Paige said. “The random motive is eliminated.”

“That’s a good thing,” Farrell said. “Frankly, if this guy selected you at random,
we’d be in the worst shape possible. There would be virtually no way to know how he
selected you as a victim. In that case, all we could do is to wait until he strikes
and hope to catch him in the act.”

“Which is what Mister Farrell’s foresight saved you from this morning,” the Judge
said.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Paige said, pointing to her battered face.

“The second possible motive is Ms Callen’s personal life. An old boyfriend who can’t
let go, a rebuked suitor, an unrequited romance, that sort of thing.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have the most active social life. Or a history
of stormy relationships.”

“I wish you did,” Wendt said.

“You’d prefer the case to have a romance angle?”

“In a way, yes,” the sergeant said. “Personal motives are the easiest to flesh out.
They’re also the most common motives for stalkers. You sure there’s no one from your
past, even the distant past, who might harbor a fixation on you?”

“What about Chad?” Judge Callen asked. “He was certainly upset about the way things
turned out between you two.”

“Who’s Chad?” Wendt asked.

Paige’s scowled at her father. “That was almost three years ago, Dad. And it couldn’t
be Chad. He’s over six feet tall. The guy who attacked me is five-foot-ten at most.
And I’d know if I saw those gnarly yellow teeth before.”

“Chad could have put someone up to it,” Farrell said. “Hired the stalker. It’s been
done before. Who’s Chad?”

“Chad was engaged to Paige,” the Judge answered for her. “She broke it off.”

“Much to your dismay,” Paige said. She turned to Farrell and Wendt. “Chad and I met
in law school. We dated exclusively for a couple of years. We were engaged to get
married.”

“Why didn’t you?” Farrell asked.

“My mother died the week before the wedding,” Paige said, looking down.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Farrell said. “But I have to ask: how did Chad take your
breaking off the engagement?”

“Not well,” Judge Callen said.

“Mom’s death wasn’t unexpected, but it threw a wrench in the timetable Chad’s family
had planned for our very elaborate wedding. They wanted a big one with all the trimmings.
His family owns a law firm in the city, and Chad expected me to mourn Mom and get
on with marrying him so he could get busy working on a full partnership at his dad’s
firm. Apparently, I disrupted their schedule.” She smiled slightly. “It was a blessing
in disguise. Better to learn your spouse is a jerk before tying the knot.”

“That’s a lesson I had to learn twice,” Farrell said.

“Me too.” Wendt chuckled without mirth. “I’m on my third wife; an occupational hazard.”

“You ever hear from Chad since?”

“Yeah,” said Paige. “I got an invitation to his wedding last summer, if you can believe
it. I didn’t go.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t our guy,” Wendt said. “Or that somebody else you may have dated
or refused to date isn’t our suspect.”

“You’re on the wrong track. I don’t think my stalker’s motive originates from my personal
life,” Paige said.

“You’d know better than anyone,” Farrell said. “But we still have to check every possibility.”

“I get it. What’s another possible motive?”

“Your work,” Farrell said. “You don’t exactly have an occupation where enemies are
a rarity.”