The Fourth Motive (22 page)

“Good afternoon, Ms Callen,” Farrell said. He was holding a drink and a lit cigarette.

“Mister Farrell,” she greeted him frostily. Wendt nodded his acknowledgment.

“Randy,” Farrell saluted with his glass. He turned back to Paige, motioning with his
drink toward the man standing next to him. “I believe you’ve met my partner, Kevin
Kearns?”

Kearns met her gaze. “We’ve met twice before,” she said. “Once in federal court–”

“And again when he saved your life,” Farrell finished for her.

Paige’s features hardened. She approached Kearns. “I suppose I should thank you,”
she said coolly.

“Don’t put yourself out,” Kearns said.

Paige was about to retort when Judge Callen interceded. “I’m glad you’re both here,”
he said. “We were discussing strategy.”

“How kind of you,” Paige said icily.

The Judge dismissed his daughter’s sarcasm and continued. “Mister Farrell has a plan
that I think is worthy of consideration.”

“I’m all ears,” Paige said. “Particularly since his plan presumably involves me.”

“The floor is yours,” Callen said to Farrell. Paige, Wendt, and Kearns took seats.
Farrell remained standing.

“The way I see it, we have two problems,” he began, after first taking a drink and
a long drag from his smoke. “First and foremost, we have to protect Ms Callen. The
second priority is to identify and stop her attacker.”

“We know this already,” Paige said.

Farrell ignored her and went on. “The hard reality is, at this time we don’t have
a clue on his identity and motive, do we, Randy?”

“I’m afraid not,” Wendt conceded. “We’ve got detectives and DA’s inspectors working
around the clock, going through Paige’s previous prosecution case files, but so far
nothing stands out. The only sample of his handwriting we have is from the spray-painted
wall at Paige’s condo, and our handwriting expert says there’s been no similar handwriting
matches in any of the documents in her files. None of the forensic evidence is producing
any leads, either. The stolen car was clean as a whistle. The paper and envelope used
in the note he left on her car were common drugstore stock, and the typewriter he
used is a Smith Corona; only about a zillion of those in circulation. The typewriter
is just like his gun; once we find it, it’ll be easy to match up, but without it,
we’ve got zilch.”

“The plain truth is the investigation is stalled,” Farrell said. “That’s no reflection
on Sergeant Wendt or his department; that’s just the way it is.” Wendt reluctantly
nodded his assent. “Since we can’t prevent what we don’t know, that leaves us only
one option: nail this guy in the act.” He looked at Paige. “This obviously poses significant
risks.”

“You don’t say,” Paige said.

“Especially if he’s a kamikaze,” Farrell said. “If this guy doesn’t care if he gets
caught, or if he’s willing to die to get her, he’s going to be all the harder to stop.”

“What does that mean?” Paige asked. “A kamikaze?”

“It means,” Wendt answered for Farrell, “certain types of stalkers are kamikazes;
they’re so determined to nail their targets, they don’t care if they get apprehended
or killed in the process. Some actually seek death. They’re happy to go up in flames
as long as they can take the object of their obsession with them. Lots of these whack
jobs shoot themselves after killing their victims; they’re called murder-suicides.
Others try to get the cops to do it for them; a suicide-by-cop.I’m sure you’ve seen
it before.”

Paige nodded. “Don’t prosecute many of them,” she admitted. “Usually nobody left to
prosecute.”

“I’m not sure if your stalker fits that profile,” Farrell said. “He’s gone to a lot
of trouble to keep from getting caught so far. Fact is, we simply don’t know at this
point. Unfortunately, his self-preservation instinct might only be temporary.”

“Temporary?” the Judge asked.

“Yes. Motivated for now only by a desire to prolong your daughter’s suffering. If
and when he reaches the end of his deranged program, he may be willing to sacrifice
himself to take her out. I’ve seen it before.”

“Me too,” Wendt said. “Kamikaze.”

“So Paige is essentially at the mercy of a homicidal lunatic’s insane agenda?” Callen
said.

“Correct,” Farrell said. “And thus far, we’re also entirely at the mercy of his schedule.
We don’t know when or where he’s going to strike.”

“We could put Paige in a safe house,” Wendt suggested. “At least for a while.”

“For how long?” Farrell asked. “It’s expensive, can’t be maintained forever, and all
the stalker has to do is wait it out. Ms Callen can’t stay underground for long, not
and have anything close to a normal life. The stalker obviously knows all about her,
certainly enough to have hit her at home on his terms. All he has to do, if she goes
underground, is go underground himself. He’ll surface when she does and go after her
all over again. Time is on his side, not ours.”

“What can we do?” Judge Callen said.

Farrell paused to drain his bourbon and inhale some more of his cigarette. “We can
offer the stalker incentive to strike on our terms. Divert his energy to another target.
It might expose him, draw him out.”

“How do we do that?”

Farrell looked down at Paige. “A boyfriend.”

“What?” she sat up.

“That’s right. A boyfriend.”

“That’s ridiculous; I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “I’m not dating anyone right
now. I haven’t in some time.”

“There’s a mystery for you,” Kearns said under his breath. Paige jerked her head at
him sharply. Wendt suppressed a grin.

“I’m confused,” Callen said. “What’s a boyfriend going to do for us?”

“Put the stalker off his game,” Farrell said. “Throw a wrench in his plans. Shake
up his timetable.”

“How?”

“Think about it,” Farrell said. “This stalker knew where Ms Callen works, her schedule,
where she lives; even what type of alarm she uses at her condominium, right, Randy?”

“That’s right,” the sergeant agreed. “He’s done his homework.”

“If she suddenly emerges with a boyfriend, especially one that appears to be a long-established
relationship, our friend the stalker is going to be puzzled, maybe even a little pissed
off. He’s going to wonder how he didn’t know about their relationship. How he missed
it. And his next logical move–”

“–Is to find out as much as he can about the boyfriend,” Sergeant Wendt finished.
“Maybe try to hurt her by going after him.”

“That’s my thinking,” Farrell said. “It’s a long shot, but it’s all we’ve got right
now.”

“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Wendt said, looking from Farrell to the Judge. “Giving
the stalker another potential target would at least double our chances of luring him
out.”

“I agree,” Judge Callen said. “And given the lack of other alternatives, I concur
that Mr Farrell’s suggestion, at least for the time being, is our best chance to snare
this maniac.”

Paige clapped her hands, an artificial smile on her face. “I’m delighted you’re all
in agreement. There’re two problems, however, that you geniuses haven’t thought of:
one, as I already noted, I don’t have a boyfriend.” Her phony smile vanished. “And
two, there’s no way in hell I’m going along with your idiotic plan.”

She turned her icy gaze to her father. “I realize you can’t control your impulse to
manipulate me, but this takes the cake.”

“Paige,” the Judge said, “we’re only trying to do what’s best to catch this criminal.
If you have a better idea, we’d love to hear it.”

“Here’s my idea,” Paige said to her father. “How about you quit trying to run my life?”
She pointed her finger next at Farrell. “How about you stay away from me?” Her stare
lighted on Wendt. “And how about you get busy and catch this son of a bitch? Isn’t
that supposed to be your job?”

“What about me?” Kearns asked innocently.

“You can go to hell,” she told him. She got up and stormed out of the study.

“I’ll get right on it,” Kearns said as she walked away.

All four men looked at each other and shrugged. “She had a rough morning,” Wendt finally
explained, breaking the silence. “She got put on administrative leave by the district
attorney.”

“What for?” Farrell asked.

“She punched out her office partner yesterday,” he told them. “Guy’s a real asshole.
He jumped out at her and yelled ‘Boo!’ Thought it would be good for a laugh.”

“What a shitty thing to do,” Farrell said. “Doesn’t he know what she’s been through?”
He ground out the remains of his cigarette in the marble ashtray.

“He does,” Wendt said. “Which made it all the more thoughtless. Paige overreacted,
of course, and punched him in the nose.”

“That can happen,” Farrell said, “when people get startled. Reflex action; self-defense.”

“That’s true,” Wendt agreed. “But kicking him when he was down on the ground puking
isn’t. He’s pressing charges.”

“Uh-oh,” Farrell groaned.

“Not to worry,” Judge Callen said. “I’ve got a call into the DA and I’ve already referred
Paige to a friend of mine who is a top-drawer criminal defense attorney. She’s got
an appointment scheduled with him this afternoon in Oakland. Sergeant Wendt has kindly
offered to escort her. I’m certain this assault and battery incident will get resolved
quickly.”

“With your juice, I’m sure it will,” Farrell said. “But it’s trouble your poor daughter
doesn’t need right now.”

“I’ll say,” Wendt concurred.

“Probably just as well,” Farrell said, lighting another unfiltered Camel and heading
back to the Judge’s wet bar to refresh his bourbon. “If she doesn’t go to work, it’s
one less place her stalker can attack her. Makes our lives a little easier.”

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt for Paige to keep a low profile for a while,” Wendt agreed.

Paige reentered the study. The hostility had dissipated from her demeanor.

“I want to apologize,” she said. “To each of you. I realize you’re trying to do what
you think is in my best interests. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.” She sighed.
“This stalker thing and this trouble at work make me feel like I’ve lost control over
every facet of my life. When I walked in and heard you discussing my case, it set
me off. I know that’s no excuse.” She blew a lock of hair from over her black eye.
“It’s been a difficult week.”

“So we heard,” Farrell said. “If you’d like, I can have a talk with this jerk who’s
pressing charges against you. I can be very persuasive.”

“I’ll vouch for that,” Kearns chimed in.

“No, thank you,” Paige said quickly. “That won’t be necessary. I did it, so I’ll face
it. I take responsibility for my actions.”

“An honorable trait,” Farrell said. “Your stock rises.”

Paige smiled weakly.

“Will you at least consider Mr Farrell’s plan?” Judge Callen asked her, returning
the subject to the previous topic. “I realize it’s something you don’t want to do.
But if it has even the slightest chance of helping Sergeant Wendt catch this madman,
don’t you think we ought to give it a try?”

“I’ll think about it,” Paige relented, too tired to argue further. “But even if I
agreed to the charade, where am I going to find a pretend-boyfriend?”

“That’s easy,” Farrell announced, pointing at Kearns with his now-refilled bourbon.
“Paige; meet Prince Charming.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Paige.

“Ditto,” Kearns said.

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 26

 

 

Ray strode purposefully across the residential yards, the tools on his belt flapping
against his waist as he walked. It was a little after three in the afternoon, and
the quiet Dayton Avenue cul-de-sac was devoid of vehicle or pedestrian traffic.

Ray was wearing a Pacific Gas and Electric work shirt over jeans and boots. A San
Francisco Giants baseball cap topped his head, dark sunglasses covered his eyes, and
his upper lip was adorned once again with a spirit-gummed theatrical mustache. Finishing
the ensemble was a wide leather tool belt, complete with a flashlight and what appeared
to be a walkie-talkie but was in reality a handheld police/fire scanner.

He was also wearing translucent latex gloves, invisible to all but the closest observer.
Except there were no close observers; Ray had seen to that.

He’d been monitoring the house from inside the bed of a stolen pickup truck for several
hours, hidden comfortably inside the vehicle’s camper shell. The truck was parked
at the intersection of Dayton Avenue and Grand Street, half a block from Judge Callen’s
home. Ray watched as black-and-white Alameda police cars rolled lazily by every hour
or so. He also saw two men leave the Judge’s place and get into a burgundy-colored
Oldsmobile and drive away. Both looked like cops, but from his distance, he couldn’t
make out anything but their basic features. Shortly after the Olds left, Ray saw who
he believed was the slut and another man leave the house and get into an unmarked
Ford sedan and drive away.

Ray forced himself to wait another five minutes in case either of the vehicles returned,
and got out of the truck. He checked his appearance in the side mirror and began to
walk through the neighborhood. He made his way from property to property toward the
Callen mansion, checking each house’s gas meter along the way. He even made notes
on a small clipboard on his belt. The fourth house he reached was the Callen home.

Ray went directly through the Callens’ rear gate and made a pretense of checking the
gas meter. Then he walked around to the rear yard. Taking a key from his pocket, he
inserted it into the rear patio door. As expected, the key worked.