The Fourth Motive (36 page)

Once Kearns gave his statement, he was asked to walk a deputy and a crime scene technician
back over the steep hills behind Elsa’s property to reenact his pursuit and gun battle
with the suspect. It would be the fourth time he would mount the steep hills overlooking
the Callen property within a couple of hours, and he was running out of gas. He asked
permission to get a snack from inside the house, in the pantry, which was separate
from the kitchen, promising not to disturb the crime scene. The deputy consented and
let him enter the house through the front door as he waited outside.

Once inside, Kearns headed not for the pantry as he had told the deputy, but into
the study belonging to Elsa’s deceased husband. There he picked up the phone and dialed
Bob Farrell’s apartment, hoping his partner was still home. He checked his watch;
it was almost 11 o’clock in the morning.

“Farrell,” the creaky voice over the line greeted him. Kearns could only wonder how
many unfiltered Camel cigarettes and bourbon-laced coffees his partner had consumed
for breakfast.

“Bob; it’s Kevin,” he said urgently.

“Sorry I didn’t call you last night,” Farrell began, “I was–”

“Shut up, will you? I haven’t got much time. The place is crawling with cops.”

“Cops?” Farrell’s voice perked up.

“Yeah. Paige’s stalker showed up this morning. Attacked the house after Paige and
I left for a jog. Shot the place up–”

“Paige’s aunt?” he interrupted.

“She was injured, but she’s OK. Listen, I found a makeshift observation post in the
woods where the suspect must have been watching the house. He left some gear stashed
there. I found a name on two of the items: a military sleeping bag and duffel bag.
It was the same name.”

“Why would he leave something with his name on it?” Farrell asked incredulously.

“I don’t believe he intended to. His plan got changed after he got mauled by a Labrador
retriever and burned with a frying pan full of cooking grease. Got a pencil?”

“I do; go ahead.”

“The last name is Pascoe, the first name is Arnold. Middle initial is R.” Kearns spelled
out Pascoe for him.

“Anybody else know about this?”

“Nope; I covered my tracks.”

“Well played,” Farrell said. “You’re starting to think like a true detective.”

“I don’t want the cops to bag this jerk before I get my hands on him. I’m beginning
to take getting shot at personally.”

“We’ll get him, Kevin,” Farrell assured him. “And before the cops do. That’s why we
get paid the big bucks.”

“I don’t care about the money,” Kearns said. “I want my mitts around his neck.”

“You and me both.”

“I’ve got to go,” Kearns said. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“Before you go, I have to ask,” Farrell said, “any idea how this guy knew Paige was
in Napa?”

“Don’t know. But he sure seems to know her every move.”

“He sure does.”

“One more thing, Bob; he’s hurt. Pretty bad, I think. He left a lot of blood at the
scene. For what it’s worth.”

“Hopefully, it means he’ll be out of commission for a while.”

“Not this guy; he never quits.” Kearns hung up and raced to the pantry. He grabbed
a container of orange juice and an apple, then ran to the front door. He slowed to
a nonchalant walk as he exited the house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 43

 

 

It was early afternoon by the time Bob Farrell hobbled into the Alameda hospital.
His banged-up body was stiff and sore, and he still couldn’t stand fully upright.
He sported an ugly purple bruise on the side of his jaw and neck.

He’d spent a busy hour on the phone after Kearns called him from Napa. It was Sunday,
and most of Farrell’s former cronies still employed by SFPD had enough seniority to
be off on weekends. He telephoned virtually every contact he still had at the San
Francisco Police Department until he finally found an acquaintance to help him. The
only person he could cajole into scanning the records for the name “Arnold R. Pascoe”
came up empty. There were plenty of Pascoes in the Department of Motor Vehicles and
criminal databases, all right, but nobody with the first name Arnold who matched the
suspect’s general description and profile.

He showered, dressed, and wheeled his Oldsmobile through the city traffic over the
Bay Bridge to Alameda.

When he arrived at the Alameda hospital, he was encouraged by the Judge’s transfer
from the intensive care unit into a regular room. A bored-looking, uniformed Alameda
policeman recognized Farrell and motioned him into the Judge’s hospital room after
briefly glancing up from his magazine. The Judge looked up when Farrell walked in.

“Hello, Bob,” the Judge said. He had only a hint of the impaired speech he’d developed
in the wake of the attack several days previous. His face no longer seemed paralyzed,
and he appeared rested and alert. The remains of his lunch sat on a tray next to the
bed, and he was sipping a glass of 7UP through a straw. If he noticed Farrell’s battered
condition, he didn’t mention it.

“You look well, Your Honor,” Farrell said, shaking his hand. He found Judge Callen’s
handshake firm. “I see they’ve got you on solid food; that’s a good sign.”

“The doctors are telling me I’ll make a full recovery. I’m almost there now. I’m getting
released this afternoon.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Any news from your partner?” the Judge asked. “Or Paige?”

“That’s why I’m here. Her stalker paid a visit to your sister’s home in Napa this
morning.”

“Is Paige–”

“Take it easy; she’s fine. Your sister sustained some injury, but she’s going to be
OK. Kevin shooed him off, but the bastard got away.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Farrell shook his head. “No offense, but I don’t know the details and there’s no time.
I didn’t come here to report what happened in Napa. I need your help. Kevin came up
with a solid lead, and I need to move on it.”

“What can I do?”

“Does the name Arnold Pascoe mean anything to you?”

The Judge canted his head. “Seems to ring a bell, but I can’t place it. Why?”

“The name’s connected to our man. I have a hunch it’s a name that may not be found
in any of the current computer records.”

“I sat on the bench in Alameda County for over forty years, Bob. A lot of people came
and went. My memory isn’t what it used to be, even before the knock on my head.”

“Can you think of anybody who might know?”

Callen snapped his fingers. “Deputy Charlie White. He was my bailiff. He’s still working
at the courthouse; he’s been there as long as I have. He’s an institution. Should
have retired years ago but won’t. Has no family. Just shows up at court every day,
like the rising of the sun. Old Charlie has a memory like an elephant. If this Pascoe
fellow is anyone connected to me or Paige through the courts, Charlie would remember.”

“How do I reach Deputy White?”

“He lives in town. An apartment off Buena Vista Avenue, I believe. Hand me the phone
and I’ll call the duty district attorney’s inspector; he can give me White’s address
and phone number.”

Farrell brought the phone over to Callen’s bed. The Judge paused before he dialed.
“You still carrying that flask of Kentucky bourbon around with you?”

“I am,” Farrell answered. “You sure it’s a good idea in your condition?”

“I’ll forget you said that,” Judge Callen said, holding out his glass of 7UP.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

CHAPTER 44

 

 

Ray Cowell lay on the couch in agony, waiting for a knock on the door.

The pain in his left arm was barely tolerable, in his left leg significantly worse,
and in the left side of his face and neck excruciating. He rocked his body back and
forth, his fists and teeth clenched. Every few seconds, he slammed his good arm into
the wall over his head and cursed. It had been a disastrous two days.

Ray drove back to the Bay Area from Napa in record time. As he drove, his mind reeled
from the catastrophic outcome of what he’d thought were well-laid plans. As a result
of his carelessness, he went from what was supposed to be a triumphant victory to
almost being killed at the hands of a feral dog and a crazy old woman. Instead of
reveling in the slut’s final, glorious suffering, he’d been forced to retreat for
his life. He’d fled in wounded terror, leaving his gear behind.

He still didn’t know what propelled him around the hills and back to his car. All
he could remember was staggering blindly to the vehicle, dizzy with pain and shock.

The whore’s boyfriend nearly caught him. When Ray looked up and saw him sprinting
down the hill, shirtless and covered in dust, his heart almost stopped. The son of
a bitch looked like Tarzan, had a shotgun in his hands, and was tearing up the ground
between them like a marauding tiger. The expression on his face, even at a distance,
told Ray that taking prisoners wasn’t the young man’s intention.

Ray saw him just in time. He opened up with the M1 carbine, and when the boyfriend
was forced to hit the dirt, he used the time to get into his car and make his escape.
It had been close. His blue Hyundai now sported a number of 00 buckshot holes in its
body and a spider-webbed windshield, courtesy of the man’s return fire.

As Ray sped back to the Bay Area, blood seeped from his shirt and trousers and soaked
the seat of his car. He was oddly grateful for the pain, because it kept him from
blacking out. He spent most of the drive back frantically checking his rearview mirror.

By the time Ray tucked his compact sedan safely into his garage, he was almost unable
to stand. He wanted to pass out, but the searing pain of his injuries again kept him
from drifting into that welcome abyss.

Once inside his basement, he wasted no time. He went directly to the bathroom and
stripped off his shredded camouflage fatigues in the tub. A nauseous Ray examined
his wounds in the mirror.

The first thing Ray noticed was his face. The left side, stretching from his temple
to his neckline, was a pulpy mass of raised blisters and welts. His eyebrow was gone,
and his left ear was a tacky, raised blob of flesh. The pain was immense, and when
he risked a touch, the pressure from his hand in some spots sent waves of torture
rippling through his head; in other spots, he felt nothing at all. According to the
military first aid manuals he’d read, that meant the burns he sustained were somewhere
between second and third degree.

He looked at his left arm. There were several deep puncture wounds on opposite sides
of his forearm. He had no trouble moving his wrist, which meant no tendon or ligament
damage. But the wounds were gaping and had only stopped bleeding profusely within
the past half hour.

His left thigh was dotted with similar wounds. The aching sensation deep in the leg
indicated extensive muscle damage. These wounds, like the holes in his arm, had only
just stopped bleeding.

Ray knew he was lucky. The dog bites, like most animal bites, would require no stitches.
He knew the way to treat puncture wounds was to thoroughly disinfect them, cleanse
them regularly, and leave them open to drain.

But Ray also knew from his military field medical guide that the germs from the animal’s
mouth would be embedded to the depth of the bite and could be expected to go septic
almost immediately.

Ray hobbled from the bathroom and retrieved a phone number from a roster of all Maersk
employees he’d obtained at work. He dialed the number, and the phone was picked up
by the second ring.

“Security,” a gruff voice answered.

“I want to speak with Jimmy Chavez,” Ray said, trying to keep normality in his voice.

After a brief wait, another voice came on the line.

“Chavez,” said the voice.

“Jimmy, it’s me, Ray. I’ve got a serious problem.”

“Where you been? I ain’t seen you around for days,” Chavez said.

“I’ve been on vacation,” Ray said, struggling to keep the anguish from his tone. “I
need your help. I’ll pay.”

“That depends on the kind of help you need,” Chavez said.

James “Jimmy” Chavez was a part-time security guard at the Port of Oakland shipyards.
He was also a full-time crook. If you needed something and were unwilling to pay full
retail price, especially if you weren’t overly concerned with the temperature of the
item, Jimmy Chavez was your man.

Ray knew he sold marijuana and methamphetamines and just about any other drug you
could think of to the longshoremen at the shipyards, and that his part-time security
gig was not his primary source of income. The security guard job merely gave him access
to the dock workers who were the main purchasers of his illicit wares.

“I need medical supplies. Painkillers. Antibiotics.”

“I get it,” Chavez chuckled. “You’ve been on vacation partying and caught yourself
some drippy-dick. Gotta watch out for that funky pussy, Ray-Ray. That shit will make
your junk shrivel up and fall off. What’s the matter; too embarrassed to go to the
free clinic yourself?”

“I’m hurting, Jimmy. I’ve got money. You going to help me or not?”

“Relax,” Chavez told him. “I ain’t proud; I been to the clinic lots of times. But
it’ll cost you.”

“I’ll pay you three hundred bucks over whatever the stuff costs.”

“Shit, Ray; you must really be hurting. Deal.”