The Fourth Motive (7 page)

“I am not without influence,” Callen said.

“And I’m not unfamiliar with your reputation, Your Honor. ‘Iron Gene’ they call you.
You’re owed a lot of favors and have your hands in a lot of pockets. But I’m not sure
even your influence is going to do me any good if I find myself in hot water with
the Department of Justice or the Alameda County District Attorney’s office again.”

“Your reservations are understandable. I am prepared to pay whatever fee is necessary
to allay your qualms and take this case.”

“Maybe I have lavish notions,” Farrell pointed out. “What if you can’t afford me?”

Judge Callen sipped scotch, his jaw tightening. When he spoke again his voice was
quiet and hard. “I am an old man. I have more money than I could spend in several
lifetimes. But I only have one daughter.” He challenged Farrell with his eyes. “You
tell me what it will take to obtain your services and I’ll pay. No quibbling and no
questions asked. And I’ll pay in cash, under the table, so you don’t have to worry
about the IRS.”

“That gets my attention. But there’s another thing,” Farrell said, meeting the Judge’s
eyes. “From what little you’ve told me, your daughter’s stalker smells local. If you
didn’t know it already, I’m persona non grata with the Alameda police.”

“I seem to remember reading something in your file about taking two Alameda officers
hostage here in town.”

“Believe me, at the time I had no choice. If I’d let the Alameda cops arrest me that
night, a little girl named Kirsten Ballantine would be dead and hanging from a tree.
My point is,” Farrell continued, “if I’m going to catch this creep, I’ll need to be
privy to the official Alameda police investigation. You can bet I’m the last person
the Alameda cops are going to want to cooperate with.”

“I’ve already got that covered,” Callen told him. “I’ll get daily briefings from the
sergeant assigned to Paige’s case. I can pass that information on to you.”

Farrell rubbed his chin and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“Please take the case, Bob,” the Judge pressed, sensing his hesitation. “Paige is
my little girl.” His voice faded to almost a whisper. “She’s all I’ve got.”

Farrell stood up. “All right, Your Honor. I’m your man. But it’s going to cost you.”
He stood up and extended his hand. The Judge waved dismissively at the mention of
cost and shook Farrell’s extended hand.

“One last thing: I’m going to have to hire some help. Like I said, I can’t babysit
your daughter and track her stalker at the same time. I want to bring on a partner.”

“Run the case however you see fit.”

“I’m only telling you because I might need more than money to hire this guy. I’ll
need your political influence if I’m going to convince him to come aboard. Still game?”

“Not a problem,” the Judge assured. “Who exactly do you plan to hire?”

“I have someone in mind,” Farrell said.

 

 

   

CHAPTER 9

 

 

When Kearns opened his apartment door, the first thing he noticed was the smell of
cigarette smoke. The second thing he noticed was Bob Farrell’s bony frame seated on
a folding chair next to the stack of boxes that served as his makeshift kitchen table.

“Hello, Kevin,” Farrell drawled around his cigarette without getting up. “Long time
no see.”

“I’d ask how you got in here, but I know about your ability to pick locks.” Kearns
shook his head. “You mind putting that out? I breathe this air.”

Farrell ground out his smoke in an empty tuna can, which Kearns recognized as the
same one he’d discarded into the trash bin under his sink the night previous. He noticed
Farrell’s battered flask on the table next to the improvised ashtray. The flask’s
cap was already open. Farrell’s tan raincoat was draped over the back of his chair.
“Come in, why don’t you?” Kearns said sarcastically. “Make yourself at home.”

“Why, thank you,” Farrell said. “Don’t mind if I do.” He gestured with his arm. “Love
what you’ve done with the place. What do you call this décor? ‘Early American Grapes
of Wrath’?”

“It ain’t much,” Kearns conceded, looking around the sparse apartment. “But it’s home.
At least for now.”

“You look well,” Farrell said, appraising Kearns. “California living must be doing
you some good.”

Kearns was in his mid-twenties and stood a shade under six feet tall. He had a muscular
physique set under sandy-colored military-length hair. He was clad in athletic shoes,
warm-up pants, and a pastel-hued, high-collared shirt with the flowery name and logo
of a popular health club chain embroidered on the front.

“What’s with the monkey suit?” Farrell asked. “You a doorman at a hair salon?”

Kearns looked at himself and chuckled. “Not quite, but close. I work the evening shift
at a fitness center. That’s what you Californians call a gym.”

“Please tell me you aren’t teaching aerobics?” Farrell gasped.

Kearns laughed. “Almost as bad. I teach overweight housewives and mid-life cubicle
dwellers how to train with weights.”

“I’ll bet all your female customers swoon over that corn-fed Iowa charm of yours.”

“Most of them are old enough to be my grandma,” Kearns said. Farrell stood and the
men shook hands. “Good to see you, Bob.”

“I brought you some beer,” Farrell pointed to the tiny refrigerator in what was supposed
to be the apartment’s kitchen. “Help yourself.”

Kearns’ studio apartment was located directly over the bar in one of Alameda’s most
popular taverns. This made the rent cheap but the peace and quiet scarce. Fortunately,
it was almost midnight on a Monday evening and the bar had only a few patrons left.
On weekends, the raucous sounds of revelers lasted until well after 2am.

Kearns found a six-pack of Anchor Steam inside the fridge and opened one with his
Swiss army knife. He sat down on the edge of the bed, which was the only other piece
of furniture in the apartment. Farrell resumed his seat.

“So how’re you doing, Kevin?” Farrell punctuated his question with a swig from his
flask.

“Getting by. No complaints.”

“Still going to school?”

Kearns nodded. “I’m a senior now, if it matters. Most of my credits from Iowa State
transferred to Cal State Hayward. With any luck, I’ll have my bachelor’s by Christmas.”

“When do you find time to study?”

“That’s a good question. I’m up every morning before dawn and at school by seven.
I barely have time to commute from Hayward to the gym in Alameda after class in the
afternoon, and don’t get off work until past eleven. I work double shifts both days
on weekends.”

“How’re the finances holding up?”

“I’m making ends meet,” Kearns said, taking a pull from the bottle. “Got no college
debt, which is all that matters right now. And as you can see” – Kearns swept the
tiny apartment’s water-stained walls with his beer bottle – “I’m living a life of
opulence.”

“I looked in your garbage can when I was searching for an ashtray,” Farrell smirked.
“Macaroni and cheese and canned tuna ain’t exactly an opulent diet.”

“It fills the belly,” Kearns said.

“That it does. How are the police applications going?”

“Don’t ask,” Kearns said, rubbing his brow.

“You still running into a wall at the background check?

“Yeah. Eight so far this year. I’ve still got a couple of applications out. I figure
I’ll go to an even ten before I throw in the towel.”

“I’m sorry, Kevin.”

Kearns had been consistently applying to Bay Area police departments for most of the
past year. Part of the deal that Farrell arranged with the federal prosecutors was
to expunge Kearns’ record of arrest and the criminal charges he and Farrell had accrued
during their search for Vernon Slocum. But as Kearns soon found out, sealing a record
and keeping people from talking about it were two different things.

Each time Kearns applied to a police department, he aced the written test, slam-dunked
the physical agility test, and easily managed the oral interview. His experience as
a deputy sheriff back in Iowa, as well as his military training, ensured he was always
at the top of the hiring list.

As soon as Kearns’ application reached the background investigation phase, however,
his candidacy as a police recruit would be mysteriously terminated. Eight times in
as many months, Kearns received a form letter from the police background investigator
stating he was no longer being considered as a viable candidate. No reason was given,
and by California civil service rules, none was required.

But he knew the truth. The reason he continued to have his police applications torpedoed
was because his name was on a list. A federal list. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Kearns could never prove it, but the word had been put out: he’d been blackballed.
Farrell knew it, too.

“Kevin,” Farrell began softly. “You don’t have to live like this. You’ve got nothing
to prove. Move in with me until you find something solid, or at least until you finish
your college degree.”

“That’s a generous offer,” Kearns said, “but I can’t. You live in San Francisco. If
I move in with you, everybody is going to think we’re dating.” He finished his beer
in one long gulp. “Not that I have anything against gay people, mind you,” he said.
“It’s just that you’re not my type.”

“Too sophisticated for a bumpkin like you?”

“Too shady.” Kearns got up to get another beer.

“That’s your pride talking,” Farrell said, not unkindly.

“Maybe,” Kearns conceded, popping the bottle cap with the attachment on his pocketknife.

“So, what’s your plan? Keep filing futile police applications until your hair goes
gray?”

“I’ll give it until I graduate college. If I can’t get hired on with a police agency
by then, I’ll go back in the army, this time as a commissioned officer. At least in
the service, I’ll have a steady paycheck coming in and a roof over my head.”

“That isn’t what you really want, though, is it?”

“No,” Kearns conceded, “it’s not. Did one hitch in the army already; green isn’t my
color. But it beats the unemployment line.” He held his bottle out to Farrell. “To
what do I owe an unannounced visit from Private Eye Bob Farrell? And with him bearing
gifts?”

“Inherently suspicious,” Farrell said, clinking his flask against Kearns’ beer. “You’re
a born detective, Kevin; you just won’t admit it.”

“Not much to detect,” Kearns said. “You’re as subtle as a freight train.”

“I need your help. On a job.”

“Not interested,” Kearns said.

“Won’t you at least hear me out?”

“There’s no point. I quit the private investigation business. I don’t want to peek
in people’s windows anymore or follow deadbeats around. We tried it already, remember?
For over six months, I let you drag me all over Northern California playing Dick Tracy,
and all it did was make me feel shittier about losing my career as a cop. No thanks,
Bob. Been there and done that.”

“This job is different,” Farrell told him. “It’s a criminal matter. Not some low-rent
worker’s compensation fraud gig, or taking dirty pictures of a philandering husband.
It’s lucrative, too.”

Farrell withdrew a fat envelope from his suit pocket and tossed it on Kearns’ cardboard
tabletop. Kearns picked it up and thumbed through the denominations.

“There’s over ten thousand dollars in here,” he whistled.

“Damn right,” Farrell said. “That’s half my retainer. It’s yours if you’re with me.
There’ll be plenty more.”

“You’re moving up in the world,” Kearns said, his eyebrows lifting. He tossed the
money back on the table. “Sorry, Bob, but I still have to refuse.”

“Why? What do you have against private investigation work? Or is it me?”

“Of course it’s not you. I need more, that’s all. You forget you have a police pension
coming in. PI work is too unstable; too hand-to-mouth. I need to build a future and
put away something to fall back on. Private investigation, especially as a freelancer,
doesn’t pay the bills consistently enough.” He gave Farrell a disdainful look. “Or
justify the risk.”

Farrell appraised Kearns, his eyes narrowing. “This is about Jennifer, isn’t it?”

At Farrell’s mentioning his daughter’s name, Kearns’ stomach tightened. Since meeting
her during the course of their hunt for Vernon Slocum, a day didn’t pass without him
thinking of her.

“Huh?” Kearns said, looking away and confirming it was. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, you redneck. You never were much of a liar.”
He smacked himself on the forehead with his palm. “Of course; why didn’t I see it
before? That’s why you’re busting your ass to get a college degree and a steady job.
You don’t believe a girl like Jennifer would go for a guy like you if he was a self-employed
private eye. Some detective I am; I should have smelled this months ago.”

Kearns said nothing in reply, but his eyes told Farrell he was right. After a long
pause, he said, “What do you want me to say? That you’re wrong?”

“Hey, kid,” Farrell put his hand on Kearns’ shoulder. “I didn’t realize what was going
on with you. I’m sorry.”

Kearns’ shoulders slumped. “When we were trailing Slocum and I met your daughter,
I thought she was something real special. Who wouldn’t? She’s one in a million. But
it’s more than Jennifer. It’s the thought that somebody like her wouldn’t give a second
look to a guy like me. Not where I am, and what I am, right now.”

“I’m an idiot, Kevin. I forgot what walking hard-ons guys your age are.”

“Jesus, Bob; that’s not what I meant.”

“Of course it is,” Farrell corrected him. “I know how you young bucks think. Hormones
dominate your world. When you get to my age and you start having feelings for a woman,
it’s easier to keep your little head from controlling your big head. Don’t you remember
what your drill sergeant taught you?”