The Fourth Motive (9 page)

Still, a part of her refused to acknowledge further danger from the attacker and persisted
in trying to rationalize away the mounting fear that nagged at her consciousness.
This was the educated, rational, in-control component of her personality, and its
voice was a potent one. As Paige climbed up and down on the StairMaster, in the brightly
lit and increasingly crowded health club, that voice, and the logical reasoning behind
it, appeared to have the power to overcome the fear she’d experienced since the assault.

But when Paige was alone, like last night, waking to every tiny sound, real or imagined,
that rational, in-control voice became a tiny squeak.

This morning, however, refreshed by exercise and the light of day, Paige found her
confidence returning. She would be careful, as Sergeant Wendt had admonished. She
wouldn’t give her stalker a chance. She would remain in public. She would work out
at the health club and avoid the beachfront jogs; at least for now. She would notify
the police of anything unusual or out of the ordinary. She wasn’t going to let herself
become a frightened schoolgirl peering behind the closet door for the boogieman. She
was an experienced criminal prosecutor, well versed in the world of crime and with
no intention of becoming like so many of the victims she dealt with every day in court.

Or so she hoped.

 

 

   

CHAPTER 11

 

 

Ray Cowell waited a full five minutes after Paige left her condominium before getting
out of his car. He watched her from across the parking lot as she walked down the
sidewalk along the tennis courts which separated her condo complex and the Harbor
Bay health club.

Once her leotard-clad figure was out-of-sight, Ray lit a cigarette and forced himself
to wait longer as the second hand of his Timex swept slowly around. The delay was
in case Paige returned, perhaps forgetting something on her way to the gym. “Haste
makes waste,” his mother used to say before she became a drunk and he stopped listening
to her. Ray didn’t know if Paige would go to the health club or skip her daily exercise
in light of what happened to her yesterday. As result, he arrived early enough to
account for either contingency.

Ray left the ignition running and the car’s door unlocked. Theft was unlikely in this
upscale neighborhood, and he might need to leave in a hurry. Besides, the car was
already stolen. After retrieving his gear from the back seat of the car, he was careful
not to slam the door. He put out his cigarette in his car’s ashtray, pocketed the
butt, and strode toward the front door of Paige’s condominium.

He was wearing tan coveralls and a San Francisco Giants baseball cap. He also wore
sunglasses and a false mustache he’d purchased from a theatrical supply store in Berkeley.
The fake mustache made his nostrils itch, and he restrained himself from scratching
his nose to abate the irritation; he didn’t want the glued-on facial hair to come
off. Ray was carrying a small stepladder and had his black nylon gym bag in the grip
of one gloved hand. In his pocket was the portable police scanner, and the earpiece
adorned his left ear. He was softly whistling Frank Sinatra’s version of “Anything
Goes”.

When he reached Paige’s porch, he nonchalantly set down his bag and unfolded the stepladder.
He moved slowly, with confidence, and avoided the urge to glance around to see if
anyone was watching him; a furtive act that a legitimate workman would not feel compelled
to do. Instead, he played the role of the bored repairman busily attending to the
day’s first service call.

Ray stepped up onto the ladder and withdrew a screwdriver from his bag. The mini-ladder
put him within easy reach of the metal alarm box over the front door. The label on
the alarm box read “ACME Security Systems” and was above a local phone number. The
same logo and phone number were stenciled on the back of Ray’s coveralls. He unscrewed
the alarm box cover, opened it, and took out the canister of hairspray obtained from
his mother’s bathroom. Still whistling Sinatra, he sprayed the contents of the industrial-sized
can of hairspray into the inner workings of the alarm until it was emptied. He replaced
the alarm box cover.

He stepped down from the ladder and walked through the gate leading into the condominium’s
minuscule backyard. Once there, he stripped lengths of gray duct tape and stuck them
horizontally across the width of one window. In less than a minute, the window was
covered in tape. Once this task was completed, Ray kicked the center of the pane and
then all four corners in succession. The tape muffled the sound of the breaking glass
to a dull crunch, and the entire pane fell as one unit into the condominium. No alarm
sounded.

Ray climbed through the window into Paige’s home. Once inside, he made a quick dash
through each room to ensure there were no other occupants or noisy pets, like a bird
or cat.

Paige’s condo was neat and well decorated with expensive furnishings. Ray wasted no
time appreciating her interior design tastes. He made a beeline for the den, for a
large antique rolltop desk in one corner. Ray searched the drawers from the bottom
up. In the third drawer he found what he was looking for.

This drawer contained writing utensils and stationary. There was a stack of business
cards with Paige’s name and the Alameda County DA’s office logo embossed on them.
There was also an address book. Ray pocketed the book, grinning.

Back in the living room, he set down his bag and began to rifle through it. He came
out with a can of phosphorescent orange spray paint; the same color of paintball he’d
used on Paige the day before. Taking a few seconds to shake the can, he sprayed two
words in large, bold, neon orange script on the wall over the fireplace.

Ray returned to his gym bag and switched the spray paint can for a large can of lighter
fluid. He liberally splattered the flammable liquid throughout the house. He went
from room to room and doused the walls, carpet, and furniture. He emptied the remaining
contents of the lighter fluid can on Paige’s bed.

With a flick of his Bic, the bed was in flames. Ray lit the sofa in the living room
as he passed, scooping up his gym bag and heading for the front door. He unlocked
the front door, exited, and closed the door behind him. He grabbed his folding stepladder
and went for his car.

Ray made himself walk slowly and resisted the impulse to look back. He reached the
car, stowed his tools, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The police scanner in his
ear was silent.

Ray was several blocks away before the first wisps of black smoke became visible in
his rearview mirror.

 

 

   

CHAPTER 12

 

 

Paige stood shivering on the porch of what had once been her condominium. Firefighters
elbowed past her, going back and forth between her home’s interior and their vehicles
parked outside. It wasn’t only the chilly Bay Area morning causing her discomfort.

Standing next to Paige were Sergeant Randy Wendt and one of APD’s property crimes
detectives, a Hispanic cop named Bernie Costa. He was the Alameda Police Department’s
designated arson investigator.

The sweat Paige had worked up on the StairMaster had cooled in the early-morning fog
the moment she’d left the Harbor Bay Club. She was walking the short distance home
after her workout when she smelled the smoke. She looked up to see the glow of emergency
lights up ahead in the fog. Fearing the worst, she broke into a run. By the time she
reached the end of the path to her condominium complex, she realized to her dismay
that it was indeed her home that was the origin of both the smoke and flashing lights.

Despite the fire trucks, engine, police cars and crowd milling about, it was clear
the fire was over. The firefighters scurried busily about but were obviously in mop-up
mode.

Wendt was talking to a fire captain when Paige approached him.

“Paige,” a startled Wendt exclaimed when he saw her. “Man, am I glad to see you.”
He spoke into his walkie-talkie, and between the unintelligible police jargon and
code numbers Paige heard her own name. She gathered he was notifying other officers
that she had been located. Wendt made an apology to the fire captain and turned to
her.

“Where have you been?”

“I was at the Harbor Bay Club, working out,” Paige said.

Wendt ran his hand through his hair, relief flooding over him. “We didn’t know. We
thought you may have been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped? My house burns down and you’re worried about kidnapping? What the hell
is going on here? I was only gone for an hour.”

“Paige, I know you’re upset about your house, but you’ve got to realize how lucky
you are you weren’t home.”

Paige walked past the detective sergeant and into her condo. Wendt sighed, counted
silently to ten, and followed the irate deputy DA inside. They walked gingerly over
the hoses.

“You the owner?” a firefighter asked when Paige entered. She nodded. “Fire started
in the bedroom. Looks like an accelerant was used; gas or lighter fluid. If one of
your neighbors hadn’t smelled the smoke, you wouldn’t have a condo anymore. I know
it looks bad, but it’s not as bad as it looks. Your carpet and rugs are gone, and
some furniture, and you’re going to have quite a clean-up job ahead of you, but otherwise
it’s all cosmetic. Your roof, walls, electrical, and plumbing are all OK.”

“Accelerant? Lighter fluid? Gasoline? This was arson, wasn’t it?”

“I’ll take over from here,” Wendt cut in before the firefighter could answer. The
firefighter nodded and returned to his duties. Wendt turned to Paige.

“This wasn’t an accident, Paige. Somebody broke in and deliberately set this fire.
The reason I was so relieved to see you is not because I cherish your company. When
we got the call and figured out it was your house, we didn’t know you weren’t here
when the place was torched. Once the firefighters confirmed your body wasn’t inside
the residence, we thought you’d been abducted and the fire set to erase any forensic
evidence of what may have occurred to you inside.”

The weight of Wendt’s words sank in and Paige felt her chill deepening. “You don’t
think this fire was set by the same guy who attacked me yesterday, do you?” She knew
how ridiculous the question was the instant she asked it.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Wendt answered. “Been a cop too long.”

“Randy,” Paige went on, trying to convince herself the obvious wasn’t true. “Fires
don’t have to be arson. Homes burn down accidentally all the time. Maybe–”

“Turn around, Paige,” Wendt interrupted her, his lips pursing.

Almost afraid to, Paige turned around. At first, she didn’t see anything but the charred
wall over the fireplace. Then she saw what the homicide sergeant was referring to.

On the wall over the fireplace in huge, block letters, were printed two words in orange
paint. One word read “WHORE”, the other “SLUT”.

Paige cringed and trembled even harder as chills traversed her spine. She now fully
understood Wendt’s relief at seeing her, and the tide of fear she thought she’d successfully
repressed an hour ago on the StairMaster again flooded over her.

“What if I’d been home?”

“Don’t think about that,” Wendt said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Got something you should see, Randy,” Detective Costa’s voice called from outside.

Wendt headed for the door, motioning for Paige to follow. She was only too happy to
leave the smoky carnage of her condo for some fresh air outside. They found the arson
investigator in the backyard near a shattered window.

“This is the point of entry,” Costa announced when Wendt and Paige walked up. “I thought
at first the firefighters had smashed out the window to vent the smoke, which is standard
procedure, but take a look at this.”

Costa pointed towards the floor on the inside of the window. “See that? This guy was
smart. See how he taped the pane to muffle the sound of breaking in and to make sure
it would separate from the window in one piece? That’s a pro’s trick.”

“You’re wrong,” Paige spoke up. “This window is wired to my alarm. I’m sure I set
it before I left. He couldn’t have broken the window without setting off the burglar
alarm.”

Costa shook his head. “I said he was smart. Come over here.”

Wendt and Paige followed Costa from the backyard to the porch, where he’d placed a
ladder against the exterior wall. The cover of the alarm box had been removed and
was lying on the ground at their feet.

“I asked myself the same question, Paige,” Costa said. “Why didn’t the alarm go off?”
He gestured to the alarm cover at his feet. “I took it down to make it easier for
the fingerprint technician to lift latent prints, if there are some. But I doubt we’ll
find any; this guy’s too careful to leave prints.”

“How did he defeat the alarm?” Wendt asked.

“See for yourself,” Costa said.

Wendt climbed the ladder and peered into the alarm box. The interior was covered in
a clear, glue-like substance that had hardened and completely immobilized the inner
workings of the alarm. “What is it?” he finally asked.

“Aerosol glue, or hairspray, or something similarly gooey. Easy and silent to apply,
takes only seconds to harden, and fouls up the clacker real good. Won’t work on electronic
buzzer-type alarms, only mechanical bell-ringer systems, which are the most common
type of burglar alarm around here.”

“That means this guy knew what kind of alarm she had,” Wendt remarked, stepping down
from the ladder.

“That’s my guess,” Costa acknowledged.

“You’re saying this guy cased my house, aren’t you?” She didn’t recognize the rising
tone of her own voice.