The Fourth Motive Read online

  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.

  “We don’t know anything for sure at this stage of the investigation,” Wendt soothed her. “It’s just one possibility.”

  “Don’t placate me, Randy. This isn’t a possibility; it’s a certainty.”

  “Nothing’s certain at this point,” Wendt said. He noticed several firefighters’ heads turning toward the elevated sound of Paige’s voice.

  “Nothing’s certain?” she mocked, her face flushing. “You’re kidding, right? It’s not certain this creep knew exactly where to find me during my morning jog, and exactly what spot on the route was the most secluded? It’s not certain he knew where I work, because he called me there? It’s not certain he knows where I live, and even what kind of alarm I have? It’s not certain he knows my name, and my schedule, and probably what I had for fucking dinner last night?”

  Wendt stood silent, afraid to say anything that would further fuel Paige’s tirade.

  “The only thing that isn’t certain,” Paige said, “is if I’m going to survive another twenty-four hours of your department’s uncertainty.”

  “I know things look a little bleak right now,” Wendt tried to calm her. As soon as he spoke, he wished he hadn’t.

  “Bleak? Some thug beats the shit out of me, shoots me with a toy gun, threatens me at work, breaks into my house, and burns me out of my home, all in the span of twenty-four hours, and you call it a little bleak?”

  Suddenly, Paige broke into a grin. “I sound like the proverbial hysterical female victim, don’t I?”

  “I wasn’t going to say it,” Costa said. Wendt gave him a sharp look.

  “You have a right to vent,” Wendt said.

  “Maybe. But I have no right to take it out on you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it,” he said. She gave the sergeant a weak smile.

  “I’m going to my father’s house,” she announced. “Do you guys need me for anything else?”

  “Not right now,” Wendt said. “But I’ll need to reach you later. Why don’t you let me drive you over to the Judge’s?”

  “I appreciate your concern,” she answered, her voice tired. “But you needn’t worry. It’s only a couple of miles away; I’ll be all right.” She gestured at her torched condo with a wave of her hand. “What more could happen now? Besides, I’m exhausted. I won’t be going in to work today. The wheels of justice will just have to revolve without me.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’d prefer you didn’t go to work. I’ll stop by your father’s house later and let you know how the investigation is going.”

  Paige’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you’ll stop by my father’s house to check on me and to let my father know how the investigation is going.”

  It was Wendt’s turn to grin. “You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

  “So long; I’ll be at Dad’s.”

  Paige walked across the complex parking lot to her Saab convertible. She was anxious to get inside and fire up the heater. Her chills had become full-body shivers. As she inserted her key into the door lock, she noticed an envelope on the windshield under the wiper blade.

  She retrieved the envelope and climbed into her car. Switching on the ignition and turning the heater to full blast, she tore open the envelope. There were no markings on the outside. She presumed it was a note from Sergeant Wendt, placed there before he knew her whereabouts. She was wrong.

  As she read the words typed on the plain white paper from within the envelope, her expression changed from puzzlement to wide-eyed horror.

  Slut,

  How does it feel? Do you like it? Does it feel good? I’ll bet it doesn’t. I know it doesn’t. It never feels good to lose things.

  I’m going to take more things from you. I took something from you yesterday. I took something today. I’m going to take more. Until there’s nothing left to take.

  If you think you can stop me you’re wrong. If the cops think they can stop me they’re wrong. Your law degree can’t help you now.
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  Don’t bother looking over your shoulder. And don’t worry about dying yet. I’ve got plenty of things to take first. You’re a slut, Paige, and I’m going to punish you.

  Sleep well. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

  Until next time, whore

  It was a full ten minutes before Paige could compose herself enough to leave her car and turn the letter over to Sergeant Wendt.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ray Cowell sat chain-smoking in his car. He was parked in the empty lot of the Bay Fairway Hall banquet facility near the golf course. He’d chosen that location because it was the last address on Bay Farm Island before the bridge. No vehicular traffic could exit the island to Alameda without coming under his scrutiny. It was after 8am, and more than two hours had elapsed since he had left Paige Callen’s condominium. The morning commute was in full swing.

  The car Ray was using was a 1978 Mercury Monarch, in an oxidized blue color. He’d taken it from the vast long-term parking lot at the Oakland airport the evening before. He knew it could be at least several days before the car’s owner returned from wherever he was traveling to report the vehicle stolen.

  Ray had learned how to hot-wire car ignitions from a mail-order book he’d sent away for after reading an ad in one of his military publications. Over the years, he had learned a great many useful skills from mail-order literature. Ray had learned, among other things, how to kill with a knife the Green Beret way, how to bug a telephone, which poisons were most effective, how to manufacture explosives from common household items, how to convert a semiautomatic weapon to fully automatic, how to obtain false identification papers, and countless other unique martial talents.

  “Ray has always been a reader,” his mother would tell the neighbors. But that wasn’t true. Ray had not always been a reader. As a small boy, books were boring things forced upon him at school. He’d much preferred to be outdoors riding his skateboard, playing catch with his dad, or chasing Skipper down Pacific Avenue over reading a dusty old book. That was before the summer of 1964.