The Tin Collectors Read online

  “He wants to talk to you,” he said.

  Shane went behind the counter and picked up the phone. “Captain?”

  “It’s Tom Mayweather,” the deputy chief said in his resonant baritone voice. “Halley transferred this to me ’cause you’re in my division now. What the fuck are you doing in Arrowhead, Scully?”

  “Sir, something is definitely not right. Ray had a second house up here and another identity, maybe even a second wife.”

  “Says who?”

  “Sir, a dry cleaner identified his picture and gave us the alias he was using. His picture was inside the house, on top of the TV.”

  “Scully, you are really pissing me off. Read your fucking badge; it says LAPD. You’re ninety miles out of your jurisdiction with Ray Molar’s widow, engaging in a gun battle with who the hell knows who. Then you have the stones to try and tell me Lieutenant Molar had two identities and a second wife. He was assigned to the mayor, for God’s sake.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Shut up!” Mayweather said. “Here’s what you do. I’m gonna alibi your fucked-up story with Sheriff Conklyn. He’ll cut you and Mrs. Molar loose. Then I want you to leave Arrowhead and drive directly to Los Angeles. I want you to park your car in the Parker Center garage, then turn yourself in to the Homicide Division duty officer. Send her home in a cab. I want this all to happen in less than three hours. Are we straight on this, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Put the sheriff back on.”

  Shane motioned to the sheriff, who took the phone, listened for a minute, then nodded. “No problem,” he said, and hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later Shane and Barbara were back in the parking lot behind the sheriff’s station. Barbara rode in the front seat as one of the arresting deputies drove them back to the Acura and let them out.

  “Good luck solving your John Doe murder,” Shane said pleasantly.

  “Want some advice from a fellow badge carrier?” the deputy said.

  “You bet.” Shane smiled, trying to be as nonconfrontational as possible.

  “Don’t ever come back up here.”

  “Okay, sounds reasonable.” Shane put out his hand, but the cop just looked at it.

  “All right, then. Good deal,” Shane said, pulling his hand back.

  He and Barbara got into the Acura and drove away, staying five miles below the speed limit. Shane kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. The squad car was going to follow him all the way out of Arrowhead. He drove slowly down the mountain, until the black-and-white finally turned off and headed back toward town.

  Shane pulled over and parked. He looked at his watch.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked.

  “Giving this guy fifteen minutes to forget about us.”

  “Only fifteen minutes?”

  “Small-town cops have short attention spans,” he answered, then added, “I hope.” They sat and listened to the motor cool.

  “What is it?” Barbara said, noticing a frown on Shane’s face.

  “Those guys in the speedboat? I was thinking, how did they know we were in the house?” Barbara shrugged. “I think the place is bugged. They heard us searching, then they came back, maybe drifted back to the dock, then jumped us.”

  Fifteen minutes later Shane started the Acura and turned around. This time he constructed a cover story.

  “Here’s the deal. We came back to get gas. We only have half a tank.” He pointed to the gauge, and she nodded.

  He drove quickly through town, made remembered turns, then found himself back on Lake View Drive. He drove up to the bushy hedge, jumped out, and retrieved the videotape box, camera, and answering machine. He locked them in the trunk, then got back behind the wheel and drove quickly out of the mountains, returning to L.A.

  17

  Electronic Evidence

  Susan and I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave your name and number and, as soon as we can, we’ll return your call.” BEEP. Ray’s voice sounded happy and unthreatening. Then there was another beep. “Ray, it’s Calvin. Where the fuck are you, man? You gotta call me now.” BEEP. Then: “Ray, it’s Calvin again. The powers that be are asking questions. Don’t fuck with love, man.” BEEP. “Ray, it’s Don and Lee. We’re on for Saturday night. The Web after dark. Bring the jerseys.” BEEP. “Ray, it’s Burl. Call the special number.” Then there were two hang-ups without messages.

  Shane and Barbara were listening to the tape in his kitchen. He turned it off after the last message played.

  “Burl—that’s Chief Burleigh Brewer…. He knows about the house in Arrowhead. Shit,” Shane growled. “Ray was the mayor’s driver; I guess it makes sense that Brewer would be close to what Ray was doing.” Shane was looking down at the answering-machine tape.

  “Who are all these other people, and who the hell is Susan?” Barbara asked angrily.

  “I don’t know…. Don, Lee, and Calvin. I never heard of them, either.” He thought for a minute. “There were two cops who braced me in the Parker Center garage at six A.M. the morning I shot Ray. I think one of them was named D. Drucker—maybe that’s Don. The other was a Hawaiian guy named Kono. Maybe he’s Lee or Calvin. I don’t know. ‘Don’t fuck with love.’ And ‘the Web’…‘Bring the jerseys’…What’s all that?” he said as they traded blank stares.

  They stood over the kitchen counter, where the answering machine was plugged in. Finally, Shane changed the subject. “Barbara, look…you gotta go home. I’ll drive you down to where your car is parked.”

  “I’m afraid to go home. I can’t take any more of those calls.”

  “There’s a good hotel a few miles south of here, in Marina del Rey. I can’t remember the name, but you can’t miss it. It’s on Admiralty Way. Why don’t you go check in there?”

  “I get the feeling you’re throwing me out.”

  “I’m not throwing you out. I’ve got Chooch in the guest room. Longboard is sawing z’s on the sofa. It’s like a men’s dorm around here. Just check into the hotel. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  She turned her face up and kissed him on the mouth. When he didn’t fully respond, she pulled back and looked at him carefully. “Are you sending me a message, friend?” she asked with an edge in her voice.

  “Barbara, let’s not confuse this more than it is. We need to focus on what’s going on—who’s behind this.”

  “If you promise that you’ll let us happen again, once it’s over.”

  “Of course I promise,” he said, forcing it. “You know how much I want that.” His words hung in the kitchen, bright and empty, like a broken piñata.

  “What’re you going to do?” she finally asked.

  “I’m gonna get this tape analyzed by the Electronics Section at SIS.”

  “You don’t need a voice print. It’s Ray’s voice, believe me. I recognize it.”

  “I know it’s Ray. I’m more interested in seeing what else is on here. Answering-machine tapes are used, erased, and rerecorded on. Sometimes there are old messages hiding there. I’m gonna see what the ESIS can pull off the erased portions,” Shane said, referring to the Electronics Scientific Investigation Section.

  “Oh,” she said softly. Then she squeezed his hand for luck, and they headed out the back door of the house.

  He drove her to her red Mustang, parked a block away. She got out of the Acura and unlocked her car door, then leaned down into his open passenger window and smiled at him sadly. “Why do I get the feeling this is over?”

  “It’s your imagination, Barbara. It’s not over. It’s on hold.”

  She kissed her fingertips and gently put them on his cheek. “Night,” she said sadly, then got into the red Mustang and drove away.

  Shane drove back to his house and locked up. He decided not to wake Longboard, who was snoring loudly on the sofa. He turned off the light and moved into his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and wearing only his Jockey shorts, dropped heavily onto his bed. His head felt like a forty-pound
medicine ball, worn, seamed, full of cotton and lead. He looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and fought a wave of intense self-pity: Why can’t I catch a fucking break?

  “When did you get home?” Chooch’s voice sounded suddenly, pulling him up from useless thoughts. He opened his eyes and saw the teenager standing in the doorway, wearing a Lakers shirt and baggy shorts.

  “I thought you were asleep,” Shane said.

  “I woke up.”

  “Well, go back to sleep. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  Chooch didn’t move; he had an expression that seemed both frightened and sad.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothin’. It’s just…”

  “What?” Shane turned on his side and looked at Chooch carefully.

  “Sandy called. She wants you to call her first thing in the morning.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “She probably just wants to tell me how she smoked your geek principal.”

  “She didn’t call St. John, I asked her. She said she’s been involved in a big deal and hasn’t had time to get in touch with him yet.”

  “Right. Well, okay.” He lay back on his pillow. “So I’ll call her in the morning.”

  “That means old Thackery musta talked to you, not her. You made him keep me in school.”

  Shane looked over at Chooch again, then rubbed his eyes and sat up on the bed. “Let’s go outside for a minute. I can’t sleep with this fucking headache.”

  “We could light up, toke some bang?” the teenager said hopefully.

  “We’re through getting high together. I wanna talk to you.”

  Chooch shifted his weight uncertainly, then nodded. “Okay, sure.”

  Shane got up, put on his pants and an old sweatshirt, then the two of them moved quietly past Longboard into the backyard. Shane pulled up chairs, and they both sat under a fruitless tangerine tree, looking out at the still canal. The reflection of an almost full moon wavered on the glassy surface.

  “What is it?” Chooch asked cautiously.

  “I’m in a lot of trouble,” Shane started.

  “Trouble’s the exhaust of life,” the fifteen-year-old said surprisingly.

  “The trouble I’m in could get dangerous. Some of the people I’m sideways with could decide to make a play. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’m not afraid.” Chooch smiled. “Got your back, bro.”

  They were silent for a moment, then Shane continued. “I also think it’s time for you to get to know your mother. Maybe you haven’t given her a chance.”

  “I hate her,” Chooch said softly. “Let’s drop this, okay?”

  “You can’t stay here. When I talk to her tomorrow, I’m going to make arrangements for her to take you back for a week or so.”

  There was a long silence. Suddenly some crickets started up in the hedge between Shane’s and Longboard’s yards. They sawed holes in the silence with their back legs.

  “I think it’s time you gave your mother a break,” Shane persisted. “Make me a promise, give it a week. Just five days.”

  “You’re fulla shit, just like Thackery and all those other dickwads. I thought you were never gonna lie to me. I thought we had a deal.”

  “I’m not lying to you, Chooch. I’m trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

  “I’m not stupid. I get what’s going on here. I’ve become a problem, an inconvenience, so you wanna throw me out, simplify things for yourself.”

  “Just one week, till I can get my problems sorted out.”

  Chooch got up and started into the house. Shane grabbed his arm to stop him, but Chooch yanked it free.

  “Look, it’s not…I’m not trying to get rid of you.”

  “Eat me!” the boy said, defiance and pain shining in his black eyes.

  “I care what you think,” Shane said. “It matters to me. We need to talk this out.”

  “You came close. You almost had me fooled, but I got it straight now. I finally got it…nothing’s changed. It’s just like it always was—I can only count on myself. So fuck off.”

  Chooch walked back into the house. Shane’s head was still pounding. No matter which way he turned, he saw disaster. He didn’t know what to do next, so he went inside and wrote a letter to his father.

  The Arrowhead Letter

  Dear Dad,

  I hate to admit it, but I’m really scared. Something big and dangerous is going on, and I have the feeling if I don’t figure it out soon, I will be destroyed by it. The answer is in that Lake Arrowhead house. Why would Chief Brewer call a location where Ray was committing some kind of sexual blackmail? Who is Carl Cummins? That name isn’t in either the Arrowhead or the L.A. phone book. I need to get the answers to some of these questions fast. I’m running out of time. Why do I feel it all closing in? Dad, I’m losing it. I sense disaster coming. I need to talk to somebody.

  I know my problems are the last thing you need right now, but please give me a call.

  I love you, Dad, and miss you. I’m scared and lonely. You’re all I have left.

  Your son,

  Shane

  18

  Clerical Division

  They pulled up in front of the Harvard Westlake School at eight the next morning. It was half an hour before the other students would arrive. Chooch got out, dragged his book bag off the front seat, and walked away from the car without looking back. He hadn’t spoken all the way there. He had completely tuned Shane out.

  Three times before leaving the house, Shane had tried to get through to Sandy but had reached only her machine. As he pulled away from the school, he dialed her number again.

  “Hi, you’ve reached 555-6979. I’m not in, but you know what to do,” announced the recording in her furry contralto voice. Shane didn’t leave a third message. He closed his phone and headed back to Internal Affairs.

  He pulled into the parking structure adjacent to the Bradbury and used his newly issued employee-parking card. The arm went up, and he found his assigned space on the third level.

  He was just getting out of his car when he saw Alexa Hamilton five spaces away, removing a heavy cardboard case-file box out of the trunk of her plainwrap. A few Metro sergeants and special players in the department still had these prized vehicles instead of the hated slickbacks. Alexa’s was a new dove-gray Crown Victoria with blackwalls and red velour upholstery. Crown Vies were senior staff vehicles, and hers was prima facie evidence that Sergeant Hamilton had top-shelf department “suck.”

  She slammed her trunk lid and started carrying the box to the elevators. Shane didn’t want to ride down with her, but she had seen him and they were both heading toward the elevators, destined to arrive within seconds of each other. For him to veer off now or pretend he forgot something and divert back to his car would be a chickenhearted admission of weakness, so he kept walking and arrived a few seconds behind her. She had balanced the heavy cardboard box full of case files on her knee so she could push the elevator button with her free hand. She looked over at him with those slanted, exotic chips of laser-blue ice—poker player’s eyes that cut holes through him but revealed nothing in return.

  “Need help with that?” he asked, hating himself for even offering, the question inadvertently slipping out of him in an anxious attempt to fill the awkward silence.

  “Wouldn’t that be sorta like asking a condemned man to carry his own ax to the chopping block?”

  “Hardy-har,” he said sourly. It surprised him that the box was so full. She’d been on the case for only forty-eight hours. “That can’t be all me.”

  “All you. And this is just ’92 to ’96. ’Ninety-four seemed like a fun-packed year, all those civilian complaints…the second unit-destroying traffic accident coming in April after the first-of-the-month kick down to Southwest Traffic.”

  “You had to be there.”

  The elevator arrived and they got in. The door closed, and as they rode down, Shane
kept looking into the open box with the morbid curiosity of a freeway rubbernecker passing a fatal accident. All of his mid-nineties career pileups were collected there. He spotted a bunch of his old 7.04 ADAM control cards, which were identification sheets for radio-message logs. It shocked him. She was actually reading his old radio transmissions. He couldn’t believe it. He also saw two manila envelopes from the Traffic Division that he assumed detailed the two unit-wrecking collisions he’d had while he was in Southwest Patrol. Wedged down in the side of the box were dozens of 8.49 out-slips, which were like library cards from Records and Identification. She was pulling all of his old arrest reports. The rest of the box was littered with field-interview cards and DR numbered witness statements filed by the IOs working his case. He was staring down into the box with growing dread.

  “Jesus Christ, what’s with the fucking rectal exam?”

  “And you don’t even have to grab your ankles,” she said, shifting the box away from his stare. She was still balancing the heavy box on her knee as the elevator door opened.

  Shane moved out without looking back at her. He had a tinny taste in his mouth as he pushed open the double doors at the back of the Bradbury Building and hurried through. He heard them swing closed behind him, right in Alexa Hamilton’s face. She must have been trying to slip in with the file box before the doors closed and mistimed it, because he heard the heavy oak frame hit her hands, which were clutching the leading edge of the box.

  “Shit!” she said as the door bounced off her knuckles.

  Shane now had his own key to Room 256; he let himself in and turned on the stark neon overhead lights. They blasted a harsh, unfriendly blue-white glare down on the three Xerox machines. He dropped his coat on the back of the chair and glanced at his watch. It was 8:32. Since no deputy chief ever got in before nine, he took a chance and picked up the phone, dialing the number for Parker Center.