The Tin Collector s-1 Read online

  "I ain't scared a' nothin'."

  "Then you're the only one on the planet, Chooch. Everybody is scared."

  "Were you scared when you shot that guy?"

  Shane looked over. He had not discussed the incident with Chooch, and he didn't have a TV. He was foolishly hoping it would never come up.

  "It's all over school," Chooch said, reading his look of dismay. "So tell me. When you offed him, were you scared?"

  "Yeah. Yeah… I was scared to death. I was shitting bricks."

  Chooch sat there for a long moment thinking. "Physical stuff doesn't scare me. I'm not afraid a' getting bombed on or fucked over that way. But" he hesitated for a moment, his eyes on the road ahead "sometimes I'm afraid that what I believe in isn't true, that everything I think is true was just set up by somebody to fool me."

  Shane nodded. "Yeah, I've been getting some of that myself lately."

  "And sometimes, just once in a while, I want to be the most important, instead of the least" He paused for a long time, his face in a wrinkled frown. "Sometimes I'm scared I'll never have anybody who gives a shit."

  They rode in silence.

  Finally they got back to East Channel Road. Shane pulled the car into the garage, and they went into the house. Shane closed the door and watched as Chooch dragged his book bag into his room, to sit there with desperate, lonely thoughts that probably matched his own.

  Chapter 17

  A. K. A

  Shane sat in his living room listening to an occasional siren, which always seemed to come from the east, where the gangbangers held their nightly life-ending turf parties. It was six o'clock and the sun had just gone down. He put his mind back on his problem.

  Any police detective worth his salt always started a case by arranging known or probable facts in chronological order. Shane took a piece of paper off the table and began making notations:

  1. Late Feb. or early March, Ray Molar gets a job driving for Mayor Crispin.

  2. March, R. M. begins not coming home.

  3. April 2, Joe Church fails to respond to Hoover St. robbery (related?).

  4. April 10, R. M. gets shirts done at Mountain Cleaners.

  5. April 14, B. M. gets phone call from mystery woman/tape coming.

  6. April 16, 1:30 A. M., R. M. gets home, beats B. M.

  7. April 16, 2:35 A. M., R. M. shot (no tape found in house).

  8. April 16, 5:17 A. M., T. Mayweather does DFAR (S. S. secure files in IAD possibly accessed).

  9. April 16, 6:00 A. M., S. S. threatened by Kono and Drucker, police garage.

  10. April 16, Joe Church escorts S. S. to C. O. P.

  11. April 16, C. O. P. threatens S. S. with murder indictment. Wants case material returned.

  12. April 18, Samansky, Ayers break in and search B. M.'s house (no tape found). Warrant signed by Hernandez, Crispin appointee.

  13. April 18, Letter of Transmittal arrives. S. S. suspended. S. S. motive for murder mentioned.

  14. April 18, T. Mayweather walks 1.61 appeal through department. S. S. back on duty.

  15. April 19, S. S. reports to IAD (DA intends to audit BOR).

  He stopped writing and looked at the list. It was his first chronological log. There were huge holes in his time line. Aside from the missing tape, there was Ray's increasingly violent behavior toward Barbara. Also, the list made it even more obvious that there was some kind of link between Ray and the top floor of the Glass House, and that it might have to do with Mayor Crispin. The list directed him to where he had to look next. He needed to find out why Molar had his shirts done ninety miles away. He looked at his watch seven o'clock. Shane turned on his desk lamp and picked up the phone. He got the number for the laundry on Pine Tree Lane in Arrowhead and dialed. After a few rings, a man's voice came on the line.

  "Mountain Cleaners," the voice chirped.

  "Yes. Who am I speaking to?"

  "This is Larry Wright."

  "Mr. Wright, I'm Sergeant Shane Scully, with the LAPD. I'm working a case and I have some dry-cleaned shirts that were done at your laundry. I'm trying to find out who dropped them off."

  "I see, well, without looking at the tags, I wouldn't know. They're bar-coded; I'd have to run them through our scanner."

  "This case is pretty important. If I got in my car, I could be up there in two hours. I know it's an imposition, but do you think we could make an appointment to meet about nine tonight?"

  "No problem. I'm usually stuck here till nine-thirty."

  "Great. I'll bring the shirts with me." He hung up and dialed Longboard Kelly.

  "Yer tappin' the Source," the surfboard shaper answered. Kelly believed "the Source" was a magical place where great waves came from.

  "It's Shane. You think you could come right over and keep an eye on Chooch for a couple of hours?"

  "I'm busy crankin' off an eight-ball, dude. After I finish, I could make it."

  "You're doing what?" Shane asked.

  "I'm on the throne, takin' a shit. Gimme five."

  "Great. I'll pay you."

  "What for, man? One day, if I get busted, you play the 'Get Brian out of jail' card."

  "Right. Only we took that card out of the deck. How 'bout I play the Tut in a good word for Brian' card instead?"

  "Agreed, dude! I'll be right over."

  Shane hung up.

  He went into the guest bedroom. Chooch was hunched over the desk, doing his homework. Shane had a momentary stab of "parental" gratitude. "It's great you're doing your studies," Shane said proudly.

  Chooch looked over at him, and Shane saw that he had a Game Boy on his lap.

  Shane's expression of gratitude was replaced with exasperation. "I'm gonna run out for a few hours. Kelly is coming over to be with you."

  "Cool. He's kickin'."

  "Right. When are you gonna get back to your studies?"

  "I'm just takin' a break, man. You don't get breaks down at that duck farm where you work?"

  "Yeah, I get breaks. I'll be back before midnight."

  "Solid."

  Shane left the room, got his coat, collected his badge, and grabbed one of the bagged dry-cleaned shirts, which he had hung in the closet. He headed out the back door.

  As the garage door was going up, a car's headlights pulled in right behind him, blocking his exit. He put a hand on his belt holster and cautiously moved toward the driveway. As he rounded the back of his car, he could see Barbara Molar's red Mustang convertible. When she turned off her headlights, he saw her behind the wheel, a scarf tied around her hair.

  "Shit, Barbara, whatta you doing here?"

  "I had to come over. I couldn't reach you. Your machine was off and your cell phone is out of service."

  "If they catch us together, I'm gonna be out of service," he said quickly.

  "Shane, I'm getting phone calls at the house. Spooky calls. I'm being threatened."

  "Go park a few blocks away. Lock up. I'll drive over and pick you up."

  She nodded and followed his instructions. Shane got behind the wheel and backed the Acura out. He drove up East Channel Street to where Barbara was standing, her arms wrapped around her, shivering slightly in the cold marine air. She had put up the Mustang's top and, he hoped, locked the car. Shane reached over and threw open the passenger door. Barbara got in. He put the Acura in gear and pulled off East Channel to a side street, keeping one eye on his rearview mirror.

  "Who's calling?" he finally asked. He could tell she was panicked. Her features were drawn; she seemed even more pale than normal.

  "It's a man's voice. He just says, 'If you've got what we want, turn it over, or you'll pay the consequences.' Stuff like that. Then a couple of calls where there was just breathing first, then somebody said, 'Do the right thing, bitch,' and hung up."

  Shane pulled to the curb and parked. "That means they still haven't found what they're looking for."

  "I'm scared."

  "So am I."

  She looked at the shirt between them on the front sea
t. "Is this one of Ray's?"

  "Yeah. The laundry is in Arrowhead."

  "Arrowhead?"

  "You got any idea why he'd have his shirts cleaned all the way up there?"

  "None."

  "It doesn't make much sense," Shane said. "He was driving the mayor. Arrowhead is two hours out of L. A."

  "Maybe the mayor had personal business there."

  "Maybe."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I was just heading up to Lake Arrowhead to talk to the cleaner. I wanna see what I can find out from the guy. They have customer information on the bar code of this laundry tag." He held up the shirttail with the purple tag attached.

  "I wanna go with you. And don't tell me no. I'm scared. I can't go home. Those calls are terrifying me."

  "Barbara, the DA is contemplating indicting me for murder.

  My motive, they think, is that I killed Ray to be with you. If we get caught riding around together, I will be trying to explain it in court."

  "Take me with you," she said again. "Please. I need company. I'm shaking."

  Kinetic thoughts were buzzing around, bouncing off unanswered questions with pinball energy. Then without really weighing his answer, he just nodded.

  "Okay," he said impulsively, and put the car in gear. They headed up the street.

  Shane turned right onto Washington Boulevard, which took him to the 405, then north to the 10, which would lead them east toward San Bernardino and Lake Arrowhead.

  The road was narrow and winding. His headlights swept across shadowy tree trunks that lined the two-lane highway in the Angeles Mountains. Shane had his eye on the road, but his mind was on Ray Molar.

  Barbara sat silently beside him. She had started the trip with a lot of chitchat, then had tried to swing the conversation to her future, what she would do with her life now that Ray was gone. Then she made the leap to how Shane was feeling, how he felt about her and about them.

  Shane had deflected it all, keeping his answers short. He was beginning to suspect that Barbara had some hidden agenda, but he couldn't yet tell what it was. Maybe it was just his cop instincts that distrusted everything. But something was telling him to pull back to defend his perimeter.

  While she talked, he had been thinking about the night of the shooting: the two critical minutes from the time he'd gone into that bedroom to the moment he had peeled the Nine at Ray. Something in his Letter of Transmittal had stuck in his mind. The department had accused him of inappropriate use of force, of bad judgment, which had escalated the situation out of control. Had he fucked up? Why had he taken his gun? Had he anticipated shooting Ray? Had he acted out of policy? Was there a way he could have prevented Ray's death? The only other witness to the event was sitting next to him, so. after weighing the consequences, Shane gingerly broached the subject.

  "Barb… the night I shot Ray… how well do you remember it? You looked almost unconscious, as if he had stunned you with that blow to the head."

  "I remember it all. It's indelible. It's branded in my memory," she said bitterly.

  "Do you think I had any other choice but to shoot him?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "If I'd called in some uniforms, would it have made a difference?" he asked.

  She turned in her seat and looked directly at him. "You mean, if you had called in a 415? Would it have changed things?" she said, using the cop's radio code for a general disturbance, the majority of which ended up being domestic disputes.

  "Yeah. What if two blues had come through that door instead of me, Ray's ex-partner, your old boyfriend… do you think it would have changed anything?" He was straining to hear her answer as he drove, straining to evaluate any nuance in her voice.

  "Are you joking?" she said, snorting the words derisively. "He was insane." She was incredulous now. "Ray was crazy. You know it. I know it. He went nuts on spec. Once he snapped, he didn't care what he did or who he did it to. It wouldn't have mattered if Robocop or Pope John Paul himself had come through that door."

  "Do you think if I'd held fire that he "

  "If you'd held fire, Shane, you and I would both be dead, and somebody else would have the fucking coffin decorations. You can't be serious."

  He looked over at her and could see that she was almost angry about it. Finally he nodded. "Yeah, okay," he said. "I was just wondering."

  She shook her head in amazement, and they remained silent the rest of the way to Lake Arrowhead.

  The two-lane highway led into a small, lush, wooded valley and then descended into the beauty of Lake Arrowhead. A-frame houses and log-cabin architecture dotted the roadside.

  The buildings on the main street were rustic, the sidewalks narrow. They found Pine Tree Lane, and Shane pulled up to Mountain Cleaners. He and Barbara got out, entered, and found Larry Wright.

  After Shane showed his badge, he gave Mr. Wright the shirt. The man walked into the back, leaving Shane and Barbara standing alone in the neon overhead lighting, looking into the area where the finished dry-cleaning hung on a moving conveyor belt. In less than two minutes, Mr. Wright returned.

  "Got it." He smiled at them. "These were done for Jay Colter. He lives at 1276 Lake View Drive.

  "Then they're not Ray's?" Barbara said.

  Shane waved her off, then reached into his pocket and pulled out an old photograph he had brought of himself and Ray when they were both working together in Southwest. The picture had been taken in a bar. They were EOW in plain clothes and had their arms around each other's shoulders, grinning drunkenly at the camera. "Is this Jay Colter?" Shane asked, handing the picture to Mr. Wright.

  He looked at the shot and nodded. "Little heavier now, but that's him."

  "You know what he was doing up here?"

  "Well, I only talked to him once. Seems to me he said he was a builder, or in construction, maybe… A builder, I think it was."

  "Okay, thanks, Mr. Wright. That's a big help."

  They moved out of the cleaners and stood on the curb under a streetlight. "What's going on?" she asked. "Jay Colter? Why would he change his name?"

  "When we were partnered, Ray told me once that if I ever worked undercover and was going to use an alias, I should choose a name that sounds close to my own. So if somebody calls out to you using your assumed name, you will react to it, instead of forgetting it's your alias. For instance, a good a. K. A. for Shane Scully might be Lane MacCully."

  "And Ray Molar would be Jay Colter. But why?"

  "Let's go see who lives at 1276 Lake View Drive," he said.

  Chapter 18

  BADGER GAMES

  They found the address on Lake View Drive. Shane drove the black Acura slowly past the house. The small cabin-style bungalow was lit up. They could see men moving around inside.

  "What do you think they're doing?" Barbara asked as Shane slowed the car but didn't stop. He pulled up the street and turned left at the first intersecting road. He drove half a block up, parked, and turned off the headlights.

  "Who are they? What're you gonna do?" Barbara pestered as Shane got his zoom-lens camera out of the trunk.

  "Stay here," he ordered, and quickly moved down to Lake View, then crept along the sidewalk toward the target house. He heard something behind him and spun around. Barbara was hovering nearby.

  "Go back. This could be dangerous."

  "Maybe I know one of them," she said.

  Shane realized that it was a good thought, so he nodded, then put a finger up to his mouth for silence. They crept along, slower this time, finally getting to a position of advantage behind a hedge across the street from the lake cabin. Shane put the zoom-lens camera to his eye and adjusted the focus, bringing the small house closer.

  Through the front window he could see men moving around, carrying boxes and emptying drawers. He snapped a few pictures with the flash off, hoping that if he pushed it in the lab, he would get adequate resolution in spite of the low light. Through the viewfinder, he could see the men clearly. He d
idn't recognize any of them.

  "What d'you see?" she whispered in his ear.

  "They're tossing the place, looking for something, same as at your house," he said softly, handing her the camera. "You recognize anyone?" After a minute she shook her head and handed the camera back.

  They continued to watch the house for another twenty minutes. Several times one or two of the men carried a cardboard box out and set it near the back door. Shane used up an entire roll of film, and then finally the men turned off the lights, locked up the house, and carried the boxes down to the little dock on the lake.

  Shane moved out from behind the hedge, with Barbara at his heels. He ran in a crouch until he got to the side of the house, in time to see the men load the boxes into a small, old-style, wooden reproduction Chris-Craft, with varnished sides and teak decking. They all jumped aboard, and the boat's engine roared. It pulled away from the dock and sped off across the lake, leaving a white-foam wake that glistened in the mountain moonlight.

  "Shit," Shane said, "I was hoping they had a car parked around here so we could follow them."

  He turned and moved back to the house. He tried the doors. They were all locked. Then he took out a pocketknife. He crept onto the wooden back deck that overlooked the lake, and inserted the blade into the sliding glass door. Slowly he pushed the latch up, then slid the door open. He and Barbara stepped cautiously into the small two-bedroom house.

  Shane moved to the back hallway and turned on a light. It threw a low glow into the front room and would slightly illuminate most of the rooms in the small house. He didn't want to light up the whole place and call attention to their presence.

  "What're we looking for?" Barbara whispered.

  "Evidence that Ray lived here or used this place," he said.

  "Y'mean like this," she said, picking up a small framed photograph off the living-room TV. It was Ray with his arm around a very pretty dark-haired woman. They were both laughing, holding up glasses of champagne. Slightly out of focus in the background was a small wooden church with a sign that read: