The Tin Collector s-1 Read online

THE MIDNIGHT WEDDING CHAPEL LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Barbara looked at the picture, and her expression turned dark. "Is this what I think it is?" she asked sharply. "Is this a fucking wedding photo?"

  "I don't know." He removed the picture from the frame and put it in his pocket.

  They moved through the house. The cottage appeared to be some kind of party pad. Both bedrooms sported huge king-size waterbeds, complete with ceiling mirrors. Shane looked around, opening drawers, searching closets. All were now empty; everything had been removed. When he got to the guest bedroom, he noticed that the closet seemed very shallow, with no hanging rods. He tapped on the back wall. It sounded hollow. He searched around the edges of the closet wall until he found a small kick-plate near the floor. He touched it with his toe, and the back wall of the closet opened on a spring hinge. He pushed "the wall" and found that he was in a small, dark area, about six by ten feet. From where he was standing, he was looking through a glass window, directly into the master bedroom.

  "Barbara," he called to her, "go into the master bedroom and stand by the bed."

  "Okay," she called from the kitchen, where she had been searching the cupboards. She went into the bedroom, and he could see her clearly through the window in the wall in front of him.

  "Go to the mirror over the dresser," he said. She walked to the dresser and was now standing only a few feet away, looking directly at him through a one-way mirror.

  "Where are you?" she asked.

  "In here, in the guest bedroom."

  She moved away from the mirror, exited the master bedroom, and in a minute was pushing the wall open and entering the small back closet he had discovered. Shane found the overhead light and flipped it on. The room was empty except for a vacant bookshelf.

  "What is this?" she asked.

  "Glory hole," Shane said, using the cop term for any opening used for sexual spying. He began looking around the secret room. Finally he pulled an empty bookshelf away from the wall. He found two videotape boxes that had slipped down behind the shelf and had been missed. He picked them up they were empty. One

  of the boxes was not labeled, but the other had a name written on the spine: CARL CUMMINS

  "What were they doing?"

  "Looks like some kind of variation on the Badger Game. They get a guy up here, have a party, videotape the funny stuff, then blackmail him."

  "Ray was doing this? Ray and that girl?"

  "I don't know. I'm not sure. Early in an investigation, it's best not to jump to any conclusions," he said. "Are there any Baggies in the kitchen?"

  "Yeah, that kitchen is completely stocked," she said.

  They moved out of the videotape room and into the kitchen. Barbara found a large Baggie, and Shane dropped the videotape box into it while she held it open. Then he pulled the photo out of his pocket and dropped it in, too. Suddenly they heard the back door open, and froze.

  "In there," he whispered, pointing to the pantry.

  A breathless moment, then the light Shane had turned on in the back hallway went off. The house was thrown into darkness.

  As they crouched in the darkened pantry, Shane slipped his service revolver out of his belt holster and pulled the hammer back. He held the Smith amp;c Wesson.38-caliber roundwheel out in front of him with both hands, using a two-hand Weaver grip. He could hear three, maybe four men conducting a careful search, looking for them. One of the men moved into the kitchen.

  "In here, Cal," the man called out. The kitchen lights went on, exposing Shane and Barbara cowering in the back of the pantry. Shane aimed his revolver at the overhead light and put a round in the fixture, shattering glass and throwing the kitchen back into blackness.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Gun muzzles flashed in the darkness. Shane pushed Barbara down, grabbed a can off the pantry shelf, and threw it out into the kitchen. It landed on the counter across the room, and where it hit, shots rang out, breaking glass.

  Shane grabbed Barbara's hand and pulled her out of the pantry, into the kitchen. He ran full into one of the men, knocking him down, then heard the man's gun hit the floor and slide on the linoleum. Shane dove into the dining room, pulling Barbara. When they landed, two more shots lit the kitchen with their muzzle flashes as the slugs slammed into the dining-room wall over their heads. Shane rolled off his back, came up into a sitting position, and blindly fired all five of his remaining shots into the kitchen. He heard somebody yell in pain, then there were footsteps running. The back door was thrown open. He could hear people fleeing along the side of the house.

  "Barbara, you okay?" he whispered.

  "Uh-huh," she replied.

  Shane got to his feet. His gun was empty, so he knocked open the revolver, tilted it up and dropped the hot brass into his palm, then quickly dumped the shells into his jacket pocket. He pulled his quick-load off his belt and pushed the six-slug package into his open revolver, then snapped it shut. A speedboat at the dock started, and he heard it roar away.

  "Stay there," he said, and stepped into the kitchen, his gun out in front of him, combat-style. He moved slowly across the room and finally found the light switch in the pantry. He flipped it on. Whoever he had hit had left about half a pint of blood behind, but somehow had managed to escape. Then he heard a siren's distant wail across the lake.

  "These bohunk sheriffs have even better response time than we do," Shane said. "Let's get outta here."

  He had dropped the bagged videotape box in the gun battle, and it took him almost half a minute to find it. On his way out of the kitchen, he saw an answering machine sitting on the counter. He grabbed the entire unit and yanked it out of the wall. Then, leading Barbara, he ran out the side door of the house.

  The siren was dangerously close. Shane ran up the street, pulling Barbara along. Suddenly he stopped, reached down, and stuffed the videotape box, camera, and answering machine into an overgrown hedge, wedging it way down, out of sight.

  Shane and Barbara sprinted to his car. He got behind the wheel, and they took off. As he streaked out of the side street, he ran right into the headlights of the arriving sheriff's car. Shane jerked the wheel, hit the gas hard, and powered past the black-and-white. The sheriff's car spun a U-turn and came after them.

  "What're you doing? Why don't you stop? You're a cop!" Barbara shouted.

  Shane didn't answer. He had his hands full and his foot on it, trying to take as many corners as he could to get out of sight of the pursuing police unit.

  Finally he made a skidding right turn and accelerated down a narrow street. Bad choice. He had picked a residential cul-de-sac and slammed on the brakes. He started to turn around when the sheriff's car squealed in behind them. The two cops were out instantly, crouching behind their squad-car doors. One had a shotgun resting in the window frame.

  "On your stomach, assholes!" the shotgun officer yelled. "Do it now!"

  "Do as he says," Shane ordered Barbara. He opened the door, dropped his revolver, and kicked it across the pavement toward the sheriff's car. "LAPD!" he yelled.

  "On your stomach, now!" the man repeated. Shane and Barbara did as they were told. In seconds he could feel a sheriff's deputy's hot breath on his neck, and cold steel handcuffs on his wrists. They were ratcheted down hard. In L. A. it was what they called an "adrenaline cuff." His hands were pinned painfully behind his back, then he and Barbara were jerked up onto their feet and shoved into the back of the sheriff's car.

  Chapter 19

  COP SHOP

  The Arrowhead Sheriff's Department was wedged in betveen a gas station and a small country market. The parking L: behind the station had three empty Plain Janes.

  Shane and Barbara were unloaded from the back of the patrol car and shoved angrily into the station. The two arresting officers were still burning off their chase adrenaline.

  Shane was pushed into a chair at the booking desk while Barbara was taken into another room. Separate interviews were always the rule in any half-decent police department. All cops
quickly learned that most criminals never expect to get caught. As a result, they rarely have a cover story. One would tell you he was going to the market to get beer; the other would say they were picking up a sick aunt. Separating suspects to take statements was pro forma.

  Shane was pissed at himself for making the same dumb mistake as every deadhead felon he had ever busted. He didn't know what Barbara would say, so he planned to tell them the exact truth.

  The Arrowhead Sheriff's Department was in turmoil. Earlier that day they had found a dead body in the lake. From what Shane could pick up, it was so decomposed that they hadn't been able to make an ID. In L. A., a dead body was no big deal, but up here an unexplained death was the kind of unusual tragedy it should be everywhere. Shane watched as the tall, balding, fifty-five-year-old sheriff of Arrowhead made multiple calls to the coroner's office. After five minutes he hung up and walked over to Shane. His nameplate read SHERIFF CONKLYN.

  "Sorry to add to your problems, Sheriff," Shane said pleasantly.

  "What's your story?" Conklyn asked angrily.

  "I'm LAPD. I'm up here working on a case."

  The sheriff nodded to one of the deputies, who handed Shane's leather ID wallet to Conklyn. He opened it and looked at Shane's tin.

  "If you're a cop, why did you run?" the sheriff said, looking at him critically.

  "I'm out of my jurisdiction and I didn't take the time to check with you guys like I should have, so I just decided to get small," he said. "Bad choice. Your guys were magnificent."

  "Put away the jar of Vaseline," Conklyn said. "You got a CO we can call?"

  "I'd really appreciate it if we didn't have to do that," Shane said. "He's not going to be happy."

  "It's a big club. I'm not happy." He pointed to his deputies. "They're not happy. You're up here on Lake View Drive, busting caps, and now I've got lots of unhappy people in houses up there. All of a sudden it's like Mexican New Year."

  "My captain is Bud Halley," Shane relented. "He's in Southwest Division Robbery/Homicide."

  The sheriff took one of Shane's business cards out of his wallet and went to the phone. He talked softly for a minute, waited, then hung up and dialed another number. The second call was taking entirely too long, and Shane's danger lights started flashing. After another minute Sheriff Conklyn moved back and unhooked Shane's cuffs.

  "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 rear-view 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.

  Chapter 20

  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 throwi
ng 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 ancj empty, like a broken pinata.

  "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?