The Tin Collector

Chapter 28

WHEN SHANE GOT BACK to his house on East Canal Street, it was sunup. Five black-and-whites and a crime-scene station wagon were blocking the street. He edged the Acura past them and pulled into the garage.

There were ten cops standing in his living room. When he entered, they turned, clearly surprised to see him.

"Where the hell you been?" Garson Welch asked. The fact that the old detective had been called out on this told Shane that he was still a murder suspect in the criminal investigation surrounding Ray's death.

Welch had been given this call because he was investigating Molar's shooting and this machine-gun attack was most likely connected. The old detective looked at Shane with his basset-hound expression and tired brown eyes. "We just put a bulletin out on you."

"I had something personal to take care of," Shane said.

"What the fuck was this?" Garson said, pointing at the destroyed wall where Crime Section techs were busy digging 9mm slugs out of the plaster and bagging them as evidence for a ballistics comparison later. That is, if they ever found the weapon, which was right up there with the odds on Shane's next promotion.

Shane was sure that the machine guns were illegal street sweepers: AK-47s, maybe MAC-lOs, most likely taken from the vast array of confiscated weapons held in the Firearms and Ammunition Section's secure property room, destined for eventual burial at sea.

"Who did this?" Garson asked.

"Don't know," Shane said. "The lights were out, and I was flat on my stomach eating carpet."

"Okay, let's go. You got an appointment at Parker Center."

"Shit… do we have to do that again?" Shane asked. The remark was greeted by a flat stare.

Shane was taken from his house and again made the early-morning ride across town to the Glass House. Garson Welch stayed quiet as they drove. He had the case but didn't want it. As far as Welch was concerned, the brass at Parker Center could ask the questions. They pulled into the parking garage next to the huge lit police building, then rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. This time Shane found Deputy Chief Tom Mayweather standing in the hallway waiting for him, looking very GQ in his black pinstripe suit, white shirt, maroon tie, and matching pocket accessory. His bald head was gleaming, his handsome face theatrically troubled. He didn't say anything but motioned Shane down the hall. Garson Welch stayed in the lobby, glad to be out of it.

Shane followed Mayweather into his office. The room was not as large as Chief Brewer's by half but had a picture window with a Spring Street view. The shelves were littered with Mayweather's old basketball trophies, game balls, and team photos, along with the more standard police memorabilia: his Academy class picture, civil-service awards, and plaques attesting to his superiority as a police officer.

Mayweather stepped behind his desk, using the large, light oak piece of furniture as a barricade to separate them and define their roles. Shane stood while Mayweather sat in his tan executive swivel chair. The overhead ceiling spot kicked white light off his shaved head.

"You are an amazing piece of work, Sergeant," the deputy chief finally said.

"Thank you, sir."

"I wasn't complimenting you. Why the hell didn't you come back from Arrowhead and report in here, as instructed?"

"I left you a message."

"Right… the 'I had an accident/fell asleep at the wheel/stayed in a motel' message, left with my secretary at eight-fifteen A. M." He shook his head in wonder. "You must think I'm one stupid son of a bitch."

"How would you like me to respond to that, sir?" Shane was getting mad now, wanting to fire back but on tender ground professionally.

Mayweather leaned back in his chair, the knife-sharp creases in his pants now visible over the desktop. "Take off your gun and hand me your badge. You're suspended from duty without pay pending your Internal Affairs Board of Rights."

"Don't you have to write up a 1.61 before you can suspend me?"

"Consider it written."

"The Police Bill of Rights really seems to have its limits where I'm concerned, doesn't it?"

"The 1.61 will be in your hands before nine o'clock. Take off your gun and give me your badge and ID card."

Shane removed the clip-on holster from his belt, then pulled his badge and ID in the brown leather fold-over out of his pocket.

"Put them on the desk, please," Mayweather commanded.

Shane did as he was instructed. "Now what?"

Mayweather seemed puzzled by the question, so Shane added, "Doesn't the district attorney show up about now with a murder warrant and cart me off to the lockup?"

"You really have an active imagination."

"I didn't imagine the nine-millimeter machine-gun slugs in my living-room walls. Chief Brewer has been threatening me with a murder indictment. Since you're not doing that, something else must be happening. Maybe you just want to leave me on the street without my gun and badge, where I'll be easier to get at?"

"You are a sick, paranoid man, Sergeant Scully. There are other ways to view what just happened."

"Let's hear."

"I think you're involved with the wrong people, vice or drugs… some other street action. You were taking a 'patch' and you took too much." A "patch" was police argot for a payoff to a cop for letting a crime happen, differing from a "buy down," which was a bribe to turn an arrestee loose or book him for a lesser crime. "People you thought you had fooled, or had under control, got tired of paying and threw you a party," Mayweather added.

"You surprise me, Tom," Shane said, using the deputy chief's first name to show he had lost respect for him. "The word in the department is you're a good guy, a smart guy, but what's happening here right now, between us, isn't smart at all. If you really don't know what's going on, then you're being used played for a patsy. Either way, it marks you."

"I see." Mayweather seemed to consider this, sitting still, thinking, his big trophy-filled office and black Armani pinstripes dissing Shane making him small. Then the deputy chief seemed to make up his mind and sat upright. "Get out. Check in every day with Captain Halley. Go home and leave this alone."

"Go home? Should I sit in the window?"

"That will be just about enough of that. Go home. Stay put. If you know what's good for you, you'll stop making trouble."

"You can suspend me, but you sure as hell can't tell me not to work on my own defense. Somebody made a big mistake. They thought I took something out of Ray's house and they overreacted. Now they're pretty sure I don't have it, but Chief Brewer leaned too hard and got me looking in the wrong places. Suddenly I have too much of it and have to be neutralized. Whoever's behind this had one easy shot and missed. I won't be stumbling around, half asleep in my undies, next time. It's gonna be much harder."

Shane turned and walked out of the office without looking back, leaving his badge, gun, and career in police work behind.

Once again, he was stranded downtown without his car. He didn't trust anybody enough to ask for a lift, and as a suspended officer, he couldn't check a slickback out of the motor pool… so he walked four blocks east to the Bradbury Building and waited in the parking garage for Alexa Hamilton to arrive.