The Tin Collector

L. A. SPIDERS 2001

Waiters in white coats circulated with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The grounds were magnificent. The huge Florida antebellum house stood at the end of the drive like a turn-of-the-century dowager; lace curtains and wicker chairs framed a sloping porch.

"Do you get the feeling that winning this franchise wasn't much of a surprise to Mr. Hunter?" Shane said.

"Even Martha Stewart couldn't lash this together in two hours," she agreed.

They got to the house and climbed the wooden steps, moving inside.

People were clustered in the magnificently furnished living room, but the flow of the party was being directed through the house and into the backyard, where the bar and the band were set up.

Shane and Alexa walked under more slow-moving Florida paddle fans out onto the veranda and stood for a moment on the back porch, looking out at the sparkling aqua-green water of Biscayne Bay.

There was a huge hundred-foot yacht called Rocket Man moored at the concrete dock. Palm and banyan trees hung over the grassy lawn. The twenty-piece orchestra was dressed in white tuxedos.

"Some barbecue," she said.

He nodded, but his eyes were wandering, checking out guests.

"How do you want to do this?" she asked.

"The play's at any base."

They moved down and joined the line at the bar. Four or five mannequins dressed in Spiders football uniforms, complete with helmets, had been set up in different parts of the yard in the Heisman Trophy pose. When they finally got up to the bar, Shane ordered a ginger ale; Alexa had a glass of Evian with a lime twist. Just as Shane was turning away, the bartender smiled. "Cigar to celebrate the franchise, sir?" and held out a box of Dominican Regals.

"Got anything else?" Shane asked, looking down at the box suspiciously.

"Mr. Hunter owns this company, so we only have Regals."

"In that case, give me one." He took a cigar, and they moved away from the bar, stopping a few feet away, looking at the panatela identical to the one they found in the toilet trap at the Spring Summer Apartments.

"You don't really think Logan Hunter was at your little flea-bag on Third Street, supervising that videotaping and kidnapping…?"

"No. But somebody who works for him was, and as far as I'm concerned, this stogie ties him in directly."

"That's theoretical, not evidential."

"Fuck evidence. I'm way past worrying about that."

As Shane moved toward the house, Alexa grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "We gotta worry about that. We're hanging out a mile here. We gotta get something worth taking to the DA, or we're dust."

"Yeah, sure."

"I'm not kidding, Shane. I'm in this with you, but you've gotta run everything past me first."

"I think we oughta find Mr. Hunter, invite him to a quiet spot in the garden, and have a little talk," Shane said, changing the subject.

"Find? Invite? Define your terms."

"I'm gonna kidnap the little prick, stuff this stogie up his ass, and make him smoke it rectally until he tells me where they're holding Chooch. It worked with Tom Mayweather."

"We got lucky with Mayweather. That doesn't mean we can throw a bag over Logan Hunter in the middle of this soiree and get away with it."

"Sure it does. All we've gotta do is find a good quiet interview room before we take his statement. Don't worry, you don't have to do it. I'll pick this daisy. Believe me, he's gonna tell me what I want to know."

"Shane, he's got forty security guys here, most of them packing."

"If you wanna wait in the car, go ahead…"

"Shit! You are one stubborn son of a bitch," she said angrily, but he just looked at her for a long moment and nodded. "Let's stop arguing and do it, then," she relented.

They moved slowly around the party, looking for an appropriate spot. Shane recognized one or two of the girls they had photographed at the naval yard. They were dressed in slinky evening gowns, wearing hostess tags and escorting the press. Shane thought the main house looked too crowded. The gardener's shed was too close to the pool. Finally they found themselves down by the dock, where the hundred-foot yacht was tied to the wharf. There was a rope across the boarding ramp that warned: OFF LIMITS.

Shane removed the rope and they walked up onto the fantail of the yacht, where they were screened off from the party by the huge triple-deck superstructure.

"Some barge," Alexa said as she looked inside the main salon.

Shane had already tried the door and had his picklocks out.

"Not again," she said.

"Unless you can find a key, this is the best I can do." He worked for a few minutes while Alexa stood on the fantail, out of view of the party on the grassy lawn. They could hear the band playing an instrumental selection of Elton John hits. The music was mixed with the low murmur of party conversation.

Shane got the door open quickly and looked back at her. "I'm getting better at this, refining my technique," he said.

"I'll add it to your charge sheet."

"I'm gonna find a nice quiet place below. Why don't you see if there are keys in that thing? We may need to make a fast exit," he said, pointing over the rail at a small red-hulled Scarab speedboat tied to bumpers against the side of the yacht.

"How'm I supposed to get down there?" she complained, looking over the rail at the Scarab ten feet below.

"Climb over the side, stand on the rub rail, then lower yourself down. Lotta people keep the spare ignition key in the engine compartment, hanging on a hook. Lift the cowling and take a look."

"The nautical equivalent of the back-door flowerpot?"

"Exactly."

He paused inside the main salon while she pulled up her short dress to climb over the side. Her toned, shapely legs were straddling the rail. She glanced up and caught him staring. "What're you looking at?"

"Nothing," he said too quickly, then ducked inside. He heard her drop down into the small boat as he moved through the magnificent yacht. Beautiful antiques and silk fabrics adorned the classic interior. He went below to the crew's quarters.

A few moments later he found the engine room behind a pair of soundproof double doors. It spanned the whole width of the boat. He turned on the lights. White-painted machinery glistened in the strong bluish neon. A hook, used to winch up heavy equipment so it could be worked on, hung between two large 2300-horse Caterpillar engines. Shane found a coil of rope on the engineer's bench, stowed it nearby, turned off the lights, and left.

When he got back to the rear deck, he found Alexa with a strange expression on her face. "You find the key?" he asked.

"Yeah, it was there, right where you said." She held up the ignition key.

"What's wrong, then?"

"I think I just saw Sandy. I went off the boat for a minute. I was trying to spot Logan Hunter… and I think I saw her with Calvin Sheets, walking up the path. She didn't look too happy about it."

"Sandy must've hooked up with her friend Melissa," Shane said. "Got herself invited to this party. But how the hell did she get all the way to Florida in ten hours?"

"Logan Hunter has his own jet," Alexa volunteered.

Shane nodded and walked out onto the fantail. "Let's see if we can find her."

They moved off the boat, rejoining the party, then walked along the carefully manicured path across the lawn, toward the house. Shane and Alexa were both scanning for familiar faces. Shane spotted Tony Spivack with a group of men and women, still wearing his quarterback jersey. He saw Coy Love over by the bar and grabbed Alexa's arm, turning her away.

"What?"

"Coy Love."

They got to the path that Sandy and Calvin Sheets had taken moments before, then started down it. The path wound around and finally ended about a hundred yards from the dock, down by a chauffeur's stone house on the east side of the property. The two-story stone house was connected to a six-car garage and separated from the rest of the property by a stand of mango trees. As they moved around the side of the house, they heard moaning. Shane stopped and looked at Alexa, who raised her eyebrows.

They couldn't determine the nature of the sound yet, so they stood by the house and listened. Suddenly they heard a hard slap, and a woman cried out in pain. Shane recognized the voice.

Alexa pulled her Beretta as they moved toward the front door. Shane, without a gun, felt vulnerable and exposed. He paused by the back door.

"Okay," he whispered. "Standard SWAT kick-down. I'm going right on three. One… two…"

Then he stepped back, kicked the door, and dove inside to the right, sideways and low. He hit the floor and was unable to see the room as he rolled, but he heard Alexa dive in behind him, going left and yelling, "Freeze, asshole!"

Then two shots blasted from the opposite side of the room. Shane finished his roll and came up behind a couch. The bullets thunked into the wall over his head. Alexa rolled to the left, then fired twice. Her first shot took Calvin Sheets high in the chest. He flew backward and hit the far wall, leaving a streak of blood on the white plaster as he slid down.

Shane came up in time to see Don Drucker move into the room, pulling his gun. Sandy was darting right just as Drucker fired. She passed through his sight and was hit in the back, screaming in pain. Shane watched in horror as the bullet went directly through her abdomen, exploding out the front, leaving an exit wound the size of a Softball. Sandy looked down in abject terror as blood and stomach contents streamed out of her, staining her light-green cocktail dress. Then she slumped to the floor, groaning.

Drucker turned his gun on Shane, who dove right just as the rookie cop fired. Shane felt the 9mm whiz by, inches from his head. He heard Alexa's gun discharge twice more, then Drucker flew out of Shane's field of vision and hit the floor. It was quiet for a second, but as Shane came up, he could see Drucker lying on his back, his mouth gaping open, dead. Alexa had hit him in the center of his forehead.

She was still low against the wall on the left side of the door, grim-faced and sweaty. Suddenly they heard footsteps on the path.

"Bolt the door," he ordered.

Alexa slammed it shut and threw the latch while Shane checked Drucker and Sheets. "These two are history," he said.

Shane snatched up Calvin Sheets's Smith amp; Wesson and tucked it away in his belt, then moved to Sandy, who was lying in an expanding pool of her own blood. It was widening beneath her, staining her dress a dark crimson, soaking the sides around her waist. He knew instantly that she probably wouldn't make it. The wound was fatal; she was already shivering, turning cold as her blood left her.

"Sandy… Sandy… it's me. Can you hear me?" he said, kneeling beside her.

When Sandy looked up, her face had lost its shape; her eyes were dimming as blood pumped out of her onto the tile floor. "I know… where… Chooch… is… Calvin told me… after we… we had sex and… and… he told…" She was shaking badly, struggling for breath. "Then… Clark Crispin came… seen my file… knew I was… Black Widow…" She started to choke, blood flowing from her mouth now, running down her chin.

"Shit," Shane said. "Let's get you outta here, to a hospital."

"No… " she said as he tried to lift her. "No… Please… listen. In Arrowhead… Sheets said… they're holding him there…"

Sandy's strained words were overwhelmed by a heavy pounding on the front door.

"Open the fucking door, Cal! Open up!" Coy Love shouted.

"Give that asshole something to think about," Shane barked. Alexa turned and fired her fifth shot through the bolted wood door.

"Shit," they heard Coy say angrily from the porch outside.

"Shane… you've gotta listen…" Sandy whispered.

When he looked back down at her, she seemed smaller than she had just a moment before, as if she were losing volume, a pint at a time.

"Shane… you get him back… you take… take care of Chooch…" she rasped.

"I'll get him."

"He's yours… Shane… yours and mine." She was almost whispering now, her voice so small that he had to bend down to hear her.

"I was wrong…" She reached up and clutched his collar, pulling him down closer. "I didn't think you'd want him… I wanted him but couldn't raise him… You gotta do better." Her voice was so weak now, he placed his ear almost on her lips to hear. "He needed… his father… It's why… I made you take him… It's why… it's why… I…" And then she was looking at him, but her gaze had turned empty. Her heart had stopped beating. Those flashing black eyes went dead and stared up at him, damp and blank as licked stones.

Shane slowly lowered her to the floor. When he looked up, he saw Alexa staring at him from the door.

"Shane, we've gotta get outta here," she said.

Suddenly, Coy Love's face appeared at the window. Then his gun came up, aiming at Shane, who snatched Calvin's.38 out of his belt and fired twice just as Alexa peeled her last two rounds at the ex-cop. The window shattered as four bullets hit Coy Love, blowing him backward into the brush outside the chauffeur's cabin.

"Let's go!" Alexa screamed, and Shane got to his feet.

They could hear more voices screaming outside. They found the back door and threw it open. It led into the six-car garage. A black Lincoln Town Car was parked inside. Shane grabbed the keys off the pegboard, then he and Alexa jumped into the car; he started the engine, pulled the garage-door opener off the visor, and pushed the button. The door opened while Alexa was digging into her purse for a spare clip. She jammed it into the grip of her Beretta just as he floored the Lincoln, hurtling out of the garage and onto the driveway.

Armed men in black suits blocked their path but scattered as he plowed through them.

Out the front window, he could see security men running at them from several directions, all digging under their coats for weapons. Shane yanked the wheel and bounced the car up over the curb and onto the newly sodded front lawn. They shot across it, taking the direct route to the front gate, tearing up chunks of grass before finally bounding back over the curb onto the main driveway.

With four men chasing them on foot, they sped out the front gate, Alexa holding her gun at port arms. The Town Car skidded onto Casuarina Concourse, then a mile and a half later rounded the corner onto Cutter Road. Soon they were speeding under the leafy banyan trees, heading toward the airport.

"Get Bob at the flight center. Tell him we gotta get moving."

While Alexa turned on her cell phone and dialed, Shane got a Miami all-news radio station. It had been only five or six minutes, but the story was already breaking.

"Our field news team covering the plush NFL party Logan Hunter is throwing at Elton John's Coral Gables mansion has reported a shooting," the announcer said. "We're still awaiting more details, but as we have it so far, several people have been gunned down. A man and a woman are identified as the shooters and have fled the scene in one of Elton John's personal vehicles. Stand by as we get more information."

Shane let Alexa off at Million-Air Charters, then parked the car around the corner and up the street in a dense growth of oleander bushes, out of sight of the road. He wiped their prints quickly, using his old shirt, not forgetting to do the back of the rearview mirror, the place most car thieves miss. Then he walked around the corner and met Alexa. They entered the office and found Bob in the pilot's lounge, filing his FAA flight plan.

"Ready to go?" Bob said. "That was quick."

"Can't afford the hangar time." Shane smiled, but the grin felt wide and shiny and about as genuine as an Amway salesman.

"Be right out," Bob said.

They quickly boarded the plane, this time without waiting for the red carpet. Shane and Alexa sat in tense silence as the two pilots finally got aboard, shut the door, and smiled warmly. "We've got a slight tailwind for a change," Bob said happily. "Should get us back in four and a half hours or so." He settled into the right seat and wound up the engines.

Moments later they were rolling down the runway, taking off, leaving Miami and four dead bodies behind.

Shane sat stoically in the cabin, unable to deal with his thoughts. Alexa reached over and took his hand. "You okay?" she asked. "What did Sandy say to you?"

"Nothing," he answered. He couldn't tell her yet, couldn't quite admit it to himself.

His mind went back almost sixteen years, recapturing a memory long forgotten: it was his second summer on the job, right after the first arrest Sandy had arranged on the Valley bond trading case. They'd gone to dinner several nights later, to celebrate. Sandy had made her pitch to him, offering to work for the police as an informant. They'd had too much to drink, and in the car outside her apartment, he had shucked her out of her dress, then in awkward, thoughtless passion had entered her. There had been no tenderness in the coupling, and surely no love. It had been pure sex for him, raw and unadorned, an act he thought held no consequences. For Sandy, it was like a handshake to close their new deal. He had been just twenty-two years old.

The next morning he had felt cheap and ashamed of himself. She was a prostitute, and since he had always demanded more from his intimate relationships, he had never made love to her again. Instead, they'd gone into business together. Over the years he had managed her informant's career, making her rich while getting his share of class A busts in the bargain. The drunken romp in the backseat of his car was all but forgotten.

All these years later, the consequences of that mindless act had finally come due. If what Sandy had told him was true, she had changed his life forever with her one dying sentence.

Then he remembered what she had said in the doorway of her Barrington penthouse two days before. It had made no sense then, but now it spoke volumes: "You weren't doing me a favor," she had told him solemnly. "I was doing one for you."