The Tin Collector

Chapter 35

Shane was on the 405 on his way back from Long Beach when he saw the transition ramp for the Santa Monica Freeway. He wondered whether DeMarco had been working on his case or whether he'd spent the day drinking and listening to rap. He decided to find out. He put on his blinker and made the turn onto the 10. Seven minutes later he was standing on the bike path outside DeMarco's house.

He hesitated a moment, almost afraid of what he would find. Finally he pushed open the gate, walked up to the front door, and knocked. One of DeMarco's new surfer roommates opened the door. He looked right through Shane and, without saying a word, stepped back and let him in. The boy was wearing surf trunks with no shirt and had an athlete's build. The eyes were where the problem was: empty, hollow tunnels of distrust.

"DeMarco around?"

The boy didn't seem to want to waste even one syllable on Shane. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the hallway, then flopped back down on the sofa, where his buddy was lounging with the TV remote. MTV's Real World was on the large Sony. Two teenage girls were on the screen arguing about their gay male roommate's new rottweiler, who apparently was shitting all over their London flat. One of life's smelly little problems. Shane moved through the hall and knocked on the end door. His defense rep called out angrily: "What?!"

Shane pushed the door open and looked in. For the first time, Dee was hard at it. He had law books and police department manuals open on the cluttered desk in front of him, his half-glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was a blue and gray vision in a faded LAPD sweatshirt and jeans. He had taken his long gray hair out of the knot in back, and it now hung on his shoulders, Cochise-style.

"How's it goin'?" Shane asked.

"Don't you wanna give me a Breathalyzer first?" he groused.

"Come on, Dee, gimme a break."

The defense rep leaned back in his squeaking swivel chair and swung around to face Shane. "Basically, it ain't getting any better," DeMarco said.

"You talkin' about the 1.61 Mayweather sent through this morning? I haven't seen it yet. I haven't been home."

"Copy right here," DeMarco said, picking up a fax and waving it at Shane. "But it's worse than just the 1.61. I found out this afternoon that Donovan McNeil, the only friendly face you had on your judging panel, is no longer able to attend the hearing." DeMarco rooted around his paperwork, found another fax, and held it up. "He's been transferred as of yesterday to the command chair at Administrative Vice in Central Division. Big fucking job. And since that transfer is effective immediately, it has been determined by the Special Investigations Division that, under these extreme circumstances, he does not have the time available to serve on your board. He's been replaced. I guess these Dark Side pricks finally found out you two used t'sling bait together."

"Who'd we get this time? The chief's brother-in-law?"

"Nope. The chief's old driver, Leland H. Postil."

"Fuck," Shane said. "Don't we still get to throw one out?"

"Yeah, they gave me two choices. The other was Peggy York, former head of IAD. In your absence, I chose Postil."

"Things can't get much worse," Shane growled.

"Wanna bet? Check this. I've been trying to restrict Alexa Hamilton's demands for your personal background file. It's full of a buncha unsustained complaints, CO's tardy slips, ridiculous stuff that every cop gets the minute he starts hooking up scumbags and dealing with this nitpick four-hundred-page LAPD Manual. The stuff in those background files is always just unproved bullshit, but it looks bad if you string it out in front of a board hearing."

Shane was pissed. "Old, unsustained complaints can only be used after the board convicts, //they convict, and then it can only be used as part of the penalty phase of the hearing to help determine past history and state of mind," he said.

"I see you've been reading Section 202," DeMarco said.

"I sleep with the fucking thing, for all the good it's doing me."

"Well, buddy-boy, once again, the powers that control the Special Investigations Division have ruled against you. Alexa filed a Pitches motion to overturn that section of the Police Bill of Rights. The panel granted her motion, and the package went over to her at four this afternoon."

They sat quietly in the room. Finally DeMarco got up, went to a small refrigerator in the corner of the office, and pulled out a beer. "You want one?"

"Dee, you've gotta stay off the Bud Lights. Okay?"

"Fuck you. I'm through listening to that shit from you." He ripped the tab off and took a swallow.

"I'm hearing around that maybe you have an alcohol problem," Shane said. "I hear that's why you pulled the pin."

DeMarco looked at him and smiled, then took a long fuck-you swig. "I won't even favor that with an answer."

"Look, Dee, I'm into something here. I think I've got the mayor tied into a blackmail scheme to trade billions of dollars' worth of property from Long Beach over to L. A. Ray and his den were blackmailing people in Arrowhead so this would happen, most notably Carl Cummins, who's president of the Long Beach City Council. I followed some guys out there to the old naval yard. I've got "

"You got shit," DeMarco interrupted, slamming the beer can down on his desktop. "Maybe if you'd stop running around, accusing all these high-profile guys of bullshit crimes, we wouldn't be facing all this administrative flack. We wouldn't be losing the Pitches and all our other motions."

"But "

"No! Don't 'but' me. Ever since I took this fucking case, you've been accusing me of not trying. The reason we're getting hosed here, buddy, is that you have proceeded to piss off the chief of police, Deputy Chief Mayweather, Ray's rookie den, and everybody in between. Add to that the fact that you're acting like you're fucking guilty. What kinda asshole breaks into Warren Zell's office and goes through his files?"

"Who told you that?" Shane asked.

"It's all over the department that Alexa Hamilton caught you in there, you dumb shit!"

Shane stood there, feeling slightly dizzy and stupid as hell. Had Alexa lied? Had she told the department what he'd done? "I… I don't see how "

"On top of all that, you're about to get arrested for first-degree murder," DeMarco interrupted. "I got a call from the warrant control desk today. They wanted to know if you were here. They've been checking your house and said you're not living there. I think you'd better get in touch with them turn yourself in."

Shane spun and moved out of the office, back into the hall. DeMarco followed him through the living room and out the front door.

"If you run, you're making a huge mistake," DeMarco said, standing in his doorway, peering over his half-glasses at Shane on the sidewalk.

"What else can I do, huh?" Shane answered. "I got nobody but me. If I get arrested, I'm gone without a ripple. Nobody will try and find out what's happening here. If I don't figure it out, I'm gonna go down in front of this rigged murder case." Then he turned and walked up the path. When he arrived at the parking lot two doors away, he got into his car and pulled out onto the highway.

He decided to go up the coast and cut across town on Sunset, afraid that DeMarco might call the cops down on him. He tried to get his head clear and to organize the facts. But one thought kept coming back.

Why would Alexa tell about his break-in at Zell's office? Shane could end her career with the information about her throwing his old BOR. Something had to be wrong.

Less than an hour ago, Alexa had said she believed him.

Now Shane needed to decide if he could believe her.