The Tin Collectors (10 page)

"Yeah. I told them everything." Then she added with a strange smile, "I told them Ray fired first, that it was self-defense."

Shane sat, thinking for a long moment. "We need to take a look through your house. I want to do a thorough search."

"There's nothing there. Robbery/Homicide looked already when they did the crime-scene investigation."

"I wanna look anyway. Maybe they missed it. I think that tape the woman was talking about may be what this is all about. Can we skip lunch and go there now?"

"What if they have someone watching the house? They'd see us together."

"With two-thirds of the department taking the day off for Ray's funeral, I doubt there's any spare manpower for a stakeout. Now is the best time. Let's go. If it's there, maybe we can find it."

He paid for the wine, and they walked out of the restaurant. On the way through the lobby, Shane had another thought. "Barbara, do you know Ray's cell phone number?"

"No. It was strictly a business phone. He told me never to use it, but I think he had it written down somewhere. Why?"

"When we get there, see if you can find it."

"Okay." She got into her red Ford Mustang convertible. The parking attendant stared openly as she pulled away, her blond hair streaming in the wind. Invisible in her wake, Shane got into his Acura and followed.

? ? ?

When they got to Barbara's house on Shell Avenue, the front door was ajar. Shane pulled up to the curb as Barbara pulled into her driveway. They both got out of their cars and looked at the half-open door with concern. Shane pulled his gun and handed Barbara his cell phone.

"Call nine-one-one if I'm not out in two minutes," he said. Then he moved up the steps and onto the front porch. He could see that the front-door lock had been drilled. Part of the tumbler mechanism was lying on the porch at his feet. With his toe, he edged the door open, staying to one side, out of sight. Then, when he had determined it was clear, he slipped into the house.

He could hear drawers being opened and closed in the back. He moved silently in that direction, finally looking into the bedroom where, seemingly a lifetime ago, he had killed Ray Molar.

There were two uniformed police officers going through dressers and closets. Shane decided to retreat. He didn't want to be caught in this house with Barbara standing outside. As he took a step back, the floor squeaked; both policemen spun and saw him standing there, gun in hand.

"What the fuck're you doing going through Ray's house?" Shane snarled, switching to offense and glaring at the two officers.

They were both first-year patrolmen. One of them he recognized as John Samansky, Ray's last probation partner. He was almost too short to be a cop, probably barely reaching the LAPD five-seven male height requirement. He had made up for his short stature by lifting weights. His wide trapezius muscles were straining his uniform shirt collar. The other police officer Shane had never seen before. He was also young but prematurely balding, with a narrow, pockmarked face. His nameplate read L. AYERS.

"Whatta you doing here, Scully?" Samansky asked. He had the blown voice of a pack-a-day saloon singer or a throat
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punched club fighter.

"You got a warrant?" Shane asked, ignoring the question.

"Show him, Lee," Samansky said. Patrolman Ayers pulled a folded slip of paper out of his pocket and waved it under Shane's nose. "Not that you got any rights in this house, least not that we know about."

Shane ignored the comment, turned, and moved out of the bedroom, back to the front door. He waved to Barbara, who closed the cell phone and walked into her house. He didn't need more cops added to this party.

"Give her the warrant," Shane demanded as she entered the living room.

Lee Ayers handed it to Barbara.

"Why?" she asked. "Why are you searching my house?"

"That's none of your business, ma'am," Samansky said, his sandpaper voice gruff and irritating.

"You two are patrol officers," Shane said. "Long as I've been on the job, it's always detectives who administer warrants and paw through the dressers. Shouldn't you guys be parked on a corner somewhere, writing greenies?"

"You're the asshole who's headed for Traffic Division," Ayers said with a smirk. " 'Sides, we got this squeal direct from the top of the Glass House. You got a problem with that, take it up with the warrant control officer at Parker Center."

Shane took the warrant out of Barbara's hands and looked at it. It had been signed by Judge Jose Hernandez, known by police and trial attorneys around the municipal courthouse as "Papier
-
Mache Jose" because he was willing to hang all the paper the cops wanted: subpoenas, arrest warrants, wiretaps. If they wrote it up, Hernandez signed it. Defendants had their own moniker: "The Time Machine," because the judge was infamous for passing out maximum sentences. He was a Mayor Crispin ally.

Shane handed the warrant back to Barbara. "You guys about through?" he asked.

"Yeah, we did the whole place," Ayers said. "You need to vacuum behind the furniture, lady. You got a fuckin' butterfly collection back there."

The two cops moved out the side door. Samansky had Barbara's garage-door clicker, and he opened her garage, exposing their black-and-white. They had parked it there to avoid calling attention to their presence.

While Lee Ayers got into the patrol car and backed it out of the garage, Samansky turned to Barbara. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Scully is the guy who shot your husband."

"That's none of your business," she said weakly.

" 'Cept it is my business. Ray was my friend, my partner. He was special. A guy like Ray comes along once in a lifetime. You had the best, lady. I'm fuckin' dyin' here . . . can't even believe he's really gone. You're his wife, and you're walking around with the shitwrap who dropped him. You should be ashamed." Then he turned, moved to the squad car, and got in. He glowered at them from the passenger seat. "I wonder what Robbery/

Homicide's gonna say about you two bein' together. Wonder how that's gonna play downtown." Samansky cleared his raspy throat, hawked up a spitball, and shot it in their direction. It landed two feet from the step they were on. Then he threw the garage-door opener at Shane, who snatched it out of the air.

They backed out of the driveway, around Barbara's Mustang convertible, and onto the grass. The squad car bounced over the curb, banging hard into Shane's black Acura, caving in the front fender with its pipe bumper, knocking Shane's car away from the curb. Then Lee Ayers cranked the patrol car's wheels and sped off up the street.

"It just keeps getting better," Shane said softly. "I can hardly wait till the tin collectors find out you and I were spending time together."

They turned and walked back into the house. Shane stood in the living room. It was probably a waste of time, but he decided to make his own search anyway. He checked the living-room furniture first. The carpet indentations were exposed, proving that the two cops had moved the sofa as promised. He pulled off some of the seat cushions and saw that they had all been stabbed with a kitchen knife that had been left on the floor under the sofa. That meant they had been looking for something that was small enough to be hidden inside a seat cushion. Something about the size of a videotape, he thought.

As he moved through the house, it was obvious that Samansky and Ayers had done a thorough job. It was also obvious that whatever was missing was still missing. The whole house had been searched. If they had found what they were looking for, they would have stopped when they recovered it.

Shane kept looking anyway, but he was getting dispirited. He ended up in the bedroom closet. He carefully went through the top shelf. Nothing. He checked the shoeboxes. Nothing. As he was getting set to close the closet doors, something caught his eye. He looked again and saw that there were half a dozen white shirts in plastic cleaner bags. What stopped him was that several of the shirts were on white hangers with printed plastic that read BAYSIDE CLEANERS, while two others were on plain hangers with light green cellophane over them. He took all the shirts off the rod and held them up.

"What is it?" Barbara asked.

"I don't know. Why do you use two different dry cleaners?"

"I don't. I just use Bayside, here in Venice."

Shane held up the Bayside Cleaners shirts. The covers indicated that Bayside was located at 201 South Venice Boulevard. He put them on the bed, then examined the other shirts with the plain hangers and greenish cellophane covers. There was no printing to indicate the name and address of this second cleaner. He pulled the laundry tag off one of the Bayside shirt collars. It was a small yellow strip with a number and bar code. Then he found the laundry strip for the unknown cleaner: a purple square stapled through the bottom buttonhole.

"You say Ray was away a lot. Maybe he had these cleaned somewhere else." Shane took the shirts with the purple square strips and folded them over his arm. "We have a database for laundry tags. Sometimes, when we get a John Doe with no ID, the laundry mark helps us identify the body. I'll drop this at the Scientific Investigations Section and see what they come up with. I better get out of here. Did you find that cell phone number?" he asked.

She snapped her fingers. "Forgot," she said, and went digging around in one of Ray's drawers. She found the box the phone had come in. Inside, with the warranty and sales slip, Ray had written the number. She handed it to Shane.

"Same number as on the AT&T printout," he said, holding up both sheets of paper. "Whoever she is, she was using Ray's cell phone."

"So we can't trace it."

"Guess not."

Shane moved toward the front door but stopped in the entry as Barbara put a hand on his arm. She looked at him softly with her beautiful blue-green eyes.

"Can we see each other?"

"Barbara . . . that's gonna get us nothing but grief."

"Tell me you don't want to see me. Just say it, and I won't bring it up again."

"I can't say it, 'cause I do. It's just. . ."

"If we're careful?" she said. "I feel so lonely, so frightened."

Why is this happening this way? he wondered. Finally he put a hand up to her face and held it there for a moment. "I'll think about it. I guess if those two cops notify RHD, the damage is already done," he heard himself say stupidly. Of course, he knew he could probably explain away one incident. He could say he'd come over to apologize or pay his respects. All he needed was to start seriously fooling around with Ray's widow in the wake of this shooting. A first-degree murder charge would probably be his reward for that behavior. How could he even consider seeing her again? His heart was beating fast, slamming in his chest like a broken cam shaft, his breath coming in rasping gasps. Loneliness swelled. He looked at her and wondered again how this had gotten so fucked up.

"Buy a cell phone," he said impulsively, "a new one. Leave the number on my home machine. You have mine. Since these cells aren't secure, don't use my name if you call me."

"Okay," she said. Then she reached up to kiss him, and he found his lips brushing against hers. He started to put an arm around her but then pulled away and quickly left her house without looking back.

Samansky was right. They should be ashamed, but a hard-on was stuffed sideways in his Jockey shorts. He reached down and adjusted it. Another work of art, The Pagan Love God; hang it with the others. The Shane Scully Gallery was filling fast.

He got to his car and knelt down to survey the bashed front fender. It was hard to tell whether he or his poor black Acura had been taking more hits recently. He reached over and tugged the fender slightly off the new radial front tire. Then he got behind the wheel, and with the front fender rubbing badly, he turned the car around and drove back to his house on the East Canal in Venice.

Two hours after he got home, another uniformed patrolman showed up. He hand-delivered the PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL envelope Shane had been dreading. Inside was an LAPD Letter of Transmittal.

Chapter
12

LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL APRIL 21, 2000

Complaint filed by Robbery/Homicide and IAD. Place of Complaint: 2387 Shell Avenue, Venice, CA. Complaint Investigation CF no. 20-4567-56. This complaint form contains allegations of misconduct against Department employee:

SERGEANT I. SHANE SCULLY

Serial No. 8934867RHD

Allegations are listed below with recommendations for classification and supporting rationales.

ALLEGATION ONE: That on April 16, at approximately 2:30 A
. M
., Sergeant Scully inappropriately involved himself in an incident of domestic violence.

ALLEGATION TWO: Sergeant Scully drove to the house of his expartner, Lieutenant Raymond Molar. He did not use his police radio to call uniformed police, instead electing to inject himself into a potentially dangerous incident where uniformed personnel would have been in a better position to contain the situation.