The Tin Collectors (37 page)

"This leads right down to the lobby on the top floor," he said.

"Is this alarm unhooked, too?"

"I hope so. The panel was a little confusing down there. I had to straight-wire a lot of shit."

"So you are an expert on alarms."

"Ray always said the picks are worthless if you set off alarms."

"Some probation training you got."

He finally had the door open, and the two of them went down the one flight to the fourteenth floor. The interior door to the helicopter stairs was unlocked, and in another minute or so, they were inside the steel-and-glass offices of Spivack Development Corporation. The only thing missing was the blond ice goddess behind the reception desk.

They moved through the lobby into the back, where they found themselves in a long, narrow hallway decorated with artistic schematics of past Spivack developments. Huge hotels and major airport buildings hung in stainless-steel frames. The renderings were crisp line drawings with pastel watercolors. They passed out of the corridor into a huge drafting area. "I wonder where Tony Spivack lives," Shane said.

After a few more minutes of searching, they found his office, fronted by a vast secretarial area and a set of mahogany doors with ANTHONY J. SPIVACK engraved on an antique silver plaque.

Shane turned the doorknob and pushed it open. They entered an ornate, palatial office: red carpet, embroidered drapes, and a mixture of furniture styles; French armoires and steel-and-glass tables populated the room. Shane moved to the immense plate-glass window that overlooked the city of Long Beach. He could see the domed city hall and, way off to the west, the Queen Mary sparkling with lights. Beyond that, he knew, was the Long Beach Naval Yard, which was magnetic north because everything pointed to it.

"We've gotta go through his files, see if we can find the project drawings," he said, still looking out the window, struck by the view: the shimmering Pacific Ocean beyond a ribbon of moonlit sand.

"Shane, look at this," he heard her say.

He turned, and she was no longer in the office.

He found her standing in the adjoining conference room. There was a magnificent 1:16 architectural model on a ten-foot-long side table. It covered the entire tabletop and was ten by five feet. Shane approached the huge model and saw that it was the architectural layout for the five-hundred-acre Long Beach Naval Yard project.

The plaque read:

THE WEB

The centerpiece of the development was a football stadium with two rings of luxury suites. It was perched on the property, a big concrete oval, its escalators arching away from the perimeter like eight long spider legs. It dwarfed everything. Engraved over the stadium's modern entry was a tiny sign:

"The L
. A
. Spiders. A football team," Shane said. "Sandy told me Logan Hunter was trying to bring an NFL franchise to L
. A
."

"This is about footballshe said, appalled, sounding exactly like every housewife in America.

"It's really not about football, it's about real estate." He studied the rest of the development. The thirty or more architectural models placed on the site plan were beautifully made and exquisitely detailed. They dotted the five-hundred-acre site. There was an amusement park with roller coasters and Ferris wheels; five luxury hotels, each one next to the water; shopping malls and restaurants. Little catamarans were stuck in the "water," racing along motionlessly up on one pontoon, their tiny sails billowing orange and red against aqua-blue plaster waves.

Shane was trying to put it together. "Okay," he said slowly, using her words. "It's called police work. . . . Connecting the dots . . . Ray Molar and his den blackmail the Long Beach City Council with hookers at the party house in Arrowhead. A video festival occurs that forces Carl Cummins and the embarrassed city officials of Long Beach to give the naval yard over to L
. A
. and Mayor Crispin in return for some bogus water rights. The mayor gifts the property to Spivack in return for Spivack's promise to develop it for the city of L
. A
. as a home base for a new sports franchise. Spivack funds the actual physical development in return for the property. Logan Hunter gets the NFL to award L
. A
. a new football franchise, and everybody, from top to bottom, gets silent ownership in the deal and walks away multimillionaires."

"And the H Street Bounty Hunters were just a fun idea that got included for ethnic diversity?" she said.

"Okay, that's a wild piece. I don't have that connection yet, but I like the rest of it."

"Could be . . ." She sounded less sure.

"I remember reading once that the real money play on these sports franchise deals is the land, not the team. These guys get billions of dollars' worth of land from L
. A
. for free in return for financing the project and building this thing. Most of the public doesn't bitch, 'cause they don't care about the land; they want the team and a class A stadium to go with it. Sure, you end up with a roomful of environmentalists and hotheads protesting, but it's on page ten of the Metro section. . . . Nobody gives a damn about them because pro football is coming back to L
. A
.!"

"They can do that? Just give the land away?"

"Yeah, happens all the time. Years ago the city of Anaheim gave Georgia Frontiere hundreds of acres around Anaheim Stadium to get her to move the Rams there. Then, even when she carpetbagged the team off to St. Louis, the land was still hers. The O'Malleys were given Chavez Ravine for Dodger Stadium
the city condemned it, moved out all the Hispanics who lived there, then gave the O'Malleys the property, free and clear, in return for building Dodger Stadium. That way they wouldn't have to try and float a bond issue."

"Do you mind if we get out of here?" she said. "This is all quite fascinating, but I'm not as comfortable doing hot prowls as you are."

"One more thing first," he said, and moved out of the conference room and over to Spivack's desk. He opened the center drawer and took out Tony Spivack's appointment calendar while Mrs. Spivack and two dark-haired children eyed him suspiciously from behind a silver frame on the corner of the desk.

He opened the leather-covered book and started flipping pages.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

"Wanna see if he's in town. Last time I saw this shitbird, he was flying off in a green and white helicopter." Shane flipped the calendar to April. "Here it is; Sunday, April twenty-sixth, Miami Beach, NFL, eight-thirty A
. M
."

"Lemme see that," she said, and he spun the calendar towar
d h
er.

"Alexa, he's in Miami Beach right now, meeting with the NFL at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. You likin' my theory any better?"

They moved out of the office, but she stopped at the secretary's desk and looked around at the slips of paper that Spivack's secretary had pasted up neatly on a bulletin board: lots of yellow Post-its, reminders, important numbers and addresses.

"I thought you wanted to leave."

"If we're gonna do this, let's do it right," she said, still looking. "I worked as a secretary once, during a summer vacation in college. You keep the boss's temporary numbers up near the phone if he's traveling." She reached up and pulled a Post-it down. " 'Coral Reef Yacht Club.' That sound like Miami to you?" she asked.

"Take it. Let's go," he said.

Seconds later they were on the roof, then back inside the concrete fire stairs; a few moments later they were in the Crown Vic and gone.

Chapter
44

DON'T WORRY, I'll get us there."

It was just after ten P
. M
. and the last flight to Miami had departed LAX, so Shane drove to the Long Beach Airport. He found the executive jet area and drove along Executive Terminal Row until he found a busy-looking FBO called Million-Air Charters. He pulled into the parking lot next to the mostly glass one-story building, then he and Alexa got out.

"Private jets cost big money," Alexa said

"I've got a hundred thousand in small bills, but we're gonna look like drug dealers, so get your tin ready."

He opened the trunk and retrieved the suitcase with Coy Love's cash bribe inside. They walked into Million-Air Charters, and Shane plunked the leather bag down on the counter.

"We'd like to charter a jet to Miami," he said.

The girl behind the counter was young but no dummy. She took one look at Shane and Alexa's off-the-rack clothes, stole
a q
uick peek at their fourteen-dollar Timex watches, and knew these two were not customers.

Alexa pulled out her LAPD identification and laid it on the desktop. "If you need to talk to a manager, this is police business. We're with the Drug Enforcement Task Force and we have got to get to Miami before morning."

Shane snapped open the suitcase and spun it around, revealing the stack of cash.

"Confiscated drug money," Alexa explained. "We'll need you to receipt it for us." All bullshit, but comforting words when a civilian is looking at a suitcase full of used bills.

"Let me talk to Mr. Lathrope," she said.

Mr. Lathrope wanted to be called Vern; he had hunched shoulders, wireless granny glasses, and hair that had the general shape and texture of a number-nine paintbrush. He looked at the cash and Alexa's badge speculatively, then made a few calls. His weary attitude said he didn't like them, but business was business. "I can have two pilots here in half an hour, then I'll put you in 868 Charlie Papa," he said to Shane.

"What's 868 Charlie Papa?" Shane asked, showing total ignorance of jet charters.

"Tail number. It's the white Gulfstream Three with green stripes," he said, nodding his head toward the window where three or four executive jets were parked.

Shane didn't know a Gulfstream 3 from a palomino pony, but he nodded anyway. " 'Bout how much is that gonna run?" he asked.

"It's fifteen each way, thirty for the whole trip. We won't charge you for hangar time up to five hours; after that, the ground rate is one-half the hourly."

"Not giving us much of a break here, are you, Vern?" Shane said.

"Our prices are competitive. Make as many calls as you want
check it out. However, if you're interested in an opinion
,
it is a bit unusual to be getting paid with used bills out of a suitcase." Stalemate.

Shane moved to the sofa, put the open suitcase on his lap, and began counting out stacks of banded cash. Each packet had fifty twenty-dollar bills in it. Shane counted out thirty stacks, snapped the suitcase shut, then walked up and handed the money to Vern Lathrope, who couldn't get his right eyebrow down from the middle of his forehead.

"I usually have a brown paper bag for transactions like this," Shane said as he shoved the cash over.

Shane and Alexa sat and waited on the expensive calf-leather couches, now clients of Million-Air Charters. Shane made two calls to Sandy, but she didn't pick up and her answering machine was off.

Half an hour later two young pilots in uniforms led Shane and Alexa to the Gulfstream 3 that Shane now realized was the biggest plane sitting on the flight line.

"Vern didn't like taking used cash, but he sure didn't mind renting us the most expensive piece of iron he had," Shane groused.

They stepped on a small rectangular red carpet before climbing the ladder and entering the jet. Then the copilot quickly rolled it up and stuffed it in a luggage compartment, with a "so much for that" smile on his face. He climbed up the stairs and pulled the door up after him. A few minutes later the Gulfstream jet, with Shane and Alexa and nine empty seats, was out on the end of the Long Beach runway, waiting for the tower to green-light the takeoff.

Shane found a beer in the refrigerator and brought one back to Alexa, who had kicked off her shoes and was reclining in the seat.

The plush interior was heavily scented with the smell of English leather. Rich, polished burlwood glistened in the Trivoli lighting. There were Baccarat crystal glasses in slots over a full bar.

"Okay, Shane and Alexa," Bob, their friendly pilot, said. "We're cleared for takeoff, so we're gonna do our thing now. Anything we can get you along the way, we're on channel three on the intercom."

"Thank you," Shane said to the empty cabin.

"I think you have to pick up a little receiver first," she said, smiling at him.

"For thirty grand, Bob can come back here when I want to talk to him." Then he kicked off his loafers and put the seat back. He had chosen to sit across the aisle from Alexa, facing backward so he could look at her.

Suddenly the plane was hurtling down the runway, its wheels coming up immediately on takeoff, climbing fast. They flew out over the ocean, then the pilot made a slow turn and headed east.

Shane and Alexa sat in the luxurious executive jet, sipping imported beer while the plane climbed to altitude and the lights of Long Beach gradually slipped away below the starboard wing.