"I'm delighted we're going to be bringing football back to L. A.," Logan Hunter said. "We're going to deliver a top-flight product. We'll spare no expense to build a first-rate franchise at the Web. If you buy season tickets today, we'll guarantee you a spot in the stands when we kick off in our new stadium in the fall of 2001. We're gonna be up and ready. We break ground tomorrow. Tony, you wanna say a few words?"
Spivack, who had just put on a new Spiders football jersey over his suit and tie, came to the mike. "I don't have much time to talk. I better get back and grab a shovel if I'm gonna meet Logan's date."
There was a ripple of laughter.
"Commissioner Tagliabue . . . one question!" Shane shouted. "How come you didn't choose the Coliseum? That's a national historic landmark, built for the '32 OlympicsPlus, the people with businesses in that neighborhood count on Coliseum events to survive."
The room fell silent. Spivack stepped back and handed the mike to Paul Tagliabue. "There were other factors involved. It was a complicated decision," the commissioner said. "We don't want to get into that right now."
"Was it the high crime stats down there?" Shane persisted, rolling the idea up to the stage like a live grenade.
"The growing crime rate around the Coliseum certainly entered into our decision," he said. "But there were many factors. We'll have a question-and-answer session after the announcements are concluded. Now, moving on . . . We come to the last franchise, in Oklahoma City "
"Why do you suppose crime in that neighborhood rose so dramatically?" Shane was pulling the pin now.
A police officer appeared at his elbow. "May I see your pass, sir?"
"Don't have one," he replied.
"Whatta you doing here?"
"I'm a mental patient. We sorta wander around."
"Not funny. Let's go." He led Shane out of the room, walking with a firm grip on his elbow. They moved past Alexa, who was standing next to a WMI Radio team. She caught his eye and smiled as he was ejected from the room.
Once they were outside, the cop glowered at Shane. "You can leave, or you can take a ride with me. Your choice."
"Why don't I just leave ..."
"Why don't ya," the cop said.
Shane walked to the yellow T-bird, took a piece of paper out of his pocket, and wrote Alexa a note. He shoved it under the car, got behind the wheel, and rolled over the note, then drove out of the parking lot, up the winding driveway, and parked on the street outside. He sat in the front seat in the oppressive heat, with the lousy air conditioner blowing a foul tobacco smell, until he couldn't bear it any longer. He got out of the car, threw his coat off, and looked down at his sweat-soaked shirt. He tried to get cool under a Japanese banyan tree while he contemplated what he had just learned. It was maddeningly simple once you had all the pieces:
The NFL wouldn't put a team in an area where violent crime and prostitution were out of control, so they awarded the franchise to Logan Hunter and the new entertainment/stadium complex being built at the old Long Beach Naval Yard. That was the last dot. He didn't know what he was going to do about it, but after ten days of eating everyone's exhaust, Shane had finally caught up.
For the first time since this all started, he actually knew what the hell was going on.
Chapter 46
.415.
HALF AN HOUR LATER she came out of the Coral Reef Yacht Club and, shading her eyes with a four-by-five card, stood amidst milling news crews.
Shane could see her from the road, a slender figure standing defiantly in the entryway, looking toward the empty space where the yellow T-bird had been parked.
Shane had just tried to get Sandy on the phone again, but with no luck. He folded his cell and watched from the road, three hundred yards away, as Alexa walked uncertainly to the empty parking spot, reached down, and picked up his note. Then she turned and headed toward the main road, quickening her pace when she saw him, walking out the main gate and approaching the car. She frowned when she saw Shane's sweat-plastered shirt.
"Did you decide to take a swim?"
"I can't handle this steam bath they got down here." She nodded and handed him the card in her hand.
"What's this?"
"Logan's having a barbecue. He borrowed Elton John's house to celebrate. I'm invited. I can bring a guest, but I'll be damned if I'm showing up with a guy who looks like he's been playing in the sprinklers."
"I'll stop on the way and buy a new shirt. Let's go." They got into the T-bird and drove off.
They actually made two stops, first at a drugstore for deodorant and a razor, then at a small department store, where Shane bought a new white shirt and Alexa bought a simple cocktail dress. After he washed up and shaved in the employee bathroom, Shane felt 50 percent better.
He walked out and got into the idling T-bird, joining Alexa in the lukewarm stream of tobacco-scented air. "That looks good on you," he said, glancing appreciatively at the way the short pale blue dress fit her trim, athletic body.
"Thanks," she said noncommittally.
They drove up Cutter Road, back toward Coral Gables.
The beautiful Japanese banyan trees hung overhead, strobing leafy shadows across the T-bird's hood. They turned right on Casuarina Concourse and drove east, toward the water.
Elton John's house was not hard to spot. The press was already there. Shane turned into the winding drive and waited in a long line of cars while the guests showed their numbered invitations and were checked off a list.
"By the way, I'm Whitney Green, WMI Radio. Whitney does the noon show and couldn't make it."
"How the hell did you get invited?"
"I promised Whitney's husband, Don, I'd have a drink with him later."
"Yuck."
"Double yuck. You haven't seen him."
They pulled up to the man checking invitations. Alexa leaned across Shane and handed over her engraved card. "Whitney Green and guest," she said as the security guard wearing a tailored blazer checked the invitation, then nodded. Two valets opened both doors. Shane and Alexa got out as a man in a red jacket ran up, jumped into the car, and pulled away.
As they joined a line of people heading up the drive toward the house, they could hear a band playing. They walked under a large balloon arch stretched across the driveway, done in red and black Spiders football colors, with a large sign that read:
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 smile
d. "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 b
y, 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 & 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.
the Tin Collector (2000) Page 28
