The Tin Collectors (43 page)

Longboard and Chooch were lying prone on the backseat. "Did we make it?" Longboard asked tentatively as he sat up.

Shane looked back at the dock, a receding structure in the distance.

"They're out of range," he said. All of them had wide smiles on their faces. It was a well-known police axiom that nothing is more exhilarating than being fired on without serious result.

The little speedboat streaked across the lake, its metal-tipped bow parting the moonlit water, leaving a frothy, expanding wake behind them as they headed toward the lights of Arrowhead Village two miles away.

"We've gotta get to a place where Sheriff Conklyn won't panic making the arrest. Someplace out in the open. I don't want one of his trigger-happy deputies ruining this perfect rescue," Shane shouted to Alexa over the wind and engine noise.

"How 'bout the main dock in town?" she suggested. "It's open from all sides. He can make an arrest easily there."

"Good idea," Shane agreed. She pulled out her cell phone to call, but before she could dial, the odds abruptly changed.

It was coming at them low and fast across the water, its rotor blade flashing streaks of reflected moonlight. The blue and green helicopter was ten feet off the surface, approaching quickly. By the time they heard it, it was way too close. The throaty roar of the speedboat's engine had camouflaged its deadly approach.

The Bell Jet Ranger swept low across their speeding bow. Two men leaned out the open door with police shotguns aimed down at them, and seconds later the men let loose. . . . The teak deck and left windscreen were peppered with buckshot. Exploding safety glass flew back in pebble-sized pieces. Chunks of pellet
-
riddled teak flew up, caught the air, and were whipped away over their heads.

Shane jerked the wheel right, to change the angle, taking away the Bell Jet's point-blank line of fire. Now the speedboat was heading west, away from the town. The chopper banked, its engine whining as it turned, and in seconds it was behind them again, closing in. Two more blasts from the shotguns, and the rest of their windshield was gone.

Shane felt sharp pain on his ear and cheek where several pellets from the widening shot pattern had nicked him. Blood started running down the right side of his face. He spun the wheel again.

Alexa turned and was now facing back. She had her knees on the leather seat; her body was prone across the center deck. She had her 9mm Beretta in both hands, aiming up at the approaching helicopter. She took her time sighting. "Slow down, you're bouncing too much!" she shouted.

Shane eased the throttle back, slowing the boat and subtly drawing the chopper in closer. Then, sighting carefully, she fired twice. Suddenly the chopper veered right and pulled up fast, exposing its belly. She fired again. The pilot, feeling the hits, banked the helicopter away. He pulled back to avoid further gunfire, but was now also way out of shotgun range.

Her shots had not disabled the Bell Jet Ranger.

Shane sped up. The chopper paced along a hundred yards to the right, skimming low across the water, tracking the speedboat from the side at about forty miles an hour.

The boat was bouncing badly, hitting the larger chop in the center of the lake. The waves slammed against the varnished hull, throwing water wide to each side.

"Don't shoot! Don't waste rounds
we're pounding too much!" Shane shouted. "They can't reach us with those twelve
-
gauges
save it for when they come in close."

Alexa nodded as they sped across the center of Lake Arrowhead, the chopper flying sideways now, the nose aimed at them. Four faces were staring out from behind the bubble-glass windshield.

Shane was headed toward Blue Jay Bay.

Alexa pushed redial on her phone. A moment later Shane heard her shouting at Conklyn. "Sheriff, it's Alexa Hamilton. I'm with Shane Scully and two others. A male Caucasian and teenage Hispanic. We're Code Six Mary in a speedboat heading across Lake Arrowhead, taking gunfire from a helicopter above us. We're at Blue Jay Bay. We need help. Get here fast, or notify the coroner." She threw the phone down on the seat without waiting for a reply, then aimed her gun at the tracking helicopter.

They streaked past a sign marking Village Point, then past two poles planted in the lake that warned:

SHALLOW WATER
SANDBAR

"Shit," Shane said. He was going almost forty. If he went aground at that speed, they would all end up as part of the dashboard. He pulled the throttle back, slowing to about twenty. The helicopter veered again, vectoring toward them. They could see distant flashes of fire from both shotgun barrels, then heard the slower sound of the blasts. Simultaneously the varnish on the side of the boat exploded and turned chalky white as the pellets tore holes in it.

The body of water narrowed abruptly ahead; they were running out of lake. Shane saw Totem Pole Point coming up on the right, marked by a hand-painted sign. Suddenly they were in the narrow and unforgiving waters of Paradise Bay, heading for the mouth of Little Bear River.

"Fuck," Shane said. If he turned back now, he would be forced to slow way down to make the turn in the narrow inlet, making them vulnerable to a withering shotgun attack. So he eased back on the power, cutting his speed to ten miles per hour, then headed up the narrow mouth of the river. Occasionally he could feel the boat hesitate as it scraped bottom.

The helicopter came in close now, making another pass. Two men were leaning far out of the door of the chopper. Alexa fired three more times. One of the men screamed, his voice faint and distant, barely audible over the racket of the competing engines. Then the man tumbled out of the helicopter door and splashed into the shallows below.

Shane could see the end of the ride coming up ahead. A sandbar was stretched across the narrowing river. He sped up momentarily so he could run the heavy boat up onto the sand.

The Chris-Craft shot up onto the bar. He felt the sand scraping beneath, heard the propeller pin shear. The engine screamed as the propeller flew off. As soon as the boat slammed to a stop, it leaned right against its bottom, white smoke and a high-rpm whine coming from the exposed shaft.

"Out! Out! Get out!" Shane shouted, and yanked the .38 out of his waistband. He trained it on the helicopter that was now hovering and watching, waiting for them to run away from the grounded speedboat, where they would be easy to pick off.

"Stay put. Use the boat for cover!" Shane yelled. They all huddled behind the beached hull, keeping the Chris-Craft between them and the chopper. The overheating inboard engine finally coughed and quit.

Then the nose of the Bell Jet Ranger dropped and, like a bull in an arena, made its deadly charge. Shane unloaded the .38 as the chopper streaked over them. He could hear the shotguns firing, in a steady ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom! He knew they were using police-issue, Ithaca pump-action 12-gauge riot guns. As the shots continued, the engine compartment on the beached boat blew open ... the last shot hit the exposed gas tank.

The next thing Shane knew, he was flying through the air, the sound of the exploding gas tank ringing in his ears. He landed ten feet away and saw that Alexa, Chooch, and Brian had also been blown off their feet by the blast.

Shane had been nearest the tank, and he now realized that his clothes were on fire. He got up and made a stumbling run for it, then dove into the shallow Little Bear River. While he was rolling in the water, trying to extinguish the flames, the helicopter turned back and made a low pass at him. He was now sitting upright in the middle of the shallows, an easy, stationary target, when the shotguns started again. The first pattern went wide, turning the river water to the left of him foam white with the pellets. In his peripheral vision, he could see Alexa splashing across the open ground toward him, limping slightly, favoring her right side. She was slamming her last clip into the Beretta, chambering it as she ran.

The helicopter flashed over her now, getting closer to him. As it went over, she peeled the full clip straight up into the belly of the chopper, hitting the Bell Jet Ranger with all nine shots.

Shane didn't know what the hell she hit, but it was certainly something vital, because the helicopter immediately began spinning on its axis, wobbling around like a slowing top, going out of control. Then it slammed, nose first, into the water and went down fast.

Shane got up out of the river, his burnt clothes steaming in the cold night air. He joined Chooch, Longboard, and Alexa at the water's edge. They looked out at the spot where the chopper had crashed. The engine housing and rotor were all that was still above water. There had been no explosion and no attempt by anyone to get out. Then it disappeared, sinking quickly.

"Fuck you," Shane said softly to a bubbling spot in the water where the helicopter had been.

A few minutes later, while they were still watching the Bell Jet's last air bubbles rising to the surface, exploding trapped air, they saw the black-and-white Hughes 500 approaching, coming in low over the lake. The belly-light on the sheriff's chopper snapped on, and they were caught in its blinding glare. Shane and Alexa immediately threw down their guns and assumed the position, placing both hands behind their heads. Shane instructed Longboard and Chooch to do the same.

They were all standing out in the open as the sheriff's helicopter hovered overhead, churning up rocks and river water. "On your stomachs. Facedown on the ground!" they heard Conklyn's voice shout over the bullhorn.

All of them proned-out on the sand and waited.

It was only moments before the first squad cars arrived. They drove off the road, their tires squishing on the wet river sand, their cherry-colored bar lights flashing. Then, as patrol officers swarmed them, the police chopper landed.

"Watch it, she's been wounded," Shane said as sheriff's deputies cuffed Alexa and dragged her to her feet. They ignored his instructions and pushed her roughly toward the squad cars. Shane was cuffed and pulled to his feet, then found himself looking at the jacked-and-flacked Sheriff Conklyn. "Glad to see you, man," Shane said.

"What the fuck? What chopper? She said there was a chopper shooting at you. ..."

"There was," Shane said, nodding to the spot in the river where the Bell Jet Ranger had gone down. "But you're gonna need to come back with divers, a crane, and some body bags if you wanna see it."

Shane watched as Chooch and Longboard were roughly cuffed, then put into squad cars. "They're victims. You don't need to throw them around like that. They were kidnapped," he complained, but Conklyn didn't seem to care.

"You're really some kinda jerkoff, Scully. This is a quiet town. Every time you come up here, I gotta throw a fucking cherry festival." Conklyn pushed Shane toward the squad car. "I can hardly wait to hear this one."

"Right," Shane said softly. "But you better send out for pizza, 'cause it's a long and complicated story."

Chapter
49

POLICE MISCONDUCT is defined under Section 805 of the LAPD Manual and falls into one of four categories:

1. Commission of a criminal offense

4. Conduct that may tend to reflect unfavorably upon the employee or the department.

After their arrest, Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Longboard Kelly were taken to the Arrowhead substation. Alexa's bullet wound was stitched up and bandaged by EMTs in Sheriff Conklyn's office. Then she was returned to a holding cell.

A pissed-off Bud Halley arrived at two A
. M
. and reluctantl
y d
id Shane's DFAR. They were in one of two windowless FI rooms.

After he heard it all, Halley leaned back in the wooden chair and glowered. "Shit, Scully, I'm supposed to believe that the mayor of L
. A
., the Super Chief of our department, and one of the largest developers in the state of California, along with a dozen or more sworn or terminated LAPD personnel, are involved in murder, blackmail, kidnapping, fraud, and a buncha other criminal misconduct," Halley said, looking at Shane through tired eyes. He didn't want any part of it. This was the ultimate red ball.

Shane had asked for Captain Halley for three reasons: One, with Tom Mayweather sure to get indicted, he was Shane's most recent CO. Two, the captain was well respected in the department, and Shane needed a trusted "rabbi" as his advocate. And three, he knew that Halley was deeply religious, with a highly developed sense of morals and ethics. Underneath all the police bullshit, he was a stand-up guy. If Halley could be made to believe Shane's story, he would come aboard, regardless of the consequences.

Shane had started his DFAR talking about the kidnapping of Chooch and Longboard, finally convincing Halley that they had been hit over the head, tied up, videotaped, and abducted from his Third Street apartment. They had then been taken to Logan Hunter's mansion in Arrowhead and held there for two days by current and former LAPD officers.

Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Longboard all volunteered to take lie-detector tests, and after Halley agreed, Conklyn rolled a big, new Star Mark polygraph machine into the FI room. One by one they were given the test, and one by one they passed.