Stephen Cannell - The Tin Collector

For the first time since this all started, he actually knew what the hell was going on.

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 smiled. "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.