Lie Catchers_A Pagan & Randall Inquisition by Paul Bishop

Author:Paul Bishop [Bishop, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781641192637
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2018-07-16T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 19

“Fiction is a lie. Good fiction is the

truth inside the lie.”

- Stephen King

Pagan found curb parking on the opposite side of the street facing back toward Sunset Boulevard. Parking was always an exercise in paranoia for cops. You never wanted to get pinned in, yet you wanted to be close enough to get to your vehicle in a hurry if needed.

I slid the portable rover out of the main radio unit under the dash. I keyed the microphone and told the RTO to show us code six – out for investigation – and gave our location. If I didn’t clear or check back within an hour, somebody would start looking for us.

We’d already met and briefed the two LASO officers. They were happy to be on board as we were handing them two felony arrests on a platter, and maybe more if Pagan was right and Smack Daddy’s bodyguards were illegally armed.

From where we were parked, we could see the Smack Records parking lot. We could also see the guard shack was now empty. Clearly, it was good to know the right people to call.

The pimped out black Lincoln Navigator belonging to Smack Daddy was parked close to a rear door into the building. Its golden spinner rims sparkled in the sun, and you knew the sound system’s bass would shake your molars. It had illegally dark tinted windows and the de rigueur personalize plate, which in this case read SMACK 1. In Smack Daddy’s world, it was important to let everybody know who you are.

The Smack Records building was anonymous by necessity. With recording artists coming in an out with their entourages, the anonymity of the building actually spoke volumes about its importance. You had to be cool enough to know it was there and what it was.

By contrast, Pagan had his own kind of cool. His Escalade had been customized on the inside only. From the outside it was a basic black with stock rims and tires, complete with the standard California license plate you could never remember. Aside from the slightly darker than normal tint on the windows it could belong to any local soccer mom late to pick her gaggle of kids up from school.

Like his Escalade, Pagan just was – he didn’t appear to have a need to proclaim himself to anyone. He had the ability to rivet your eye or blend into the background as his needs required. Working with him was an exercise in simply keeping up.

Pagan checked the Escalade’s dash clock.

1:15 pm.

“Anytime now,” Pagan said.

As the words left his mouth, the rear door to Smack Records opened and Bobby Richards stepped out followed by Elmo Tuttle. Richards was smoking what looked like a home rolled spliff. Talk about your probable cause, although the outstanding felony warrants were more than enough.

I hit the speed dial on my phone. Deputy Creed, one of the LASO officers with whom we’d met, picked up immediately. The phone was faster than trying to get hold of them over the two department’s incompatible radio systems.

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