by Paul Bishop
Pagan stood up in one fluid movement, holding my hands and bringing me up with him. He took the proffered report and scanned it. I could feel a change of focus and determination coming over him.
“Give Arlo the keys to your apartment,” he said. “It’s game time.”
Chapter 10
Interview: Getting information from somebody they want to give you.
Interrogation: Getting information from somebody they don’t want to give you.
As we stepped out onto the Hacienda’s boardwalk, I had just asked, “Who is Arlo,” when I sensed Pagan change his weight. Instinctively I knew what he was going to do.
Time appeared to slow down and I was somehow aware of everything…an Asian man wearing a well-worn judo gi sitting on a bench behind us…the soft lounge music coming from the hidden speakers…the crunch of the parking lot gravel as a green Range Rover drove slowly past – and Pagan slightly shifting his weight.
I firmly planted my good leg and transferred my weight off the cane in my left hand. When Pagan shot his toe forward to clip the tip of my cane, I used the momentum and a twist of my wrist to flip the cane up, its ferrule coming to rest in the taught skin under his chin.
Pagan, moving faster than I thought possible, had both his hands wrapped around the cane, his arms frozen like iron bars. I couldn’t have stabbed the cane any further upward even if I’d wanted to do so…and on some level I did.
“What the hell, Ray,” I snapped.
“I told you she was a fast study,” Pagan said, obviously not to me.
The Asian man had moved off the bench and was suddenly feeling my left thigh. I looked down appalled and tried to pull away, but Pagan was still holding my cane and I was too off-balance to let go of it myself.
“Ray!”
“This is Tanaka Sunzu. He is my sensei…my teacher…”
I remembered seeing the sign for the Sunzu dojo at one end of the Hacienda main building. I also realize one sleeve of Tanaka’s gi was empty and secured to his side.
“Too skinny,” Tanaka said releasing my thigh at the same time Pagan released my cane. I stepped back flustered.
“Need to eat lots of protein. Be at dojo tomorrow morning, five o’clock. We teach you how to use cane. How to get balance back. First, eat.” Tanaka smiled, his eyes crinkling so tight they almost closed. He radiated happiness. I couldn’t not like him despite feeling like I’d been the victim of a masher.
“Come on, Randall,” Pagan said, taking my arm and steering me away before I could reply. “Don’t let the old reprobate charm you. This time tomorrow you’ll hate him. Trust me, he’s a sadist at heart.”
Pagan hit the electronic locks on his black Escalade. He released my arm and I half stumbled around to the passenger door.
Pagan opened the rear hatch of the Escalade, reaching into one of the many custom compartments in the rear. When he closed the hatch and slid into the driver’s seat, he set two protein bars, a package of nuts, and a surprisingly cold chocolate protein drink in my lap.
“Eat,” Pagan said. “Always do what Tanaka says or he’ll find a way to make you suffer.”
Life had become a whirlwind, twisting through everything in its path. My head was spinning. So many questions, I didn’t know where to start anymore.
“Eat,” Pagan said again, starting the SUV.
Because I didn’t know what else to do, I stripped out a granola energy bar and popped the tab on the protein drink. Pagan looked over and seemed satisfied to see my mouth chewing.
My brain had locked up. I could only focus on the physical act of eating. Bite…Chew…Swallow…Sip…Bite…Chew…Swallow…Sip…
Everything Pagan had said in the pub raced through my thoughts in static bursts. A synesthetes…There was a name for what I was…That meant there were others like me…Pagan had said my synesthetes was rare…But still – others like me…Bite…Chew…Swallow…Sip…Bite…Chew…
Pagan an empath…Everything that happened in the interrogation room with Michael Horner…Pagan manipulating the three drive-by shooting suspects…Getting a suspect to cry on cue in the courtroom…
Bite…Chew…Swallow…Sip…
I know he was allowing me time to process, but Pagan was remaining annoyingly silent. He smoothly drove the Escalade away from The Hacienda, accelerating onto the nearby freeway onramp heading toward L.A.
I didn’t even know where we were going or what we were doing.
I had to start somewhere. Through a mouthful of protein bar, I asked, “Why don’t you wear your gun or your badge?”
Pagan chuckled. “Everything that’s happened since yesterday and you want to know why I don’t wear a gun and badge?”
I swallowed. “We’re cops. It’s part of the territory. I have a right to know why my partner is the only cop in the city not wearing his gun on duty.”
Pagan slid his left hand into what I assumed was the molded pocket on the interior of the driver’s door and pulled out a holstered, stainless steel, Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. He showed it to me and then slid it back. “I also have a two-inch Chief Special in an ankle holster. Not sure where my badge is.”
“How much good is a wheel gun going to do in the door of your car?”
“More good than it’s going to do in an interrogation room.” Pagan sighed. “Guns, badges…they’re barriers between you and the truth. Do you really need the nine millimeter on your hip and the badge on your belt to assert your authority? Do you rely on them for their intimidation factor?”
“No. I rely on them to save my ass when everything hits the fan. When my calamity factor kicks in, I need to know you’ve got my back.”
“Do you really think I don’t have your back?” Pagan asked.
“Before yesterday, you were nothing more than a rumor I’d heard whispered about in the department’s back corridors.”
“That isn’t what I asked you. Do you think I don’t have your back?” Pagan changed into the slow lane then pulled over onto the freeway shoulder and braked the SUV to a hard stop. He turned to look at me, his eyes intense. His presence seemed to fill the car. Not threatening, but searching.
I realized he really wanted an answer to his question. I could feel his empathy probing me, a mental experience verging on the physical. My jumbled thoughts about everything that had happened and been revealed in the past twenty-four hours again raced through my mind snapping into place like pieces of a jigsaw.
I purposely popped the last piece of the protein bar in my mouth and chewed. I drained the last of the chocolate drink and set the can on the floorboard. I blew out a breath, looking out the windshield. There was no going back to yesterday before I’d met with the chief, but I knew in my heart I didn’t want to even if I could.
“I trust you.” As I said the words, I heard the truth in them.
Pagan smiled, then turned his head to check traffic and get us moving again.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Hollywood Division,” Pagan said. He still hewed to the old habit of referring to LAPD geographic areas as divisions. “RHD has been called in on a child kidnapping, which occurred last night.”
“Who is Arlo and how come you found this out through him?”
“We may be assigned to RHD,” Pagan said, “but it doesn’t mean they are going to like us playing in their sandbox. As you know, every detective assigned to RHD is there because they are very good at what they do. It’s why RHD gets called in to take over major cases from divisional detectives. They are not going to give up jurisdiction easily. Thus we have to make sure we have a way of being kept in the loop.”
“Arlo?”
“Arlo and the wolves. A lot of what we do at The Hacienda is on the barter system. Arlo is a tech guy who wants to be the next great American novelist. He gets a cubical in Writers’ Haven in return for vetting all the daily crime reports from all the divisions.”
“Which I assume he gets from one of your wolves in each of the bureaus.”
“Nice to have friends,” Pagan agreed. “Arlo’s computer is also hooked into all of the department’s computer systems and subscribed to all the public information sources available.”
“Isn’t giving Arlo access to the department’s computer systems illegal?”
“He’s acting as our surrogate. The chief isn’t going to sweat the fine line as long as we get results.”
“What he doesn’t know?”
“Exactly.”
“What about what I don’t know?”
“All you have to do is ask.”
“Is this like the red pill or blue pill choice in the Matrix?
“There is no choice where you and I are concerned. We’re always going to choose to know.”
I nodded and tore the wrapper off the second protein bar.
Chapter 11
“No man lies so boldly as the
man who is indignant.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil
Pagan steered the Escalade off the Hollywood Freeway at Cahuenga Boulevard before beginning a series of twists and turns, taking us higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills. Sweeping views of Runyon Canyon Park spread out below us as we drove past curvy streets boasting slick, mid-century modern homes worth well beyond the yearly combined salaries of any eighty cops working out of Hollywood Area.
These were the homes of the Hollywood elite, new money with a capital M mixing with old money with a capital Old. Blockbuster movie producers, tech-millionaires, the inherited money of La-La Land royalty, and foreign oil moguls – all being bought out at obscenely high profits by shadowy figures hiding drug cartel and human trafficking profits.
Near the apex of the hills, Solar Drive had been in the news recently. The residents of the cul-de-sac were in a pitched battle with the city council, seeking approval for the installation of gates to close the community off from the great unwashed who used the area’s public access points to popular hiking trails.
Among the dozen or so houses, all with stylish, tiled and turreted rooflines, was the anomaly at the heart of the controversy – an abandoned, Mediterranean-style manse situated at the end of the street. Overrun by squatters and partiers, the house had attracted every bad element in the city, turning the once quiet neighborhood into one of the city’s most popular spots to park and party.
Big money squawks awfully loud in Los Angeles, and the small community had become a thorn in the side of LAPD’s Hollywood Area – a quality of life issue in department speak. The angry fight between the haves and the want to haves had the department caught in the middle while not so civil suits and countersuits crawled through the courts at a glacial pace.
When Pagan pulled the Escalade through the open security gates into the curved driveway of the mansion next door to the center of the hullabaloo, I knew life was about to get even more complicated.
There were two plain detective sedans and a black and white already parked ahead of us. Pagan had shared with me the printout of Hollywood Area’s Daily Crime report, which Arlo had given him. Topping the page filled with run-of-the-mill burglaries, robberies, and sex crimes was a paragraph stating a six year-old girl had been kidnapped from her room on Solar Drive. It ended with a notation stating RHD was taking over the investigation.
While we were driving, Pagan had me send texts to both the chief and to RHD’s Captain North to say we were on the way. Now, I looked over at Pagan before we exited the Escalade. My stomach was feeling queasy as adrenaline mixed with the protein bars.
“How do you want to play this?” I asked.
“You’re an experienced detective,” Pagan replied. “Be yourself, follow your instincts, look at everything, and listen instead of waiting to speak.” Then, he was out of the SUV.
As he strode up the cobblestoned driveway toward the open front door of the house, he pulled a lightweight black leather jacket over his black mock-turtleneck and black jeans. I was pretty sure he didn’t have any problem getting dressed in the dark.
A uniformed officer I didn’t recognize was at the door. Pagan approached him with his hand outstretched. The officer smiled widely as he took it to shake.
“Officer Burns, how are you?” Pagan asked.
“Fine, sir,” the officer replied.
“How’s that new baby?” Pagan asked, still holding the officer’s hand. “I saw the photos your wife posted on Facebook.”
Holy crap! Pagan was on Facebook …
“He’s great,” said the proud daddy.
“So, who’s inside?” Pagan asked. He’d let go of the officer’s hand and had lowered his voice.
“Castano, Dodd, and two other detectives I don’t know. My partner, Clark, is also there.”
Pagan patted the officer on the arm and we moved past.
“Facebook?” I whispered.
“Arlo also keeps up with my social networking. Sends me a daily brief. Far more valuable than the crime summary reports.”
“Is Burns one of your wolves?”
“Not everyone on the department is a wolf, but you need to cultivate everyone you can. Cultivating from the top down is difficult because everybody is looking for an edge or a favor. Cultivating worker bees is infinitely more rewarding and valuable.”
As we entered the house, we heard a voice raised in indignation and anger coming from the room ahead of us.
“This all be crazy…Craziness! Smack Daddy don’t be having time to sit here and answer questions. I got lawyers to answer questions. You do your freaking job and find my daughter.”
A large black man in his fifties charged into the house’s front vestibule. He was wearing an obviously expensive purple tracksuit, which was too tight around his ample middle, and enough gold chains around his neck to support the economy of a small country. His dreadlocks would have looked better on a man half his age.
I recognized him immediately, Theodore Smack Daddy Davis. His loud, brash presence as the face of the mega-successful hip-hop Smack Records label made a nuisance of itself daily in popular culture. He’d parlayed his early success as a rapper into a Grammy laden record producing career. As the now multi-millionaire founder of Smack Records, he’d embraced the attitude of the thug life with the lifestyles of the rich and tasteless. Two bouncer-sized men followed him into the hallway.
Pagan must have recognized him, too. “Smack Daddy Davis,” he said.
“That’s right. You another cop looking for an autograph?”
“Already have Bob Marley’s from back in the day,” Pagan said. “Don’t need nobody else.”
Smack Daddy, gave a throaty chuckle. “Old school, white boy. Old school.”
“Real old school,” Pagan said. “Back to One Cup of Coffee and the material Marley’s Wailers worked with Lee Scratch Perry.”
“Now you talkin’ gospel,” Smack Daddy said, his facial expression glowing.
Pagan was amazing, his brain working on a whole different level to everyone else. He’d instantaneously taken everything in – Smack Daddy’s hair, his age, his known music connections – and produced an opening gambit, which changed the man’s attitude in a heartbeat.
“This has got to be very difficult for you,” Pagan said. “But you also have responsibilities to other people who are relying on you. How about you go take care of your business and I’ll get everyone here taking care of the business of finding your daughter? I’ll come to your office later today and give you a progress report.”
I was struggling to keep my mouth shut. Pagan was acting as if he was one of Smack Daddy’s toadies. If I didn’t suspect better, I would have thought he was star struck or something? It had happened to LAPD detectives before – most famously immediately after the murder of Nicole Simpson, when two RHD detectives had O.J. in an interrogation room with a civil lawyer who’d let Simpson waive his rights. The emotions of the crime were fresh. There was no Dream Team. No, if the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit theatrics. Two of RHD’s best against a Los Angeles icon who had been involved in ev
ery LAPD golf tournament and hosted numerous LAPD charity events.
It shouldn’t have even been a contest. But the detectives were star struck and lost their focus. After fifteen minutes, they let Simpson walk out of the interrogation room without ever once asking him if he’d done the deed. Instead of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am slam dunk, the case went on to shake the LAPD to its foundations.
And now, Pagan was letting the best witness in the kidnapping of a child walk out without being asked any questions.
I started forward to interject myself, but suddenly felt Pagan push his palm discretely backward onto my hip. It brought me up short, realizing Pagan was simply in full manipulation mode.
I realized it, but Detective Dante Castano, who had entered the vestibule tailing behind the bodyguards, didn’t. “Mr. Davis, please,” Castano said, sounding like an aggrieved suitor, “We need your help to find your daughter.”
Smack Daddy looked at Pagan. “We done here?”
“Two o’clock, your office,” Pagan said, stepping back to let Smack Daddy and his muscle entourage pass and go out the front door.
“Now, wait a minute, Pagan.” Castano had gone red in the face.
Pagan held up his hand. “Give it a rest, Dante.”
Looking like a volcano about to burst, Castano tried unsuccessfully to swallow his anger. “Damn it, Pagan. You can’t walk in and screw with my witnesses.”
“Do you want to find the missing child or not?” Pagan asked.
“Of course, I do.”
“Then how much cooperation do you think you’re going to get by butting heads with a witness who is in a full narcissistic meltdown?”
“What do you mean?”
“Smack Daddy is a person who has to think he’s in charge. Somebody has taken his daughter, taken away his control. He doesn’t know what to do when demanding his daughter back doesn’t work. He only knows how to assert his authority. It’s how he got all this,” Pagan waved his hand to encompass the totality of the garishly decorated house. “When you come in here acting all in charge, he sees you as somebody else pissing in his pool. He’s going to fight you every step of the way as his insecurities force him to assert his authority.”