Lie Catchers_A Pagan & Randall Inquisition

by Paul Bishop

  Pagan and I had left Castano and Dodd working point on the two current cases while Nelson and Hawkins were digging into the missing child – Connor – and hit and run from fifteen years earlier. The foursome were good detectives and would find what there was to find and handle anything that came up.

  Pagan believed we were best suited to staying with our mandate as interrogators, and Smack Daddy was squarely in our sights. Pagan had been anxious to hustle out of the office, but I remembered, Pagan had agreed to meet Smack Daddy at two o’clock at Smack Records. There was plenty of time to get there, but Pagan was surging with urgency.

  “Predictable human behavior, Randall,” Pagan said. “Think about it. He didn’t want to talk to the cops at his residence, and he won’t want to talk to us at his office. If we get there at two, he’ll be long gone.”

  “What makes you think he’s going to cooperate even if we do catch up with him?”

  “What is the most important thing in Smack Daddy’s world?” Pagan asked.

  “Smack Daddy,” I answered immediately.

  “So, if we make talking to us a priority to keep his reputation intact…”

  I nodded. “He’ll talk as long as he believes it’s in his best interest…”

  Pagan smiled. “And I’m very good at making people believe talking to me is in their best interest.”

  “Even when it isn’t?” I couldn’t resist the jibe.

  “Especially when it isn’t,” Pagan said.

  I actually felt as if I was vibrating internally. Pagan had insisted on doing a lot of research before we left PAB. I’d never known anyone prepare for an interrogation like he did. Most cops barely take the time to read a crime report before they’ve formed an opinion based on prior experience, stereotypes, and personal prejudices and jump right in to asking questions.

  Pagan, on the other hand, took what he called a tactical response to interview and interrogation, which he equated to being no different than responding to a hot radio call.

  By the time Pagan had finished pushing Chris Lancaster for information coaxed from his computer and administrative resources, we had more information on Smack Daddy and Smack Records than I figured we would ever need. However, when you were working with Pagan, you never knew what was going to end up being relevant.

  Two years earlier Smack Daddy and Smack Records had been barely hanging on. The IRS was coming down on both Smack Daddy and the business. There had been a series of bad financial decisions, verging on the disastrous. There were liens against the house in Hollywood and the building from which Smack Records operated.

  Then Smack Records discovered Changeling. More specifically, Smack Records beat every other hip-hop and rap label to get Changeling signed after he went viral via YouTube videos.

  Against the promise of future success, Smack Daddy was able to get more financial backing – cash infusions to keep his company afloat while getting Changeling set to move from video cult favorite to overnight mainstream star. Smack Daddy was apparently playing it cagey, releasing streaming remixes of the viral YouTube tracks, which hit the urban and hip-hop Billboard charts with a flood of digital downloads.

  Other than his real name, Benny White, info about Changeling was very sketchy. He hadn’t made any public appearances, nor were there any interviews to be found online. There appeared to be a blanket of secrecy surrounding him orchestrated by Smack Daddy who, like all the snake oil salesmen before him, promised great things to be delivered. Smack Daddy was an expert huckster and Changeling was another product he had to sell.

  With the lack of information on Changeling, Pagan went so far as to make me sit down with him to watch a number of Changeling’s viral videos.

  The ethnically blended Changeling was slight of build with a full head of wild, black dreads – a Rasta version of Michael Jackson. His looks were ethereal, matching the way his body swayed and moved to his music. His phrasing and riffs were catchy, but the music and lyrics were edgy, filled with longing and suppressed pain.

  The videos were stripped down, amateur affairs. The backdrop appeared to be a marble wall, the lighting harsh. A fixed camera focused directly on Changeling’s face and guitar covered torso. As each song started, Changeling could be seen adjusting a drum machine and a playback keyboard, which filled in the background behind his guitar playing with a strange eerie echo.

  However, even with the basic, one man production values, it was clear Changeling had whatever it was stars have – the special something making it impossible to take your eyes off him. His rhythm was hypnotic, his dusky features as hard as diamonds, his surprisingly blue eyes accentuated by deep pink scars across his cheekbones. His straggly dreads swished around his face with his movements, his voice a plaintive wail.

  I felt old listening to his music. I felt no connection to it or to the generation who revered it. It was urban, but I wasn’t sophisticated enough to say more.

  Watching the YouTube video, Pagan said one word to himself in a half whisper. “Fairies.”

  I looked at the video playing on the computer monitor. Even though Changeling was slight and odd, he did not give off any kind of homosexual vibe. I also knew Pagan wasn’t the type to use racial or sexist slurs.

  Before I could ask what he meant, he was up and moving.

  “Keys, Randall,” he demanded. I grabbed them from the desk where I’d placed them and tossed them to him.

  As I clomped after him with my cane, I realized I hadn’t taken a pain pill since the night before…Surprisingly, I didn’t feel the need for one.

  In the Escalade, Pagan asked me to call the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station. “Ask them to send a patrol unit to meet us at Sunset and San Vincente.”

  “Parking lot of the Whiskey?” I asked, knowing the area.

  “Perfect.”

  I made the call without asking questions, but once things were rolling, I had to ask, “What are you up to?”

  “We need to get rid of Smack Daddy’s muscle. Richards and Tuttle will be carrying guns they don’t have permits for,” Pagan said. “It goes with the territory. We’ll need some backup from the Sheriffs, since it’s their area, to get them off the street.”

  More tactical research on the RHD computers had identified Smack Daddy’s two bodyguards as little more than thugs. Both Bobby Richards and Elmo Tuttle had records for various levels of strong-arm violence, but surprisingly, nothing dope related. Both were actually real cousins related to Smack Daddy, as opposed to the play cousins so often claimed in the hood.

  Bobby had graduated high school and did two years in the Army. Elmo had a GED earned before his dishonorable discharge from the Marines. Both had claimed at various times to be Special Forces, but it was a lie designed for intimidation not for scrutiny.

  Conveniently they both had outstanding warrants – Richards for Assault with a Deadly Weapon and Tuttle for felony battery. Both charges were the scourge of the bodyguard trade – almost a rite of passage. However, I could see Pagan making use of the warrants to take Richards and Tuttle out of play. He was also thinking ahead, knowing they would probably be illegally armed, which would make their current legal troubles much more serious.

  I frowned now, sensing a calamity in the making.

  It was shortly after noon-thirty when we cruised past the Smack Records’ building. It was nothing to look at on the outside – all whitewashed stucco and reflective windows. There was a small adjacent parking lot with a security guard in a wooden shack. He gave our tinted windows a hard stare as we drove past. Perhaps Pagan’s high end Escalade was too low rent to be considered for a space on the lot.

  “Can you get me the number for Triton Security?” Pagan asked me.

  “Sure,” I said, pulling it up via the Internet on my smartphone. Pagan had me punch it in to the Escalade’s phone system.

  When the phone was answered, Pagan gave his name and asked for Bradford Zale.

  “Ray! How are you?” Bradford Zale asked when he came on the line.


  “Good, Brad.”

  “Business or personal?”

  “Business. I need a favor.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Is Triton still running all the guard contracts in West Hollywood?”

  “Eighty percent.”

  “You have a guy working the parking lot for Smack Records?”

  “Yes.”

  “Armed?”

  “No. Is there a problem?”

  “Not for you. I just need your guy to take a long toilet break.”

  “How long?”

  “No more than an hour.”

  “That’s still a heck of a bowel movement. Any backsplash on Triton?

  “None. Everyone should be too busy to notice the rent-a-cop isn’t on post.”

  “I’ll make the call. By the way, I never did get to thank you for sending that security contract with Heller Industries our way.”

  “You just did,” Pagan said, then disconnected.

  I shook my head. “You are amazingly connected.”

  Pagan smiled. “This job is not only about what you can find out. It’s also about what you already know, who you know, and bringing it all together.”

  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.

  “Show time,” I said and disconnected.

  Across the street in the parking lot, Richards and Tuttle had moved over next to the black Navigator. Richards took a long drag on the spliff and handed it over to his compatriot. Tuttle was taking his own drag when Smack Daddy himself walked out of the building.

  He strutted up to Tuttle and slapped the spliff out of the bodyguard’s mouth. We could see Smack Daddy yelling, but not what he was saying. He lived up to his name by smacking Richards upside the head to even things up.

  With both large men cringing away from their employer, the Sheriff’s unit chose that moment to roll into the parking lot. They had their light bar whirling, but no siren as requested.

  So far so good, but I could feel calamity in my bones.

  The squad car screeched to a halt and its two crew cut, muscular, uniformed deputies exited out, staying behind their doors on either side, with weapons drawn and pointed. I realized Creed had a .9mm, but his partner, Dixon, was pointing an X26 taser, which looked like something Robocop should be carrying.

  Panic hit Smack Daddy and he turned to run, but found himself immediately blocked by the bulk of his Navigator.

  “Hands in the air! Hands in the air!” Deputy Creed, the squad car driver yelled in a deep voice filled with command presence.

  Both Richards and Tuttle were educated enough to recognize the difference between the LASO and the LAPD. They knew LAPD officers could be counted on to hesitate before using deadly force, or any force for that matter. Organizationally, the LAPD was drilled to the nth degree about use of force, and any application – no matter how small – had to be justified in triplicate. If a suspect actually sustained an abrasion or a scratch as the result of his own stupidity, the paperwork was endless. The Los Angeles Times, the Police Commission, the ACLU, and a whole flock of lawyers couldn’t wait to jump on that bandwagon.

  For reasons the LAPD could never figure out, the LASO had never suffered any such restrictions or scrutiny. LASO officers, who started their career working the county jail system, learned the hard way that you hit, kick, or fire first – and damn the paperwork.

  Hands high in the air, Richards and Tuttle actually turned around of their own accord, dropped to their knees, and then went down on their stomachs, arms outstretched, legs spread. Like I said, educated – magna cum laude gangsters.

  Smack Daddy apparently had skipped a few lectures. He turned toward the deputies, gesticulating wildly, spewing F-bombs and do you know who I ams.

  I could see it about to happen. The calamity was unfolding before my eyes. I knew I didn’t have a chance to stop it, but I slid out of the Escalade anyway. However, before I was able to cane my way across the street, Smack Daddy was convulsing with 5,000 taser delivered volts – think of the effect as putting one foot in a toilet and one finger in an accessible light socket.

  Smack Daddy was on the asphalt, hair smoking. His bladder had emptied down the front of his Gorgio Armani’s.

  As I reached Deputy Dixon on the passenger side of the LASO car, he was getting ready to pull the trigger on his taser again because he could. It would send another 5,000 volt shock down the wires attached to Smack Daddy by the darts shot into him.

  “Enough,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.

  He looked at me like a toddler told it was time to leave the playground.

  “You’re no fun,” he said.

  I saw the mischievous grin flash in his eyes a split second before it reached his lips. I whipped my cane up into his groin hard enough to make his eyes water before the intent in his grin – born out of LASO/LAPD’s love/hate relationship – could travel down his arm and twitch his finger on the trigger of the taser again.

  Deputy Dixon doubled over from my blow, his head bowed toward me. I grabbed the taser from him with my right hand, then used the flat of my cane under my left palm to push on the crown of his head, moving him backward into a sitting posi
tion in his car.

  “I said enough.” I was feeling pissed. I looked over the roof of the squad car at Deputy Creed. “Get the two goons cuffed,” I ordered him. “I’ll cover.”

  I ejected the spent dart canister from the taser onto the ground then tossed the taser itself onto the roof of the squad car. I stepped away from the car. I slid my cane under my arm, drew my 9mm Beretta and then, using two hands, pointed it toward Smack Daddy’s bodyguards.

  “Put your hands behind your heads then don’t move,” I ordered them. From their proned-out position on the ground, both men did as requested without any fuss.

  Smack Daddy was still groaning on the asphalt. The charge from a taser incapacitates the body’s neuromuscular system like static on a telephone line. But even after the shock is turned off, it takes a while for the body to get back in sync.

  Deputy Creed didn’t like me giving him orders. After all, we were in his jurisdiction, and he wasn’t quite sure what I had done to his partner. However, he holstered his gun and moved forward.

  He crouched, dropping one knee into the small of Richards’ back. Then, quickly and expertly, moved Richards’ hands, one at a time, from the back of his head and cuffed them in the center of his back. Next, he grasped Richards by the left arm, turning him in order to search the suspect’s left side.

  Moving to the right side, Creed went through the same maneuver. This time he stopped at Richards’ waistband. “Gun,” he said, pulling clear a pearl handled .45. Richards must have confused himself with General Patton.

  With Richards secured and searched, I maneuvered so Creed would not be in the line of fire as he moved to go through the same process with Tuttle. This time Creed located a .357 revolver in a holster under Tuttle’s arm. He also found a baggie of cocaine. This was getting better and better.

  A somewhat sheepish Deputy Dixon was on his feet now, helping Creed get Richards and Tuttle up and secured in the back of the squad car. I holstered my gun and looked around for Pagan.

  He was crouched down by Smack Daddy. He was slipping his own smartphone into his inside jacket pocket. He’d either been recording or taking pictures. I watched as he helped a still disoriented Smack Daddy into a sitting positon, all the while talking to him in tones too low to hear.