Dying For LA by Ian Jones (top fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

But I ain’t taking your shoes or your watch OK? I got to put you in here but it don’t mean I agree with it.’

‘How long am I gonna be stuck in here?’

‘I’m positive it won’t be long. It sounds like they just want to clear a few things up. It’s a really big deal, it would be in any city, something like that happening. The public and the press needs to be handled right, you know, there will be a lot of panic.’

John shook his head, saying nothing. The sergeant moved outside the cell and closed the door, then looked in through the bars.

‘Look it gets a bit chilly down here, I’ll dig out another blanket and find you a pillow. I’ll get you a bottle of water too, but if you need anything there’s a buzzer on the wall right there.’

‘Maybe a couple of painkillers if you can find some.’

‘Sure. Anything else, just buzz I’ll be right down.’

John looked up at the red button and then back at the sergeant, who coughed awkwardly and walked away.

John went over to the tiny sink and ran the tap, and washed the worst of the blood from his face, using his watch glass as a mirror. There was a lot of blood on his polo shirt. His head hurt, what he really wanted was to get back to the hotel and lie down, but he guessed that was going to take some time yet.

The sergeant was back in a few minutes with the blanket and a pillow, a couple of ibuprofens and two bottles of water. John took them and made himself comfortable on the bunk, leaning back against the wall and drawing his knees up. Hopefully Truman wouldn’t keep him hanging around too long.

In the end it was over an hour when the sergeant came sheepishly back. John looked at his watch, just after 1am, it felt like it should be a lot later. He stood up and waited for the door to open. The sergeant stepped back and allowed John through and then ushered him along between the two lines of cells, which didn’t seem to have acquired any more residents.

‘Quiet tonight right?’ John commented.

‘Thank Christ,’ the sergeant replied. ‘We got enough to do now we got terrorists on the loose. I gotta thank you personally for taking some of them out the game. Serious shit.’

They reached the top of the steps and then walked across the front of the desk to a set of doors on the opposite side of the room. It looked like there were a couple of newcomers in the drunk tank. The sergeant entered a code and then pushed the door open and they were in a corridor with numbered doors on either side. Everything was quiet and clean. He stopped outside number three and rapped on the door and then pushed it open. John walked through into a small square interview room with a large pane of mirrored glass on the far wall. There was a camera set up high and recording equipment in a corner. Truman and the older man who had arrived at the Metro station with him were sitting down at the table in the centre. Truman gestured for John to sit down and he did so. Silently the sergeant left the room and closed the door behind him.

John looked at the two men opposite. Truman was fussily fidgeting around his seat, the older man reached out a hand.

‘Mr Smith, my name is Chief Brady. We need to discuss the events of tonight with you, anything you can tell us will be a great help.’

John nodded his head and shook the man’s hand. He glanced at Truman who was still squirming around irritatingly. Truman scowled and spoke accusingly.

‘And no more bullshit OK? No more; I’ve heard enough. Stick to the truth,’ he growled glaring at John.

John was confused, bullshit? He hadn’t actually said anything yet. He wanted to make the point but decided to stay patient.

‘Fine, where do you want me to start?’

‘At the beginning, and I have to tell you we are recording this conversation is this OK with you?’ Brady asked, producing a thick well-used notepad and pen.

‘No problem.’

So John relayed everything from his arrival at the Metro station, missing nothing out, speaking clearly and carefully. He even included picking up the woman’s dropped phone. Brady made occasional notes, while Truman sat fidgeting, staring across the table and shaking his head. When he finished John sat back and looked steadily at the two men. He wondered who was watching on the other side of the mirror, if anyone was.

Truman was obviously desperate to speak but was restrained by Brady who was scanning through what he had written, which wasn’t a great deal. He raised his head.

‘So, Mr Smith …’

‘John.’

‘OK. John. So, John, just tell me what you are doing in LA, why were you in the Downtown area?’

‘I’m over here doing some work for a client. I’ve been successful, so he took me out for dinner. I was just going back to my hotel.’

‘Downtown?’ growled Truman. ‘Nothing there. There’s more interesting places to be in this city.’

John glanced at him then back to Brady.

‘Like I just said, my client invited me to dinner. His choice.’

‘Right. And where are you staying?’ Brady asked.

‘Montage.’

Truman whistled. Brady raised his eyebrows.

‘Expensive tastes. So what is it that you do, exactly?’

‘I resolve problems.’

Brady looked unimpressed.

‘Very vague explanation Mr Smith if you don’t mind me saying so.’

John shrugged.

‘You asked and that’s what I do. Nothing else to say.’

‘Well, that’s a matter for further discussion. You said you are over here for business so who are you working for?’

John did work for many people, plenty of whom would prefer to stay under the radar, particularly when it came to police involvement. Fortunately in this case, there were no such problems.

‘It’s a guy called Simon Butler. You won’t know him. He’s British, but he spends quite a bit of time here. He is a property developer,