Painted Black by Greg Kihn Page A

the contents of the briefcase.
    Silverman quickly explained it contained sensitive film for an American TV show that would be exposed if the briefcase were opened. Miraculously, the cops believed him. There was enough LSD in the briefcase to send him to prison for a long time, but apparently not today.
    The phone rang and Keith picked it up. It was Brian and Anita saying that they were about to leave Courtfield Road to come to Redlands. They’d been shopping, and it had taken extra time to leave the house, but now Brian was anxious to get rolling.
    â€œDon’t bother,” Keith deadpanned. “The cops are here. We’ve just been busted.”

Chapter Six
    Yesterday’s Papers
    Brian ran around his townhouse like a maniac, throwing things into two suitcases open on the bed. Anita had caught a full dose of Brian’s paranoia and was frantically doing the same.
    â€œHurry!” he shouted. “They could bust in any second!”
    Bobby tried to calm him.
    â€œBe cool. Nothing’s going to happen.”
    Clovis had turned on the TV in Brian’s bedroom and was watching BBC News. The Redlands bust was the lead story, the biggest story of the year so far. The video of Mick and Keith being led away in handcuffs, surrounded by cops, was disconcerting. Every tabloid, including News of the World , screamed the headlines, fanning the flames.
    â€œThat’s what they want to do to me!”
    Brian pointed at the screen.
    â€œAs soon as they get their hands on me, I’m finished!”
    The picture shifted to the Chichester, West Sussex, police station where a large crowd had gathered. The reporter breathlessly read the copy, accentuating the well-known rock star names. Clovis watched with intense interest.
    â€œSkully and Silverman. I’ll bet they had something to do with this. There was something not right about those guys,” Clovis said.
    Bobby sat down next to Clovis to watch the TV screen. A press conference had just begun. A gaggle of cops and dignitaries were gathered in front of a bank of microphones. Reporters didn’t wait for instruction. They began to shout questions over the din. These weren’t the civilized Fleet Street reporters who worked for the well-known news sources; these were sleazy tabloid reporters who tried to spin the news to make everything seem more salacious. They were the bottom-feeders. Their questions were rude, pointed, and dripping with sarcasm. They seemed to have professional disdain for the Rolling Stones and took great comfort in their troubles. It was the very definition of schadenfreude. The bad karma seemed to swirl around the Stones endlessly.
    Clovis pointed at the screen and shouted, “Wait a second! I know that guy!”
    â€œWhat guy?” Bobby asked.
    Clovis pointed at a man in the background wearing a black suit with a gray fedora pulled low over his eyes. He was nervously smoking a cigarette.
    â€œThat guy,” Clovis said, pointing.
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œHe’s a Baltimore narc I used to know on The Block. His name is Bruce Spangler. He was the biggest, baddest narc in town and eventually rose to be the top man in drug enforcement in Baltimore. Everybody knew him. He was a deal maker. He used to come in and watch the late show when I played at the Two O’Clock Club. He liked one of the strippers there. He busted me once for smoking a joint. What an asshole.”
    Bobby scratched his head.
    â€œWhy would a Baltimore narcotics cop be in West Sussex?”
    Clovis continued. “He eventually got promoted and went to work for the feds. Remember, Washington is right down the street from Baltimore, and he had a lot of friends. The Baltimore City Police Narcotics Enforcement Division was one of the most corrupt in the country when he was there, so he fit right in with Washington.”
    â€œAre you sure that’s him?”
    Clovis squinted at the screen.
    â€œYep. See the way he holds his