Rock & Roll Homicide (10 page)

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s been pretty slow around here today. How ‘bout a lap dance?” she asked.

I grabbed my back and said, “I would, but it would give me a bad case of the girlfriend guilts. But I am willing to make a significant contribution to your G-string fund.” I then pulled a $20 out of my wallet and wrapped it around the side of her waistband. She gave me a big smile and bounced off toward the bar. I was left to try and figure out how to get reimbursed on my expense report without doing a lot of explaining to Chelsea.

At 3:30 PM I pulled into the parking lot of Bernie’s club and tried knocking on the door. It wasn’t open yet, but I was hoping to catch Bernie before the happy hour crowd rolled in. When knocking and pounding didn’t get a result, I called him from my cell phone. When he answered I said, “Bernie, its Jason. Some maniac is pounding on your door.”

“I thought it was just another yuppie with a daiquiri jones,” he replied. “What can I do for you today, Jason?”

“It’s more like something I can do to pay you back for your many good deeds. Let me in and I’ll explain,” I said.

Five minutes later I was in Bernie’s office. He offered me a drink, but I declined. “This is going to sound pretty wild, but I think it would be terrific publicity for the club,” I said excitedly.

“Spit it out,” he replied. “I can see you’re dying to tell me.”

“Nigel Choate asked if I knew of a San Diego club where Doberman’s Stub could perform its new CD to a live audience. Of course I immediately thought of taking care of my old buddy, Bernie,” I said.

“If we announced that Doberman’s Stub was going to play here the place would be so packed that the Fire Marshals would shut us down. If we turned them away at the door the fans would block the streets and probably riot because they couldn’t get in,” Bernie said as he stroked his chin.

“Nigel knows these things. That’s why he asked that we bill it as a reunion show for Tsunami Rush. He figures it would draw just enough people to get a good audience reaction, but not so many that it would cause the problems you mentioned,” I said.

“Would they play the whole night?” he asked.

“No. Just a twelve song set. He wants us to give the crowd what they came to see for the other sets,” I replied.

Bernie asked, “Have they found a replacement for Terry already?”

“Not yet. Nigel asked me to do background investigations on prospective candidates once they start the search process. He also asked me to fill in for Terry,” I said.

“Wow! Talk about a rock & roll fantasy come true! That could be one hot night for you. I didn’t think you and the boys were still playing together anymore,” he noted.

“Derek has an aunt with a big piece of property out in Alpine. Once every month or two we get together on a Sunday afternoon and jam. We could manage the other sets,” I said. “My big worry is learning twelve new songs in time.”

     “When does he want to do this?” Bernie asked.

“Saturday night,” I replied. “I know it’s short notice, but they’re all frazzled by the murder and are looking to wrap the CD as soon as possible. They did club tests on their first two CD’s and feel it’s important to stay with the winning formula.”

“Oye! You know I’ve already got a band booked for Saturday night. How can I just cancel them on this short a notice?” he asked.

“Tell them you’ll make it up to them by giving them three more bookings and putting in a good word for them with other club owners,” I suggested.

“Those guys are really hungry. I’m sure we can work it out. What was your idea on how I could maximize publicity if I’m not supposed to tell anybody Doberman’s Stub will be playing?” he asked.

“I suggest you get in touch with one of the Sunday Union-Trib music reviewers and tell him you’ll give him an exclusive if he’ll come out on Saturday night, no questions asked. Let him know you’re billing it as a local band, but that a major group will be debuting new material,” I said. “Now I have a question for you.”

“What’s that?” Bernie asked.

“How am I going to learn 12 new songs in the next few days?” I asked.

Bernie mulled my question for a minute then raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Get me a sharp copy of the sheet music. I’ll scan it into a computer program and run it through the karaoke monitor suspended from the ceiling above the stage. Get one of your old band mates to follow along on a floor monitor and hit page down when you reach the bottom of the screen,” he said.

“Bernie, you’re the bomb!” I exclaimed.

I would have hung out with Bernie and worked out the details, but I needed to get back to the office by 6:00 PM to take Jeannine home. As I walked into my business at 5:55 PM I heard Jeannine scream, “Stop!”

I raced into the reception area to find Delbert sitting on Cory and pinning his arms to the carpet.

“What the hell is going on!” I shouted.

Delbert replied, “He was cursing at Jeannine and he won’t apologize.”

“Delbert, get off of Cory right now,” I said authoritatively as I grabbed Delbert by the upper left arm and lifted. Delbert outweighed Cory by at least 130 pounds. “I don’t want to see anything like this ever again.”

     “He’s still not sorry,” Delbert said as he struggled to his feet.

I said to Delbert,” Cory is a client at the Mental Health Center, just like you and Jeannine. He has Tourette’s Syndrome. That’s what makes him curse. He can’t control it.” As I took a closer look at Cory, I saw twenty to thirty large black flecks on his face. I picked a pointy one out of his eyebrow that was about the size of a fingernail. “Are these Oreo cookies?” I asked Delbert.

“Uh, huh,” Delbert replied sheepishly as he nodded his head.

Holding the pointy cookie bit in Delbert’s face I said, “You could put somebody’s eye out with this.”

Delbert looked at Cory and said, “Sorry.”

I sent Delbert home for the day and brought Cory into my office. “Are you up for a tail job?” I asked.

Cory smiled and nodded. “I want you to follow Ian Davis, Doberman’s drummer, starting tonight. He’ll probably go to the bars. Don’t follow him inside, but I want pictures of who he goes in with, who he comes out with, license plate of the vehicles he travels in and a log of the time, date and location of all of this movements. Can you handle it?” I asked.

His profanity-laced reply told me he was enthusiastically in favor of the idea. I confided in him that I didn’t like having Delbert around, but that Jeannine insisted and it was a short-term arrangement.

Though the casual observer would never know it by his words, Cory expressed thanks that I shared this information. “Now, go get cleaned up, then head over to The Tillerman’s in Mission Beach. That’s where Ian usually starts his carousing,” I said.

By the time we returned to the reception area Delbert had departed and Jeannine was on her hands and knees inspecting the carpet nap for stray bits of Oreo cookie that may have been missed by the vacuum cleaner. Cory grabbed his camera and headed for the door without making eye contact with Jeannine.

“Did Nigel Choate drop something off for me today?” I asked.

She replied, “He had a very pretty young woman drop it off. She seemed disappointed that you were out.” Jeannine retrieved a large manila envelope from her desk drawer and handed it to me.

As I walked her home we talked about Delbert and his temporary status. She was OK with the idea that his tenure with Duffy Investigations would end with the conclusion of the case.

I spent the remainder of the evening listening to the demo CD while playing along with my guitar. I also called my ex-band mates and got an enthusiastic agreement to do the weekend gig. After explaining my time crunch they agreed to practice without me a couple of times before Saturday.

Chapter 11

Glenda MacPhearson is a buddy of mine from UCSD. We took Cognitive Psychology, Critical Thinking and a horrible Statistics class together. She helped me with Stats and I helped her with Psych. She was and still is on active duty status with one of the few Army installations in Southern California.

I gave her a call from my office first thing Tuesday morning and asked for a favor. I explained what I was looking for and she agreed to access the service record of Joseph (a.k.a. GI Jo-Jo) Martin. Glenda located his service jacket in LA. “It shouldn’t take more than a day or two,” she said.

At 10:30 AM I arrived at the San Diego County Russian Language Newspaper in the city of Vista. Uri Armanov is the proprietor, editor, publisher and chief writer of this biweekly publication. Uri’s wife, Ursula, is in charge of circulation and advertising sales. Five years ago Uri paid to have his nephew, Alexi, relocate from Moscow to work as the paper’s delivery truck driver. Everything worked out great for the first six months until a meth-head on a three day binge changed lanes on the 805 freeway without looking, and pushed Alexi into the cement median at 70 miles per hour. Physically, he suffered a few cuts and bruises, but mentally, he was a mess. Alexi couldn’t bring himself to get back behind the wheel. After six weeks of therapy, using a technique called Systematic Desensitization, I had him driving again. Uri was effusive in his praise and told me several times to call on him if I ever needed his help.

“Jason, what a pleasant surprise seeing you again,” Uri said.

“It’s good to see you too, Uri. How is Alexi doing?” I asked.

“Wonderful. He’s like a son to me,” he said. “You said on the phone that you needed my help. What can I do for you, my friend?” he asked.

“I have two favors to ask. First, I brought along several newspaper articles written in Russian, and a hand-held recorder. If you could translate the articles into the recorder, then mail them to me in this packing box, it could be a big help to the case I’m working on,” I said.

Uri agreed. “You said there were two favors. What’s the other one?” he asked.

“I need some information,” I replied. “It looks like one of my suspects may be affiliated with the Russian Mafia. Can you tell me if they have a presence here in San Diego?”

“The Russian Mafia is everywhere,” he said while glancing from side to side. “If they are involved you need to stop working on your case. Much too dangerous.”

“What are they up to in Southern California?” I asked.

“They try to suck the life out of the Russian community, just like in Russia. Here they are mainly involved in drugs, prostitution and gambling. Their victims are usually fellow Russians,” he said.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because Russians understand how ruthless they are and won’t talk about them to the police for fear of their lives and the lives of their families,” he responded.

“If they generally leave Americans alone, why should I worry about them?” I asked.

   Uri replied, “Since they know they don’t scare Americans, the Mafia believes their only alternative is to kill them when there is a problem.”

“Who are the leaders here in town?” I asked.

“Jason, if you start asking questions about any of the local leaders you will be involved for life. Probably a very short life,” he said. “I won’t give you any names today, because that would be like giving you a death sentence. If you come up with a name I will confirm or deny his involvement, if I know.”

“Are you familiar with the Chofsky family from Tecate?” I asked.

“Of course. The Chofsky family has been in California since before the Russian Revolution. Their company, Yuliya, has hired many a Russian immigrant. The Russian community thinks highly of them,” he said.

“The articles I gave you are about Ivan Chofsky, who lived in the Ukraine until last year. His daughter was kidnapped by the Russian Mafia. I’m trying to find out if he cut a deal with them to get her back,” I said.

“Why do you want to know about Ivan?” he asked.

“He now lives in San Diego and owns a business. My client’s husband worked for him and was murdered. The widow thinks Chofsky’s people were involved,” I said.

Uri said, “I will be very disappointed if the Chofsky’s are doing business with the Russian Mafia. They have made significant contributions to organizations that help Russian immigrants. I have referred some good people to Yuliya for employment. But, if they are now working with the Russian Mafia, I need to know. I would never refer anyone to a Mafia-run company.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out,” I said. “In the meantime, if you could get that translation to me as soon as possible you’ll be helping me to find the truth,” I said.

“It will be done today,” he said and we shook hands.

As I was driving back from Vista my cell phone rang. “Jason Duffy,” I said.

“It’s Jeannine,” she said sobbing into the phone. “Cory’s hurt!”

“Don’t tell me Delbert’s on top of him again,” I said.

“He’s at University Hospital. It happened last night. A social worker called. I’m getting scared,” she cried as her voice quivered.

“Have Delbert stay with you in the office. No patrols or smoke breaks till I get back,” I said.

“OK. Are you going to the hospital now?” she asked.

“I’m on my way,” I said.

After spending the night in the Emergency Room, Cory was taken to a Med/Surg floor to be monitored. When I reached the floor I asked to speak with his doctor.

Cory was in a four-bed room and had two roommates. He was sleeping, or unconscious, or in a coma; I couldn’t tell. That thought haunted me over the next 45 minutes as I waited for the doctor to arrive. His face was badly bruised and his elbow was tucked into his body at an odd angle. At one point I tried calling his name softly to see if I could rouse him from his sleep, but one of his roommates told me he has been out since he was brought in three hours earlier.

Finally, his doctor arrived and told me that he suffered a concussion and three broken ribs. He also said Cory was up all night and will probably sleep for six to ten more hours. The hospital would keep him around for observation for another day or two.

After the doctor left the room I sat in Cory’s visitor’s chair and considered the possibility of asking Shamansky for a guard. But, I concluded that if whoever did this to him wanted to kill him, they would have finished the job last night. First Jeannine, now Cory; this case was getting very high risk.

When I returned to the office Shamansky called. “What’s shakin’ Kojak?” I asked.

“Don’t give me that buddy, buddy stuff. You were supposed to call me yesterday to tell me what you found out in Tecate,” he snarled.

“Sorry about that. I’ve been buried lately. I found out that the Yuliya gang definitely robbed my office. Unfortunately, none of the evidence I came up with would be considered admissible,” I said.

“Don’t tell me you crossed the line to get it,” he said.

“I’m trying not to. I found scanned copies of the stolen photos along with several other computer files that tell me the Yuliya family was following Terry, and has been following me. They had pictures of me, my girlfriend, and even my parents,” I said with an agitation in my voice.

Shamansky replied, “I can see how that could piss you off, but I’m still leaning toward your boss.”

“What! You can’t be serious. We know they’re a bunch of thugs that will do whatever it takes to protect their interests. They were stalking the victim right up to his death, and it took place on their turf. What more do you want?” I asked.

“I agree. These guys are definitely willing to break the law to get what they want. But I can’t get past the fact that Terry was the brains, creative force, lead singer and business leader of the band. I’ve talked with an industry expert who says the consensus is that the band will fold without him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that a car won’t run without an engine,” he said.

“Any new developments on Chelsea?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I found out Terry went to Chelsea’s dad, Peter Spivey, of Spivey Construction, and talked him into getting some of his real estate investors together to explore the possibility of starting an independent record label to promote the new CD. Peter spent about twenty grand of his own money in legal fees to figure out a way to make it happen. Peter and Terry made a joint presentation to a group of potential financial backers, and got into a huge argument. Terry told Peter and his investment partners to get fucked and walked out on them. When Peter tried collecting the twenty grand Terry told him it was the cost of being an asshole. Chelsea tried to intervene on behalf of her father during dinner at a local restaurant, and Terry made a scene and walked out. As he was headed for the door several witnesses heard Chelsea say, ‘You know what they do to a Doberman that bites the hand that feeds him.’ Personally, I consider that a death threat. I’ll find out if the DA concurs later this week,” he said.

“It was a domestic squabble. These things get said everyday. If you started indicting every wife who told her husband ‘he’d get his,’ if he kept being such an asshole, you’d have half of the female population in front of the grand jury,” I said.

“To threaten is one thing, but when the husband turns up dead the next week, and the widow inherits five mil, you’ve got a very legit suspect. Throw in that she bought him the headphones, and her dad keeps blasting caps, and you have the makings of a solid case,” he said.

“My associate, Cory Pafford, got assaulted last night while he was on a stakeout. He’s in the hospital,” I said.

“Jesus, those guys have it in for you. I can get a case number assigned and send somebody to the hospital to take his statement. But, at this point I’m going to treat them like two separate cases,” he said. “I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, I’ll talk to you soon,” he said and hung up.

While I was on the phone with Shamansky, Chelsea Tucker called and left a message asking me to drive over to her house as soon as possible. Jeannine agreed to lock up and have Delbert walk her home.

      Chelsea lives in a beautiful, two-story tutor house with a view of the Pacific in Cardiff-by-the-Sea. For the second time in a week, I was disappointed to ring the doorbell of a mansion and have the expected butler conspicuously absent. Chelsea was dressed in designer casual and was holding a martini. “Can I get you a drink?” she offered as she ushered me into a sitting room.

“No thanks, I still have lots of work to do,” I replied.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you out here on such short notice,” she said and I nodded. “Last time we talked you told me to contact you if I remembered anything that Terry said in his last few weeks that was out of the ordinary. This afternoon I had lunch with my father, then came home and took a little nap. About fifteen minutes after I fell asleep I woke up abruptly with a vivid memory that felt very significant.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“About a month before Terry died, he got up early, took a shower and left for the day. I went into the bathroom shortly after he left and he had scrawled some lyrics on the steamed bathroom mirror. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I realize the words weren’t related to any of his songs,” she said.

“What did it say on the mirror, Chelsea?” I asked.

“It said:

Back in the days when I was 9,

A friend was a friend,

Now I need mine.”

She said, “I have no idea what he meant, but I have a strong feeling that it had something to do with what was going on in his life at the time. As I start putting things into perspective, it’s clear that Terry was under a lot of pressure and not acting like himself.”

“In what ways?” I asked.

“He was always a workaholic. So, at first it was hard to recognize his actions as being related to stress. But, now that I’ve been analyzing that last month, it’s clear that he was more argumentative with me and my family. He was very demanding with the band, but toward the end, his relationship with each of the members began to deteriorate. I chalked it all up to the contract situation, but now it seems like it was more than that,” she said.

“How much did the other band members know about the contract negotiations?” I inquired.

She replied, “I’m sure Terry told them as little as possible. Those guys are musicians, not businessmen. They were glad to have Terry keeping an eye on the bottom line.”

“As I understand it, Terry did a lot more than keep an eye on the bottom line. I met Kirby Kaufmann and Elden Dumanis. The word
puppets
comes to mind,” I said.

“You’re right. Terry hired those guys because he knew he could control them,” Chelsea said.

“Who do you think Terry was talking about in the song lyric? Has he maintained a relationship with anyone from elementary school?” I asked.

“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure that out. He never talked about high school or elementary school,” she replied.

I then brought her up to speed with what I had learned about Cerise Records and Yuliya, Inc. I also explained why she was still the prime suspect in the case.

“Terry always knew how to push my buttons. I should never have yelled at him in that restaurant. But he embarrassed my father and was showing a callous disregard for my feelings,” she said. “Now that I hear what kind of monsters he was negotiating with, I understand why he wasn’t acting like himself. My dad was pissed, but he also remarked about how uncharacteristic it was for Terry to behave like he did in front of his business associates.”

On the way home I swung by University Hospital to see if Cory was awake. When I arrived, his bed was empty. “Do you know what happened to the guy who was in this bed,” I asked one of his roommates.

“Sure do,” said a toothless man in his mid-eighties.

“Well?” I asked.

“He was mad as a hornet. Woke up cussing a blue streak and never stopped until he got his clothes back and checked himself out,” he said.

“Didn’t the nurses try to stop him?” I asked.