Rock & Roll Homicide (14 page)

We managed to pick up the vibe that started last night, until it was time for
California Confidential
. Kyle said, “Last time we watched that stupid show we played like shit afterwards. Can’t we just DVR it and watch it on Sunday?”

What Kyle said made sense, until I reminded myself that the gig was secondary to solving the case. “I can’t ignore something that could have a direct bearing on my case. You guys can keep playing if you like.”

Michael replied, “And miss the circus. Are you kidding? I want popcorn, beer and a front row seat.”

We adjourned to the living room and caught the headlines, where they gave a tease for a follow-up to the Terry Tucker murder story. Aunt Esther served slices of homemade pizza while we suffered through three stories of no interest to any of us. The update was looking equally uninformative as they showed a clip of Shamansky saying ‘no comment.’

“
Finally
,
this just in
.
Police
apprehended Mikhail Dracovich outside the home
of Jason Duffy
,
the Private Investigator
who discovered the link between the Russian
Mafia and Cerise Records
.
Dracovich was
spotted by a neighbor climbing a tree
across from Duffy’s home while carrying
a high
-
powered sniper’s rifle
.
Jason could
not be reached for comment
,
but we
heard from one of California Confidential’s
snoops
,
Heather Gaines of Gaines Accounting
,
which is located next door to Duffy
Investigations
. “
Jason told me he was
following an important new lead in the
case and would be out of town for
a couple of days
.”

“
California Confidential field reporter
Jennifer Wilde here
.
Did he say what
that new lead might be
?”

“
He told me the new development
could change everything
,”
Heather said
.

“
Did he say when the case
might be broken
?”
Jennifer asked
.

“
No
.
But I’m guessing it
will be long before tax season
.
And
by the way
,
Jennifer
,
if any California
Confidential viewer tells me they saw
me on your show
,
I’ll pay their
electronic income tax filing fee when
I prepare their tax return
.”

When the camera returned to Jennifer Wilde she was frantically waiving her hand in front of her throat, giving the “cut” sign.

“
Thanks Heather
,
it’s so kind
of you to think of our viewers
while your neighbor is in so much
peril
.”

I couldn’t wait for the 10 O’clock News. I called Shamansky at his office and reached a coworker. “Call back on Monday, he isn’t here.”

“This is Jason Duffy. I think he’ll want to talk with me tonight,” I said.

“You got that right. Hold on and I’ll patch you through,” he said.

“Duffy, I heard Forest Lawn Cemetery is having a going out of existence sale. You might want to give them a call,” Shamansky said.

“You’re a riot Shamansky. Were you in on the bust?” I asked.

“No, but I did get a sit down with the gunman about a half-hour ago. I think you need to send a thank you card to the Neighborhood Watch Program,” he said.

“I’m in no mood for a comedy routine. Were you able to find out if the sniper was from Cerise or the real Russian Mafia,” I asked.

“What do you mean, ’the real Mafia?’ Are you telling me you don’t think they’re mobbed-up anymore?” he asked.

“I met with an American silent partner this afternoon. He strikes me as credible and he’s sure Koflanovich lives his life in fear of the Russian mob. He said Koflanovich came after me because he was convinced I was with the American Mafia and I was helping the Russians. Apparently, he knows better now,” I said.

“Well, you have the real Russian Mafia coming after you now,” he said.

I decided it might not be the best time to tell him about my gig at the Dali Lama. “Does Dracovich have a sheet?”

“It looks like he’s been an enforcer for the mob for at least five years. In that time he’s had six arrests but no convictions. Eight eye witnesses recanted their stories and two turned up missing - permanently,” he said.

“So what am I supposed to do to keep out of harm’s way?” I asked.

“From what I understand it’s already been taken care of,” he replied and paused to catch my response.

“What do you mean? What’s taken care of?” I asked.

“Rumor has it that the Russian Mafia met the Irish Mafia about two hours after Dracovich got pulled out of your neighbor’s tree,” he said.

“My father?” I asked incredulous.

Shamansky replied, “As I understand it, about twenty sworn and retired personnel made a show of force at a known Russian Mafia bar. It was communicated in no uncertain terms that you are the son of an SDPD cop, and if any harm comes to you that every known or suspected Russian Mafioso will be hounded until they are all either in jail or deported, that is, if they survive the arrest. In the meantime, they’ll be the most highly publicized group of criminals in the history of California.”

“Do you think it will work?” I asked.

“The reason they came after you in the first place, according to Dracovich, is because they felt you were responsible for the publicity. They thrive in the shadows. With the Smiling Sons of St. Patrick threatening to turn into a proctology squad, the Ruskies are sure to back off. You’re not worth it to them. You should keep your head down for a few days until word gets out that the contract has been pulled, but I’m sure the show of force will do the trick,” he said.

“What’s a proctology squad?” I asked.

Shamansky replied, “That’s a group of cops that will get so far up your ass you won’t need a rectal exam for the rest of your life.”

“Thanks, Shamansky. I’ll keep in touch,” I said and hung up.

When I returned to the living room everyone was in a very somber mood. I gave them the highlights of my conversation with Shamansky. When I got to the part about the Smiling Son’s of St. Patrick, Kelly beamed. When I finished she jumped to her feet, threw her arms around me and exclaimed, “Everything’s going to be alright!”

The band quietly mulled the events of the last half-hour, but Kelly got it immediately. “Do you guys think we should still do the gig?” Derek asked.

“It’s up to you,” I said.

“I want to play,” Michael stated without question.

“My life has been way too safe lately,” Kyle said.

Jeannine asked, “Do you think there’s a chance the men with the ski masks could show up at the club?"

     Kelly couldn’t keep still anymore. “You can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by. You’re getting a chance to do something you love at your favorite place to play in front of a group of people who probably loved you and miss you. Forget Doberman’s Stub, I can’t wait to hear you guys in front of a live audience. If it’s anything like what I heard last night, Doberman’s Stub won’t want to follow you. What do you think Jeannine?”

“Kelly’s right. It would be a shame if you cancelled,” she said.

“Derek?” I asked.

“Isn’t the drummer supposed to be the wild and crazy one? I can’t be responsible for ruining that reputation by doing something sensible and sane,” he said. “I’m in.”

“OK, we’re all agreed,” Michael said. “Now let’s go practice for a couple of hours so we can live up to our fans expectations.”

Over the next three hours we finalized our play list and sets. About two hours into the session, Jeannine walked into our practice room wearing a surprisingly low cut nightgown she had borrowed from Aunt Esther. I’m not sure if she was trying to replicate the momentum Kelly generated last night when she inspired us with her baby dolls, but it had a very different effect on the boys. For starters, Jeannine had been fidgety since the
California Confidential
bombshell was dropped. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder can get magnified when you mix in a large dose of anxiety. Tonight Jeannine became obsessed with the nightgown’s tight fitting elastic sash that ran under the bust line. Unconscious of the attention she was getting from the band, Jeannine adjusted and readjusted her breasts above the elastic sash at least twenty times.

Michael managed to continue to play without missing a beat, though he had a smile frozen across his face. Kyle and Derek kept playing too fast and too loud. The session was getting counterproductive. Just as I was about to pull the plug and call it a night, Jeannine’s left breast managed to escape the confines of the flimsy bodice. Derek hit one of his cymbals so hard the stand fell over and the side of the symbol landed squarely on Kyle’s toe. “Aaaaayyyyyeeee,” he screamed.

I said, “I think we’re as ready as we can possibly be in one week. I don’t want us to peak too early, so let’s call it a night.”

“I peaked,” said Kyle. “Did you peak, Derek?”

He replied, “I peaked, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to get up from behind my drums yet.”

While the boys were carrying on, Jeannine quietly turned to Kelly and said, “That was a close one. My boob popped out right after the symbol fell on Kyle’s toe. If they weren’t so distracted I think they would have seen me.”

“You might want to change into what you wore last night. Esther’s nightgown is pretty but it looks a little uncomfortable,” Kelly said.

“Good idea,” she said.

Chapter 15

The first thing Kelly asked me when I woke up was, “Did you call your parents and tell them you’re alright?”

“No ‘good morning’? No ‘did you have a nice sleep?” I asked.

“I’ll bet your mother didn’t have a nice sleep. Here’s your cell phone. Why don’t you give her a call now,” she stated.

“You’re right. Can I use the bathroom and get a glass of orange juice first?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “Do it now before they go out for the morning.”

I tried. Twelve rings later I hung up. “They must have already gone out. What time is it anyway?”

“It’s just after nine. Why didn’t you leave a voice-mail message?” she asked.

“Because I have the only parents in America who don’t have voice-mail or an answering machine,” I replied.

“I guess we know what they’ll be getting for Christmas,” she said.

“I already tried. It went back to the store the next day,” I said.

“I’m going back downstairs to see if Esther needs help with breakfast,” she said and disappeared.

Luckily I stored Glenda MacPhearson’s home number in my cell phone. “Glenda, it’s Jason. Top ‘o the mornin’ to ya.”

“Don’t go givin’ me none of that Irish bullshit. It’s Saturday morning and if you’re calling, you want something,” she said.

“You didn’t hear about my brush with death yesterday?” I asked.

“What happened? Did some cheating husband try to stuff your Nikon where the sun don’t shine?” she asked with a laugh.

“You mean you haven’t watched
California Confidential
the last two nights?” I asked.

“Why? Were you abducted by aliens?” she asked.

“You know what I’m working on. Thursday’s show notified the world that I’m after the Russian Mafia, and Friday they showed a Russian hit man being pulled out of a tree across the street from my house,” I said.

“No shit!” she exclaimed. “What do the Russians have to do with Joseph Martin?” she asked.

“I’m in Alpine and about to head into the city. I was hoping I could stop by your place on the way in to find out what you’ve learned. Would that be OK?” I asked.

“You’re not being followed, are you?” she asked.

“Actually, I’m being followed by my girlfriend. Is it alright if I bring her along?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “But we’re going to be talking about stuff I can’t be quoted on. I’d hate to see this come back on me.”

“I understand. You can just nod at her if you want me to ask her to wait in the car. I’m sure she’ll be OK with that,” I said.

“I need to get out of here by 11:30,” she said.

“We’ll be on our way in a few minutes,” I said and hung up. When we arrived at her house in Julian, I introduced her to Kelly and she called her fiancée, Tyrone, in from the backyard where he was mowing the lawn. She introduced us and told him he could go back out and finish the lawn, then take a quick shower because they were leaving by 11:30.

“Are you still playing at the Dali Lama tonight?” she asked.

“Provided I’m not sleeping with the fishes,” I replied.

“Good. Then Kelly can catch me up on all this tabloid TV stuff while you’re on the stage. Let’s get down to the information you wanted, I really am on a tight schedule,” Glenda said.

“Fine with me. I told Kelly that some of this stuff is very sensitive. If you’d like her to go into another room, or the car, or rake the lawn for Tyrone, I’m sure she’d be fine with that,” I said and got elbowed in the ribs.

“There’s an eleven o’clock news show about to come on. Maybe Kelly can check it out and make sure your office hasn’t been firebombed,” she said.

“I’ll be glad to,” Kelly said. Glenda brought her into the living room, turned on the TV and asked if she wanted coffee, which she didn’t.

When Glenda returned to the kitchen she was carrying a file folder with a piece of paper taped over the file name. “The deceased, Captain Carson, had friends in high places calling for Martin’s head after the explosion. No matter how you look at it, he definitely could have prevented this guy’s death.”

     “Is there more than one source?” I asked.

“I’m not going to tell you where I got this information, but I will tell you I drew this from four separate sources. One reads like a vendetta written by the dead officer’s buddy. But the others sound objective and correct,” she said.

“From what you read, Glenda, what do you think happened in Iraq?” I asked.

“Martin and Carson didn’t get along at all. Martin thought Carson was cowardly and would delegate anything remotely dangerous to his subordinates, including freshly trained recruits. On the morning of the incident, Sergeant Martin told his coworkers that Carson was required to sign off on a new recruit’s first assignment disarming ordnance. He was quoted by two sources as telling them the recruit would probably forget about a grounding wire and that when Carson made the same mistake and tried moving it, be sure to stand clear.”

“Did they suspect that Martin tampered with the ordnance?” I asked.

“The captain’s friend suggested that, but there was no evidence to back it up,” she said. “When Carson arrived for the inspection he told Martin to do it for him and, in front of the whole squad, Martin asked if he was incompetent or just plain chicken shit. They argued for a few minutes, then Carson went off to do the inspection while Martin got everybody out of harms way. Two minutes later the ordnance detonated and Carson was killed instantly.”

“What was the finding of the inquiry board?” I asked.

“They found that Martin couldn’t be held directly accountable for Carson’s death, but that it was definitely a preventable loss and that Martin was no longer welcome in the command. They sent him to the US to work with the Corps of Engineers while they were deciding what to do with him. Then they gave him an honorable discharge,” Glenda said.

“But he orchestrated and coordinated everything that led to Carson’s death. He didn’t just idly step back and watch, he pushed the guy into a situation that got him killed,” I said angrily.

“The brass felt that no matter what Martin did, Carson ultimately died of his own incompetence. He shouldn’t have passed the buck so often that he lost his skills. The general feeling was that the Army got rid of two bad seeds and good riddance,” she said.

     “Can I use any of this to make a case for Martin’s character and capabilities?” I asked.

“Not through me you can’t,” she said pointedly. “If it got out that I gave you this information, not only wouldn’t I make captain, I wouldn’t make honorable discharge.”

“What do you think I can do with it?” I asked.

“If you have a cop friend, see if you can get him to get a court order,” she replied. “A friendly judge might grant it, based on the fact that he was an ordnance tech.”

“Thanks Glenda. Are you two going to make it tonight?” I asked as we walked to the living room.

“I think so,” she said to me. Then to Kelly she asked, “Any breaking news to report?”

“Just a huge lawn and garden sale at Home Depot,” she said.

“Tyrone! Are you ready?” Glenda yelled up the stairs. Then to us she said, “That’s where we’re going. We’re taking a landscaping class at noon, then burning the plastic to take advantage of the sale afterwards.”

“Thanks Glenda, we’ll see you tonight,” I said as we made our way out the door.

At Kelly’s request we pointed the Acura towards my parent’s house. “We can stop by to say I’m OK, then hit Little Italy for lunch so I can carb up for tonight,” I said.

“Just make sure you don’t carb out over your belt,” she said. We continued to listen exclusively to the Doberman’s Stub demo CD. She kept the conversation to a minimum so I could absorb as much as possible before tonight’s performance.

When we arrived at my parent’s house, my mother met us as we walked through the door, threw her arms around me and exclaimed, “Thank God you’re alright! Why didn’t you call? I’ve been worried sick!”

“I did call, but there was no answer. If you two had kept the answering machine I gave you…” I said.

“Don’t start,” she said, then jogged toward the backyard and yelled, “Jim, Jim, Jason’s here with Kelly.”

A minute later Dad walked into the living room and said, “That’s quite a fix you’ve gotten yourself into, son.”

I replied, “I’m sure you had a few bad guys come after you in your day.”

“A few bad guys, yes. A whole crime wave, no,” he said.

“I heard you threatened to pit the Russian Mafia against the Irish Mafia,” I said with a smile.

“None of my friends like that name. Who told you that?” he asked.

“Your old buddy Shamansky gave me the highlights. Thanks Dad. It sounds like you made quite an impression,” I said.

“You aren’t out of the woods yet. In fact, you shouldn’t even be out and about for a few days,” he said.

“We’ve been up in Alpine the last couple of nights,” I said.

“Good. Continue to lay low,” he said.

Kelly chimed in, “Does that mean we shouldn’t go to Little Italy for lunch?”

“You’ll have lunch with us,” Mom ordered. “I’ll get it started right now.”

“Can I help?” Kelly asked.

“Come with me dear,” Mom replied and took her by the hand. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through,” she added as they walked into the kitchen.

“That’s quite a catch you got there son,” Dad said as he smiled and nodded his approval of Kelly.

“If you knew where to find the local Russian Mafia Don the SDPD must have somebody monitoring their activities,” I stated.

“We do, and I’m damned glad I never got stuck with that assignment,” he said. “It’s like working Chinatown. They keep pretty much to their own community and that community keeps Omerta better than the Italians. Nobody talks. No snitches, no outraged citizens, no jilted lovers looking to get even. The victims are too scared to serve as witnesses, and as a result, charges never stick. We keep an eye on them, but it’s strictly minimal monitoring.”

“Do you think your visit had the desired effect?” I asked.

“The last thing they want is to have their way of life disrupted. They put a contract out on you because you picked up the rock they live under. But once they came to understand that killing you would be a lot more trouble than it’s worth, they backed off,” he said.

“Then why did you tell me to continue to lay low?” I asked.

“It’s an old ways, new ways issue. The young guys all carry cell phones and are hooked up to the Internet. Ten minutes after the contract was lifted those guys knew about it. On the other hand, you have the old school guys who get the word on the contract and immediately go underground to put their plans into action. You might have a gunman staking out your house, or office, or Kelly’s place, who will stay in his car from one day to the next. Give one of these guys a gallon of vodka, a box of beef jerky and a pee jug and he might be good for a week,” Dad said.

Kelly walked into the living room and announced, “Lunch is on the kitchen table. Come and get it.” Dad looked at Kelly then back at me and gave me a big smile and a thumbs-up gesture. It’s hard to believe this guy once worked undercover.

Lunch was fun and light. Kelly had the good sense not to mention the gig tonight, and Mom had the good sense not to mention my childhood. Dad seemed to be making a conscious effort to be on his best behavior. When we finished, Kelly volunteered to help Mom with the dishes. Dad said he had something for me and led me back into the living room. He told me to have a seat on the couch, then went into a closet and came out with what appeared to be a picture album that he handed to me.

Just as I thought we were about to go down memory lane, I opened the floral-covered binder and saw four mug shots complete with name and last known address. “I threw it together this morning. These are suspected Russian Mafioso’s living in San Diego County who are forty years and older. I suggest you let Kelly drive, and you study these faces. Are you planning on going by your place?” he asked.

“Yeah. I need to get some clothes and a few other things,” I said.

“Then swap cars with me and put on a pair of sun glasses. When you get to your house, drive by at least four times before you park. Look for people sitting in cars, enclosed vans, vehicles with tinted windows and vehicles with puddles under them,” he said.

“Why the puddles?” I asked.

“It’s hot outside. Somebody on a stakeout will run the air conditioner every half-hour or so. When they shut it down, it will make a puddle,” he said.

We swapped keys and I agreed to return for lunch on Wednesday to swap back. Dad said, “Kelly, do you think you’d feel comfortable driving a Buick Rivera?”

“Sure,” she replied, ”What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Jason just needs to do a little homework on the bad guys now that he’s back in the city,” Dad said.

“Is there anything you need to show me about driving it?” Kelly asked.

“As a matter of fact, why don’t you come with me?” Kelly and Dad went to the garage while I said goodbye to Mom. A half-hour later I had Kelly do a thorough drive-through of my block before parking. I live in a three-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood, perched on a hill jutting out over a canyon. There is only one road in and out of this little development comprised of eight square blocks. At the entrance is a convenience store that is heavily patronized by SDPD. We got into my house without incident. The only puddle I noticed was at the base of the carrotwood tree in front of my house, and undoubtedly created by my neighbor’s schnauzer, Sigfried.

I had the gut feeling that everything was OK as I opened the front door. But, since Dad put the fear of God into Kelly, I thought it would be best to put on a TV detective demonstration for her benefit. “Stay here,” I said as I drew my gun. While using a two-handed grip, I executed a series of spin moves, deep knee bends and rolls that I must admit, I had practiced a few dozen times during my first year as a PI. In my practice scenarios I always imagined that my attractive female client would be very sexually aroused after seeing me in action. “All clear,” I called to Kelly.

As she walked into the living room she looked me square in the eye and asked, “Who’s your choreographer, Mike Hammer?”