Rock & Roll Homicide (17 page)

Chapter 17

Monday morning I went straight for the Entertainment section of the paper and was pleased to see the review of the Doberman’s Stub show made front page and included a color photo. Of course, it was shot from Nigel’s side of the stage, but I was clearly visible in the background.

In general, the reviews were favorable. I was described as “a journeyman local musician who did a commendable job subbing for the inimitable Terry Tucker.” The reviewer ended his article by describing the show as being “like seeing a terrific warm-up band. It leaves you anxiously awaiting the headline act, which will come with the release of the new CD and Terry Tucker giving his farewell performance.”

I picked Jeannine up at 8:45 AM and immediately became suspicious. She was smiling more than a lotto winner, and I suspected hanky panky. “I hope you behaved yourself after the show,” I said.

“I think maybe I’ve been behaving myself for way too long,” she said. “I had a great time since we went to Alpine.”

“Derek has a new girlfriend every month. I don’t want you getting hurt,” I said with a sincere expression.

“I know. You and Kelly have been terrific. But it’s not Derek,” she said.

“Kyle! That son of a bitch. He’s married, you know!” I chided.

“It’s Michael. He was very sweet and quiet and shy and protective and I really like him,” she said with a blush.

“Michael? Really? I’ve known Michael for twelve years and I’ve never met one of his girlfriends. I thought he was gay for years,” I said and suddenly wished I hadn’t revealed that to Jeannine.

“I guess the right girl never came along,” she said with a confused expression.

“I think you may be right,” I said. We had reached the office but I wanted to stay in the car and give her some advice on love and sex and heartbreak. But it didn’t happen because we were distracted by the cookie-stuffed face of Officer Delbert peering into the passenger window as he leaned his arms atop the roof of Dad’s car. He gave us a smile and confirmed my suspicion when he revealed his Oreo speckled teeth. “Let’s talk some more later,” was all I could muster.

I was tied up with calls from friends and voice-mail all morning. Most were concerning the
California Confidential
exposure, although a few were from early risers who read the paper. Two of the calls were noteworthy. The first was from
California Confidential
informing me that John Koflanovich, or one of his representatives, will be making a statement on the show this evening, refuting his connection to the Russian Mafia. They left a call back number in case I was interested in making a statement of my own.

The second one said, “Mr. Duffy, this is John Koflanovich. My business partner informs me that he met with you last week and recommends that we talk.” He then left his phone number and said he would be available at that number until 1:30 PM.

I dialed the number and reached a receptionist, then a female administrative assistant before being connected to Koflanovich. Not exactly the direct connection I was expecting. “Mr. Duffy, thank you for returning my call,” he said with a heavy accent.

“You are a difficult man to reach, Mr. Koflanovich. I think we could have avoided several problems if we talked a couple of weeks ago,” I said.

“It sounds to me like we both were operating on incorrect assumptions,” he said.

“I would still like to get together to discuss Terry Tucker’s death,” I said.

   Koflanovich replied, “That can be arranged as long as you are willing to meet at a location I have deemed to be secure, and you come alone.”

“I can understand your need for security. I hope you can understand my need for security as well,” I said.

“Why would you need security? No one is chasing after you anymore,” he said with some agitation in his voice.

“Well, let’s see. First, I had a gun shoved in my face when I visited your office. Then one of your men broke into my office. Your relatives from Tecate entered my office at gunpoint, tied up my secretary and robbed me. Your men shot at me at the Ukrainian Citizen’s Club. And, your men put an unarmed associate of mine in the hospital while he was keeping an eye on Ian Davis. So, you’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little reluctant to meet in some remote location without any witnesses,” I said with a fair measure of attitude.

“Ancient history, Mr. Duffy. Let us initiate Glasnost in our relationship,” he said in a magnanimous manner.

“How would you feel about meeting with Detective Shamansky present? I know he has been trying to connect with you. I’d feel a lot less concerned about foul play if he went along,” I said.

“That would be acceptable as long as we confine the talk to Terry Tucker and the Russian Mafia. I don’t want to get into a debate about our ancient history,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what. I can avoid that subject if you can help my computers find their way home,” I said.

“That sounds like a reasonable request. How about if we meet at 10:00 AM tomorrow at my home? You are welcome to have additional police outside if that would make you feel more comfortable,” he said.

“That will be fine. What’s your address?” I asked.

“First I would like to ask you a question. One of my close associates will be making a statement on
California Confidential
this evening. They are sending a camera crew to our offices. He will be telling the public that I am in no way affiliated with the Russian Mafia. His statement alone will do little to sway public opinion. But if you were present and could say how you feel about what that show stated in your name last week, it could set the record straight. Are you willing to make a statement tonight?” he asked.

I was definitely not in the mood to do this guy any favors in lieu of all he had done to me. However, I liked even less the idea that
California
Confidential
had been making statements in my name without ever confirming a single bit of information. “I’ll do it on one condition,” I said.

“What is that?” he asked.

“I don’t want to go inside your offices. Last time I was there I had a gun shoved in my face,” I said.

“What if they held the interview in front of our building? You certainly don’t expect us to try anything out in public with the cameras rolling, do you?” he asked.

“That would be acceptable,” I said reluctantly. He then gave me his address in Del Mar and hung up.

I reached Shamansky at his desk and asked, “How would you like to meet the elusive John Koflanovich tomorrow morning?”

“Why, do you have an appointment with his hit squad,” he asked.

“Mr. Koflanovich wants to make friends,” I said.

“Why do you suppose he did that? Is he afraid you’ll be joining Doberman’s Stub on a permanent basis?” he asked.

“I thought you had more important things to do than sitting around reading the Entertainment section,” I said.

“I tried the obituaries first, but you weren’t there,” he said with his usual sarcastic charm.

“Koflanovich wants me to go on
California Confidential
tonight and tell the world what a swell guy he is,” I said.

“Knowing how much you avoid the limelight, I’m sure you turned him down,” he stated.

“I’m tired of those assholes acting like they’re my mouthpiece. It’s time to call a spade a spade,” I said heatedly.

“I can’t wait to tune in,” he said.

“Why tune in when you can see it live. They’re shooting it in front of Cerise’s building at 7:45 PM this evening. Care to join me?” I asked.

“In other words, you still don’t trust them and you’d like back-up,” he said.

“I’m just keeping up my end of our deal to share information,” I said.

“You’re a piece of work, Duffy. Sure, why not?” he said. “The way trouble follows you around like an old mental health client, it will probably just save me a trip later on.”

Cory stopped by around noon to say he was sorry his disclosure to
California Confidential
nearly got me killed. I told him that after all he had been through he deserved a second chance. But, if he ever goes to the press or anyone else behind my back again, we’re through. Somewhere in a tapestry of profanity, Cory conveyed that he understood.

I decided to have him tail Nigel for a while. I couldn’t help but wonder why Nigel was being so generous. First, he asked me to sit in on a recording session, then offered work doing bios, then the gig at Bernie’s. Each of these things served to make me like Nigel and, at the same time, distracted me from working the case.

Cory had gone back to the hospital and had his ribs wrapped. He said that the assignment would take his mind off of the pain and he was glad he still had a job.

When I returned from lunch Jeannine said, “Chelsea Tucker called while you were out and seemed upset that she couldn’t reach you. She’ll be out for the rest of the day, but asked for an appointment tomorrow. You’re seeing her at 1:00 PM. Is that OK?” she asked.

“That’ll be fine,” I replied.

I then called
California Confidential
and told them I would make a statement this evening. They seemed genuinely pleased.

At 4:30 PM Shamansky called. “So, are you going to make me guard you on an empty stomach, or what?”

“I don’t see the boss until tomorrow, so the petty cash fund is teetering on empty. But, if you can settle for Mickey Dee’s instead of Larabee’s, I think I can handle it,” I said.

Shamansky replied, “There’s a Subway three blocks east of Cerise. If we have to go cheap, let’s at least make an effort to keep the calories down.”

“Will 6:30 PM work for you?” I asked.

“Fine,” he replied and hung up.

I spent the next hour getting my expense report together for Chelsea. I held off on doing totals so that I could include Shamansky’s freebie on the report. I also picked up Kelly and drove her home.

By 6:40 PM I was noshing a six-inch turkey club while Shamansky was stuffing a twelve-inch meatball torpedo. I concluded that he kept his weight down by only eating when complimentary meals could be arranged.

“You disappointed me today Duffy,” he said. “After reading that Entertainment section article I thought you’d be reversing your career change.”

“I couldn’t do that, Shamansky,” I said.

“Why not? You’re rockin’ with the big boys now,” he said.

“But then nobody would be left to chase after Terry’s real killer,” I said with a broad smile.

“The DA thinks I’m doing a hell of a job,” he offered.

“Too bad the
profile
method of police work doesn’t allow for investigating more than one suspect,” I said.

“In this case, I don’t think we need to go beyond your boss. But, once we lock her up maybe you can offer your services to OJ. He’s still looking for the real killer, isn’t he?” Shamansky asked.

“If you’re so sure Chelsea did it, what are you doing here tonight and meeting with Koflanovich tomorrow?” I asked.

“Because I was told on Friday that I’m the lucky stiff that catches the clean-up work on your break-in and other crimes against Duffy Investigations personnel,” he said with a look of consternation.

“But you’re a Homicide Detective,” I said. “If the department is treating them as separate crimes, wouldn’t they go to another department?”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you,” he stated. “But in this era of fiscal austerity, if a detective catches a case and there are cross-over crimes during the course of the investigation, he’s stuck cleaning up the mess.”

“What about GI Jo-Jo? Did you conclude that having a demolitions expert who just had a fight with the victim is completely irrelevant?” I asked incredulously. This got us stares from two soccer moms who just sat down at an adjacent table.

Shamansky gave them a charming smile, flashed his badge and said, “Police business, ladies. We’re having a working dinner. Could I ask you to please move to another table? This is confidential.”

I would have told him where to get off, but the soccer moms were happy to accommodate Shamansky’s request. Once they were out of earshot he turned to me and said, “I’m looking into it, but I’m getting the impression Terry and GI Jo-Jo were actually friends, or as close to friends as guys like that get.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked heatedly.

“Terry wasn’t going to get rid of Martin. I don’t believe that was ever an issue. Terry had a lot of respect for him as a soundman. As a perfectionist, Terry would never get rid of another detail-oriented craftsman,” he said.

“What about Martin procuring drugs for Davis? What about his groupie girlfriend? What about the fight? And how can you dismiss the fact that he engineered the death of a former boss?” I said getting loud again.

“Let’s walk over to Cerise Records,” he said and stood up. As soon as we got outside he said, “The thing you gotta know about a guy like Terry Tucker is that he put his personal success and the success of the band ahead of everything else. If Terry yelled at Martin over a drug issue I think he was probably pissed that Martin misread the purity level of whatever he was giving Davis to keep him going.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” I asked.

“Hear me out,” he said. “The groupie girlfriend was another functional convenience for Tucker. He got to maintain the bad boy image while the press was around, then schlep her off on Martin as soon as the photo op was over. All of the band members confirmed that theory. I see the fight as two perfectionists having a tiff. Tucker pulls rank on him all of the time in front of the band and he lets Martin flex his muscles in front of his girlfriend to throw him a bone. You wanted to know what was said when Terry was bent over after getting punched? It was probably something like. ‘Do you think that will get you some hot action tonight?’ No big deal.”

“What about fragging his commanding officer? Was that a big deal?” I asked as we approached Cerise.

Shamansky stopped, turned to me and said, “You said it yourself. The C.O. had influential friends pulling strings against a redneck, loner Sergeant and what happened? He got off with a transfer to the States and an Honorable Discharge.”