Rock & Roll Homicide (20 page)

Chapter 22

Sunday morning I was feeling a little uneasy. I had high hopes that GI Jo-Jo would help get Chelsea out of the number one suspect slot. But, it was starting to look like he wasn’t the scumbag I had originally thought. I was feeling closer to being back to square one than to finding the killer. With my boss recently locked up as the prime suspect, I was getting frustrated. Kelly sensed my mood and asked if I would take her to The Eggman for brunch.

     We reached the restaurant just before the post-church crush and only had to wait five minutes for a table. “I can see the case is on your mind today,” Kelly said. “Would you like to talk about it?”

I spent the next half-hour giving her a synopsis of the events leading up to today. It was the first time I had laid out a case for her. As I finished I was wondering if it was a mistake to burden her with my problems.

That feeling lasted only a few seconds as Kelly shocked me with a tremendously insightful observation. She asked, “If Chofsky is so willing to play hardball with you, do you think he might have talked with the other band members about Terry wanting to get rid of one of them?”

I asked, “Do you mean to stir things up?”

“Exactly. There’s nothing like a little peer pressure,” she stated.

“It makes sense,” I said. “He was losing in the negotiations with Terry. Vandevere probably told him Terry was in a position to afford a long court battle. Why not see if the others were as willing to live on a tight budget for three years, especially if one of them was about to get the ax?”

“Did that help?” she asked.

“Absolutely! You’d make a fine detective Miss Kennedy,” I said as I reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze.

As a fair and equal partner in this relationship, I asked Kelly if she was excited about school starting on Tuesday. She spent the entire ride back to her condo telling me about it as I pondered my next move on the case.

After dropping Kelly off, I called each of the band members. I got voice mail for Nigel and Ian, but Jack was in and agreed to see me this afternoon.

Forty minutes later Jack was welcoming me into his modest abode. He had either contracted pinkeye or had just gotten stoned. I hoped it wouldn’t adversely affect his memory of a possible conversation with Ivan Chofsky. When we reached the entrance to the living room Jack said, “I know you want to talk, but I’d rather jam a little first, OK?”

“That would be awesome,” I said and Jack beamed. We progressed from blues to rock to power rock to metal in about 45 minutes. When the metal jam had ended I unhooked the guitar strap before Jack could launch into the next improvisation. “Let’s take a break,” I said.

We moved into Jack’s well-appointed living room. “OK, I guess I’m ready for you to put on the Sherlock hat. Should I shine the reading light in my eyes or something?” he asked with a toothy grin.

“Let’s just kick back and talk,” I said. “We touched on how Terry was negotiating with Cerise on a new contract the last time I was here.”

“Yes. Like I said, Terry took care of all of that stuff. I didn’t even ask him about it. I had complete faith in his ability to get us the best deal,” he said soberly.

“I remember you telling me you didn’t discuss it with Terry, but did John Koflanovich ever talk with you about it?” I asked.

Jack looked at me, then at a beautiful clear crystal lamp sitting on a teak end table. The body of the lamp was see-through and I could see the wall behind Jack through the lamp. Jack leaned toward the lamp, touched it simultaneously with his index and pinky fingers and the lamp swung open to reveal a glass stash box that matched the color of the wall. Jack withdrew two marijuana cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and extended the other toward me, “Care to join me?” he asked.

“Not today,” I said and waited while he lit up.

After a couple of tokes he looked at me and I wondered if I was going to have to repeat the question when he said, “Mr. Koflanovich called me about a month before Terry was killed.”

I waited out a 30 seconds pause to see if Jack would continue without prompting, but he was not going to make it easy. “What did he say?”

Jack said, “He explained that he was in the process of negotiating a new contract with Terry and he wanted to get my input.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“That I was comfortable letting Terry handle the band’s business,” he responded.

“What did he say next?” I asked.

“He said that Terry was trying to get out of his contract with Cerise Records and that it looked like we were headed for a long court battle,” Jack replied.

“How did you respond to that?” I asked.

Jack took a long toke on his joint and held it in his lungs for so long I was afraid he was going to pass out. He then said, “Mr. Koflanovich said that it would mean the CD we just finished wouldn’t get released for three years or more, and that he’d get a court order that would keep us from performing any of the unreleased songs.”

I could see that Jack was starting to feel the effects of the pot. I tried to mirror his enthusiasm and appear sympathetic. “That sucks!” I exclaimed. “Doesn’t he know how good those songs are?”

“I know! He’s a businessman. He didn’t care,” Jack replied.

“What else did he say?” I asked.

“He said that without the new songs we wouldn’t be able to do a big money headline tour and that I had better have a savings account if I wanted to play Terry’s game,” he said with disgust.

“That’s totally bogus,” I commented, “What did you say to that?”

“I told him that people without soul shouldn’t be in the record business and do you know what that shit said?” he asked.

“What?” I asked.

“That if Terry had soul he wouldn’t be squeezing him for every nickel and get the songs out to the fans where they’d be appreciated,” he said, then gave a little cough.

“What did you say to him?” I asked.

“I told him I didn’t get involved in business negotiations because I have no intention of getting into the back-stabbing shit he was trying to pull,” he said with a hint of pride.

“Good for you. Did he say anything else?” I asked.

Jack stood up suddenly and said, “I’m gonna grab a beer, do you want one?”

“Sure,” I said and followed him into the kitchen, which was as organized and tasteful as the living room. I tried prompting Jack again by asking, “So, what did he say?” but Jack was focused in on the beers and ignored me.

“I love these beer steins,” he said, holding out two pewter steins with orange inlays and inscriptions in Gaelic. “Nigel gave them to me for my birthday.” He did a slow pour down the side of the stein, then let the last couple of ounces splash to give it a head. He presented the stein to me and repeated the ceremony for his own benefit.

I took a long sip and sat on a tall stool, hoping we would be staying in the kitchen for a while. I was beginning to experience a contact high from Jack’s weed. “C’mon,” I said. “The suspense is killing me. What did Koflanovich say?”

Jack sat in an oak chair at a matching kitchen table and said, “He made something up to try to get me pissed off at Terry, but it didn’t work.”

I said, “Elden, your lawyer, gave me four different versions of contracts Terry proposed to Koflanovich. Each of them had a clause that would allow the band to fire one of its members. Is that what he told you about?”

Jack’s jaw dropped and I could tell this news was a surprise. “Bullshit!” he exclaimed. “Koflanovich made that up!”

“Jack, I got the copies from your lawyer, not from Koflanovich. I know Terry had some problems with Ian on your last tour. Do you think the clause was put in there for Ian or was something else going on?” I asked.

     “This blows me away,” he replied. “We busted our asses for Terry. I know we had our problems, but the music was getting better and better. You know that. Terry was always about the music. I know he had to handle all of the other bullshit. But Terry liked to talk about where we were going when we complained about how hard he was driving us. I can’t imagine him breaking up the synergy we had.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was part of Terry’s negotiating strategy. Did you ask him about it?” I inquired.

“No,” he said and stared at the floor.

“Did you talk with any of the band about this?” I inquired.

“Nigel was always my go-between. I asked him and he said he thought it was Koflanovich trying to turn us against Terry. I really don’t want to think about this anymore,” he said and walked out of the kitchen. By the time I got to the living room his stereo was playing Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love.” “I always like to listen to Clapton when I’m feeling down. If you want to hang out, feel free. But, I don’t want to talk about that stuff anymore,” he said and fired up another joint.

“I’m sorry I upset you, Jack. I had better take off. Thanks for the beer and especially for the jam. It’s always a thrill to play with you. Call me if you think of anything that can help us all get back to normal,” I said and walked out the front door.

I jumped into the Acura and roared off to Nigel’s abode. I was very fortunate that the California Highway Patrol wasn’t doing one of its famous holiday crackdowns on speeders or my insurance rates would have surely doubled. I skidded to a halt under Nigel’s huge driveway awning, jumped out of the car and rang his doorbell. The lead guitar riff that followed was not keeping up with the energy I was feeling. The thirty-second riff ended and no one had answered. I rang again and, as the second riff was ending, the girl who had flashed me on my last visit, appeared at the door wearing a flimsy pink mini-negligee, carrying a giant blue martini glass and appearing completely inebriated. “Hello,” she said in a throaty, sexy voice.

“I need to talk to Nigel,” I said rapidly.

“Did you like my boobies?” she asked, then struck up a pose and took a sip of her martini.

“They’re lovely,” I said, “but I need to talk to Nigel right now. Will you tell him I’m here?” I asked.

“No can do,” she replied. “That shit took off for the holiday weekend and didn’t even talk to me before he left. I got a tattoo for him last weekend and this weekend he’s off with God knows who and left me here alone,” she added with a little slur.

“Did he leave a note or a voice-mail to say where he was going?” I asked.

“I got a tattoo of his stupid guitar on my heinie and it still hurts,” she said as she slid her palm under the negligee to give it a rub.

I touched her shoulder to get her attention and asked, “Did Nigel leave a message on where he was going?”

“He left me a stupid voice-mail that he was interviewing people for the band out of town this weekend and he’ll be back on Tuesday or Wednesday. He didn’t ask if I wanted to go. He didn’t even think about me being stuck here all by myself for the long weekend with nothing to do but rub my heinie. It’s not fair!” she cried and gave a big pout.

“I’m sorry he ruined your weekend. If he calls will you tell him I’m trying to get in touch and ask him to call?” I asked.

“Don’t you want to stay a while and keep me company,” she said using her sexy voice again. For a moment I considered the possibility of a brief interview to see if this gorgeous girl in her early twenties could provide any insight into Nigel’s business, but quickly concluded that it would only lead to big trouble and latent Catholic guilt. It just wasn’t worth it.

“Sorry, I’m working today. Please remember to give my message to Nigel,” I said with a hopeful smile.

She replied, “I will if you’ll give him a message for me.”

“OK, what is it?” I asked.

Nigel’s girlfriend turned around, flipped her negligee up in the back and mooned me. She was right. Nigel’s golden guitar still had a pink hue. She held her pose until I drove away.

It was 4:15 PM and I decided a pop-in on Ian would be fruitless. I called Cory and reached him at home. He reported that Ian concluded his Saturday night at about 8:30 AM, and would probably roll into The Tillerman’s sometime between 5:00 PM and 7:00 PM depending on whether or not he was hungry.

I drove to Mission Beach and pulled up a barstool in front of the Doberman’s Stub poster. I was fortunate that the bartender I met on my previous visit was not on duty, so my status as a PI was unknown. Over the next hour I made a list of questions I had for Ian and Nigel. At 6:00 PM, Bert, the bartender I met on my first visit, took over and immediately recognized me. “Nosing around asking questions about Ian again, are you?”

“Why, did somebody complain?” I asked.

“Yeah, somebody complained. He doesn’t like tattletale TV. So why don’t you bugger off,” he said with a pugnacious attitude.

“One of my employees got assaulted outside of this bar by a couple of Russians. Unless you’d like me to link The Tillerman to the Russian Mafia next time I’m on the show I suggest you change your attitude,” I said.

“Like I’ve got to worry that my customers will believe you and stop coming,” he said with a laugh.

“You missed the point, Einstein. I’m telling you to lay in a couple of cases of vodka because you’ll be attracting a whole new ethnic group to your bar – Russian thugs and people who want to fight them,” I said.

We were in the middle of a stare-down when Ian walked in the back door, saw me and shouted, “There’s my mate. How the hell are ya, Jason?”

“I’m doing fine Ian, and yourself?” I inquired.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he said to me, then turned to the bartender and said, “Double Bushie me lad.”

When his drink arrived, Bert glared at me, then said to Ian, “He’s talkin’ about bringing the Russian’s here and causin’ trouble.”

I expected Ian to drain his drink and immediately order another as he had done the last time we met here, but instead he said, “Are you kidding? This guy’s a Dobie! We just played a gig together at a club last weekend.” Then, with a more serious tone he added, “So, I don’t want you telling any stories, Bert.”

Bert looked him in the eyes and said, “We’re cool.”

We then made our way through a dozen occupied tables of well-wishers, to a relatively remote corner where a track light illuminated a huge color photo of Rod Stewart in his early thirties, wearing a soccer uniform, standing with a teammate. From the inscription I surmised the teammate is the current owner of The Tillerman, one Tommy Stark. Ian pointed at the photo and said, “That man’s been like a father to me.”