Rock & Roll Homicide (24 page)

Dad and Shamansky were silent for about a minute, then Shamansky said, “I love it.”

“Good plan, son,” Dad added. “Where do I come in?”

“I’d like to get a look inside the house in Southeast San Diego. I need you to stake it out, establish a pattern of comings and goings and be my look-out while I check it for headphones and blasting caps. If we know they’re in there, you can get a search warrant once the boys are back in town and at the house,” I said.

Shamansky said, “Me and your dad had a hard time hearing that last part, but I like what we’ve heard so far.”

We went back inside and spent another hour drinking beer and talking with the women. I wondered if Dad realized he was enjoying the company of a non-Irishman.

Chapter 26

I met Dad at 5:00 AM a half-block from Desmond Thompson’s house in Southeast San Diego. I wanted to get a look at the layout to figure out how and when I would do my locksmith thing. Dad was surprised to learn I acquired that skill at UCSD. When he questioned my ability to do it under pressure I told him about my experience in Tecate, and he was genuinely amused when I told him about inadvertently cracking the boss in the package with a hockey stick.

At 5:45 AM a guy in his mid-twenties emerged from the house and got into a gray, late-nineties Toyota pick-up and pulled away. I gave it a few minutes before getting out of the car, then I walked around the block and was pleasantly surprised to learn an alley ran behind the property. It was bordered by an old six foot redwood fence, but had a chainlink gate that gave me an excellent view of the rear of the house and a detached garage that sat within the perimeter fencing.

After I left Dad, I drove to the Denny’s where Terry Tucker ate his last meal. I told the hostess, “I’m very particular about the service I receive. Would you be sure to seat me in Cassie’s section?”

“You’ll probably have to wait longer,” she replied.

“I don’t mind,” I said, then walked outside and fed quarters to a newspaper dispenser.

Twenty-five minutes later I was seated in Cassie’s section and reviewed the menu while waiting for her. “I remember you,” she said as she appeared at my table. “I saw you at the Dali Lama a couple of weeks ago and I told my boyfriend, ‘He sat at my station and asked a bunch of questions about Doberman’s Stub and now he’s playing with their band,’ it was pretty cool,” she said.

“And here I am again,” I said.

“What can I get you today?” she asked.

“How about a Grand Slam with orange juice,” I said. “And I have one more question.”

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Last time I was here you said that Nigel, the English guy, went to the bathroom while Terry, the guy who was killed, left the restaurant,” I said.

“Yeah. That’s what happened,” she said.

“Do you remember if Nigel was in the bathroom long or just in and out?” I asked.

“In and out. I remember saying to myself, ‘Jeez, I thought the British always washed their hands.’ I even mentioned it to my boyfriend when we saw him at the Dali Lama,” Cassie said.

“How long would you say it was from the time Terry left and when Nigel left?” I asked.

“Just a few seconds. Terry paid the bill while pee-pee hands was making the pit stop,” she said.

“Pick-up Cassie,” I heard from behind.

“I’ll be back,” she said and deftly snagged three plates from the counter and delivered them to a family of six, then returned for three more. She took care of a few more people and returned with my breakfast.

“Did you happen to notice either of them out in the parking lot?” I asked.

“I sure did. Both of them had really hot cars. The British guy left us some rubber as he pulled out of the lot,” she said.

“So it looked like he was in a big hurry?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. It looked like he was trying to catch up to his buddy,” she said, then responded to a request for more coffee.

It took five minutes to get from Denny’s to the 7/Eleven. As I pulled into the parking lot I saw what I was hoping to see. The reason I almost never lock my car door at convenience stores is because they usually have huge plate glass windows looking out at the parking lot, so the shoppers can keep an eye on their cars and the police can watch out for robbers. But, some stores get carried away with putting big promotional posters in their windows to drum up business, and this is definitely one of those stores. There was enough space in between posters where someone could see in or out of the store if they focused their attention at one of the narrow slots. But there was not enough space for a person getting an iced tea to notice someone in the parking lot out of his peripheral vision. Nigel could have easily made the switch without being seen.

I walked over to the fountain drinks area and checked out the sight lines to the parking lot. Unless Terry was parked in one of two particular slots, there was no chance he could have spotted Nigel in the lot.

At 10:15 AM I found myself listening to Nigel’s doorbell and hoping, for once, that a real butler would answer the door. Instead I got Victoria with a mean expression. “Are you gonna tell him?” she asked.

“Did you?” I asked and she shook her head. “Then mum’s the word,” I said and followed her to Nigel’s office where he was seated behind his desk.

“Jason, how was your long weekend?” Nigel asked.

“It was fine. I heard you got out of town,” I replied.

“I flew across the pond and checked in with the relatives. “Any new developments?” he asked.

I replied, “I hate to say it because I know he’s trying to work a deal with you, but Koflanovich is still looking pretty bad. While you were gone I talked to Jack and Ian again and they told me about how he tried getting you guys to pressure Terry to settle for less than you’re worth.”

“He is on a bit of a power trip,” he said. “But, I’m not so sure it wasn’t that big blond gonstermonker that did in poor Terry.”

“You mean Vlad Torhan, the guy who got shot?” I asked.

“If you ask me, the Russian Mafia knew he was behind it and punched his ticket because he was out of control,” Nigel said.

“That’s a possibility,” I said, “but, if I were you, I still wouldn’t do anything to piss off Koflanovich until this thing is sorted out.”

“Blimey!” he responded.

“Anyway, I just wanted to find out if Koflanovich said anything to you that was different than what he told the other guys,” I said.

“I think Ian got called first, then Jack. Ian called me right afterwards, so I was prepared when I got my call,” he said.

“From what they told me it sounded like the usual contract posturing to try to get an edge during the negotiations; lawsuit threats and worst case scenarios,” I said.

“Exactly,” Nigel said.

“They also told me about the clause in the contract where Terry could fire one of the band members. Ian was pretty upset. Do you think it was just Terry’s way of telling him to shape up or ship out?” I asked.

“Something like that. Terry was a perfectionist. He was mad at Ian, but I really don’t think he would have thrown him out. It was probably just a scare tactic to get him into rehab,” Nigel said.

“That’s all I’ve got for you today, Nigel. I’ll let you get back to work,” I said as I kept my eyes off of the hooligan pictures. “I’ll keep you posted if there are any new developments.”

Nigel stood up when I did and stuck out his hand, “I appreciate that, Jason. Be sure to tell Chelsea we all know she didn’t do it.” Victoria magically appeared as I was walking toward the door. I had no doubt she had been eavesdropping on the entire conversation.

When we got to the door she gave me an insincere smile and said, “Don’t hurry back,” then shut the door without waiting for a reply.

I checked in with Jeannine and was told that Shamansky set up a meet with Chofsky at 1:00 PM. I skipped lunch and arrived about 15 minutes early. This meant I got to spend quality time with Mikhail and Rovi, both of whom appeared to be failing their ESL classes. We bonded when Mikhail pointed his AK-47 at my steering wheel and demanded to see my gun. The Badinov Brothers played with it like a new toy for about five minutes before returning it to me.

When Shamansky arrived we were escorted to Chofsky’s office once again by poor Ivana’s prison matron, Svetlana.

“Sit down gentlemen, I’m afraid I don’t have much time for you today,” he said.

“You’re gonna have to make time unless you want to spend the next 72 hours at police headquarters,” said Shamansky in a ‘bad cop’ voice that startled me.

“What’s this about?” demanded Chofsky trying to meet force with force.

“It’s about an underpaid actor laying on a slab in the morgue because you chose to use him as an expendable pawn in your war with the Russian Mafia. It’s about deciding whether you should be deported. Are you getting my message?” asked Shamansky.

“It is most unfortunate that the poor man was shot. But I’m not the one who pulled the trigger,” he replied.

“Then I suggest you study up on the laws regarding employers putting their employees in highly dangerous situations that result in their death. You’re going to find case after case of the employers doing prison time,” Shamansky pontificated.

“Have I not been completely cooperative with you?” he asked.

“He has been cooperative,” I said hoping my good cop role would not be too transparent. How many cop TV shows could this guy have watched? He probably lives for the Minsk farm report on satellite.

“I don’t care,” railed Shamansky at me. “My job is to keep the citizens of San Diego safe from guys like this. What are you doing sticking up for him anyway? Didn’t his guys shoot at you in the parking lot of the Ukrainian Citizen’s Club?”

“He thought I was in the Mafia,” I said.

Shamansky replied, “Another error in judgment that nearly cost another life.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Chofsky, who apparently guessed that he was over a barrel and would have been in handcuffs by now if he was actually being busted. “I have no interest in going to prison or back to Odessa. You have my full cooperation. What do you want?” he asked.

We spent the next fifteen minutes laying out what he was to say to Nigel. When we finished he asked, "Are you certain it was Mr. Choate who killed Mr. Tucker?”

I replied, “Yes, and it probably wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for you calling each of the band members and giving them the impression they’d be better off without him.”

At first it looked like Chofsky was going to argue this point, but, realizing the futility, simply said, “I’ll call Mr. Choate this afternoon.”

“Call him now,” said Shamansky. “I want to hear it.”

   Chofsky was able to get through to Nigel and was very credible. He laid out the whole scenario on the phone and Nigel told him he liked the idea of bringing in his fellow countrymen. Nigel told him they could be in San Diego by Saturday and Chofsky set a 3:00 PM meeting to receive them at the compound.

“Meet me at the Starbucks down the street in five minutes,” I said to Shamansky as we were escorted to our vehicles. “That went rather well,” I said when we had our coffee.

“Saturday doesn’t give us much time if you’re still planning on an unauthorized tour of the guest accommodations,” Shamansky replied.

“I’ll have to go in tomorrow. The owner left the house at 5:45 AM. It didn’t get light out till after 6:30. I could try going in first thing if my dad says the rest of the immediate neighbors leave for work at a more reasonable hour,” I said.

“What time did Jim get started this morning?” asked Shamansky.

“Five o’clock. I was planning on having Cory relieve him at 5:00 PM. He has a van where he can do stakeouts without being seen while he watches. I’ll have a better idea of an exact time after I talk to Dad,” I said.

I looked at my watch – it was 3:44 PM. “I had better head southeast before Dad attempts to introduce himself to Cory,” I said.

Shamansky broke into a hearty laugh and said, “I could sell more tickets to that than a widows & orphans fundraiser at the stationhouse.”

I laughed and added, “I can see it now. He’ll have Cory handcuffed in the back of his van with a bar of Irish Spring between his teeth.” Shamansky convulsed as we got into our cars and pulled away.

At 5:22 PM I hopped into the passenger seat of Dad’s car, which was now parked on the opposite end of the street. “Cory’s in the white van at the other end of the block. How about if we go have dinner someplace and put together a plan of attack?” I asked.

“That’s Cory? I thought it might be Axel Vandevere,” he said.

“Vandevere’s probably sitting on Nigel,” I said. “I’d introduce you to Cory, but he suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome and manages to offend everyone he meets.”

“Then why is he working for you?” Dad asked.

“Because he was born to do stakeouts and he’s the best photographer I’ve ever met. He did some work for National Geographic,” I said.

“I’m impressed,” he said, but I detected a note of sarcasm. “There’s a Black Angus between here and the freeway entrance. Why don’t we meet there in fifteen minutes?” I asked.

“What’s wrong with your mother’s cooking?” he asked.

“Do you really think she should be listening to us plan a break-in?” I asked.

“I’ll call and tell her we’re bonding,” he quipped, this time without masking the irritation in his voice. I guess sitting in a warm car for 12½ hours will do that to you. After checking over Dad’s notes I told Cory what I wanted him to monitor. Fortunately, he brought along a night vision scope.

Black Angus was a zoo. There were about 10 people ahead of us waiting for a table. We managed to get a small cocktail table in the bar after five minutes of standing. When our waitress came by I asked if we could order dinner in the bar and she gave me the thumbs up. “What do you think Dad?” I asked and he rolled his eyes and nodded his head. After we made our dinner selections I said, “Nigel’s bringing his boys to California by Saturday. That means I’ve got to go in tomorrow.”

“One day doesn’t give you much of a picture. It could be dangerous,” Dad said.

“Not nearly as dangerous as doing it when we have three extra guys to keep track of,” I replied.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day. Your best shot is first thing in the morning, right after he leaves for work. It’ll be dark until 6:30. There’s a neighbor that left for work at exactly 6:00. Nobody else on the block did anything more than bring in a morning paper. The rest of the workers all left between 7:00 and 8:30.”

“You don’t think it would be better once most of them have gone?” I asked.

“Too much activity. Mommies walking babies, seniors walking themselves and their dogs. And, I saw a couple of guys who came home for lunch. It either has to be first thing in the morning or after dark, when you run the risk that the guy will stay home,” he said.

“Tomorrow morning it is. You said you’ve been thinking about it all day. Why don’t you tell me how you’d do it,” I said.