Rock & Roll Homicide (25 page)

“Since you asked, I don’t mind if I do,” Dad said and took a slug of Harp. “First, I’d borrow two phone company jumpsuits. I saw a ground-mounted telephone box near the north entrance to the alley. I could hold an ohmmeter and hang out at the box acting like I was running tests without anyone giving me a second look. If you can borrow that white van from Cory, I can also get two SBC magnet signs for the sides to make us look official. You take a large white tarp and tent it in front of you while you work on the backdoor lock and, more importantly, when you work on the garage door lock facing the street. You need to be in and out of there in a half-hour, twenty minutes would be better.”

“Can you get the jumpsuits and signs tonight?” I asked.

“Not a problem,” he said as our food arrived.

Chapter 27

Dressed in my Southwestern Bell Corporation jumpsuit, I gave the Acura keys to Cory at 5:20 AM and got an expletive-laden briefing on Cory’s observations. He thought he got one good shot of the owner’s face when he arrived home at around 9:30 PM and staggered up his front sidewalk.

After swapping vehicles with Cory, I drove the van around the corner to an open space next to the phone box. I then placed the magnetic signs on the van and set out a couple of Day-Glo orange cones to look official. I walked back to Dad’s Riviera and waited with him until Desmond Thompson left for his landscaping job. A light rain started falling in the last few minutes before Desmond departed. “The guy works in outside construction. Do you think work will be cancelled?” I asked.

“Not if it stays like this,” Dad replied. “But if it comes down harder it could be a very short day.”

“Good thing Friday is almost always payday in construction. Even if it rains hard, he’ll be sure to go in for his paycheck, right?” I asked.

“He’ll pick it up and cash it before he comes home if he’s like every other construction guy I’ve ever known,” Dad said.

When Thompson emerged from his house at 5:47, he spread his arms out, palms up and looked at the sky. He then went back in the house and it suddenly occurred to me that he could get paid biweekly. Fortunately, he returned two minutes later wearing a Raider’s baseball cap and departed in his truck.

We left the Riviera and walked to the van. With Dad huddled in close, I picked the lock on the telephone box in about twenty seconds, "That’s scary,” he said.

“Benefits of a state school education,” I said. With the white tarp under my arm I walked down the alley, through the gate and to Thompson’s back door like I owned the place. I tented the tarp against the door with me underneath and, with a small flashlight in my mouth, picked the backdoor lock almost as quickly as I sprung the lock on the phone box. I entered the kitchen and immediately noticed the faint sound of music coming from the second floor. Maybe Desmond isn’t conscientious about shutting off his radio in the morning. I decided to move as quietly as possible just in case I wasn’t alone.

I walked into the living room and quickly found the stereo. A set of headphones was attached, but it was too dark to see the manufacturer’s name. I flicked on my penlight, found the Delatorre label and my heart started racing. I located the serial number on the bridge and determined that it was one of the three sent to Billingsly’s home in Northern Ireland.

A fairly expensive stereo sat on a makeshift cinder block and wooden plank shelving unit. Stuffed into one of the cinder block holes was a second pair of Delatorre headphones. Again I checked the serial number and again it was from the same shipment sent to Billingsly.

Since there was music emanating from the second floor it was time to find out if there was another stereo or just a clock/radio set to the wrong time. I made my way up the stairs, thankful that I didn’t encounter any squeakers. They led me to the back of the house. The music was coming from a bedroom facing the street. I edged past dark bedrooms on the left and right, then past a bathroom on the right. As I approached the room with the music I heard a noise that sounded like a CD hitting a hardwood floor on edge, “Shit!” came a husky female voice accompanied by the sound of bare feet on flooring.

I spun into the bathroom, stepped into the bathtub and pulled the shower curtain partially closed so I couldn’t be seen from the hall. It all happened so fast, I wasn’t sure if she heard me. My heart pounded as I strained to hear sounds. Suddenly, the music went off and I heard bare feet on hardwood, then the silence that would follow if she continued onto the hall carpeting. Two seconds later I held my breath when I heard bare feet slapping the bathroom tile. I reached for my gun, but realized it was on the other side of my jumpsuit. I couldn’t hold my breath much longer. I balled my fists as I expected the shower curtain to be ripped back at any moment. Instead, I heard the sound of urine splashing in the toilet bowl. I let out a controlled breath hoping it would be masked by the splashing sounds. I inhaled as the sound of toilet paper rolled, then took a deeper breath when she flushed.

I heard a few more footsteps on tile, then nothing. I assumed she had walked back onto the carpeted hallway and risked a peek from behind the curtain. But, she hadn’t departed. She was standing in front of a medicine cabinet mirror that, luckily, wasn’t aimed my way. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with medium length black hair and an exceptional figure. Her face was decidedly less attractive. She wore a green T-shirt that barely covered her butt. After adjusting her bangs she rinsed her fingers.

I thought I was home free until she pulled off the green tee shirt and turned toward the shower. Before the shirt had cleared her eyes I ducked back behind the shower curtain, but knew it was just seconds until I’d be discovered. Suddenly, a hand shot past my elbow and turned on the hot water, then she reached in further and turned the knob labeled cold. As water streamed down my SBC jumpsuit a set of perfectly manicured white nails grasped the shower curtain. But, before it could be pulled back, the telephone rang in another room and the nails were suddenly gone. I jumped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and ran it over me quickly. I then mopped up the puddle I had caused on the bathroom floor and ran into a darkened bedroom across the hall. I waited for another three minutes, continuing to towel off, until she emerged from the bedroom in her birthday suit.

When she stepped into the shower I went into the bedroom and found a small stereo system. Attached was another set of Delatorre headphones. As I was turning them over to check the serial number the phone rang three feet away from me. I immediately heard a squeak from the shower knob and I tossed the headphones back to where I found them and quick-stepped back to the next bedroom.

Peaking around the threshold of the guest bedroom I saw her toweling off as she talked on the phone. When she turned her back to me I quickly and quietly made my way downstairs

I then carried the tarp and the towel I had acquired to the front of the garage, once again, made a little tent and used my lock picks to gain access. There was now a light rain falling. I glanced at my watch and I had been in the house for twenty-five minutes. The inside of the garage was dark. I used my penlight to look at tools and boxes. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place. I was about to leave after less than five minutes when I spied a black trunk covered with a faded Union Jack sticker on the side. A small Yale lock secured the trunk - child’s play for The Great Duffdini. In less than fifteen seconds I was looking at an impressive array of blasting caps, timers, wires and five sticks of dynamite. Using my penlight, I pushed some of the wires out of the way and saw a square black plastic tube with a red top. On closer inspection I learned that it contained BBs.

I was feeling pretty self-satisfied as I shut the trunk without exercising the stealth I used in the house. Suddenly, I heard a huge dog barking out on the sidewalk. Peaking through a narrow gap between boards I saw an angry rottweiler tethered to an elderly woman. “What is it Thor?” she called. “Who’s in there? Should we call the police, Thor?”

Using my strongest voice, knowing that I needed to reach the tympanic membrane of an old woman holding a barking monster in the rain I let out a, “Rrrrrroooouuuuwww,” sound that cats make when they’re cornered and have to fight.

“Down boy! Leave that cat alone! What the hell is wrong with you? You nearly pulled my shoulder out of it’s socket you bad boy!” I heard her berating the dog all the way down the block. At first I thought it was funny until I realized that neighbors might have heard her and may be looking out their windows to see what’s going on. I gave it another five minutes before exiting the garage and walking out the back gate.

When I got back to the van it was 6:43 and Dad was pissed. “Do you know how long you were in there? I thought you got caught,” he said with immense stress in his voice.

“It’s all in there. I found the headphones in the house and blasting caps and BBs in the garage,” I said.

We drove to a nearby IHOP where I told him the whole story. Before we went our separate ways I called Shamansky from the parking lot. As expected I got voice-mail. I said, “Southeast San Diego was better than the Mission Valley Mall. I found everything we were looking for. Ten more minutes and I would have had Jimmy Hoffa and the co-conspirators from the grassy knoll. Call me.”

Dad looked at me like he used to when I’d make noise in church. Then his scowl turned to a smile and he said, “You turned out alright Jason. Keep me in the loop.”

      When I returned to my office I sent an email to David Cooper asking for a quick bio on Desmond Thompson. I had the feeling Desmond would be sitting in an interview room at the police department very soon and background could help us push the right buttons.

I was in the middle of entering notes to the case file when Shamansky called. I told him he was working too hard and deserved a lunch break. He agreed and said he was longing for a Larabee’s shrimp salad for the last half-hour. I pointed out that it was only 10:15 and suggested we meet at 11:30.

As I was getting ready to leave for lunch an email came in from David. It read: “Message received. I’ll check him out today. I was up most of last night after I came across an ad in a European music industry publication, pitching the newest Doberman’s Stub CD,
Bite Me
,
Big
Dog
(working title). The publication has been out for at least a week, but in reading the instructions for placing an ad they are very emphatic that all new-release advertising must be placed at least one month in advance. That means Cerise Records placed the ad either just before, or immediately after, Terry died. What does that tell you?”

It’s possible it meant nothing. The magazine might sell blocks of ads that would allow Cerise to download their text shortly before going to press. The rule could be bendable or breakable by paying a premium price. But if it is a hard and fast rule that would mean Chofsky had prior knowledge of the murder plans.

I replied to David’s email: “See if you can find an invoice to determine the date the ad was placed and paid for.”

Beaver’s mom gave me the red carpet treatment for the first time when I arrived at Larabee’s at 11:45. I was concerned that Shamansky would be pissed that I was late, but when I walked into the dining room and saw the girl of his dreams fawning over him, I knew my tardiness would not be a problem. After we shook hands and established that I remembered our waitress, she took my drink order and disappeared.

Shamansky looked at his watch and, suddenly all business, said, “Let’s have it. What have you got?”

“I found the two Delatorre headphones shipped to Devin Billingsly near the downstairs stereo. I then went upstairs and found a third pair of Delatorre’s plugged into another stereo,” I said with a smile.

“Very good work. Did you match up serial numbers?” he asked.

“I was able to confirm the downstairs pairs. But, when I got upstairs I had company and didn’t have time to verify the serial number, but it looked exactly like the picture of the model Chelsea gave to Terry,” I said.

“Tell me what happened when you got upstairs,” Shamansky said and I gave him the details. “Did you get anything else?” he asked and I took him through the items found in the garage.

“Does Desmond Thompson have a sheet?” I asked.

“Not much,” he replied. “He had a DUI a couple of years ago and two speeding tickets. That’s it.”

“I’m told we’ll have no problem finding rap sheets on each of the hoodlums from Northern Ireland,” I said.

“It sounds like you’ve tapped into a hellofa source,” he said.

“I can’t give any details on him, but I can tell you the bombshell he laid on me just before I came over here,” I said, then proceeded to recount our emails.

Shamansky said, “I want to pop the hoodlums as soon as possible, but we need to establish probable cause for a warrant. Considering that we just arraigned Chelsea for the crime, it’s going to take some imagination.”

I replied, “Nobody is saying Chelsea built the bomb. You could tell the judge you think Nigel helped her and utilized his terrorist friends who visit frequently. Tell him I was at Nigel’s house and overheard him say, ‘We better get rid of everything at Thompson’s house when you get to town.’ Do you think that would fly?”

“You’d be sticking your neck out on that one, lying to a judge,” he said.

“I’m not lying to a judge, I’m lying to a cop,” I said with a grin.

“I can live with that,” he replied.

When I returned to my office I saw Michael Marinangeli sitting on Jeannine’s desk, interlocking his fingers with hers. “Hey dude,” he said when he saw me.

“Hi Michael,” I said. “Drop by to give Jeannine a hand?”

“Just doing my best to get a date with this lovely lady,” he said, then gazed into her eyes.

“Good luck,” I said and turned to go back into my office.

“Jason, hang on. I also wanted to tell you something. Have you got a minute,” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied and waved him into my office.

He shut the door and I was sure he was going to start asking uncomfortable questions about Jeannine. But instead he said, “Nigel Choate called me yesterday and wants me to audition for Doberman’s Stub. I’m meeting them at Jack Pascal’s home studio tomorrow morning. Can you believe it?” he asked with the enthusiasm of a teenager.

“Wow!” I managed to say. “What did Nigel say?” I asked.

Michael replied, “He said he liked the way I played with the band and that he was planning on leaving right after the Doberman set, but hung around another half-hour to hear me play. It sounds like I’ve got a real shot,” he said. “You don’t seem all that happy for me.”

“I’m sorry. I think it’s great that you’re getting recognized for your incredible talent. It’s just that we still haven’t caught the bad guy and the Russian Mafia is still in the picture. Just keep your eyes open and don’t trust anybody, and I mean anybody, until this thing gets sorted out. OK?” I asked.