Rock & Roll Homicide (6 page)

As we made our way around the dance floor I saw my opportunity and took it. Koflanovich was dancing with his daughter and I could see our paths were going to come very close. I assumed Nicky wouldn’t take the chance of inadvertently shooting his boss or the daughter. When they were within two feet of me, in one motion I spun away from my captor, tapped Koflanovich on the shoulder and said, ”Mind if I cut in.” When he let go of her to turn and see who was making the request, I grabbed Ivana and danced her toward the middle of the crowd. When I reached a point where I could make a dash for the door I said, “You’re a wonderful dancer. Great party. Gotta run.” When I reached the door I slowed my pace, knowing there would be more guards at the entranceway. As they checked me out in my waiter uniform I smiled, said good evening, walked around the corner of the building, then broke into a full sprint toward the parking lot. As I reached the lot I heard a silenced bullet whiz past my head. I then ducked down and wove my way through the cars toward my Acura parked at the far end of the lot facing the street. Three bodyguards worked their way up and down the rows of cars in a pattern that kept me away from my vehicle. As I was about to make a dash across an open space to the next row, a shadow crossed my path and I dropped to my stomach and rolled under a Ford Explorer.

I reached to the small of my back for my revolver, then realized I wasn’t carrying because the short waiter jacket couldn’t adequately conceal it. Suddenly, a pair of black, shiny shoes were directly in front of my face. “Nicky, over here!” called a voice in perfect English.

“Do you see him?” asked Nicky.

“Go down this row and wait at the end. I’ll try to flush him out,” he replied.

Just as I thought I was safe a cigarette butt bounced under the Explorer and came to rest against the side of my left hand. I managed to squelch my instinct to yell in pain, but I couldn’t keep myself from drawing my hand back quickly from the burning tip. The scraping noise my hand made against the pavement seemed incredibly loud.

“Nicky wait!” he exclaimed.

Nicky sprinted back. “What is it?” he asked.

“Make sure you look inside the vehicles, he’s probably been looking for one that’s unlocked,” he replied and they both walked away.

I worked my way back to the Acura and was thankful that the remote door locks didn’t make a chirp as I clicked. When the Russians got to a point far enough away to make me feel comfortable I started the engine and peeled out across the sidewalk, over the curb and onto the street. Within five minutes I was on the freeway and out of danger.

Chapter 5

On Tuesday morning I stopped at the Denny’s where Terry had his last meal. I used my powers of persuasion and proclivity for bullshit to get seated in the section staffed by the waitress who served the band. After some minor flirting I said, “I heard you served Doberman’s Stub the day of the murder.”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“I overheard a couple of your coworkers talking. What were they like?” I asked.

“At first they were pretty cool. But then they got into a fight and the cute one took off without eating his French Slam,” she replied.

“Did the rest of them leave together?” I asked.

“No,” she replied. “The guy that got here first, left after the cute one. Then, a few minutes later, the other two got up together, but the English guy went to the bathroom while the guy that died paid the bill and took off.”

“Cassie, pick up,” said a voice from behind a row of steaming plates.

“Gotta go,” she said with a smile. I gave Cassie a $5 tip for a $3.95 breakfast and departed.

Twenty minutes later Cory showed me the fruits of his labor; not bad for one day’s work. First, he came up with the tip about the birthday party. Then he gave me a veritable rogue’s gallery of thugs pulling in and out of the Cerise visitor parking spots. If I didn’t know better I’d think Koflanovich was casting for the Russian version of The Godfather.

Cory photographed every vehicle entering and exiting the building. I was able to pick four guys out of Cory’s array who were at the party last night. He was also able to get license plate numbers on three of the four guys. I took all of the pertinent photos and put them in a zipped satchel to show Shamansky over lunch.

Jeannine did a bang up job of getting background on people affiliated with Yuliya, Inc. and its predecessor, Rasputin Enterprises. Six years before the Russian Revolution, Josef Chofsky founded Chofsky Enterprises in San Francisco, which was renamed Rasputin Enterprises ten years later. The business became profitable almost immediately because they had connections in Moscow with the Romanov family. Chofsky exported as much technology to Russia as possible.

Besides advanced sales, the other facet of Chofsky’s business prowess involved training cheap labor to perform assembly tasks. In San Francisco, they employed Chinese immigrants for less than a quarter of what they would have to pay a US citizen. When human rights groups began protesting and picketing in the 70’s, they switched from Chinese laborers to a Maquilladora operation using cheap Mexican labor. The company needed trained Electronics Technicians for key phases of the assembly process. San Diego was perfect, since it has an endless supply of trained Electronics Technicians being honorably discharged from the US Navy and in need of employment.

Once the USSR broke up, Yuliya shifted the majority of its business interactions to Russia. Obviously family ties remained strong. They even changed the way they did business; relying on Russian Electronics Technicians to do most of the sophisticated finish work rather than using ex-Navy personnel.

Jeannine dug up an interesting report written by a stock market analyst. Yuliya initiated an extensive expansion into the Ukraine, then reversed itself within one year and pulled out of Russia altogether. The analyst believed the pullout was caused by extensive piracy perpetrated by the Russian Mafia. The pullout happened one year prior to the start-up of Cerise Records. That would give Koflanovich about the right amount of time to shut things down in Russia and get set up in California. Unfortunately, the article didn’t name any executives in the Ukraine.

I arrived at Larabee’s at 12:40 PM. Mrs. Cleaver gave me a look of vague recognition, so I told her, “Kojak, party of two.”

She immediately brightened and said, “Of course. If you’ll have a seat I’ll see if your table is ready.”

“Kojak sure gets the red carpet treatment around here,” I said. “Is it his witty Polish charm or does he know the owner?”

“Is he a friend of yours?” she asked.

“We’re both detectives working on the same case,” I said.

“Detective Kojak saved our little restaurant a couple of years ago. The owner used to have a partner until one day he cleaned out the bank accounts and disappeared with a nineteen year old waitress,” she said.

“And Kojak found the partner and the money and everybody lived happily ever after?” I asked.

“Something like that,” she replied. “Your table is ready. Would you like to be seated now?” she asked.

Shamansky rolled in at 1:00 PM looking sharp in his suit and tie. “You didn’t have to get all dolled up on my account,” I said.

“Court sucks!” he exclaimed with considerable frustration. “I work my tail off to bust these sleezoids, then help the prosecutor make his case, only to have some left-wing judge give a dead-to-rights repeat offender a free pass so he can qualify for Liberal of the Year at the ACLU picnic.”

As I was scrambling to come up with something to get Shamansky out of his foul mood, a Julia Roberts look-alike server came over and gave him a kiss on the top of his shaved head. She said, “I always feel so safe whenever you’re around,” in a voice that would instantly melt ice from across the dining room. “I’ll be with you guys in a couple of minutes.”

Shamansky had an immediate change of mood and said to me, “Let’s figure out what we’re going to eat, then have a look at those pictures.” For a moment his voice lost that cop-tone quality and it was quite obvious he was head-over-heels for our
perfect 10
waitress. The thirty-year difference in their ages did nothing to deter his fantasy that he actually had a chance with this beauty. I think I became immune to love at first sight when I got to know Jeannine.

I had the feeling Shamansky would be riding the pink cloud through the end of dessert and I could probably get a lot more info than I had imagined if I played my cards right. Once his heart-throb disappeared into the kitchen he asked, “Are the pictures in the satchel?”

I started off by showing him the crew from visitor parking. “That’s Josef Kozlofsky. He was a minor contender on the heavyweight boxing scene until a couple of years ago. I saw him box at least three times. What he lacks in skill he makes up for in ferocity; and man, can he take a punch,” Shamansky said. I made a mental note to scrap Plan A of hand-to-hand combat if I came across Josef in a dark alley. I was pretty sure I could take him with Plan B – the hundred yard dash.

Shamansky recognized three more of the 15 scary-looking visitors. He didn’t think any were known felons, but all had several scrapes with the law and all had reputations as very bad dudes. “What do you make of it?” I asked.

“Something is definitely going down at Cerise Records. But these pictures aren’t enough to be able to get a requisition for more manpower from the brass,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked emphatically.

“Because my boss is going to cite the names of about five gangster rap bands and tell me this is probably just a bunch of white guys trying to Gravy Train the idea,” he said. We then looked at the rest of the photos I had selected and Shamansky was able to supply a few names to go with the faces. At this point our food arrived and our sexy server made another huge fuss over Shamansky.

“How could your boss not put two and two together. First you have a murder; then an uncooperative suspect who ducks you; then you have half of San Diego’s Russian bent noses popping over shortly after the murder,” I said.

“I think that’s putting three and three together, but who’s counting,” he said. “It’s not so much that this doesn’t look suspicious; it’s more that the case against your boss is looking better every day.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Let’s just say you better put in for your expense reimbursement soon. If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say your client will be wearing a numbered shirt by this time next week,” he said.

“C’mon Shamansky,” I said. “I gave you some good stuff here. What have you got that makes her look so bad?”

He replied, “There are a few things, like the fact that she gave him the headphones, had access to them and was seen fighting with Terry a couple of days before the murder. But the one that stands out the most is the fact that Chelsea’s dad owns a construction company that uses blasting caps for excavation. And, she took out a five million dollar insurance policy on him less than a year ago.”

“Most married couples have insurance policies and, from what I can tell, everybody that knew Terry fought with him on a regular basis. He was not your proverbial sweetheart by any stretch of the imagination,” I said.

“What about the blasting caps?” he asked.

“Is there any evidence that she was in possession of blasting caps or came anywhere near where they’re stored?” I asked.

“We’re working on that right now,” he said.

“We both know that you can find almost anything about anybody if you know your way around the Internet. Also, everybody knows that the spouse is always the top suspect. Framing Chelsea would be the easiest thing in the world. Especially if the police decide they don’t want to look at more than one suspect,” I ranted.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Duffy. Why don’t you leave fifty for the meal and take off. I’ll take care of the tip,” he said.

Not at all pleased, but also not wanting to burn any bridges, I left the cash on the table and said, “I suggest the cherries jubilee for dessert.”

I arrived at Perfect Pitch Recording Studios at 2:30 PM. The band had just taken a break and was still gathered in the studio. I was immediately accosted by a blond behemoth in khaki slacks, blue blazer, white shirt and striped tie. “What are you doing here?” he shouted.

“Nigel Choate invited me to stop by,” I said as all three of the band members watched the exchange.

“No visitors! Get out now!” he exclaimed.

Jack Pascal stepped forward and said, “This guy is a rhythm guitar player. He’s going to fill in for Terry Tucker’s part so that the rest of us can stay in rhythm while we do our thing.”

“No one told me this. I was told an African man named Skeezie Johnson would be filling in,” he said as he glanced at the clipboard in his left hand.

Jack replied, “Skeezie’s a little queasy. He won’t be joining us today.”

Vladimir Torhan looked perplexed, so I added, “Too much vodka. I just came from his place and he's blowing borscht chunks all over the bathroom floor."”

“Ah, hangover,” he said with a smile. Then, changing his expression he yelled, “I don’t believe you. Musicians always walk in with instrument. No guitar; no musician.”

     “I was told I had to play Terry’s guitar to match up the sound,” I said.

“Play something right now,” he demanded.

      A couple of minutes later Jack had me plugged in and I was instinctively playing the riff I used to reserve for dates that I was trying to impress as being third base-worthy. By the time I had finished, Torhan had buttoned his blazer and Nigel said, “Blyme! He’s bleedin’ decent.” He then handed me a photocopy of the sheet music for the next song and said, “I’m not going to ask you to sign a waiver because we’re not going to be using your tracks. But, it would definitely help us out if you could fill in for the Skeezer today.”

“Sure. Whatever,” I replied.

“GI Jo-Jo will set you up in a practice room behind the recording engineer. Here’s the sheet music and a disk of what it’s supposed to sound like, with me playing both lead and rhythm. Stand behind the engineer and give me the high sign when you’re ready to go,” Nigel said.

GI Jo-Jo stands about 6’2” and weighs around 225 lbs. He carried a Marshall amp into the 5’ by 9’ practice room, then went back for the guitar. When he returned I said, “Terrible thing that happened to Terry.”

“He was a hellofa good musician,” he said.

“Was he a friend?” I asked.

Jo-Jo thought about this for about 15 seconds before responding. “I don’t know. There were four roadies on the tour and I’m the one he picked for the studio gig; so, I guess so.”

“Why do you think he picked you?” I asked.

“Because I worked with electronics in the Army. I can do cabling, sound board, minor repairs and I’m not a complainer like most roadies,” he said.

“Not even when your girlfriend talks about wanting to be with him?” I asked.

“Who told you about that?” he asked.

“One of the guys in the band mentioned it. I didn’t think it was a secret,” I said.

“You’re all set to go here,” he said and walked out of the room.

Along with the amp and guitar, Jo-Jo had set up a modular recorder with headphones for me to listen to Nigel’s disk. I wondered if it was the same make and model that had killed Terry. I gave the headphones a thorough pat-down before putting them on. After about twenty minutes I emerged from the practice room and stood behind the sound engineer. From that vantage point I could tell that the engineer had the best view of the blast, looking through the glass into the recording studio.

Nigel signaled the recording engineer to stop. While he spoke with Ian I said to the engineer, “It looks like you had a clear view of the explosion that killed Terry.”

“That’s what the cops thought, too,” he said. “But I was looking at the mixing board the whole time.”

“I thought you were on break, between songs,” I said.

“Maybe the band takes a break between songs, but that’s usually my busiest time. I was multitasking, splitting time between critical listening and instrument review. I had to make sure we were set with what we had just recorded and didn’t need another take. That day it was especially important because I knew the drummer was planning on resetting the partitions. I was completely focused on what I was listening to and how it related to the sound levels I was looking at on my panel,” he said.

“Did you notice anybody near Terry’s table during the day?” I asked.

“No, but you sure ask a lot of questions for a rhythm guitarist,” he said.

“I guess multitasking is big around here,” I said as I noticed Nigel waving me into the studio. It felt good to be playing with a band again. We spent the next 45 minutes wading through a couple of takes that didn’t please Nigel at all. On the third take he was giving everybody a smile and nod. Unfortunately, as we were coming out of the bridge, one of the bodybuilders that visited Cerise yesterday wandered into the studio and Nigel went nuts.