Rock & Roll Homicide (7 page)

Torhan did his best to smooth things over, but Nigel was too distracted to continue. He called for a half-hour break and left the building. I walked over to Torhan, who was complaining about how much money a half-hour break would cost and decided it would be my best shot at pumping him for information. I said to him, “That’s it for me, I’m outta here and I’m not coming back in a half-hour.”

“What are you talking about? There’s no reason to leave,” he said tensely.

“I didn’t like the idea of taking a gig where a musician got murdered in the first place. Then, I’m out there for less than an hour, standing right next to where Terry was blown away and you guys let this thug come strolling in,” I said excitedly. “Your security sucks. I can’t work under these conditions.”

“Boris Melsin is not a thug,” he said looking at his comrade. “In fact, he was just assigned to the security detail here at the studio. It’s his first day on the job. He didn’t know where he was going. You see, there is no shortage of security.”

“How much security was here the day Terry was killed?” I asked.

“Just me that day,” he said.

“I thought you’re supposed to be an executive,” I said.

“I am, but I was also an amateur boxing champion in the Ukraine eight years ago. So, I am quite capable of handling myself in a fight,” he said.

“The guy who killed Terry used a lot more firepower than fists,” I said.

“I’ve got it under control,” he said as he unbuttoned his jacket and revealed his shoulder holster and what appeared to be a Glock pistol. “If the killer returns, he’s dead meat.”

Nigel came back considerably more relaxed. I got the impression the band smoked a joint during the break. We then recorded his song in one take. Afterwards, he came up to me holding a single sheet of paper. “I think I’ll have you sign a release after all. That wasn’t half bad,” he said.

I accommodated his request, but signed it “Jason N. Daffy,“ as in “Jason not daffy enough to sign his rights away.” Nigel wanted me to stick around for the last song, but I had an appointment with the band’s manager, Kirby Kaufmann, and the band’s attorney, at Kirby’s insistence. So, I turned my back on potential rock & roll immortality to go do my job. Maybe the rock & roll dream finally is out of my blood. Then again, it could also be that I’m enjoying my role as a detective more than at any time since I hung out my shingle.

Kirby Kaufmann presents himself as your stereotypical music industry sleezebag. He’s in his mid 50’s, about 60 pounds overweight, wears a toupee that probably makes squirrels horny, and he has the worst looking facelift in history. His picture should be on the wall of every cosmetic surgery clinic in California with the warning, “See what happens when you settle for the cheapest surgeon in town!”

At first it was hard to imagine that an astute businessman like Terry Tucker would place his future in the hands of an obvious hack like Kaufmann. Then again, they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. Maybe Kaufmann is some kind of rock & roll savant. On the other hand, it is much more likely that Terry selected someone he could control with absolute authority; a puppet that wouldn’t be able to figure out what was going on with the recording contract.

Also present, and at least looking the part, was Attorney Elden Dumanis. At first they were friendly and asked that I express their condolences to the widow. But once I wanted to change the subject to the contract negotiations, it got acrimonious.

Kaufmann said, “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss the contract with you. It’s privileged information.”

“I work for Mrs. Terry Tucker. She inherits all of Terry’s publishing and recording interests,” I said.

     “We work for Doberman’s Stub. As much as we were sorry to see Terry die and all, he’s no longer a member of the band. We’re now accountable to the surviving three members and not to Terry or his widow,” said Kaufmann.

“Do you agree with this?” I asked Dumanis.

“Certainly. We’re talking about privileged information. If we share anything with you we are betraying confidentiality,” he said, then looked at Kaufmann and smiled.

“Then you won’t mind if I call my firm’s Entertainment Law Attorney?” I asked.

They both looked a bit flustered at this suggestion, but agreed. Of course my firm doesn’t have an Entertainment Law Attorney on retainer, so I did the next best thing and called Bernie Liebowitz. I made the call from the desk phone. When Bernie picked up I said, “Attorney Liebowitz, this is Jason Duffy. I need your expert opinion on a contract matter.”

“I take it you’re scamming some unsuspecting schmuck as we speak,” he replied.

“That’s correct. I’m meeting with the manager of Doberman’s Stub, Kirby Kaufmann and their attorney, Elden Dumanis.  Can I put you on speaker phone?” I asked.

“Give me a minute to shove this stick up my backside. OK, I’m ready,” he said.

“Thanks. Here we go,” I said and switched to speaker mode. “Let’s be informal. Bernie, this is Kirby and Elden. Guys, this is Bernie.” After everyone said hello I said, “Bernie, I’m working for Terry Tucker’s widow. I’m sure you read about the murder in the papers.”

“Of course,” Bernie said.

“Kirby and Elden feel they can’t talk with me about the contract they were working on with Terry since, being deceased and all, he’s no longer a member of the band. Now I feel Chelsea Tucker still has a right to be kept informed, particularly since her husband wrote about half of the songs and performed on the new album,” I said.

“Does Chelsea inherit?” Bernie asked.

I replied, “She gets everything. There are no ex-wives, no children, and not even any parents. Chelsea is the sole heir.”

“Then here’s the deal. Kirby and Elden are right. They can tell you as her representative or tell her face-to-face to take a hike and not share a thing about the contract,” Bernie said and the guys lit up like a Christmas tree. “However, if they choose to do that Chelsea can file an injunction against both the band and the record company, delaying the release of the album indefinitely. All of the proceeds of past albums would be put into a trust fund and held without disbursement until the matter is settled. She could even submit the court documents to ASCAP and hold disbursement of royalties from airplay until the case is decided,” Bernie said.

Elden chimed in, “If we fight this thing she could be broke for years.”

“Actually, her father owns a very profitable construction business. She doesn’t need the money,” I said.

Bernie added, “The only one who would profit from a fight is you, Elden. If it went on long enough you could own Kirby’s house.”

“Nobody’s puttin’ up their house over this thing. We just didn’t want to get sued by the band members for disclosing financial information to a non-band member. If the law says we have to talk, then as law abiding citizens we’ll talk till we’re blue in the face,” Kirby said.

“Thanks Bernie,” I said, ready to disconnect.

“I’ll just bill you for a half-hour on this one,” Bernie replied and hung up.

Over the next hour I confirmed two things. First, Terry was completely in charge of all facets of the negotiation with Cerise Records and second, he hired these two clowns based on their level of incompetence. Elden conceded that Terry retained another law firm to do the detail work on the new contract. Fortunately, Elden was a pack rat and had a copy of each version that had been prepared by the firm to date. I made copies of everything, determined their whereabouts at the time of the murder and asked for their opinions on who killed Terry.

Elden said, “I don’t have any idea who did it. But, I can tell you this; the last couple of times we got together he was worried about something.”

“That was just the pressure of getting the CD done and having to negotiate with the Russian Mafia,” said Kirby.

“What?” I asked loudly. “What makes you think Cerise Records is connected with the Russian Mafia?”

     “That’s what Terry called them all the time. Have you been in Koflanovich’s office? It’s like visiting somebody at a maximum security prison,” said Kirby.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“On the outside it looks pretty normal,” he said. “But once you get past the receptionist you’ve got armed guards, attack dogs, a laser security system, hidden cameras and Koflanovich’s office can be instantly turned into a safe room. Fort Knox should be so secure.”

I said, “I know in contract negotiations you usually ask for the sun and settle for the moon. Do either of you know where Terry was hoping to end up.”

They looked at each other, Kirby nodded and Elden said, “He had a Plan A and a Plan B. In Plan A, Cerise gives Doberman’s Stub a new contract starting with the CD they’re finishing now. Like you said before, he knew he had Cerise over a barrel and figured he could get headliner money.”

“What about Plan B?” I asked.

Elden replied, “In Plan B, if and only if Cerise didn’t negotiate in good faith, Terry said something about getting them busted and going free-agent.”

“Do you know what he had on them?” I asked.

“He didn’t talk about that,” Elden replied.

“Was anybody helping him gather information?” I asked.

“I think so,” said Kirby. “He got a call on his cell when I was with him a couple of weeks before the murder. I only heard one side of the conversation, but it sounded like he was getting some dirt on Cerise or Koflanovich and he definitely liked what he was hearing. He told the caller to, ‘keep digging,’ and said ‘good work,’ or something like that.”

“Did he mention a name?” I asked.

“Not that I recall,” he replied. “But there is one other thing you might want to know.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The week before he died, Terry told me he was being followed,” Kirby said.

Chapter 6

I spent all of Wednesday morning pouring over the legalese in four different preliminary versions of the new recording contract. Terry’s initial proposal was, as expected, well beyond where he hoped to end up. The following three proposals gave a strong indication that Terry felt he had a great deal of leverage and was not willing to settle for anything short of a contract befitting a business savvy, headline act. The contracts also revealed a major surprise. In each of the proposals there was a clause allowing the band to fire one of its members.

Jeannine popped into my office with a handful of papers. “I think you’re going to want to look at this right away,” she said. I reviewed Internet printouts as Jeannine gave me a summary. “When Yuliya shifted a significant portion of its assets into a joint venture with the Ukrainian company, they were required to file a report with the SEC naming the officers of the corporation. For the first time I saw the name Ivan Chofsky. I then got into an English language search engine for Tass, one of the major news services in Russia. When I ran Ivan Chofsky, I found several articles on the kidnapping of his daughter,” she said. Jeannine then picked up the stack she had handed me and pulled out one titled,
Gruesome Development on Chofsky
Kidnapping
. “This one tells about how the kidnappers cut the daughter’s pinky off at the knuckle and mailed it to her father.”

“It sure looks like proof positive that Ivan Chofsky is John Koflanovich,” I said. “Excellent work, Jeannine.”

She smiled and gave me a shy look, then said, “There are several more articles on the kidnapping that I haven’t read yet. I clicked through and read headlines and first paragraphs, but none of them looked like they would explain how the case ended.”

“Keep digging,” I said. “It’s important to find out if Chofsky cut a deal with the Russian Mafia to get his daughter back.”

Did you ever have one of those ideas where you know you should ignore it, but you do it anyway? This idea would allow me to go on my usual mid-week date with Kelly and also work on the case. But, that little voice inside of me was screaming, “You’re an idiot if you do this.” I ignored the little voice and called my mother. “Hi, Mom. I have an idea I think you’ll like, but I’m worried that it could turn out badly.”

“What is it dear?” she asked.

“Would you and Dad like to accompany me and my girlfriend to the Padres game tonight. I could get a little more advice from Dad on my case and both of you could meet Kelly,” I said with apprehension.

“That sounds marvelous,” she said enthusiastically.

“I think the two of you would get along well. I’m just worried Dad will say something that will make me regret doing this,” I said.

“I can certainly understand why you would feel that way. It was very insensitive of him to use the word Wop in front of that lovely Italian girl you brought home before the prom,” she said.

“That’s just one of many times he’s offended a friend of mine,” I said.

“He’s actually gotten much better since he retired. He hardly ever uses ethnic slurs anymore, and now he only curses at strangers when he’s driving,” she said with a small measure of pride in her voice.

“If we do this, we should probably meet at the ballpark,” I said.

“That would be best,” she said reassuringly. After a brief pause she added, “Why don’t you sit between your dad and Kelly, and I’ll sit on the other side of her. This way you’ll be able to chat with your dad and I can pull her attention away if he starts to say anything I think would upset you.”

“Great plan, though I still feel like I’m going to regret this,” I said.

“Kelly sounds Irish. What’s her last name?” she asked.

“Kennedy,” I replied.

“Your dad will be thrilled. What could go wrong?” she asked.

“For one, her family is alcoholic,” I said. “I can see the first words out of his mouth being, ‘I’ll bet you’ve had some wild parties on St. Patrick’s Day.”

“What a shame,” she said sympathetically. “Your Uncle Bert in Cleveland is a mess. That’s why he’s never been invited out to visit. And, your third cousin, Matilda, has liver damage from her bad habits. I’ll tell your father about her situation and give him a list of taboo topics. OK?” she asked.

“OK. Let’s meet in front of Gate C at 6:45. I’ll get the tickets. If Kelly has a problem I’ll call back,” I said.

Mom replied, “Relax. We’re going to have a wonderful time.”

I called Kelly and, although two baseball games in one week was definitely not what she had in mind for the evening, she was thrilled that I asked her to finally meet my parents. We’ll see how thrilled she is after the game.

On our drive to the park I said, “Kelly, I know you’ve been very up-front with me about your family and I haven’t said much about mine. I think you’ll get along well with my mother. In fact, she asked that you sit between us, which I think is a great idea.”

     “That’s fine with me,” she said.

“But Dad is another story. As you know, he was a city cop for 30 years,” I said. “When you spend that much time interacting with the dregs of society, you can get very insensitive. Dad tends to say things that I find embarrassing. I’m just worried that he’ll offend you and I’ll spend the next two months wondering if you think I’ll turn out just like him.”

Kelly replied, “There is nothing your father could say or do that could come close to what I’ve experienced with my family.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But, I’m still going to feel embarrassed and wonder what you’re thinking.”

“I’ll tell you what. If your dad says anything that I think will embarrass you, look at me. I’ll give you a wink that means he’s still not in the same league with my family. OK?” she asked.

“OK,” I replied as we pulled into the parking lot.

She said, “All I ask is that you make an effort to have a good time tonight and don’t let your dad get under your skin, or I’ll pinch you.”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“You heard me. And, if I catch you throwing gasoline on the first little spark, you’re going to owe me a month of chick flicks. Do we understand each other?” she asked authoritatively.

“Yes Miss Kennedy,” I replied, like one of her students being taken to task.

I secured the best seats available, which turned out to be quite good since the Padres were ten games out of first place in mid-August. After I did the introductions, Mom insisted Kelly call them Molly and Jim. This was a first. Dad seemed to choose his words carefully, and managed to keep his foot out of his mouth, as we made our way through a concession stand line and to our seats. Mom took charge when we arrived and got everyone situated in the desired spots. Dad was on the aisle, followed by me, Kelly and Mom.

Once we got settled in and Mom engaged Kelly’s attention, Dad asked, “Any new developments in the case?”

Over the first three innings I gave Dad a summary of all that had transpired, except for the gunshots in the parking lot of the Ukrainian Citizen’s Club. I stopped only for the Star Spangled Banner, and when Kelly asked me to hail a soda vendor. After I had finished Dad asked, “What do you think you’ll find in Tecate?”

“I’m convinced that the money to finance Koflanovich came out of Yuliya,” I said. “Do you think it’s possible that the guy with the money might be calling the shots at Cerise?”

“That’s good thinking son,” said Dad. “I guess that matchbook-cover detective school is finally paying off. Did you hear anything at the birthday party that might help confirm your suspicion?”

“Most of the older men were speaking Russian. The
Learn
Russian at Home in your Spare Time
course must have been on another matchbook,” I said. I hadn’t realized my voice had gotten louder until I felt Kelly’s fingers drumming on my leg. When I looked, her fingers moved into the pinch position and tapped my leg twice while she continued a pleasant conversation with my mother. That engineer at Perfect Pitch has nothing on Kelly when it comes to multitasking.

The women took a rest room break in the sixth inning and came back with refreshments, including beers for the guys. Mom said, “Jim, you haven’t had much of a chance to get to know Kelly. She’s really a lovely girl.”

Dad looked over me at the women and replied, “It’s hard to be sociable when your son’s chewing your ear off. Do you like baseball, Kelly?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I don’t watch it on TV, but I love coming out to the ball yard.”

“That’s great. I thought this one,” he said pointing a thumb in my chest, “was going to grow up to think second base meant an extra four-string guitar. But he’s turning out alright.” Dad smiled at me, actually thinking he paid me a compliment.

Kelly could sense that I was getting angry. I opened my mouth to say something, but she beat me to the punch by saying, “Jim, have you ever seen the movie
Steel Magnolias
?”

Dad replied, “Isn’t that a chick flick? I don’t go for them, but I’m sure Molly’s seen it.”

Kelly said, “I just saw it and really enjoyed it. I’m going to talk with Molly about it while you two go back to your shoptalk. OK?”

Dad said, “Sure, you do that.” Then he turned to me, and in a quiet voice said, “Does she drag you off to see those things?”

“Not yet,” I replied.

Over the next couple of innings Dad shared stories about cases he worked that had some similarities. When we got into the top of the ninth inning he said, “I’ve got a confession to make. I made a lot of my cases working closely with Forensics. O’Hara said he’d check with them about your case and meet me at Casey’s Bar. When I got there he was sitting with Dennis Fallon, the Forensics Department night supervisor. As he was giving us the grisly details, O’Malley and McCoy joined us. When he was done, O’Malley, who has a bunch of relatives in Belfast, said the IRA has been using blasting cap bombs for the past 50 years.”

“Dad, I appreciate your help, but, unless the IRA and the Russian Mafia worked out a merger that nobody knows about, I don’t see how that’s gonna help,” I said.

He responded, “Since I retired I’ve been helping your mother with her jigsaw puzzles. It seems like with every puzzle I work on I come across a couple of pieces that look like they don’t belong. Do you think I should throw those pieces out?”

“I see where you’re going, Dad. But I also know that you and your buddies think the world revolves around the Emerald Isle. Thanks for helping out,” I said as the announcer gave us the final score, Giants 3, Padres 1.

When we got to the parking lot and were about to part company, Dad gave me a curious look that I had never seen before. He then gave Kelly a little hug (another first) and said, “You’re welcome to come over for a visit anytime.”

As we walked toward my car Kelly said, “Your mom is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. You’re a lucky guy.”

I replied, “You’re not kidding.” Holding my thumb and forefinger an inch apart I added, “I came this close to a month of
Fried
Green Tomatoes
and
The Bridges of Madison
County
.”

“You got that right,” she replied.

When we found the Acura, I noticed that the black rubber weather strip alongside the driver’s side window was pushed in toward the bottom. It looked like somebody tried using a coat hanger to pop the door lock. “Kelly, would you do me a favor and run over to the vendor by the entrance and pick up a miniature Padres bat for my nephew?” I asked as I handed her a $20 bill.

“Sure,” she replied as she snatched the bill out of my hand. Without asking questions she walked toward the entrance. I don’t know much about car bombs except that they’re usually located either under the driver’s seat, the dashboard, or the hood. As she walked away I carefully ran my hand under the passenger seat and found nothing. I walked around to my side and repeated the procedure until my fingers touched a hard, plastic object. I withdrew my hand as carefully as possible and reached into the console for my flashlight. With both of my knees on the parking lot pavement, I turned on the flashlight and placed it on the floor so that it would illuminate the space under my seat. As I leaned forward to rest my head on the floor, a bead of sweat ran down the side of my face. When my eyes adjusted to the light I let out a loud sigh as I recognized the object to be my nephew’s Darth Vader action figure. While I was down there, I looked under the dash and noticed nothing unusual.

After getting to my feet, and brushing off my knees, I popped the hood and began my final inspection. I noticed a red wire running under the air filter and bent down lower to have a closer look. When I reached the lowest point in my bend, I was sure I had detonated a bomb. My body flinched in one huge spasm and I banged my head hard on the hood as I bolted upright. In a dazed state I heard Kelly say, “I’m so sorry, Jason. I had no idea you’d react like that.”

When my eyes refocused I saw Kelly holding a miniature blue baseball bat and realized she had spanked me on the butt. “I think you had better drive home,” I said as I cradled my head and eased myself into the passenger seat.