Rock & Roll Homicide (11 page)

“Sure did. But I think they got disgusted with his foul language,” he said.

By the time I got to Cory’s apartment it was dark. There were no lights on and no response to my knocks. I called from my cell phone and left a message for him to call me as soon as he got home. I had a very bad feeling as I walked back to my car.

Chapter 12

Shortly after I arrived at the office on Wednesday morning Glenda MacPhearson called. “You need to see this guy’s record right away, but I can’t fax it and people are in and out of my office all the time, so you can’t drop by.”

“I understand,” I said. “Tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”

“I think I should come to your office. I can’t risk being seen around the base with this service record. Are you going to be around this morning?” she asked.

“Absolutely. You’re the best, Glenda,” I said.

“You owe me for this one, buddy,” she said.

Glenda arrived just before 11:00 AM in uniform. “Do I shake hands or salute?” I asked.

“How about a hug?” she replied and we embraced.

“You look great,” I said. “Before we get to Jo-Jo, tell me what’s new in your life.”

“I’m up for captain and the colonel on the base is giving me his full endorsement,” she said with a smile.

“That’s great. Any lucky young man looking to promote you to Mrs.?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing the same gentleman for the past two years,” she announced.

“I hope you brought a picture,” I said. Glenda produced a shot of them both in uniform standing in front of an Army tank. “He looks like Will Smith. Is he a Tank Commander?”

“No, we just thought it would make a good picture. He’s a Lieutenant in the infantry,” she replied. “How about you? Is there a future Mrs. Duffy in the offing?”

“I introduced my girlfriend to my parents last week. That’s a first since high school prom night,” I said.

“It sounds serious for you,” she noted. “OK, enough with playing catch-up. We can do that when you reciprocate for this favor. I have to get back to the base soon.” She pulled out a thick brown file folder with yellow post-it’s sticking out. “I can’t hand this file to you or allow you to make any copies, but, I’ve decided to review it today and I’ve been known to read out loud.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’ve been known to take notes when other people are talking.”

“You should have tried that when we were at UCSD,” she said and I smiled. “Anyway, Joseph Martin rose to the rank of Sergeant over an eight year career with the Army. He enlisted at the age of 18 and received an honorable discharge at age 26.” Glenda flipped to one of the post-it pages. “He received extensive training in demolitions for both military operations and in support of the Army Corps of Engineers.”

I asked, “Do you mean as in blasting caps for excavation?”

“Blasting caps, dynamite, nitroglycerine; everything the Corps might use to move a mountain,” she said.

“I thought he was a communications guy,” I said.

“He was during his first tour. Martin had ‘A’ and ‘C’ Schools in Electronics and Communications when he enlisted. But when he re-upped, he transitioned to Ordnance.”

“Anything significant after he made the move?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said as she flipped to another page marker. “He was on mine sweep detail in Iraq when a very unpopular captain got blown up handling a mine Martin was supposed to have defused. There was an investigation and it was deemed accidental. But I got the impression that the person who wrote the report didn’t agree with the finding.”

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “What did they do with him after the investigation?”

“He returned to the states where he worked on a dam-building project with the Corp of Engineers until he was discharged,” she said.

“Did they use blasting caps?” I asked.

“It doesn’t say in the report, but what do you think?” she replied.

“I think I just found somebody with motive and opportunity. You’ve been a tremendous help, Glenda. When this thing is over we’ll do a double date someplace special, my treat,” I said.

“Last time you told me that we ended up at a Ku Klux Klan rally,” she said sarcastically.

“It was a heavy metal concert. I didn’t know the band was so popular with the skinheads,” I said defensively.

“I think it’s safe to say I was the only African-American girl at the show,” she said.

“Glenda, you’d stand out in a crowd at a beauty pageant,” I said.

“And you’d stand out as a bullshitter at a used car sales convention,” she retorted.

It was Wednesday, date night, and I wasn’t even close to being ready for the reunion concert. I called Kelly and said, "You seemed so pleased that I shared my parents with you on our last date that I thought I’d invite you over to my place tonight and play guitar for you.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m being multi-tasked again?” she asked.

“Because you have the instincts of a palm reader,” I replied. “As part of the investigation I have to play guitar and sing at a club Saturday night. I’m nowhere near ready and I thought I could rely on your brutal honesty to give me some feedback.”

“I know this is a big case for you. If you need the time, just ask. I don’t want to feel like I’m an item on your
To Do
list,” she said.

“Actually, I’ve really missed you and I’m looking forward to telling you about it over dinner. Then if you could put up with my practice session I’ll make it up to you later,” I said.

“Jason, it sounds like fun. Why don’t I pick up some Chinese and meet you at your place at seven?” she asked.

“Sounds like a plan, I’ll see you then,” I said and hung up.

I tried reaching Cory several times throughout the morning, but there was no answer. I took a ride over to his apartment and saw letters sticking out of his mailbox. After trying the doorbell several times I gave up. As I was leaving I saw one of his neighbors and asked if she had seen him. She gave me a very sour expression and said she had not. It was 1:30 PM, so I went to lunch at a local eatery, then returned later and got the same results. Since Cory lived only a few minutes away from Jack Pascal, I decided to take a chance that their recording session had ended on schedule.

I rang Jack’s doorbell and after about a minute Jack appeared. “Jason, this is a surprise,” he said. From his bloodshot eyes and distinctive aroma I could tell he had just smoked some pot.

“I hope I’m not intruding, but I was in the neighborhood and I have a few more questions,” I said.

“No problem at all. I just smoked a bong, would you like one?” he asked.

“No thanks. I have all of these songs I have to learn by Saturday night,” I replied.

“Oh yeah. The pot might loosen you up, but it’s not going to help your memory. Come on in and have a seat,” he said.

“I was hoping we could talk about GI Jo-Jo,” I said.

“Sure, what would you like to know?” he asked.

“How did he get along with Terry?” I inquired.

“About as well as everybody else. By now you know Terry was the band taskmaster. But, somebody has to be the driving force or nothing gets done. GI Jo-Jo probably understood that better than any of us, being that he is ex-military and used to taking orders,” Jack said.

“How about his relationship with Delitah? Did that cause any friction or fights?” I asked.

“Terry wasn’t really interested in her. He never said it, but I always felt Terry thought of her as rock band window dressing; all part of the image. I seriously doubt he ever did anything with her,” he said.

“Tell me about the morning Terry died. When you walked into the studio who was there?” I asked.

“Ian and GI Jo-Jo were working on resetting glass panels in front of the drum set. Vlad the Impaler and Mike the mic man were in the control booth,” he said.

“Mike the mic man?” I asked.

“He’s the sound engineer,” Jack replied.

“Did you see either of them leave the studio while you were waiting for Terry and Nigel?” I asked.

“No. Ian was explaining to Jo-Jo how his changes were going to alter the sound of his drums as they reset the glass. It was only about five or ten minutes from the time I got there to when Nigel arrived. Terry came in just a few minutes later,” he said.

“What happened next?” I asked.

“Terry hit the ceiling when he saw what Ian and GI Jo-Jo were doing. They shouldn’t have been making those changes while we were in the middle of recording a song,” he said.

“How come you didn’t say anything when you saw them,” I inquired.

“I was doing my mantra. Terry and Ian just had this big scene at Denny’s and I was trying to get my head back to a place where I could relate to my bass. I wasn’t really paying attention to them until Terry yelled,” he said.

“Did GI Jo-Jo help Terry with his equipment?” I asked.

“Now that I think about it, yeah. He told Jo-Jo to get his shit out of the car, then lit into Ian for being such a moron,” Jack said.

“Did Terry go off on GI Jo-Jo for helping Ian with the panels?” I asked.

“He started to,” Jack replied, “but when Jo-Jo told him he marked the panel settings before moving them, that’s when Terry sent him to the car.”

“How long was Jo-Jo in the parking lot?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I was back into my mantra, trying to ignore the shit storm happening ten feet away,” he said.

“Its amazing that you guys were able to come together and finish that song with all of the problems that morning,” I commented.

“We would have finished it earlier without all of the dramatics,” he said. “Hey, do you want to crack out the Les Paul again and practice a bit for Saturday night? I hear you’re doing vocals too.”

“One last question,” I said. “Don’t most band members lay down their tracks individually in a recording studio?”

Jack replied, “Terry liked to feel, not just hear, the bass and drums. He also liked the synergy. Occasionally, he’d make one of us do an overdub, but usually it was a group effort. Thank God for Mike the mic man. Most engineers couldn’t handle it.”

I spent the next hour working on three songs. Afterwards I swung back by Cory’s place, but still no sign of him.

I returned to the office at 4:45 PM, and twenty minutes later Cory walked in looking like he just went 12 rounds with Apollo Creed. He had a black eye the size of a pork chop and his elbow was tucked into his ribs, like it was at the hospital. “Where were you? I’ve been worried sick!” I exclaimed.

In a vernacular that was even more profanity-laced than usual, Cory conveyed that he left the hospital because he was angry and wanted to get even with the sons of bitches that laid him out. He was sure it was the Cerise Records people, specifically Vlad Torhan and Boris Melsin. He said they cleared it with their boss on a cell phone before beating him within an inch of his life.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

After he left the hospital, Cory went home and got his laptop and disks with several pictures of the Cerise crew. He then checked into a motel and began sending emails to various media trying to generate interest in a story on the Russian Mafia in San Diego. The only one that bit was
California
Confidential
, a cable TV tabloid journalism show. Cory sold them the story and pictures for $2500.

“Why didn’t you come to me before you did this?” I asked.

He said it was because he knew that I’d talk him out of it. He felt that by getting the story out in the open the Russian Mafia would crawl back under a rock and stop being a threat to me and Jeannine.

“Did they say when they’ll be running the story?” I asked. Cory didn’t know, but he was pretty sure it would be aired this week.

As I walked Jeannine home I explained to her what Cory had done and I thoroughly inspected her deadbolt and window locks when we arrived at her apartment. She seemed a bit anxious about the prospects of our Russian adversaries getting really pissed off and readily agreed to the precautionary suggestions I made about not answering the door, screening her calls and not leaving the apartment on her own.

When I returned to the office I called Kelly and arranged to meet her a couple of blocks from my place, so that the cars would not be a telltale sign that we were in. I met her at the rendezvous spot just before 7:00 PM and we walked to my house with the Chinese food she had picked up.

Dinner was a little tense as I explained about the bomb Cory had dropped a couple of hours earlier. At 7:30 PM we tuned in to
California
Confidential
. The plan was that if the Russian Mafia story ran we would continue with our original idea for the evening, except we would do it by the light of a single candle and without plugging in the electric guitar. As it turned out they didn’t run the story and Kelly really enjoyed hearing me perform for her. I was definitely amped-up for the performance, knowing that I could be on the Russian Mafia’s most wanted list any day. Kelly’s adrenaline was also pumping since, by default, she was thrust into this high-risk situation. That night, our lovemaking was wilder than ever. I was wrong when I thought a night at home with the little woman was going to mean getting a good night’s sleep.

Chapter 13

When I arrived at the office on Thursday morning I reviewed the items Jeannine highlighted from the Russian newspaper articles Uri had translated. She listened to the tapes he had provided and noted items she thought could pertain to the case. The resolution of the kidnapping was very conspicuous by its absence. Tass had gone to great lengths to describe in detail the circumstances of the abduction, bio’s on the family, the suspicion of Mafia involvement and practically a day-by-day report on developments leading up to the rescue. It seemed incomprehensible that the largest news service in Russia would follow a case that closely and never mention the outcome. I interpreted this as an inference that Ivan Chofsky had cut a deal with the kidnappers. If the police had engineered the recovery, it’s hard to imagine that they wouldn’t celebrate their success in the paper and be hailed as heroes. But I realized that we were dealing with a very different culture.

Uri’s translation gave me the name of the Odessa police lieutenant who was the primary on the case. I called Uri and said, “Thank you for the translation of the newspaper articles, they were very enlightening.”

“Your welcome, my friend,” he replied.

“I’m afraid I have one more favor to ask of you,” I stated.

“Ask away, I am still in your debt,” he said.

“The translation mentions the name of a policeman in Odessa, a Lieutenant Victor Sanchenko. It would be extremely helpful to me if you had any contacts in Odessa who could arrange a conversation with the lieutenant,” I said.

There was silence on the other end of the phone for about twenty seconds, then Uri said, “I have an acquaintance named Igor Shmalko who has family in Odessa. I’m not sure if they have any influence with the police. I don’t know if Igor would be willing to try to make the arrangement. And, I am skeptical that the lieutenant would be willing to tell an American what would not be allowed to be printed in the national press. For you, my friend, I will try, but don’t expect too much,”

“Thank you. Now I want to tell you about something you’ll probably hear about in the next few days,” I said. Over the next ten minutes I told him about what would be coming out on
California Confidential
. We agreed that few people took the show seriously, but that it would definitely cause a stir in the Russian community, and that it was quite possible the Mafia might seek out those responsible for the story. “Under these circumstances, if you feel that bringing in Mr. Shmalko could endanger him or his family, then I don’t expect you to do it.”

“Igor is not an old friend and certainly not a confidant, but I know exactly how he feels about the Mafia. He would perceive helping you as a way of striking back at the Mafia. That would be the only way he would consent to providing assistance. But, even if he refuses to get involved, he would respect what we are doing and wish us well in our endeavors,” Uri said.

Nigel called just before noon. “Jason, how are the songs coming?” he asked.

“They’re coming,” I replied. “Another month and I’ll definitely be ready.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I was thinking it would really help if we were able to practice our set at your friend’s club on Saturday afternoon. Do you think you can make it happen?” he asked.

“Actually, I think it’s a great idea. What I’d like to do today is meet with GI Jo-Jo at the club to decide who's bringing what equipment, and put together a plan for equipment changes before and after your set. Since Tsunami Rush is no longer a working band we don’t own a PA system anymore,” I said.

“We have a club size PA and, if you like, you can use our amps, mics, lights and everything,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure Michael Marinangeli, our lead guitarist, will want to use his own stuff, but I think the rest of us would appreciate the upgrade. I’ll check with the guys before meeting with GI Jo-Jo,” I said.

Nigel said, “I’ll ring up GI Jo-Jo and tell him to give you his full cooperation.”

“Great. Can you ask him to call me right away?” I asked.

“Done,” he said. “Also, I’m starting to talk with some new management candidates next week. When I get it down to the last two or three possibilities I’d like bios. If you’re finished working for Chelsea by then can you help us out?” he asked.

“Sure. When I finish up, I’m all yours,” I replied.

GI Jo-Jo called twenty minutes later. “Jason Duffy,” I said.

“It’s Jo-Jo Martin from Doberman’s Stub. Nigel Choate asked me to call,” he said.

I replied, “We met at the recording studio when I filled in on rhythm guitar,” I said.

“I remember,” he said. “You’re the one with all the questions.”

“That’s me,” I said.

“I don’t mind getting together to figure out the set up for Saturday night, but I’m not answering any more of your questions,” he said.

“Believe it or not, rhythm guitar isn’t how I make my living,” I said.

“Then I won’t bother to tell you not to quit your day job,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

“I’m a private investigator working on Terry’s murder. I’m going to need to ask you more questions if I’m going to solve the case,” I said.

“I told you I’m not answering any more questions and I don’t want you bothering Delitah anymore either,” Jo-Jo said.

“Don’t you want Terry’s murderer caught?” I asked.

“That’s a job for the police. I talked to them and we’re done. I don’t need to discuss anything with you except technical questions about our gig,” he said sternly.

“Nigel’s asked me to do some work for the band. He’s anxious for me to solve the case so I can get started. When I spoke with him a half-hour ago he told me he was going to ask you to give me your full cooperation. Do I need to call him back and tell him that’s not happening?” I asked.

There was silence for about a minute. “This is bullshit!” he exclaimed. “You’re telling me you’re going to call my boss and tell on me if I don’t play ball with you?”

“I’ll tell you what’s bullshit,” I retorted. “The boss who gave you your job got murdered, but instead of you helping to find out who did it, you’re doing what you can to impede the investigation.”

“Fuck you!” he exclaimed.

“Then here’s how it’s going to go. If you don’t agree to meet me and answer all of my questions honestly, I call Nigel and tell him I can’t work with you. I’ll tell him your behavior has led me to believe you’re a suspect in the murder and that I feel the band should immediately put as much distance between you and them as possible. What’s it going to be?” I asked.

Again GI Jo-Jo went silent. I knew it was a risk letting him know he was a suspect, but since I was already looking over my shoulder for the Russians, what’s one more asshole who hates my guts. “I didn’t kill Terry,” he said quietly.

“Then step up to the plate and help find his murderer,” I said. Again more silence. After thirty seconds I added, “You can always collect unemployment.”

“I’m into Doberman’s sound and I don’t want to lose the gig, so I’ll talk to you. But when this thing is over I’m gonna kick your ass,” he threatened.

“When this thing is over I’m going to be advising Nigel on personnel changes. Do you think that’s a good idea?” I asked.

“Fuck you. Where do you want to meet?” he asked.

“Dali Lama Yo Mama at 5:00 PM this afternoon,” I said and hung up.

After my conversation I was too hyper to review Terry’s bills and phone charges. I took a walk and thought about how to proceed. By the time I had calmed down I found myself in front of Schlotsky’s Deli, so I stopped in for a turkey club sandwich. When I returned to the office I was surprised to see Kyle Kramer, Derek Schmidt and Michael Marinangeli, a.k.a. Tsunami Rush, in my reception room. “We’ve come to kidnap you,” Kyle said.

It was obvious from Jeannine’s hundred-watt grin that the boys introduced themselves. “We all took a couple of vacation days. If we spend some time in Alpine we actually might not embarrass ourselves on Saturday night,” Derek said.

“A couple of nights in Alpine sounds great, but I can’t leave until tonight,” I said.

“Just reschedule,” Kyle said enthusiastically. “We did it.”

I replied, “I have a meeting at Bernie’s at 5:00 PM today to work out what equipment we’re using. Also, how the changes for the Doberman set will go down. And, I’ve been asked by Nigel Choate to get Bernie to agree to let them practice with me on Saturday afternoon. They don’t want me to embarrass them either.”

“Fine, we’ll come with you just to make sure you don’t bail on us,” Michael said. He’s been upset with me ever since Tsunami Rush broke up. It was his idea to form the band originally and he is the only one of us still working as a musician. He’s been through two groups over the past three years and is in the process of getting a third one off of the ground.

Over the next half-hour I explained about my encounters with the Russians as well as what they did to Cory and Jeannine. I told them that as much as I needed practice in Alpine, I also needed a safe place to keep Kelly once the
California Confidential
story broke.

Derek called his aunt and got the OK for Kelly and Jeannine to accompany the band for a couple of spend-the-nights. When he got off of the phone he turned to Michael Marinangeli and exclaimed, “We’re going to the mattresses, Pizon!”

“Do you guys think you could give me a couple of hours to get a few things done before going to Bernie’s?” I asked.

“We have a better idea,” Derek said, and the three of them walked out of my office. Five minutes later they returned with two acoustic guitars, a practice drum pad and an acoustic bass. We used to practice with this equipment on nights when we stayed in LA motels to avoid hassles with the police.

      Before we started I called Kelly and got her to agree to the Alpine overnight. At first she seemed reluctant because she was getting her classroom ready for the new school year. It was then that I told her about the pictures in Yuliya’s computer. That did the trick. “I want to come back with you tomorrow and work on my classroom,” she said.

“I’ll make you a deal. If the
California Confidential
story doesn’t break tonight, I’ll bring you back tomorrow. If it does, then you stay with the guys and Jeannine in Alpine, OK?” I asked. She agreed. I guess she saw enough chaotic violence when she lived with her family, and welcomed a safe haven.

At 5:05 PM the Tsunami gang descended on the Dali Lama Yo Mama. GI Jo-Jo had not yet arrived. I spotted Jasmine and waved her over to our table. "Do you recognize these derelicts?” I asked her, nodding my head toward my crew.

“Are you kidding? I heard this is the headline act at what’s gonna be the hottest club in town this Saturday night,” she said with a cheerleader’s enthusiasm.

“Word isn’t leaking out, is it?” I asked.

“Bernie swore us to secrecy. But the employees have been strongly urging their friends to see this legendary club band come out of retirement for one last gig at their favorite venue,” she said.

“Do you mean it?” Kyle asked with wide eyes.

“Oh yeah,” she replied. “We’ve been laying the bullshit on extra thick to make sure our best friends don’t miss those Dobie dudes.”

“Dobie dudes?” Michael asked with a face that looked like he just bit into a pickle.

“But we were one of the best club bands in San Diego,” I said defensively.

“And I’m up for cocktail waitress of the year,” she said sarcastically. “You boys are sweet. Come sit in my section,” she said and led us to a table closer to the bar. “I’ll tell Bernie you’re here?”

Five minutes later Bernie was standing at our table. “What a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you guys until Saturday. Kyle, congratulations,” he said and extended his hand for a shake. “I heard you got married and have a baby girl.”

Kyle beamed and looked at his fellow band mates; very impressed that Bernie had kept up. “Thanks Bernie,” he said with a smile, “I’ll bring a picture on Saturday.”

“A picture. You better bring your better half on Saturday,” he said, then turned to Derek. “Mr. Schmidt, did I hear you invented a new software product?"

“Just one of the team members to make it happen,” Derek said.

“He’s being modest,” Kyle chimed in. “It was his idea and he was in charge of the team.”

“Very impressive,” Bernie said. “Promise me you’ll come by the club sometime when it’s less hectic and tell me all about it.”

“I’ll be glad to, Bernie. I didn’t realize you started opening for happy hour. I’ll stop by soon,” Derek said.

“Wonderful,” Bernie said then turned to Michael. “Now if only I could think of something nice to say about this guy.” Bernie stroked his chin and looked at all of us. “Did you guys know that Michael has been in two bands since Tsunami Rush, but he’s never called his old friend Bernie to book a gig at the Dali Lama?”

Michael replied, “C’mon Bernie, you know I was never a band manager. I just make the music; I don’t make the deals.”

“Are you working now?” he asked.

“I’m just starting a new band,” he said. “I’ll be glad to have the manager send you a demo when we’re ready to perform.”

“I’m glad you stayed in the business, Michael. You have a lot of talent. How could San Diego do without its angel of the sea?” he asked.

“Angel of the sea?” asked Kyle.

“That’s what Marinangeli means in Italian,” replied Derek.

We were all enjoying Bernie’s company when GI Jo-Jo walked in the door. I hadn’t yet cleared the Saturday afternoon practice session. “Bernie, Doberman’s sound guy just got here. Can I introduce you?” I asked.

“Sure, I’ll ask Jasmine to bring him over to the table,” he said.

“How about if we take a walk over and meet him at the bar? I’ll stop by your office before we leave and explain,” I said. While we made our way through the cocktail tables Bernie gave me the go ahead for the Saturday practice session. As we approached, GI Jo-Jo was taking his first sip of a full glass of beer. He spotted us when we were about ten feet away. “Hi Jo-Jo, this is Bernie Liebowitz, the club owner. Bernie, Jo-Jo Martin, the sound man for Doberman’s Stub.” They shook hands, but Jo-Jo made no effort to shake mine.