Rock & Roll Homicide (18 page)

I was about to tear into Shamansky’s convoluted logic when a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder from behind, and I heard a deep Russian accent say, “There better not be any bootleg CD’s made last Saturday night.”

I turned around to see Vlad “The Impaler” Torhan looming above. “Vladimir, out of jail already? Last time I saw you, you were being dragged out of the Dali Lama in handcuffs by San Diego’s finest.”

“San Diego’s finest? What a joke. They are called pigs because they are all fat and lazy. If not for stun gun I would have introduced them all to emergency medical services,” he said with a sadistic laugh.

I replied, “Where are my manners? Vladimir Torhan, Cerise Records executive, this is police detective Walter Shamansky.”

Torhan made a face like he just stepped in a dog pile. “You appear less portly than your comrades,” Torhan said in a lame attempt to backpedal.

“I get the impression we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other,” Shamansky said with a raised eyebrow.

Before they could continue, a pushy blond woman with a ponytail and a clipboard grabbed Torhan by the arm and said, “You need to go over to the make-up trailer now.” She then turned to me and said, “Who are you?”

Shamansky said, “You don’t recognize the one and only Jason Duffy? How did you ever get a job as a secretary with no eye for detail?”

“I’m an Associate Producer,” she said indignantly to Shamansky.

“National Inquirer eat your heart out,” he replied and walked away.

“I’m Emma Baldridge,” she said and stuck out her hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first. That Torhan person makes me nervous.”

“Don’t worry, he has that effect on everybody,” I said as I shook her hand.

She said in a fast-paced cadence, “I understand you want to go on after Mr. Torhan has concluded his statement. Can I ask what we can expect to hear?”

“We’ve had a couple of new developments since the initial story broke, so I thought I’d bring you up to speed and comment on whatever Torhan has to say,” I said while trying not to match her staccato speech pattern.

“Excellent, excellent, should make for interesting TV,” she said. I wondered how excellent it will be when I tell their viewers what a slipshod operation they’re running.

She did her best to try to persuade me to visit the make-up trailer, but I knew I’d never hear the end of it from Shamansky or his cronies on future cases. I’d rather be the pasty PI than the pansy PI in the eyes of SDPD.

At 7:30 PM the sun was down but the camera lamps lit up the front of Cerise’s building like high noon.  Five minutes later I saw Jennifer Wilde, the field reporter who did the remote from my house, standing in front of the building doing a sound check. A few minutes later she gave some instructions to The Impaler, then stood in place, waiting for her cue.

Emma tapped me on the shoulder and said, “We’ll go to the studio after Torhan finishes, then to commercial. You will be on when the studio sends it back to us.” She handed me an ear monitor. “Put this in your ear and you can hear what Mr. Torhan has to say. Jennifer will nod when you can make your statement.”

“OK,” I replied.

“Here we go,” she said and walked away from me. She pointed at Jennifer and I heard:

“
This is Jennifer Wilde reporting
from in front of Cerise Records
.
Standing
next to me is Vladimir Torhan
,
the
Executive Producer of Doberman’s Stub’s latest
CD
,
which is not yet titled
.
Mr
.
Torhan
,
it is alleged that Cerise Records
is a front for the Russian Mafia
.
How do you respond
?”

“
It is ridiculous
!
John Koflanovich
,
the owner of Cerise Records
,
is
a lawful
,
contributing member of the community
.
The Mafia is a plague on all of
mankind
.
If Mr
.
Koflanovich
…”

As Torhan was making his statement on live TV, two gunmen jumped out from behind a bush carrying AK-47 machine guns and sprayed him with bullets. Torhan was killed immediately. Jennifer Wilde was hit in the left shoulder and right thigh. The impact knocked her over backwards.

Shamansky drew his revolver and got off four shots from behind the communications van. The gunmen reloaded and sprayed the van. I pulled my gun and got off a few rounds as the gunmen jumped into the back of a black pickup truck and sped off. Shamansky shattered the rear window of the pickup with a long shot, but the vehicle continued out of sight. Since we had walked to the Cerise Building from Subway, we had no way of pursuing them and both knew they had gotten away.

After I had spent my rounds I noticed that the cameraman had filmed my firing sequence. I turned to the camera and said:

“
Send the paramedics right away
.
Suspects are fleeing in a late model
,
black Ford F
-
150 pickup truck with
a shattered rear window
,
heading west
on Broadway
.
One of the suspects is
believed to be Boris Schmelnikov of Odessa
,
Ukraine
.
He is approximately six feet
tall
,
190 pounds
,
with white hair combed
back and a mostly black mustache
.
He
has a tattoo of a submarine on
his left bicep
.
He is armed and
very dangerous
.
If you see him please
contact the police immediately
.”

As I finished my statement Emma Baldridge walked up to me, looked in the camera and said:

“
For those of you who don’t
recognize him
,
this is Jason Duffy
.
Mr
.
Duffy
,
you were going to make a
statement after Mr
.
Torhan had finished
.
Would you like to make that statement
now
?”

I gave Emma an incredulous look and said:

“
I think we both need to
see if there’s anything we can do
for Jennifer Wilde
.”

I walked back toward the victims, where Shamansky was kneeling to the side of Jennifer. Apparently, I was still in frame while Emma was engaged in a dialogue with the studio. “Is there anything I can do?” I asked Shamansky.

“Yeah,” he replied, “try keeping a lower profile.”

I took off my shirt and folded it into a triangle. I then unbuttoned the top of Jennifer’s blouse and pressed the shirt into the bleeding wound. I held it in place for about twelve minutes, then the paramedics took over. Shamansky, who had been using his hand to press on the outside of the other entry point, followed my lead and pressed his shirt directly to her thigh wound.

While we were waiting for the paramedics I told Shamansky about Boris Schmelnikov and my conversation with Lt. Sanchenko. “I need to call that in right now,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “The camera was on me after the shooting, so I gave the description of the pickup and Schmelnikov on the air.”

“You what!” he screamed.

“It was better than letting those guys just get away,” I said.

“Bullshit!” he exclaimed. “You’ll have every cowboy on the West Coast out shooting up every black F-150 they see.”

“Oh, come on. We see police actions from helicopters everyday on the news.” I said. “The police chase has overtaken sports as California’s favorite pastime.” Shamansky grumbled, but he knew I was right.

We stayed at the scene for about an hour and talked with the assigned officers. As we were about to return to Subway for our vehicles, Emma Baldridge approached. “That was very heroic of you, Jason. We’ve had hundreds of viewers call in and praise you for administering first aid until the paramedics arrived,” she said.

“I hope you got some kudos for Detective Shamansky, too,” I said.

“Actually several viewers called in to complain about the man who had his hand up poor Jennifer’s skirt,” she said to me, then turned to Shamansky and said, “I’m sure you meant well.”

Shamansky walked in silence. As we neared Subway I asked, “Are you still up for meeting Koflanovich if he doesn’t cancel?”

“Provided I’m not buried in paperwork or getting my ass chewed off for letting a hit go down under my nose,” he said.

“Will this be another of the collateral messes you’ll be assigned?” I inquired.

“Who knows? I could be a crossing guard at SeaWorld by this time tomorrow,” he moaned.

I said, “I’ll call Koflanovich in the morning and let you know if he’s still agreeable to a meeting.”

I arrived at Kelly’s condo at 10:00 PM. She was extremely excited. “I saw the whole thing on television. I recorded it for you. That poor reporter. Is she going to be alright?”

“Slow down,” I replied. “You sound like you just won a chugging contest with Juan Valdez.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Is she still alive?”

“She was alive when the paramedics transported her. I don’t know any more,” I replied.

“I thought I was going to faint when I heard the gunshots and saw them go down. I knew you were standing right there. I didn’t know if they shot you, too,” she said as a tear streamed down her cheek. “I felt so helpless. Then, there you were firing your gun on camera. It was like watching an episode of Law & Order. I was shaking for about a half-hour,” she said with a quivering voice.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I said sympathetically. “Do you mind if I watch the video, or would it be too upsetting?”

“It’s ready to go. Just hit play,” she said. Unfortunately, the footage didn’t capture the gunmen on tape. The cameraman stayed with the victims falling to the ground and held frame until he adjusted to focus on me firing my revolver. It was strange seeing myself talking directly to the camera.

When I refused to humor Emma Baldridge with a statement, Kelly commented, “Good for you, Jason. That bitch just wanted to milk the situation for ratings.”

I was a little embarrassed when the cameraman let Emma go out of focus while she was still talking, in order to get a close-up of me taking off my shirt and compressing Jennifer’s shoulder wound. I was waiting for Kelly to comment as the camera stayed on my shirtless torso a little too long. But before she could say anything I got a sinking feeling as the camera captured Shamansky reaching under Jennifer’s skirt to compress her inner thigh wound. When the camera was on me the audience saw the whole sequence of events as I took off my shirt, folded it, and compressed the wound. The viewers understood what I was doing and could relate. Unfortunately, the camera skipped all of the preliminaries and just focused on Shamansky as he was reaching under Jennifer’s skirt. What I’m sure was the cuff of Shamansky’s white shirt dangling out of his hand, appeared on camera to be Jennifer’s panties hanging down near the top of her knees. I suddenly understood the negative feedback he got from Emma Baldridge and, more importantly, I understood the weeks of hazing he would get from his fellow officers back at the station house. I suddenly wished I hadn’t invited him along for the meeting with Koflanovich tomorrow. If he seemed sullen on the walk back to Subway, he would be unbearable after a morning at Metro.

    “What’s he doing to that poor girl?” Kelly asked with a disgusted tone.

Chapter 18

It was the Tuesday morning before the Labor Day weekend. Kelly woke up with a case of the friskies for yesterday’s hero, then treated me to a delicious breakfast. Jeannine was awed by my role in last night’s
California
Confidential
, and even Delbert Henson insisted on opening and closing my door for me when I arrived at work. I had the feeling I better enjoy the red carpet treatment while it lasted. Soon I’d be meeting Shamansky, coming from a squad room full of ballbusters, and John Koflanovich, who had just lost a key executive/bodyguard and must be feeling particularly vulnerable.

“We got a delivery this morning,” said Delbert.

“Was it UPS this early in the morning?” asked Jeannine.

“No, it was a guy in a taxi with a big, heavy box,” replied Delbert.

“Where is the box now?” I asked.

“I set it down in front of the entrance to our office,” he said.

“Is anything wrong?” asked Jeannine me.

“I think I know what it is, but, just to be on the safe side, why don’t you two stay here until I tell you it’s OK,” I said.

As expected, the box contained my stolen computers. I opened the outer shell and did a cursory inspection. Everything appeared to be in order. I was more concerned with bugs than bombs, considering Koflanovich’s propensity for paranoia and sudden need for my endorsement.

I leaned over the balcony and called, “It’s alright to come up now.” I then called Koflanovich to confirm our appointment. His executive assistant, Svetlana Illich, told me he was making funeral arrangements at the moment but he is definitely expecting us as scheduled.

I then called Shamansky. As much as he enjoys busting my stones, I decided to play it straight and spare him the comic comments that were popping into my head. “Koflanovich is a go. Why don’t we meet in front of his compound at 10:00?”

“Good, I’ll see you there,” he said and hung up before I could reply.

I asked Jeannine to transfer all of the new info we had entered onto the loaners and get both systems operational. I told Delbert I wanted the office door locked when I wasn’t in and he was to stay on the balcony and watch the street. I showed him pictures of the Russians who were at the Dali Lama last Saturday and told him to have Jeannine call 911 if any of them showed up.

At 9:55 AM I reached the Koflanovich compound. This was quite a secluded little fortress, including five, two-story houses on a cul-de-sac. Two occupy corner lots and are undoubtedly inhabited by the security staff. I could see guards looking out of the upstairs and downstairs windows of both corner buildings. A wrought iron gate spanned the street between the corner houses and the next set of houses leading to the mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac. A twenty-foot, white, turreted wall separated the corner houses from the interior houses and anchored the wrought iron gate. Behind the walls, supporting the gate, were two thick steel interlocking walls that ran on tracks. They could be moved by remote control, and once in place, were strengthened by rebar rods that slid into holes in the street. The twenty-foot exterior wall extended all the way around the perimeter of the three interior properties, which had a steep canyon, dropping approximately sixty feet on the other side of the perimeter wall. A sentry was posted in each of the five turrets, which were connected by a walkway that resembled a medieval castle.

As I drove up to the wrought iron gate, two bodyguards approached from either side of my vehicle. Each had a black cloth draped over his right arm. I assumed they were carrying automatic weapons. I rolled down my window and said, “My name is Jason Duffy. I have a ten o’clock appointment with John Koflanovich.”

“Do you have any identification?” asked the bodyguard at the drivers-side window as the other bodyguard inspected the back seat and floor.

“I handed over my private investigator’s license and said, “Detective Shamansky of SDPD will be here any minute. You had better stow the heavy firepower if you want to avoid a hassle.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he said and handed my ID back to me. “Do you want to wait for him?”

“Yes,” I said. The bodyguard motioned for his comrade and handed him his big black bundle. The silent Soviet schlepped the two bundles into the corner house on my right, then returned and crossed his arms with his right hand reaching under his jacket. He no sooner struck up this pose when Shamansky pulled in alongside me, and got the ID routine from bodyguard number one.

Inside the compound six more bodyguards made their presence known. We were shown into a large tiled reception area. At the top of a wide, curved stairway stood Ivana, who caught my eye and waved. I returned the wave and Shamansky asked, “Friend of yours?”

“We danced briefly once, but have never been formally introduced,” I responded.

“You’re full of surprises, Duffy,” he commented as we were led to the rear of the house and into a huge office. Seated behind an immense teak desk sat John Koflanovich in a black business suit.

Koflanovich stood as we approached, gestured to the chairs across from the desk and said, “Welcome, gentlemen. Come in, have a seat.” He made no attempt to shake hands.

I said, “First of all, we’d like to express our condolences. Was Mr. Torhan with you very long?”

“It was a tragedy. Vladimir started working for me a year before I immigrated to the United States. He was a hard worker and a trusted comrade,” he said.

Shamansky asked, “Do you know who killed him?”

“I don’t think there is any question in any of our minds who is behind this,” Koflanovich replied. “Specifically who pulled the trigger? Mr. Duffy gave us a name on the television show, which tells me you know more than I do on that subject.”

I jumped in, “Should we call you Mr. Koflanovich or Mr. Chofsky?”

“You Americans have an expression that I think applies in this situation. Now that the cat is out of the bag, I suppose Chofsky would be fine,” he said.

“The first thing I was hoping we could do today is eliminate you as a suspect in the death of Terry Tucker,” I said. “The only way I know to do that is to talk openly and honestly about Cerise Record’s contract negotiations with Doberman’s Stub, past, present and future. Is that acceptable?”

Chofsky replied, “Of course.”

I continued, “I had a music industry expert review the initial contract. He concluded that, although it was apparent you possess solid business skills, it appeared you didn’t have any experience with the music industry or the nature of how music industry contract law has been interpreted in the courts at the time the original contract was drawn up.”

“That is a fair characterization,” Chofsky replied.

“In Terry Tucker you had one of the most business savvy musicians in the industry. Is it also fair to say that Terry took advantage of your lack of music industry experience to fashion a way out of the contract that would have cost you your most valuable asset?” I asked.

“I understand how you might think this would be a motive for killing him. But, you must understand, I also believed, and continue to believe, that Terry was the most talented member of the band, and without him it is highly likely the band will lose its popularity and eventually fail,” he said.

“It looks like a lose-lose situation for Cerise Records,” I said.

   Chofsky replied, “When it comes to the American court system, there is no such thing as a sure thing. I was prepared to tie Terry up in the courts with a never-ending series of motions and hearings. I have assurances from my legal team that they could delay the release of the third CD for at least three years, and possibly as many as five if Terry tried cutting us out altogether.”

“Would you be willing to allow your attorneys to disclose to the police exactly where everything stood in this process at the time of Terry’s death?” asked Shamansky.

“If that is what it would take to convince you I had nothing to do with Terry’s death, I will give my consent. However, I would need assurances that this information would not appear on the six o’clock news,” he said, then turned to me and added, “or
California Confidential
.”

“You have my word,” said Shamansky. “Our interest here, and I think I speak for Jason as well, is that we spend our time as productively as possible. If we can eliminate you as a suspect we can better focus our efforts on the killer.”

Chofsky wrote on a small notepad. “This is the name of the legal team handling that aspect of the contract work. I will call them later today and give permission for them to speak freely with you.”

“Thank you,” Shamansky said as he took the note.

I asked, “What’s the status of your contract negotiation with Nigel Choate and the rest of the band at this point?”

Chofsky seemed to become a little uncomfortable. After a brief pause he said, “I get the feeling Mr. Choate is working hard to figure out his options and how best to proceed. I believe he is interviewing new management and legal counsel. Have you met the current management team?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It appears Terry hired people he knew he could control.”

“Exactly,” he said with enthusiasm. “After meeting them, can you understand why I was not more rigorous about investigating the clauses they added?”

“I’m sure you felt you were dealing with a couple of idiots, and you were. What you didn’t know was Terry’s prowess in this realm,” I stated.

“How would you describe your relationship with Terry after you realized he pulled a fast one on you?” asked Shamansky.

“I was angry, but not with him; with myself,” he said. “I accept that Americans try to get as much as possible for themselves. I consider myself a good businessman and, as such, will not make the same mistake twice. I would never do anything that could cause me to lose my freedom.”

I replied, “I promised I wouldn’t bring up the difficulties I’ve had recently with your employees. But, suffice it to say I have a hard time believing that last statement of yours in light of my experiences.”

“Mr. Duffy, I appreciate that you are a man of your word. I put my family ahead of all other priorities. I know that you are aware of what happened to my daughter in Odessa,” he said. “Shortly before you came on the scene I dealt with another private investigator who told me that the American Mafia frequently assists the Russian Mafia with American affairs. He also said there were many private investigators in America who worked with the Mafia. The day you duped my receptionist and snuck into the back offices I was very suspicious of you. As soon as I learned you were a private investigator I was certain you were helping the Russian Mafia through the American Mafia. Can you understand how I came to this conclusion?”

“Who was the investigator that told you this?” Shamansky asked.

“Axel Vandevere,” he replied. “I hired him to conduct surveillance on Mr. Tucker after he announced he was in a position to dictate contract terms. Mr. Vandevere prepared a dossier and maintained an activities sheet detailing Mr. Tucker’s movements and meetings.”

“Was Mr. Vandevere following Terry the day he died?” I asked.

“His invoice indicates that he was,” he replied.

“The file Vandevere put together could be very helpful. Will you give it to us?” I asked.

   Chofsky replied, “Of course. However, it is not here at the house. I’ll have a courier bring it around; preferably to your office, Mr. Duffy.”

“Since he already knows the way?” I asked and Chofsky smiled.

“OK, enough with the inside stuff,” said Shamansky, “let’s get down to what happened last night. Why did Schmelnikov blast Torhan on live television?”

“As Mr. Duffy is aware, the Russian Mafia does not like publicity. It was no secret what Mr. Torhan was going to talk about. The television stations ran promotions for the story all day. I just can’t figure out how they knew it would be in front of our building,” he said.

“They didn’t,” I replied. “They probably just staked out the
California Confidential
remote broadcast van and followed it to your building. They got lucky when they realized the shoot would take place outside in an unguarded area.”

“Why did you send Torhan instead of speaking for yourself?” asked Shamansky.

“I honestly thought Vladimir would be safe,” he said choking back emotion. “He was an amateur boxing champion in the Ukraine and one match away from representing his country in the Olympics. They usually don’t take on individuals who have the love of the public behind them. Such moves result in demands for the police or military to enforce the laws more rigorously.”

“I suppose they felt that in the United States anything goes,” I offered.

“I fear that may be true,” he said to me, then he turned and asked Shamansky, “Is anything being done to catch these men?”

“Absolutely. Thanks to Jason, here, we know the identity of one of the gunmen as well as another member of his organization that entered the US in the past week. Every cop in San Diego saw a picture of these men at roll call this morning and the news stations are running the photos as well. It will be very tough for them to walk around in public without getting spotted.”

We could have continued asking him questions for another hour, but Father Mencavich, an Orthodox Catholic priest, arrived to discuss the details of the funeral mass. A pair of bodyguards escorted us to our vehicles. Shamansky’s black Crown Victoria led the way. As we neared the end of the first block I saw a man sitting in a blue Mustang. It was Dimitri Nazaroff, the scout. His vehicle was pointed in the opposite direction and I didn’t have time to stop and block him in. So I continued on as if I didn’t see him and tailed Shamansky until he made a right turn. I then pulled up alongside him and pointed to a convenience store parking lot. We both pulled into parallel parking spots, then I jumped out of Dad’s car and into the Crown Vic. “There’s a Russian Mafia scout parked a block away from Chofsky’s,” I said tensely.

“Blue Mustang, sunglasses, early thirties?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” I said.

Shamansky got on his radio and called in for backup. “Get in back,” he ordered.