Rock & Roll Homicide (19 page)

“Why?” I asked as I crawled over the seat.

“I’m gonna pull up alongside of him,” he said as he rolled down both passenger-side windows, “with my badge in one hand and my gun in the other.”

Two seconds after we made a left turn back onto the street where Nazaroff was parked, the blue Mustang shot out of its parking space like a drag racer at the Bonneville Salt Flats. Shamansky hit the siren and stuck a portable red, flashing light onto the roof while accelerating to maximum speed. Once this little exercise in dexterity was accomplished he got back on the radio and called in our situation. Fortunately, since Del Mar is a very affluent coastal town, the number of homes and street traffic is decidedly less than most sections of San Diego. After about ten blocks we had managed to run six stop signs and a red light without seriously endangering the public. But these types of chases frequently end badly. All it would take is one young mother pushing a baby carriage and we both knew it.

Suddenly a Sheriff’s Department green & white swung out in front of the Mustang from a side street. Instead of turning left, into a head-on course, the green & white turned right and moved in a serpentine fashion, making it impossible for the Mustang to pass. Nazaroff was going too fast to turn onto the street the deputy sheriff had come from and was forced to brake hard. Two blocks up the street another green & white appeared and turned toward the action. He sped to the nearest cross street and swung his vehicle into a roadblock position on the left side of the street. The first green & white understood what he was doing and blocked to the right. It was decision time for the Russian. He could either try to ram the police vehicles and continue the chase or give it up. At that critical moment, two more green & whites turned onto our street and were closing fast on the roadblock. Even if Nazaroff could break through, he would run head-on into the backup units. He chose to slam on his breaks and extend his arms straight up through his sunroof.

Shamansky yanked him out of his seat and across the hood of the Mustang where he was cuffed. The officer in the first vehicle tried reading him his rights, but it became immediately apparent that he didn’t speak a word of English. The interrogation process would be painful.

With all of the unexpected excitement of the morning, I barely made it back to the office in time to meet with Chelsea Tucker. She was sitting in the waiting area when I arrived at 12:58 PM. “I didn’t think you were going to make it,” she said looking at her watch.

We adjourned to my office where she took a seat. I said, “I just came from Koflanovichs’ house and, as the saying goes, I have some good news and some bad news.”

“Me too,” she said flatly.

“Would you like to go first?” I asked.

“No. Since I’m paying for this I might as well hear what you have to say,” she said without humor.

“Koflanovich has been playing fast and loose with the laws of the land, especially the way he came after me and my staff. But, I’m convinced he wasn’t behind Terry’s death,” I said.

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

“I get the impression he felt he was playing a chess match with Terry and was feeling like he was onto a winning strategy on how he could retain Doberman’s Stub at the time of Terry’s murder,” I said.

She retorted, “Did you bother to read the contract? He was over a barrel and he knew it!”

“Terry outfoxed him on the contract, there’s no question about that. But Koflanovich had a team of lawyers work out a strategy where the third CD would be kept from release for three to five years if Terry pulled the trigger on the out clause. I didn’t know Terry personally, but I get the impression his ambition would never have allowed him to sit on the new CD for that length of time. It’s too good, and the band was on too much of a roll,” I said.

“So what’s the good news?” she asked.

“Did you see
California Confidential
last night?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, it’s gotten to be a
can’t miss
show for me,” she said with scorn.

“We caught one of the Russians involved in the shooting a couple of hours ago,” I said hoping this progress would get her off of the negative vibe she was emitting.

She summarized, “So, the extent of the good news is that we no longer have a suspect but that you helped the police with another case. That’s just great. And you did it all before band practice. I’m truly impressed. You probably haven’t even figured out the connection to Terry’s childhood friend.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I’m talking about you trying to take Terry’s place!” she yelled. “I’m talking about you playing a gig with the band instead of solving the murder! I knew it was a mistake to hire a flaky musician to do investigation work! Well I’ve seen all I intend to see!”

“What are you saying, Chelsea?” I asked, expecting that I knew the answer.

“I’m saying: The good news is I hope you had fun pretending to be Terry and the bad news is, you’re fired!” Chelsea then stood up and stormed out of the office.

Chapter 19

Over the next couple of days I weighed my options and sulked a great deal. When I returned Dad's vehicle I brought Kelly along as a buffer to avoid talking about the case. Dad tried to draw me into a discussion over lunch a couple of times, but Kelly, sensing my reticence to talk, did a fine job of putting the spotlight on him.

Mom could tell something was wrong. When I directed Kelly to stay with Dad while I helped Mom clear the lunch dishes, she cornered me in the kitchen and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?” I replied.

“I’m your mother I know these things. The only time you ever volunteer to help with the dishes is when you want to get away from your father. I don’t need to be a detective to figure that out,” she said.

“Can we just drop it? I don’t feel like talking,” I said and returned to the living room. I made up a lame excuse to leave and we were in the Acura and out on the road in just a few minutes.

“Are you going to go to work for Nigel now that you have the time?” Kelly asked.

“Probably,” I replied. “I still feel funny accepting employment from a guy I haven’t eliminated as a suspect in a murder investigation.”

Kelly asked, “Wouldn’t it give you a chance to stay involved in the case?”

“Yes and no,” I said. “I’d remain in contact with the band and could pick up on some things I otherwise wouldn’t know about. But, my attention would be on prospective band members and management personnel and not on the murder investigation.”

“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. Nigel wants you to check out people he’s thinking of employing – right?” she asked.

“That’s correct,” I stated.

“Then why shouldn’t he expect you to do the same thing and check him out thoroughly, as well as the rest of the band and staff, before you decide to go to work for them?” she asked.

“Good point,” I said as I gave her a look that told her I had found my way.

“Does this mean you’re officially finished feeling sorry for yourself?” she asked.

After dropping Kelly off at her condo I swung by the office. Jeannine greeted me and said, “Delbert brought in a package from the same guy who dropped off our computers. It’s on your desk.”

The Terry Tucker dossier was thick and disorganized. I could see that Chofsky did a few things to try to bring order to the file, but it was apparent that Vandevere was a slob.

Chapter 20

Friday morning I met with Cory, who had nothing new or unusual to report on Nigel. He had dinner with two men in business suits, drank lightly and returned home after the meeting. I instructed Cory to stay with him for the time being.

I spent the rest of the morning pouring over Nigel’s financial records.  From what I could ascertain, Nigel has lived beyond his means for the past five years. His spending spree began when he inherited a large property in Northern Ireland from his Aunt, Winona Choate. Nigel leases the property to a private Drug and Alcohol rehab group that is comparable to the Betty Ford Clinic in the US. In spite of the fact that he receives a large monthly rent check, he refinanced the property twice and took out a second mortgage two months ago.

The report gave me the impression Nigel would try to avoid a protracted court battle over the third CD. His best option would be to hire a top negotiator and get the CD to market ASAP. On the one hand, it seemed that killing Terry would throw his future earning potential into serious jeopardy. On the other hand, Terry was much more financially secure and could afford to go to war with Chofsky.

As I was about to leave for lunch, I got a call. “Mr. Duffy, this is Attorney David Stein. I represent Chelsea Tucker. Chelsea was arrested this morning and she asked me to meet with you. Would it be possible to get together later this afternoon?”

“Let me check my calendar,” I replied. After about 30 seconds I said, “I have an opening at 3:00 PM. Can you make it to my office in La Jolla at that time?” Stein paused a few seconds, then asked for the address.

As soon as I got off of the line I called Shamansky, but reached only his voice-mail. At 2:15 he returned my call. “I guess you got the news, Duffy. I hope her bill is paid,” he said with a laugh.

“Last time we talked the DA wasn’t ready to move forward with an arrest. What changed?” I asked.

“Remember the fight Terry and Chelsea had in the restaurant shortly before the murder?” he asked.

“Yeah, it was about how Terry screwed Chelsea’s father and made him look bad in front of his money people,” I replied.

“That’s what we thought, too. But, I went through all of the credit card receipts from the restaurant and found a couple that had the adjacent table. According to the wife, while they were bickering, Chelsea threatened to take him to the cleaners in a divorce and Terry told Chelsea he built a loophole into their prenuptial agreement,” Shamansky said.

“Did you check it out?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied. “I have a copy of the agreement on my desk. The DA’s office took it to two of the top family court judges in San Diego and they both agree that Terry could have divorced Chelsea without surrendering any future earnings, including the CD he was working on at the time of his death. If Terry lived and either of them filed for divorce, Chelsea would have been cut out of royalties from the third CD and, out of future sales from the first two CD’s.”

“I didn’t think that was possible under California law,” I said.

“I didn’t either,” he said, “but the DA says it’s so and that was enough to get an indictment when linked to the fact that she bought the headphones and had opportunity to rig them with the explosives.”

“How is the interrogation of Nazaroff going?” I asked.

“I’ve had cadavers that are more cooperative. I’m getting called into a meeting. I’ll talk with you more tomorrow,” Shamansky said and hung up.

At 3:00 David Stein arrived and was shown into my office by Jeannine. “Thanks for taking the time to see me today,” he said and shook my hand.

“My pleasure,” I said and motioned to the chair across the desk.

“I would like to start by expressing an apology from Chelsea. She said she fired you a couple of days ago and sincerely regrets doing so,” he said. He then reached into his briefcase and produced a document, signed by Chelsea, requesting my return to the case and full disclosure to her attorney. As I returned the document to him, Stein handed me a check for $25,000. “This is a retainer for your services”

“Mr. Stein, I didn’t appreciate being fired, but I can understand why she did it. I’ll be glad to help with the defense,” I said.

“What can you tell me about the case against Chelsea?” he asked. I spent the next half-hour giving him the details that appeared pertinent, as well as the
California Confidential
situation. Stein agreed I could meet with Chelsea. “I already put you on her visitor list. Since we are heading into a long holiday weekend, the bail hearing won’t happen until Tuesday afternoon.”

“Is she going to make bail?” I asked.

“Almost certainly, but we can’t control the court calendar. So, she’ll be a guest at our women’s detention facility until the hearing,” he said.

“How is she holding up?” I asked.

“Not well,” he replied. “She grew up in an affluent home and never saw the inside of a jail cell until today. She’s scared to death,” he said.

“I have a lot of experience with juveniles of the same background in similar situations. I’ll do what I can to help her get through it,” I said. We shook hands and Stein departed.

Chapter 21

I arrived at the San Diego County Women’s Detention facility in Santee at 11:00 AM Saturday morning. We had to use the telephones on either side of a glass divider. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit and her hair was a mess. “I have to get out of here,” she said with arched eyebrows and pleading eyes.

“Your lawyer is the only one who can arrange that. I understand your bail hearing is set for Tuesday,” I said.

“I don’t think I’ll make it in here until Tuesday. One woman threatened to kill me,” she said as a tear rolled down her face.

“Did you hear why the DA’s office moved forward with the arrest?” I inquired.

“I don’t know anything and can’t even think straight now,” she said and sobbed loudly. She was attracting the attention of another inmate who looked like a professional wrestler.

“You’ve got to keep it together if you want to survive in jail,” I said. “If you show fear the others will pick on you all of the time.”

“I can’t help it,” she cried. “What else can I do?”

“Were you ever in a school play?” I asked and Chelsea nodded. “Good. Pretend you’re in a play now and your role is the psycho chick that nobody wants to mess with.”

For the first time in our meeting she smiled. “I couldn’t do that. I don’t know how,” she said.

“Oh, come on. Anybody can do it. Just avoid talking to people whenever you can. If somebody threatens you, try making an animal noise back at them or say that voices are telling you to do bad things,” I said. “Inmates tend to avoid wackos because they’re afraid of the unknown, and nobody knows what a wacko might do.”

“How do you know these things?” she asked.

“I used to work in a mental health facility. Lots of my former clients spent time in jail at one time or another. Trust me, it’ll work. Just remember to act normal when the guards and administrators are around,” I said.

“OK. So why did the DA arrest me?” she asked in a more composed manner.

“The police found a witness from the restaurant where you had your fight shortly before Terry’s death. The witness said you threatened to take Terry to the cleaners in a divorce and he told you about a clause in your prenuptial agreement that would have cut you off from his income if either of you filed for divorce,” I said.

“Damn!” she exclaimed. “I can see how that would look really bad. He and my dad were battling over a TV commercial. They were both putting me in the middle of their fight and I couldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t going to divorce Terry, but I said that to let him know how pissed I was feeling.”

“How did you react to his information about the pre-nup?” I asked.

“It was a surprise and it wasn’t a surprise. Rock stars have tremendous strains placed on their relationships. Terry knew this and he knew I would never be hurting for money, with or without him. When he wrote the pre-nup he was just preparing for when I would say what I said that night. But, you’ve got to believe me, I had nothing to do with his murder!”

“I believe you, Chelsea. I’ve believed in you from the beginning,” I said.

“Then find out who did this and get me out of here. I want to believe in you too, Jason,” she said as a jail matron told us we had five more minutes.

“One last thing,” I said. “I have a theory on what Terry was talking about in his poem he scrawled on the bathroom mirror.”

Chelsea’s eyes grew wide, as if a mystic revelation was forthcoming, “What is it?” she asked.

I replied, “When he said, ‘Back in the time when I was nine,’ he wasn’t referring to being age 9 he was talking about his former band, Caliber 9. I think somebody from the band was helping him. Do you know who that might be?”

“David Cooper,” she said. “Terry always said, if the chips were down and he needed somebody’s help, David would always be there for him. It’s got to be David, the bass player.”

I started to say goodbye as the matron took Chelsea by the arm and led her out the door. When she passed by the lady wrestler, Chelsea made her eyes look very wild and she bared her teeth. The wrestler moved her arm off of the chair armrest and pulled it in to her side in a more protective posture. At that point I had no doubt Chelsea would survive until Tuesday.

I got to the office at 2:15 PM and spent the next three hours pouring over Axel Vandevere’s dossier on Terry’s activities in the month prior to his death. I found three items that I felt were significant or at least surprising. First, I learned that Terry and Chelsea’s father were into something else besides exploring the prospects of a private label record company. This must have been the TV commercial Chelsea mentioned this morning. They met with ad agency writers and producers. Vandevere managed to talk with one of the writers and found that Terry was in the process of selling a Doberman’s Stub song to be used in a custom home commercial. I had to wonder if Terry’s fight with Peter Spivey might have been connected to this deal.

The second item surprisingly contradicted something Chelsea had told me. It seems Terry met with Gavin Tomko, the lead guitarist from Caliber 9, not David Cooper, the bassist. I looked both of them up in Terry’s address book and left voice-mail messages explaining that I was working on Terry’s murder and needed their help.

I thought I had a pretty good handle on what made Terry tick until I came across the third item. I had him pegged as a self-absorbed workaholic who spent his spare time planning his next project, song or business move. Vandevere managed to learn that Terry used Gavin Tomko’s ID to volunteer anonymously at a center for troubled teens in downtown San Diego. Vandevere posed as a concerned parent who questioned Terry’s commitment. The center director had nothing but high praise for Terry and revealed that he had been volunteering for the past five years.

It was date night and since I had been dominating our choice of activities since taking on the murder case, I told Kelly I would take her wherever she wanted to go. “Take me back to Bernie’s club,” she said. “I was jealous watching all of those other couples dancing last weekend. I want you to wear me out.”

“Are you sure you want me to expend all of your energy on the dance floor?” I asked.

“I may save a little something for later if you behave yourself,” she said. “There is one other thing that concerns me.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I liked your friend Glenda and her fiancée. I was disappointed that they didn’t make it to your show. Do you think they may want to join us?” she asked.

I reached Glenda and learned they ducked out on the show because of the fact that GI Jo-Jo would be there and Glenda felt the need to keep her distance from him. She was glad I called back and we arranged to meet for dinner at 7:30 PM and dancing at the Dali Lama to follow.

Dinner conversation was light and fun. Glenda recounted a few stories from UCSD that brought back fond memories, even though I knew Kelly would bust my chops over a few details.

When we got to the Dali Lama I didn’t even have the chance to say hello to Bernie before Kelly had me out on the dance floor, where we stayed for the entire first set. By the time we made our way back to the table I had resolved to get to the gym at least three times a week regardless of the status of the case.

Undoubtedly on a tip from Jasmine, Bernie appeared at our table at the break and attributed the full house to the wonderful publicity he received from last week’s show. “In fact,” he said, “we’ve been packed every night this week.” He quickly excused himself and made his way back to the office.

When the next set started Kelly said, “I’m sure glad I wore my dancing shoes tonight.”

Glenda caught my expression and said, “I have a couple of things I need to tell Jason about his case.” Then, looking at her fiancée asked, “Would you be a dear and take Kelly for a spin while we talk shop?” Tyrone agreed and we were suddenly in an unscheduled meeting.

“Do you really have something for me or did you just happen to notice that I look like I’m ready to keel over?” I asked.

“I was about to return the file yesterday when I decided to take one last look at an adjunct deposition section I hadn’t reviewed. I found something you may want to follow-up on,” she said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It was a deposition from the captain who ran Martin’s unit before the fragged captain took over. In the deposition, Captain Anson Phillips stated that he was certain that Martin acted on behalf of all of the soldiers in the unit in response to gross dereliction of duty on the part of the deceased. Captain Phillips retired two years prior to the incident. A year later he got his son, Daniel, assigned to the unit. According to Captain Phillips, his son was killed disarming ordnance he wasn’t properly trained to handle. The soldiers who served under Phillips took it very hard. Phillips felt Martin’s actions were the only solution after formal complaints failed to correct the situation and two other recruits were severely injured as a result of the C.O.’s laziness and incompetence,” she said.

“Wow,” I said, “I guess there really are two sides to every story. Thanks, Glenda. You probably saved me three days of work.”

“Three days of work and one dance,” she said as Kelly and Tyrone returned from the dance floor. “Break time is over.”

“Why don’t we all dance?” asked Tyrone.

“That’s a great idea,” I said and smiled at Glenda.