Rock & Roll Homicide (22 page)

At 5:00 PM I walked into Casey’s Bar and spotted Dad with three of his fellow Friendly Sons of St. Patrick. I recognized O’Malley from the occasional backyard barbecue, but had never seen the other two. “Have a seat, son,” Dad said as I approached. “You remember Lieutenant O’Malley.”

I extended my hand to O’Malley and said, “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Glad to be of service,” he replied.

“Son, these are Detectives Seamus Fallon and Brendan Gillhouly. Guys, this is my son, Jason,” Dad said with the smile of a proud father.

After the handshakes Fallon said, “We know you’re here to discuss a case so we’ll take our leave. It was a pleasure meeting you.” Gillhouly agreed and they walked to the far end of the bar where a small group was watching an East Coast baseball game on television.

“So Jason,” asked O’Malley, “how can I help you?”

I spent the next five minutes describing what I had seen in Nigel’s office. When I told him about the inscription on the picture frame, Dad chimed in, “Those bigoted bastards.”

O’Malley asked, “Any idea what town they were in?”

“I think I saw a Portadown sign. Does that sound familiar?” I asked.

“That’s where the Orangemen cause the most trouble every year,” O’Malley said.

“Give Jason a little background,” Dad said to O’Malley.

“The Orangemen are members of the Order of Orange. They formed as a terrorist organization back in the 1700’s. Every year they hold parades all over Northern Ireland to celebrate a massacre led by William of Orange at the Battle of Boyne,” he said.

“Are you telling me that the government allows a terrorist organization to exist and hold parades?” I asked.

O’Malley replied, “The Orangemen try to put their own spin control on history by saying they formed as a counter-terrorism group, and that today they are just a fraternal organization. But, you ask any Catholic living in Northern Ireland about the Orangemen and every single one will have a story about how Orangemen terrorist activities have affected at least one of their family members or ancestors. The Brits have been using them to do their dirty deeds for a couple of centuries. But this is the first time I’ve heard of them killing a Catholic on American soil.”

     “The victim wasn’t a Catholic. I don’t think it was any kind of political statement. The motive was money,” I said.

Dad interjected, “But the method had Northern Ireland written all over it.”

“Tell me about the bomb,” O’Malley said.

“It was concealed inside an expensive set of headphones. The ear pads were packed with BBs, and each contained a blasting cap. It was detonated when the victim turned on his audio recorder,” I said.

Dad said, “It sounds like the perp might have been nearby or had a friend or family member potentially in the blast zone.”

“I agree,” said O’Malley.

“Why?” I asked.

O’Malley said, “Blasting caps and shrapnel have been commonplace bomb ingredients for a hundred years. But, most of the time it involves a blasting cap inside a jar of nails or screws. Lots of bang for the buck and it leaves nasty looking corpses. The bomb you described could only have pushed the BBs into the vic. Maybe a couple of small pieces of plastic get blown away from the headphones, but probably not enough to seriously hurt anybody else.”

O’Malley said, “Blasting caps are everywhere and not difficult to come by. They cause a small explosion that triggers a more potent explosion when positioned next to something like TNT. A blasting cap explosion is definitely powerful enough to push shrapnel into a human being. I’d call the device you described a cheap clean bomb.”

With business out of the way, Dad invited the other cops to join us and insisted on bringing up the fact that I am dating a Kennedy. I suffered through about fifteen minutes of cop probes before I was able to change the subject. “Do any of you know a PI named Axel Vandevere?” I asked.

Fallon replied, “I met him on a case a couple of years ago. What do you want to know?”

“He did some work for a guy I don’t trust. I’m wondering what your take is on him,” I said.

Fallon took a swallow of beer and said, “I asked around about him when I was on the case. I heard he used to work for Interpol until he drank himself out of a job. My experience told me it was probably an accurate assessment. The guy is smart and picks up on little details one day, then drinks on the job the next. If you’re lucky enough to catch him when he isn’t either drunk or hung over you’ll probably be impressed.”

On the way home I called Axel Vandevere and arranged to meet him at his office tomorrow morning. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not happy about having to share information with another private investigator.

Chapter 24

At 9:00 AM I arrived at the office of Axel Vandevere Investigations in a crumbling strip mall on the outskirts of an industrial park in National City. Vandevere sat at his desk smoking a cigarette. He wore a gray hat with a black band that looked like it was popular during the thirties. “You must be Duffy,” he said.

“That’s right, Jason Duffy. Thanks for seeing me,” I said and looked at the torn plastic chair on the other side of his desk.

“Have a seat,” he said as he waved at the chair with his hand.

“Koflanovich gave me the file on Terry Tucker and promised your full cooperation on what Nigel Choate has been up to,” I said.

“Personally, I think a PI should do his own homework,” he said, then took a huge drag on his cigarette.

“We’re all entitled to our opinions, but your boss says he wants you to answer my questions, so I suggest you cooperate,” I said leaning forward.

“Vandevere blew a plume of smoke toward me and replied, “Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll let you know if you’re going in the right direction.”

I replied, “Did your boss tell you that I’m working with SDPD on this and he faces deportation if I don’t get full cooperation?”

Vandevere said, “And you think I’m such good pals with Koflanovich that I’ll do whatever you say?”

I replied, “I think Koflanovich is the richest client you’ve seen in quite a few years and your income will go right back in the toilet the minute he gets deported.”

“I like a man who keeps an eye on the bottom line,” he said with a nicotine-stained smile. “OK, I don’t want to sit here with you all day. Get on with your questions,” he said.

“How long have you been following Nigel Choate?” I asked.

“Since Tucker’s funeral,” he replied.

“If you want this to go quickly, tell me the most significant things you’ve observed,” I said. “What about his friends from Ireland?”

“Those guys are nuts. Their MO is to go to an Irish bar and start fights. Sometimes they dress in green and act like they’re buddy-buddy with the locals, then suggest another Irish bar and beat the snot out of their new friend or friends once they get them outside. Other times they’d walk into near empty bars wearing orange sashes and pick fights,” he said.

“Did Nigel get recognized?” I asked.

“No. He always wore a wig and a fake beard,” he said.

“Any other mischief besides the beatings?” I asked.

“O’Toole’s Bar in Clairemont keeps a two-tier party bus in their parking lot for parades and ballgames. I saw those hooligans blow it up a couple of weekends ago,” he said.

“Did you see what they used to blow it up?” I asked hoping it involved a blasting cap.

He replied, “A fuse. They just took off the gas cap, shoved a fuse in, lit it, then drove to a spot across a canyon from the lot, where they watched it explode and burn. They laughed and carried on so loudly while it was going up in flames that the bar patrons heard them over the roar of the fire and tried racing around the canyon to get them. But, by the time they got there all they found was an empty parking lot with the words ‘Orangemen Rule’ spray painted in orange on the pavement.”

“Do you know their names?” I asked.

Vandevere stood up and walked to a stack of file folders. He removed one sheet and handed it to me. The names Warren Bates, Devin Billingsly and Theodore Pine were typed neatly under the heading: Choate Associates of Interest. “Any chance you ran a rap sheet on these guys?” I asked.

“You may find this hard to believe, but the cops don’t run errands for me,” he said sarcastically.

“Let’s talk about the day Terry Tucker was killed. Were you at Denny’s that morning?” I asked.

“I was,” he said.

“Tell me what you saw after Terry left,” I said.

“He left Denny’s alone and went to the recording studio,” he said.

“What about his stop at 7/Eleven?” I asked.

“Is this a trick question?” he asked.

“You didn’t follow him, did you?” I asked.

“I may have had an errand to run. I don’t have a staff like some PI’s,” he said with a squint of the eyes.

He probably made a liquor store run and I didn’t see a point in trying to get him to admit it. “Were all of the band members at the studio when you arrived?”

“Yes. Terry was walking in the door when I got there. He left his trunk open. About five minutes later Joseph Martin came out and made two trips carrying Terry’s belongings into the studio,” he said.

“Did Martin grab and carry or did he take some time at Terry’s trunk?” I asked.

“Grab and carry. No chance he could have swapped headphones at that time. He was empty-handed when he approached and he was moving at a pretty good clip. No dallying whatsoever,” he said.

“Were you in the lot when the explosion happened?” I asked.

“Actually, I was in the adjacent lot, but I was watching the building when it happened. The band must have just taken a break because I saw the drummer go to the trunk of his car to take a snort of hooch. Choate walked out right afterwards, then BOOM!” he said with sudden emphasis.

“What did they do?” I asked.

He replied, “Davis hit the pavement behind his car like he was afraid there would be a second explosion. Choate immediately ran back into the building.”

“One more question. Do you know where the hooligans stay when they’re in town?” I asked.

“Occasionally they stay with Choate, but most of the time they stay with a friend at a dump in Southeast San Diego,” he said and gave me the address.

“Do you have a name for the friend?” I asked.

“Desmond Thompson,” he replied.

I thanked him for his time and let him know I would be back in touch.

On my way to the courthouse I gave Dad a call and asked if he could check out the names Vandevere had given me. He said he’d be happy to help bring down the Orangemen.

I arrived outside the courtroom at 1:15 PM, just as a bailiff was posting the order in which the cases would be heard. Chelsea was listed third, which told me I had at least forty-five minutes before bail would be set. Shamansky arrived at 1:25 PM, just moments before the grand entrance of Reginald Rutherford, a legend among California criminal attorneys. Chelsea’s father was at his side. Chelsea’s attorney, David Stein, had apparently been demoted to the second string once the superstar was brought on board and walked three steps behind Rutherford.

“Chelsea’s up third,” I said to Shamansky, “can I talk to you in the juror’s lounge?”

Shamansky nodded and we walked out of earshot. “What’s on your mind, Duffy?” he asked.

I spent the next ten minutes giving him a synopsis of why I suspected Nigel. When I finished he said, “You have a new suspect every time I see you.”

“Chelsea’s already rich,” I said. “Nigel’s fortunes go in the dumper if Terry goes to war with Cerise. Chofsky was doing all he could to fuel the fires of dissent. And, Nigel hangs with a violent gang of hooligans.”

“I already have my suspect right where I want her,” he said and folded his arms.

I said, “So let’s see. Right now you have a suspect with a sparkling record being defended by a lawyer who’s never lost a case. On the other hand, there’s Nigel, who’s running out of money, has motive, opportunity and a posse that likes to blow things up. Why not hedge your bets?”

“Let’s see which way the judge goes,” he said and walked back toward the courtroom.

When the judge called the case, Reginald Rutherford entered a plea of not guilty. He said, “Judge Stafford, this is a classic case of what is wrong with police profiling. The only reason this poor woman spent the past four days in jail is because SDPD chose to cut corners. Mrs. Tucker has never been arrested. She had no financial motive. Her father is very wealthy and she will never want for money. The prosecution has built a case on the fact that she inherits life insurance and had an argument with her husband shortly before his death.” He then spread his arms, looked at the gallery and added, “Will all of you married people who have never had an argument with your spouse please raise your hand?”

There was much laughter and no show of hands. The judge banged his gavel. “Quiet!” he said.

Rutherford added, “I move to dismiss the charges.”

The judge replied, “I put a little more faith in the police and district attorney’s office than you, Mr. Rutherford. Motion denied. However, I expect to see a more compelling case when we go to trial”

Rutherford then asked that Chelsea be released on her own recognizance.

“In lieu of Mrs. Tucker’s record and ties to the community, I am setting bail at $10,000,” Judge Stafford said.

The prosecutor, Jeffrey Del Rio jumped to his feet, “Judge, this woman is a millionaire. She could easily jump bail and live comfortably anywhere in the world.”

“My ruling stands, Mr. Del Rio. You will be notified of the court date. I’m sure I will be hearing motions in the interim. Good day gentlemen, Mrs. Tucker.”

Shamansky looked like he had been punched in the gut. I’m glad I gave him the alternative before the hearing. I don’t think he would have talked to me afterwards. I planned on having a chat with Chelsea after the hearing, but Rutherford escorted her past the press and was intent on controlling every second while she was in the proximity of the courthouse. 

My cell phone rang as I was getting into my car. “Jason Duffy,” I said.

“This is David Cooper returning your call,” he said. After a mere three messages Terry’s old band mate was finally responding.

“Thanks for getting back to me. Chelsea hired me to find out who killed Terry and I understand you were helping him in the weeks before his death. I was hoping you’d talk with me about what you were working on,” I said.

“The only reason I’m talking to you is because of Chelsea being arrested. I’m not going to talk about what I did for Terry on the phone. If you want to meet me near my house I’ll fill you in,” he said.

“No problem. Where do you live?” I asked

“Morro Bay,” he replied

“That’s 300 miles from here!” I exclaimed. “Can’t we just talk now?”

“I have a good reason for not wanting to talk on the phone. What I have to say could help Chelsea. If you want to hear it you’ll have to cruise up the coast. What’s it going to be?” David asked.

“How long will it take me to get there?” I asked.

“If you leave now you’ll beat rush hour and should get here in five to six hours. I’m going to have dinner at Carla’s Country Kitchen at 7:00 PM. It’s a block east of Morro Rock, you can’t miss it. Be in the parking lot around 7:45. Come alone and don’t come in the restaurant. Wait for me to come out. I’ll be wearing a black MTV sweatshirt. After dinner I’ll take a walk on the beach. Catch up to me after you’re sure you’re not being followed. Then we’ll talk,” he said.

“Should we set up a password or a secret handshake?” I asked, more than a little annoyed at the hoops he was making me jump through.

“Do you want to do this or not?” he asked.

“I’ll be there,” I replied and hung up.

I spotted Morro Rock at 7:25 PM from about ten miles away. It sits just barely off of the shoreline and is over 700 feet tall. I did a report on it in junior high. It’s actually an extinct volcano, although it looks more like a giant boulder. I rolled into the parking lot of Carla’s Country Kitchen at 7:40 and was looking for a nearby gas station to use the restroom when Cooper appeared in the doorway. He was about my age, had long dirty blond hair and a beard.

I gave him a head start, then followed. I took off the dress shoes and socks I wore to court and jogged on the beach until I caught up with him. “OK, I’m here. Why the cloak and dagger?” I asked.

“Hand me your cell phone,” he said.

I did so and he had it apart in three seconds. He inspected the insides for about a minute, then returned it to me and said, “Leave it off.” He then took something out of his pocket that was just a bit larger than an ink pen and passed it over my body.

“You’re not in the CIA are you?” I asked.

“I’m in the computer security business,” he said.

“In other words you’re a hacker,” I said.

“I’ve had a few government agencies keeping close tabs on me. I’m sure my phone is bugged and we’re probably being watched. But their technology isn’t developed to the point where they can pick us up over the sound of the waves crashing on the beach. The rock gives them fits too,” he said and smiled.

“What were you doing for Terry?” I asked.

“Research,” he said. “At first he had me checking out John Koflanovich, a.k.a. Ivan Chofsky.”

“Was he using Chofsky’s past as leverage in the contract negotiations?” I asked.

“Terry wasn’t like that. Most people he worked with saw him as a Type A personality with a maniacal drive to succeed. What people don’t know is that he really was a good person. He did all kinds of charity work and didn’t take advantage of other people’s problems. He had me checking out Chofsky because he had the same suspicions you blabbed to that horrible television show,” he said.

“I didn’t blab to anyone. One of my employees gave them that story after two of Chofsky’s thugs put him in the hospital. The day Vlad Torhan was shot I was going on the air to tell the public how
California
Confidential
has screwed up the story,” I said.

“No shit?” he asked with amusement.

“What other research did you do?” I asked.

“Terry was very good at analyzing industry data. He was sure that Doberman’s Stub was about to explode. I discreetly floated a rumor that they would be going free agent in search of a new record company. I then intercepted emails between executives to get a feel for what the market would bear,” he said.

“That’s not what you brought me up here to tell me,” I said.

“No. It concerns the final research project he gave to me. Care to guess who he wanted me to check out?” he asked.

“Nigel and the boys from Portadown?” I asked.

“I’m impressed,” he said.

I asked, “What did you find out?”

“Let me ask you a question first. Do you think Nigel is responsible for Terry’s death?” David asked.