Rock & Roll Homicide (3 page)

“That’s it! You Ruskies are getting an eviction notice today!” I barked with all the righteous indignation I could muster. “Cubic Property Management does not allow firearms in this building. It’s in the lease you will soon be responsible for losing.”

“Bullshit!” was his reply.

“The computers are down at Cleason Enterprises, your next-door neighbor’s suite. We’re not going to lose them as a tenant because you think you can deny us access to the electrical panel when it says very clearly in your lease that we have access whenever it’s necessary,” I said with conviction.

“Turn around and show me some identification,” he said as he withdrew the gun from my neck. When I turned around I saw a man in his late thirties of medium build, holding a pistol aimed at my chest.

As I reached for my wallet he gestured excitedly with the pistol and said something in Russian. I retrieved my movie rental card from my wallet. As I reached out to hand it to him I said, “You keep waving that gun at me and you’ll not only get evicted, you’ll get deported.” When I said this he pointed the gun away from me for the first time. I made my move.

You already know that I’m a man of many talents: detective, musician, and dispenser of psychological advice. So, it’s completely understandable if you mistakenly assume I’m an expert at karate. Unfortunately, the only black belt I own is currently holding up my pants. I developed my best move in my childhood as a result of defending myself against my sister. She is two years older, but I passed her in height and weight when I turned seven. In spite of her lack of stature, Lisa packed exceptional punching power. If I teased her, took stuff out of her room or any number of minor transgressions, I could count on her to come in with a hard right to the breadbasket. When she first started doing this Mom was appalled, but Dad recognized it as a way for her to fend off unwanted advances as she transitioned into her teenage years. The bottom line was that Lisa could pummel me to tears, but I could only learn how to block, evade or trap her punches. Being a survivalist at heart, I became quite proficient at sidesteps and trapping her right hand under my left arm, like a boxer tying up an opponent with a clinch. I also learned the effectiveness of a good body punch and have first-hand knowledge of exactly where such a punch will do the most damage.

So, when the Russian pointed the gun to his side, I trapped his gun hand under my arm and, in one motion, brought a power punch up into his solar plexus. His knees buckled and I shouldered him backward two steps into the doorjamb behind him. He banged his head hard on the corner of the doorway and his lights went out. I then saw Koflanovich’s door open part way and heard the unmistakable sound of large dogs growling. I was on the other side of that walnut door faster than a heavy metal drummer on double-espresso.

As I exited Cerise Records I ran into the receptionist in the hallway. “Did you put that stuff in my hair?” she asked angrily.

    “Are you kidding? Most of the time I don’t even kiss goodnight on the first date,” I replied without breaking stride toward the exit.

By the time I got back to my Acura NXS, reality had set in. My heart could have kept time for a drum and bugle corps. My hands were shaking and I was too light-headed to drive. I sat in my car with the windows up and the air-conditioning on full-blast. I kept visualizing myself lying in the hallway of Cerise Records being fitted for a toe tag by an Assistant Coroner. After about ten minutes I calmed down enough to navigate over to the Dali Lama Yo Mama, Bernie’s nightclub. It was only 5:30 PM and the night clubbers wouldn’t be out for several hours, but Bernie opened up at 5:00 to catch the Happy Hour crowd from the nearby office buildings. I sat on a barstool near the server station, hoping to connect with a familiar face.

I ordered a double vodka gimlet from a bartender I vaguely remembered as a rookie back when I was leaving the music scene. I’m normally not a big drinker. I had to deal with too many drunks as an entertainer to ever want to join their ranks. But, I needed to steady my hands before my chat with Bernie.

“Hey stranger, I thought you got married and moved to the valley,” said a voice I recognized, from directly behind me.

“Gag me with a spoon,” I responded with a Valley Girl inflection. “And it wasn’t me who was engaged last time we talked. What happened to that Matthew McConaughey wannabe you were hooked up with, Jasmine?” I asked.

“I married him,” she said.

“Oops,” I said, “I always thought Matthew McConaughey was pretty cool.”

She replied, “Matthew is very cool. But that dick-head I married is history.”

“I’m sorry. Is that why you’re waiting on the suits now instead of the rockers?” I asked sympathetically.

“I thought you got out of the head-shrinking business?” Jasmine retorted in a way that brought back memories of her feisty nature.

“I did and for the same reason you got out of your marriage. I couldn’t live with the dick-heads either. Most of the bosses I met needed more help than the clients. At least you don’t have that problem working here,” I said.

“You got that right. Bernie is the real deal. I’ve been working here for six years now and for at least the first two I kept waiting for Bernie to show a little bit of a dark side,” she said then shook her head. “Never happened.”

“Is he around yet?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s in his office. I’ll tell him you’re here after I help the white collars get happy,” she said with a smile.

I finished my drink and ordered another double. As I was reaching for my wallet, I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder while Bernie told the bartender, “This one’s on the house.” Then to me he said, “Since when did you start slamming doubles.”

“Since about an hour ago when a thug stuck a gun in my neck,” I said, knowing it would be counterproductive to hide anything from my mentor.

He replied, “I thought your practice was limited to the foibles of the rich and famous.”

“I’m working on the Terry Tucker murder. I’m sure you’ve been following it in the papers,” I said.

“Terry played my club a few times in the early days when he was with Caliber 9,” he said. “I was saddened, but not entirely shocked.”

“How come?” I asked.

“Terry was a perfectionist. The first time he played here he very politely asked if his band could rehearse some new songs at the club the afternoon before their performance. I agreed and showed up at noon to let them in. Terry worked them non-stop until 4:30 PM. He was pretty confrontational in the way he addressed his band mates when they didn’t measure up to his expectations,” he said.

“Are we talking obvious mistakes or nit-picky stuff?” I asked.

“I have a pretty good ear and half the time I couldn’t hear anything that sounded remotely off. It was clear that the guys in the band weren’t hearing it either. They were pissed,” he said.

At this point I launched into what I knew of the contract with Cerise Records. “I was hoping you could take a look at it and see if you could spot anything that might give the record company a motive to kill him.”

“Do you have it with you?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Jeannine was supposed to get a copy from Chelsea Tucker today, but after my near death experience, I forgot to call to see if it came in.”

Bernie said, “Why don’t you call her from my office. If it’s there she can fax it over.”

It was almost 6:30 PM and Jeannine had surely left for the day, but who knows how many times her OCD compels her to check the lights now that she lives within walking distance of the office.

      I tried calling her at the office and didn’t get lucky. I called her house and connected. “Hi, Jeannine. Have you settled in for the evening?”

“Uh-huh,” she replied in a quivering voice.

“Are you OK” I asked in a panicked voice, fearing the Russians had come looking for me.

“No. I’m not OK,” she replied with a sob.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Lassie’s dead!” she cried. “One minute she was standing next to the river and the next minute she’s going down the rapids. Now she’s dead.” Jeannine began to wail. She was letting it all out, like I’d never heard her cut loose before. It could have been the basis for a very therapeutic session. But, since I’m no longer her therapist I did what any other self-respecting detective would have done. I ruined the movie by telling her how it ends and got her to walk over to the office and fax the contracts. About twenty minutes later thirty-one pages of legal bullshit came steaming out of Bernie’s fax machine.

While we waited, Bernie reminded me of a night at the club shortly after I started carrying a gun. At the time, a stick-up man was ripping off local bands. We were usually paid in cash after our gig and would frequently find ourselves in a dark alley behind a club at 2:30 AM. Since my dad was a cop and I handled the money, I got elected for security detail.

One night, after collecting our pay and hanging with Bernie until the band had time to load the equipment into our truck, I walked into the alley behind the club. I immediately heard a voice screaming about money. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a crazed junkie holding a hypodermic needle less than an inch from our bass player’s neck. “I’ve got AIDS!” he screamed. “Give me the money or this guy’s as good as dead!”

The rest of the band was frozen in front of the junkie, saying the money guy hasn’t come out yet. I had the gun on a belt holster in the small of my back. I quietly pulled it out, took careful aim and yelled, “Put the needle down or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off!” As the junkie turned to look at me I screamed, “RIGHT NOW!”

It was very clear to me, the band and especially the junkie, that I wasn’t bluffing. He carefully laid his spike on the ground, raised his hands and said, “I crashing man. I wouldn’t have stuck him.” Then he sprinted down the alley. My first instinct was to chase him, but Kyle, the bass player, started hyperventilating and I thought he was having a heart attack. I stopped to help and the junkie was long gone.

“That was a life or death situation and you handled yourself very well, as I recall,” Bernie said.

“I thought of that scene many times when I was weighing my decision to become a detective. Until today, I thought I’d be a lot cooler under fire,” I said.

“Actually, you are,” Bernie said. “I’m sure you’ve replayed that scene in your head a thousand times, but you probably forgot that we sat here in this office and talked until 10:00 the next morning. You were on an adrenaline high that the junkie would have died for. Tonight you’re not even a quarter as amped as you were that night.”

“Really?” I asked. “I forgot all about what happened afterwards.”

“The last thing San Diego needs is a detective who thinks shooting people is part of the job description.” As he was finishing his point, the fax machine stopped printing.

He got me set up with pen and a notebook and began analyzing the content. When he read a section he thought could have a bearing on the case he gave his expert opinion and answered all of my questions.

“Bernie, what do you think? What stands out the most?” I asked.

He replied, “As you know, I worked as an agent for 17 years. Since I became a club owner a lot of bands, managers and agents have asked my opinion on record contracts. The thing that screams at me is that the owner or ownership group has business experience, but not recording industry experience.”

“How so?” I asked.

“The contract has a couple of giant loopholes that could easily be exploited by somebody who knows the established legal precedents in recording industry contract law,” he said.

I asked, “What would be the record company’s motive?”

“There was no way of telling if the Internet piracy issue would be resolved quickly when the contract was written. You had a talented new band with some name recognition and some terrific new material, jumping into a bad contract market. Along comes a new record company, anxious to attract talent. I know from personal experience that Terry got involved in contract negotiations and knew how to mix charm with a knack for getting his way. I’d guess it didn’t take long for him to figure out he was dealing with amateurs and he managed to plant a hidden time bomb in the contract that would enable him to call the shots if the first two CD’s performed well,” he said.

“Was Terry the kind of guy who’d screw the recording company and piss them off enough to get himself killed” I inquired.

Bernie replied, “Most of the recording industry executives I know have ego’s that wouldn’t fit in this room. If their meal ticket had ‘em by the balls the way Terry had Cerise Records, I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

“Wouldn’t that be like killing the goose that laid the golden eggs?” I asked.

“It would if the whole band died in the explosion. There’s a lot of talent in that group and, if memory serves me, Terry wrote only half of the songs,” he said.

“Can the band survive without Terry?” I asked.

“I’d give them a listen,” Bernie said.

Chapter 3

I rarely work on Saturday mornings. So far, most of my clients have been either spouses who suspect infidelity or rich parents looking to bail their kids out of scrapes with the law. Business booms on Friday night. Saturday morning is for sleeping.

My first task was to call each of the band members to schedule a time to meet on Monday. I reached the bass player, Jack Pascal, who was quite cooperative. I left messages for drummer, Ian Davis, and lead guitarist, Nigel Choate.

Over the next two hours I reviewed the Internet research that Jeannine dug up yesterday. I immediately went to the material on Cerise Records and John Koflanovich. She tracked the business through two dummy corporations to a business called Yuliya, Inc. This is an electronic parts manufacturing operation based out of Tecate, California, which is a border town southeast of San Diego. Most of Yuliya’s officers share the sir name, Chofsky. Yuliya is a small, publicly held corporation on an over-the-counter exchange. Jeannine found it listed in the local stocks section of the
San Diego Union
-
Tribune
newspaper. In the paper’s archives she found a two-page feature on the company from 1990.  It appears Yuliya has been essentially the same size since the early 1900’s. It was a privately held company based out of San Francisco until 1979, when it went public to finance the move to Tecate in 1980. Before doing so, Yuliya was known as Rasputin Enterprises. In the early days, Rasputin traded in machine parts and slowly transitioned to electronics as technology developed.

The phone rang. “Duffy Investigations,” I said.

“Is this Jason Duffy?” asked the caller with a heavy British accent.

“It is.” I said.

“Nigel Choate. Your message said you were hired by Chelsea Tucker,” he stated.

“I appreciate your time and I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” I said.

“Friend? Terry wasn’t a friend. I don’t think Terry had any friends. I don’t usually speak ill of the dead, but if you’re conducting an investigation you’re going to find this out sooner or later,” he said and paused. “What do you want from me Mr. Duffy?”

“I’d like to get together and talk about what the recording sessions had been like; if you noticed anything unusual. Those types of things,” I said.

“I went through all of that with the police. Does Chelsea think one of us did it?” he asked with stress becoming apparent.

I replied, “Nothing like that. Actually she thinks Cerise Records may have been involved because of what was happening with the contract. I’d really like to get your take on it, as well as your thoughts on the record company rep who was at all of the sessions.”

Nigel started to relax, “I think she may be onto something. The cops didn’t really ask many questions about that Neanderthal from Cerise. I don’t like him; I don’t think any of the lads do.” Nigel agreed to meet me on Monday to go into details.

As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. After answering with my usual salutation, I heard my girlfriend, Kelly Kennedy, say, “When did you start going to the office on Saturday?”

“Since I started working a high-profile murder case earlier this week,” I replied with some enthusiasm.

“Are we still on for the Padres game tonight or will you be holding a press conference?” she asked.

“Let me call my people and I’ll get back to you,” I replied.

“Your people are probably all in group therapy at this hour. You’re just going to have to decide all by yourself,” she said, enjoying the exchange.

I replied, “Well, we can’t disappoint all of those fans. I’m sure they’re expecting us.”

“What about dinner?” she asked.

“I thought we’d go with the cylindrically shaped, all beef, non-kosher specialty of the house,” I retorted.

“If I have to eat another hotdog I’m not going to want to come within ten feet of anything that even remotely resembles a wiener for a long time,” she said.

“As a former therapist I feel duty-bound to help prevent wiener aversion. How does the buffet at the park restaurant grab you?” I asked.

“I’ll be ready by 6:00. See you then,” she said and hung up.

After a lunch break at the local deli, I was back at my desk by 2:00 PM. I decided to try Ian one more time. After six rings and a brief silence, a smoker’s grunt told me a semi-conscious human was attempting to communicate. “Is this Ian Davis?” I asked.

“Who’s this?” was the phlegmy reply.

I started by telling him I work for Chelsea and briefly explained what I wanted. He agreed to a meet on Monday, though I got the impression he wouldn’t remember the conversation, since it was apparent he was still drunk from the night before. I managed to find out where he would be on Monday afternoon to help avoid getting stood up.

As 3:30 PM approached I was getting ready to call it a day. I had just finished outlining another
To Do
list for Jeannine when I heard the front door open. I was sure it was Jeannine, since I definitely locked the door behind me when I returned from lunch. Fortunately, I had a convex mirror installed in the upper corner of my office when I first moved in, primarily to avoid old mental health clients who couldn’t let go of me as their therapist. But that was no familiar face walking through the door. I quietly rolled the middle drawer of my desk open and withdrew my snub-nosed .38 revolver. I then inched my way to a spot behind the door and wondered if he could hear the pounding in my chest. He rustled a few papers on Jeannine’s desk, then made his way for my office.

     As he walked through the door I stepped behind him and put the .38 against the nape of his neck. “Freeze,” I said, knowing I sounded exactly like one of my Dad’s favorite cop shows.

The intruder was in his mid-thirties and built like a professional wrestler. I ordered him up against the wall and frisked him while maintaining the gun’s contact with his spinal column. He was carrying a large pistol and two extra clips. After lightening his load, I walked him back out to the reception area, where I could move him out of lunging distance before turning him around. “What are you doing here?” I asked loudly. He didn’t reply. “You can either talk to me right now or you can talk to the cops in ten minutes.”

He replied with a thick Russian accent, “You call cops anyway if you don’t kill me.”

“That depends on what you have to say,” I offered, hoping to get some answers before arranging his accommodations at our county lock-up. “Did Koflanovich send you over here?”

“Like you visit Koflanovich yesterday?” he responded.

“I went over there to ask him a few questions. I didn’t break in,” I said.

“You trick girl and knock Nicky unconscious. Not quite friendly visit,” he said.

“Tell me about Koflanovich. Why all the strong-arm security?” I asked.

“Your boss no tell? American Mafia keep many secrets,” he stated.

“Koflanovich is in the Mafia?” I asked.

“Not him, you!” was his reply.

“I’m not in the Mafia and I’m not the one who needs to start answering some questions.” I walked over to the phone on Jeannine’s desk, picked up the receiver and said in a forceful way, “Tell me about Koflanovich or you’re off to the gulag right now!”

“Ivan is legitimate businessman. He move to US after daughter, Ivana, kidnapped in Ukraine. After your pig comrades cut off finger,” he said with disgust.

“I have no pig comrades,” I said. As I was about to ask my next question Jeannine walked through the front door.  When I turned to look at her, the Russian sprinted toward the balcony, smashed through the screen door and dove over the rail. I ran to the edge of the balcony in time to see the Russian dislodge himself from a couple of oleander branches, two stories below, and run down the street.

When I walked back into the office Jeannine looked to be in shock. “Are you OK?” I asked.

“I told the salesgirl I couldn’t wear this perfume. She said it would drive men wild. Is he dead?” she asked.

“He just ran down the street, and it wasn’t your perfume. He broke in and just escaped to avoid going to jail,” I said.

“I’m going to wash it off anyway. I’ll be in the girl’s room,” she said and walked out.