Chapter 11
Glenda MacPhearson is a buddy of mine from UCSD. We took Cognitive Psychology, Critical Thinking, and a horrible Statistics class together. She helped me with Stats and I helped her with Psych. She was, and still is, on active duty status with one of the few Army installations in Southern California.
I gave her a call from my office first thing Tuesday morning and asked for a favor. I explained what I was looking for and she agreed to access the service record of Joseph (a.k.a. GI Jo-Jo) Martin. Glenda located his service jacket in LA.
“It shouldn’t take more than a day or two,” she said.
At 10:30 AM I arrived at the San Diego County Russian Language Newspaper in the city of Vista. Uri Armanov is the proprietor, editor, publisher, and chief writer of this biweekly publication. Uri’s wife, Ursula, is in charge of circulation and advertising sales. Five years ago Uri paid to have his nephew Alexi relocate from Moscow to work as the paper’s delivery truck driver. Everything worked out great for the first six months until a meth-head on a three day binge changed lanes on the 805 Freeway without looking, and pushed Alexi into the cement median at 70 miles per hour. Physically, he suffered a few cuts and bruises, but mentally, he was a mess. Alexi couldn’t bring himself to get back behind the wheel. After six weeks of therapy, using a technique called Systematic Desensitization, I had him driving again. Uri was effusive in his praise and told me several times to call on him if I ever needed his help.
“Jason, what a pleasant surprise seeing you again,” Uri said.
“It’s good to see you too, Uri. How is Alexi doing?”
“Wonderful. He’s like a son to me,” he said. “You said on the phone that you needed my help. What can I do for you, my friend?”
“I have two favors to ask. First, I brought along several newspaper articles written in Russian, and a hand-held recorder. If you could translate the articles into the recorder, then mail them to me in this packing box, it could be a big help to the case I’m working on.”
Uri agreed. “You said there were two favors. What’s the other one?”
“I need some information,” I replied. “It looks like one of my suspects may be affiliated with the Russian Mafia. Can you tell me if they have a presence here in San Diego?”
“The Russian Mafia is everywhere,” he said, glancing from side to side. “If they are involved you need to stop working on your case. Much too dangerous.”
“What are they up to in Southern California?”
“They try to suck the life out of the Russian community, just like in Russia. Here they are mainly involved in drugs, prostitution, and gambling. Their victims are usually fellow Russians.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Russians understand how ruthless they are and won’t talk about them to the police for fear of their lives and the lives of their families.”
“If they generally leave Americans alone, why should I worry about them?”
“Since they know they don’t scare Americans, the Mafia believes their only alternative is to kill them when there is a problem.”
“Who are the leaders here in town?”
“Jason, if you start asking questions about any of the local leaders you will be involved for life. Probably a very short life,” he said. “I won’t give you any names today because that would be like giving you a death sentence. If you come up with a name I will confirm or deny his involvement, if I know.”
“Are you familiar with the Chofsky family from Tecate?”
“Of course. The Chofsky family has been in California since before the Russian Revolution. Their company has hired many a Russian immigrant. The Russian community thinks highly of them,” he said.
“The articles I gave you are about Ivan Chofsky, who lived in the Ukraine until last year. His daughter was kidnapped by the Russian Mafia. I’m trying to find out if he cut a deal with them to get her back.”
“Why do you want to know about Ivan?”
“He now lives in San Diego and owns a business. My client’s husband worked for him and was murdered. The widow thinks Chofsky’s people were involved.”
“I will be very disappointed if the Chofsky’s are doing business with the Russian Mafia. They have made significant contributions to organizations that help Russian immigrants. I have referred some good people to Yuliya for employment. But if they are now working with the Russian Mafia, I need to know. I would never refer anyone to a Mafia-run company.”
“I’ll let you know right away when I find out,” I said. “In the meantime, if you could get that translation to me as soon as possible you’ll be helping me to find the truth.”
“It will be done today,” he said and we shook hands.
As I drove back from Vista, my cell phone rang. “Jason Duffy.”
Jeannine sobbed into the phone. “Cory’s hurt!”
“Don’t tell me Delbert’s on top of him again.”
“He’s at University Hospital. It happened last night. A social worker called. I’m getting scared,” she cried as her voice quivered.
“Have Delbert stay with you in the office. No patrols or smoke breaks till I get back.”
“OK. Are you going to the hospital now?”
“I’m on my way.”
After spending the night in the Emergency Room, Cory was taken to a Med/Surg floor to be monitored. When I reached the floor I asked to speak with his doctor.
Cory was in a four-bed room and had two roommates. He was sleeping, or unconscious, or in a coma. I couldn’t tell. That thought haunted me over the next 45 minutes as I waited for the doctor to arrive. His face was badly bruised and his elbow was tucked into his body at an odd angle. At one point I tried calling his name softly to see if I could rouse him from his sleep, but one of his roommates told me he has been out since he was brought in three hours earlier.
Finally, his doctor arrived and told me that he suffered a concussion and three broken ribs. He also said Cory was up all night and will probably sleep for six to ten more hours. The hospital would keep him around for observation for another day or two.
After the doctor left the room I sat in Cory’s visitor’s chair and considered the possibility of asking Shamansky for a guard. I concluded that if whoever did this to him wanted to kill him, they would have finished the job last night. First Jeannine, now Cory. This case was getting very high risk.
When I returned to the office, Shamansky called. “What’s shakin’ Kojak?”
“Don’t give me that buddy, buddy stuff. You were supposed to call me yesterday to tell me what you found out in Tecate,” he snarled.
“Sorry about that. I’ve been buried lately. I found out that the Yuliya gang definitely robbed my office. Unfortunately, none of the evidence I came up with would be considered admissible.”
“Don’t tell me you crossed the line to get it,” he said.
“I’m trying not to. I found scanned copies of the stolen photos along with several other computer files that tell me the Yuliya family that was following Terry has been following me. They had pictures of me, my girlfriend, and even my parents,” I said, with agitation in my voice.
“I can see how that could piss you off, but I’m still leaning toward your boss.”
“What! You can’t be serious. We know they’re a bunch of thugs that will do whatever it takes to protect their interests. They were stalking the victim right up to his death, and it took place on their turf. What more do you want?” I asked.
“I agree. These guys are definitely willing to break the law to get what they want. But I can’t get past the fact that Terry was the brains, creative force, lead singer, and business leader of the band. I’ve talked with an industry expert who says the consensus is that the band will fold without him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that a car won’t run without an engine.”
“Do you have any new developments on Chelsea?”
“As a matter of fact, I found out Terry went to Chelsea’s dad, Peter Spivey of Spivey Construction, and talked him into getting some of his real estate investors together to explore the possibility of starting an independent record label to promote the new CD. Peter spent about twenty grand of his own money in legal fees to figure out a way to make it happen. Peter and Terry made a joint presentation to a group of potential financial backers, and got into a huge argument. Terry told Peter and his investment partners to get fucked and walked out on them. When Peter tried collecting the twenty grand Terry told him it was the cost of being an asshole. Chelsea tried to intervene on behalf of her father during dinner at a local restaurant, and Terry made a scene and walked out. As he was headed for the door, several witnesses heard Chelsea say, ‘You know what they do to a Doberman that bites the hand that feeds him.’ Personally, I consider that a death threat. I’ll find out if the DA concurs later this week,” he said.
“It was a domestic squabble. These things get said everyday. If you started indicting every wife who told her husband ‘he’d get his,’ if he kept being such an asshole, you’d have half of the female population in front of the grand jury.”
“To threaten is one thing, but when the husband turns up dead the next week, and the widow inherits five mil, you’ve got a very legit suspect. Throw in that she bought him the headphones, and her dad keeps blasting caps, and you have the makings of a solid case,” he said.
“My associate, Cory Pafford, got assaulted last night while he was on a stakeout. He’s in the hospital.”
“Jesus, those guys have it in for you. I can get a case number assigned and send somebody to the hospital to take his statement. But at this point I’m going to treat them like two separate cases,” he said. “I have a meeting in a couple of minutes, I’ll talk to you soon.”
While I was on the phone with Shamansky, Chelsea Tucker called and left a message asking me to drive over to her house as soon as possible. Jeannine agreed to lock up and have Delbert walk her home.
Chelsea lived in a beautiful, two-story tutor house with a view of the Pacific in Cardiff-by-the-Sea. For the second time in a week, I was disappointed to ring the doorbell of a mansion and have the expected butler be conspicuous by his absence. Chelsea wore designer casual and held a martini.
“Can I get you a drink?” she offered, ushering me into a sitting room.
“No thanks, I still have lots of work to do.”
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you out here on such short notice,” she said and I nodded. “Last time we talked you told me to contact you if I remembered anything that Terry said in his last few weeks that was out of the ordinary. This afternoon I had lunch with my father, then came home and took a little nap. About fifteen minutes after I fell asleep I woke up abruptly with a vivid memory that felt very significant.”
“What was it?”
“About a month before Terry died, he got up early, took a shower and left for the day. I went into the bathroom shortly after he left and he had scrawled some lyrics on the steamed bathroom mirror. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I realize the words weren’t related to any of his songs.”
“What did it say on the mirror, Chelsea?”
“It said:
Back in the days when I was 9,
A friend was a friend,
Now I need mine.
“I have no idea what he meant, but I have a strong feeling that it had something to do with what was going on in his life at the time. As I start putting things into perspective, it’s clear that Terry was under a lot of pressure and not acting like himself.”
“In what ways?”
“He was always a workaholic. So, at first it was hard to recognize his actions as being related to stress. But now that I’ve been analyzing that last month, it’s clear that he was more argumentative with me and my family. He was always very demanding with the band, but toward the end, his relationship with each of the members began to deteriorate. I chalked it all up to the contract situation, but now it seems like it was more than that.”
“How much did the other band members know about the contract negotiations?”
“I’m sure Terry told them as little as possible. Those guys are musicians, not businessmen. They were glad to have Terry keeping an eye on the bottom line.”
“As I understand it, Terry did a lot more than keep an eye on the bottom line. I met Kirby Kaufmann and Elden Dumanis. The word puppets comes to mind,” I said.
“You’re right. Terry hired those guys because he knew he could control them,” Chelsea said.
“Who do you think Terry was talking about in the song lyric? Has he maintained a relationship with anyone from elementary school?”
“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure that out. He never talked about high school or elementary school.”
I then brought her up to speed with what I had learned about Cerise Records and Yuliya, Inc. I also explained why she was still the prime suspect in the case.
“Terry always knew how to push my buttons. I should never have yelled at him in that restaurant. But he embarrassed my father and was showing a callous disregard for my feelings,” she said. “Now that I hear what kind of monsters he was negotiating with, I understand why he wasn’t acting like himself. My dad was pissed, but he also remarked about how uncharacteristic it was for Terry to behave like he did in front of his business associates.”
On the way home I swung by University Hospital to see if Cory was awake. His bed was empty.
“Do you know what happened to the guy who was in this bed,” I asked one of his roommates.
“Sure do,” said a toothless man in his mid-eighties.
“Well?”
“He was mad as a hornet. Woke up cussing a blue streak and never stopped until he got his clothes back and checked himself out.”
“Didn’t the nurses try to stop him?”
“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.