Chapter 18
It was the Tuesday morning before 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.
“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.”
“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 announced, “It’s alright to come up now.”
I called Koflanovich to confirm our appointment. His executive assistant, Svetlana Illich, told me he was making funeral arrangements at the moment but he was 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 occupied corner lots and were 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, handing my ID back to me. “Do you want to wait for him?”
“Yes.”
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.”
“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 and gestured to the chairs across from the desk. He made no attempt to shake hands.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Come in, have a seat.”
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.”
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.”
“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?”
“Of course.”
“I had a music industry expert review the initial contract. He concluded that, although it was apparent you possessed solid business skills, it appeared you didn’t have any experience with the music industry or the nature of how music industry contract law had 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 that 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.”
“It looks like a lose-lose situation for Cerise Records,” I said.
“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, taking 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. “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. I accept that Americans try to get as much as possible when negotiating agreements. 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. 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.”
“The file Vandevere put together could be very helpful. Will you give it to us?” I asked.
“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 cannot 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, “What is being done to catch these men?”
“Thanks to Jason, 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.”
“Blue Mustang, sunglasses, early thirties?” he asked.
“That’s the one.”
Shamansky got on his radio and called in for backup.
“Get in back,” he ordered.
“Why?” I asked as I crawled over the seat.
“I’m gonna pull up alongside of him,” he said, rolling 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 was decidedly less than most sections of San Diego. After about ten blocks we 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 was 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 cuffed him. 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 just came from Koflanovichs’ house and, as the saying goes, I have some good news and some bad news.”
“Me too,” she said.
“Would you like to go first?”
“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.”
“What makes you think that?” she asked.
“I get the impression he felt he was playing a chess match with Terry and thought he was onto a winning strategy on how he could retain Doberman’s Stub at the time of Terry’s murder,” I said.
“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.”
“So what’s the good news?” she asked.
“Did you see California Confidential last night?”
“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 bolted out of her chair and stormed out of the office.