Chapter 22
Sunday morning I felt a little uneasy. I had high hopes that GI Jo-Jo would help get Chelsea out of the number one suspect slot. But it was starting to look like he wasn’t the scumbag I had originally thought. I felt closer to being back to square one than to finding the killer. With my boss recently locked up as the prime suspect, I was getting frustrated. Kelly sensed my mood and asked if I would take her to The Eggman for brunch.
We reached the restaurant just before the post-church crush and only had to wait five minutes for a table. “I can see the case is on your mind today,” Kelly said. “Would you like to talk about it?”
I spent the next half hour giving her a synopsis of the events leading up to today. It was the first time I laid out a case for her. As I finished, I wondered if it was a mistake to burden her with my problems.
That feeling lasted only a few seconds as Kelly shocked me with a tremendously insightful observation. She asked, “If Chofsky is so willing to play hardball with you, do you think he might have talked with the other band members about Terry wanting to get rid of one of them?”
“Do you mean to stir things up?”
“There’s nothing like a little peer pressure,” she stated.
“It makes sense,” I said. “He was losing in the negotiations with Terry. Vandevere probably told him Terry was in a position to afford a long court battle. Why not see if the others were as willing to live on a tight budget for three years, especially if one of them was about to get the ax?”
“Did that help?”
“Absolutely. You’d make a fine detective Miss Kennedy.” I reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze.
As a fair and equal partner in this relationship, I asked Kelly if she was excited about school starting on Tuesday. She spent the entire ride back to her condo telling me about it as I pondered my next move on the case.
After dropping Kelly off, I called each of the band members. I got voice-mail for Nigel and Ian, but Jack was in and agreed to see me this afternoon.
Forty minutes later Jack welcomed me into his modest abode. He had either contracted pinkeye or had just gotten stoned. I hoped it wouldn’t adversely affect his memory of a possible conversation with Ivan Chofsky. When we reached the entrance to the living room Jack said, “I know you want to talk, but I’d rather jam a little first, OK?”
“That would be awesome,” I said and Jack beamed.
We progressed from blues to rock to power rock to metal in about 45 minutes. When the metal jam ended I unhooked the guitar strap before Jack could launch into the next improvisation. “Let’s take a break,” I said.
We moved into Jack’s well-appointed living room. “OK, I guess I’m ready for you to put on the Sherlock hat. Should I shine the reading light in my eyes or something?” he asked with a toothy grin.
“Let’s just kick back and talk,” I said. “We touched on how Terry was negotiating with Cerise on a new contract the last time I was here.”
“Like I said, Terry took care of all of that stuff. I didn’t even ask him about it. I had complete faith in his ability to get us the best deal,” he said soberly.
“I remember you telling me you didn’t discuss it with Terry, but did John Koflanovich ever talk with you about it?”
Jack looked at me, then at a beautiful clear crystal lamp sitting on a teak end table. The body of the lamp was see-through and I could see the wall behind Jack through the lamp. He leaned toward the lamp, touched it simultaneously with his index and pinky fingers and it swung open to reveal a glass stash box that matched the color of the wall. Jack withdrew two marijuana cigarettes. He put one in his mouth and extended the other toward me. “Care to join me?” he asked.
“Not today,” I said and waited while he lit up.
After a couple of tokes he looked at me and I wondered if I was going to have to repeat the question when he said, “Mr. Koflanovich called me about a month before Terry was killed.”
I waited for 30 seconds to see if Jack would continue without prompting, but he was not making it easy. “What did he say?”
“He explained that he was in the process of negotiating a new contract with Terry and he wanted to get my input.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was comfortable letting Terry handle the band’s business.”
“What did he say next?”
“He said that Terry was trying to get out of his contract with Cerise Records and that it looked like we were headed for a long court battle.”
“How did you respond to that?”
Jack took a long toke on his joint and held it in his lungs for so long I was afraid he was going to pass out. “Mr. Koflanovich said that it would mean the CD we just finished wouldn’t get released for three years or more, and that he’d get a court order that would keep us from performing any of the unreleased songs.”
I could see that Jack was starting to feel the effects of the pot. I tried to mirror his enthusiasm and appear sympathetic. “That sucks!” I exclaimed. “Doesn’t he know how good those songs are?”
“I know! He’s a businessman. He didn’t care.”
“What else did he say?”
“He said that without the new songs we wouldn’t be able to do a big money headline tour and that I had better have a savings account if I wanted to play Terry’s game,” he said with disgust.
“That blows,” I commented. “What did you say to that?”
“I told him that people without soul shouldn’t be in the record business, and do you know what that shit said?”
“What?”
“That if Terry had soul he wouldn’t be squeezing him for every nickel and get the songs out to the fans where they’d be appreciated,” he said, then gave a little cough.
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him I didn’t get involved in business negotiations because I have no intention of getting into the back-stabbing shit he was trying to pull,” he said with a hint of pride.
“Good for you. Did he say anything else?”
Jack stood up suddenly. “I’m gonna grab a beer, do you want one?”
“Sure,” I said and followed him into the kitchen, which was as organized and tasteful as the living room. I tried prompting Jack again by asking, “So, what did he say?” but Jack was focused in on the beers and ignored me.
“I love these beer steins,” he said, holding out two pewter steins with orange inlays and inscriptions in Gaelic. “Nigel gave them to me for my birthday.” He did a slow pour down the side of the stein, then let the last couple of ounces splash to give it a head. He presented the stein to me and repeated the ceremony for his own benefit.
I took a long sip and sat on a tall stool, hoping we would be staying in the kitchen for a while. I was beginning to experience a contact high from Jack’s weed. “C’mon,” I said. “The suspense is killing me. What did Koflanovich say?”
Jack sat in an oak chair at a matching kitchen table and said, “He made something up to try to get me pissed off at Terry, but it didn’t work.”
“Elden, your lawyer, gave me four different versions of contracts Terry proposed to Koflanovich. Each of them had a clause that would allow the band to fire one of its members. Is that what he told you about?”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “Bullshit!” he exclaimed. “Koflanovich made that up!”
“Jack, I got the copies from your lawyer, not from Koflanovich. I know Terry had some problems with Ian on your last tour. Do you think the clause was put in there for Ian or was something else going on?”
“This blows me away,” he replied. “We busted our asses for Terry. I know we had our problems, but the music was getting better and better. You know that. Terry was always about the music. I know he had to handle all of the other bullshit. But Terry liked to talk about where we were going when we complained about how hard he was driving us. I can’t imagine him breaking up the synergy we had.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was part of Terry’s negotiating strategy. Did you ask him about it?”
“No,” he said and stared at the floor.
“Did you talk with any of your band mates about this?”
“Nigel was always my go-between. I asked him and he said he thought it was Koflanovich trying to turn us against Terry. I really don’t want to think about this anymore,” he said and walked out of the kitchen. By the time I got to the living room his stereo was playing Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love. “I always like to listen to Clapton when I’m feeling down. If you want to hang out, feel free. But I don’t want to talk about that stuff anymore,” he said and fired up another joint.
“I’m sorry I upset you, Jack. I had better take off. Thanks for the beer and especially for the jam. It’s always a thrill to play with you. Call me if you think of anything that can help us all get back to normal,” I said and walked out the front door.
I jumped into the Acura and roared off to Nigel’s abode. I was very fortunate that the California Highway Patrol wasn’t doing one of its famous holiday crackdowns on speeders or my insurance rates would have surely doubled. I skidded to a halt under Nigel’s huge driveway awning, jumped out of the car, and rang his doorbell. The lead guitar riff that followed was not keeping up with the energy I was feeling. The thirty-second riff ended and no one had answered. I rang again and, as the second riff was ending, the girl who had flashed me on my last visit, appeared at the door wearing a flimsy pink mini-negligee, carrying a giant blue martini glass and appearing completely inebriated. “Hello,” she said in a throaty, sexy voice.
“I need to talk to Nigel,” I said rapidly.
“Did you like my boobies?” she asked, then struck up a pose and took a sip of her martini.
“They’re lovely,” I said, “but I need to talk to Nigel right now. Will you tell him I’m here?”
“No can do,” she replied. “That shit took off for the holiday weekend and didn’t even talk to me before he left. I got a tattoo for him last weekend and this weekend he’s off with God knows who and left me here alone,” she added with a little slur.
“Did he leave a note or a voice-mail to say where he was going?”
“I got a tattoo of his stupid guitar on my heinie and it still hurts,” she said as she slid her palm under the negligee to give it a rub.
I touched her shoulder to get her attention and asked, “Did Nigel leave a message on where he was going?”
“He left me a stupid voice-mail that he was interviewing people for the band out of town this weekend and he’ll be back on Tuesday or Wednesday. He didn’t ask if I wanted to go. He didn’t even think about me being stuck here all by myself for the long weekend with nothing to do but rub my heinie. It’s not fair!” she cried and gave a big pout.
“I’m sorry he ruined your weekend. If he calls will you tell him I’m trying to get in touch and ask him to call?”
“Don’t you want to stay a while and keep me company,” she said, using her sexy voice again. For a moment I considered the possibility of a brief interview to see if this gorgeous girl in her early twenties could provide any insight into Nigel’s business, but quickly concluded that it would only lead to big trouble and latent Catholic guilt. It just wasn’t worth it.
“Sorry, I’m working today. Please remember to give my message to Nigel,” I said with a hopeful smile.
She replied, “I will if you’ll give him a message for me.”
“OK, what is it?”
Nigel’s girlfriend turned around, flipped her negligee up in the back and mooned me. She was right. Nigel’s golden guitar still had a pink hue. She held her pose until I drove away.
It was 4:15 PM and I decided a pop-in on Ian would be fruitless. I called Cory and reached him at home. He reported that Ian concluded his Saturday night at about 8:30 AM, and would probably roll into The Tillerman’s sometime between 5:00 PM and 7:00 PM depending on whether or not he was hungry.
I drove to Mission Beach and pulled up a barstool in front of the Doberman’s Stub poster. I was fortunate that the bartender I met on my previous visit was not on duty, so my status as a PI was unknown. Over the next hour I made a list of questions I had for Ian and Nigel. At 6:00 PM Bert, the bartender I met on my first visit, took over and immediately recognized me. “Nosing around asking questions about Ian again, are you?”
“Why, did somebody complain?” I asked.
“Yeah, somebody complained. He doesn’t like tattletale TV. So why don’t you bugger off,” he said with a pugnacious attitude.
“One of my employees got assaulted outside of this bar by a couple of Russians. Unless you’d like me to link The Tillerman to the Russian Mafia next time I’m on the show I suggest you change your attitude.”
“Like I’ve got to worry that my customers will believe you and stop coming,” he said with a laugh.
“You missed the point, Einstein. I’m telling you to lay in a couple of cases of vodka because you’ll be attracting a whole new ethnic group to your bar – Russian thugs and people who want to fight them,” I said.
We were in the middle of a stare-down when Ian walked in the back door, saw me and shouted, “There’s my mate. How the hell are ya, Jason?”
“I’m doing fine Ian, and yourself?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” he said to me, then turned to the bartender and said, “Double Bushie me lad.”
When his drink arrived, Bert glared at me, then said to Ian, “He’s talkin’ about bringing the Russian’s here and causin’ trouble.”
I expected Ian to drain his drink and immediately order another as he had done the last time we met here, but instead he said, “Are you kidding? This guy’s a Dobie! We just played a gig together at a club last weekend.” Then, with a more serious tone he added, “So, I don’t want you telling any stories, Bert.”
Bert looked him in the eyes and said, “We’re cool.”
We then made our way through a dozen occupied tables of well-wishers to a relatively remote corner where a track light illuminated a huge color photo of Rod Stewart in his early thirties, wearing a soccer uniform, standing with a teammate. From the inscription I surmised the teammate was the current owner of The Tillerman, one Tommy Stark. Ian pointed at the photo and said, “That man’s been like a father to me.”
I couldn’t resist an opportunity to break the solemn tone. “Do you mean you’re really Hot Rod Junior?” I asked with mock excitement.
Ian could tell I was kidding and said, “You’re a pisser, Duffy. Another Irishman messing with me head. I’m talking about Tommy Stark. He owns The Tillerman and I’d hate to see anything happen to this place.”
“Bert greeted me by telling me to get out. When somebody hits, I hit back,” I said. “Don’t worry, I was just trying to shut him up until you got here. So, can you spare me a few minutes?”
“Anything for an honorary Dobie. What’s on your mind?” he asked.
“I met with John Koflanovich yesterday and talked about the contract he was trying to work out with Terry. I know he contacted each of you. Jack was very helpful in filling me in on their conversation, I was hoping you could do the same. Did he tell you that you could end up in a three-year court battle and wouldn’t make much money till it gets resolved?”
“Yeah, that was about the gist of it,” he said as he looked at the poster.
“I know Terry was in a position to financially withstand that kind of battle. Were you?”
“Of course not. But it was just a negotiating thing. Terry was bluffing to get us the best deal. It was just business bullshit. I didn’t put much stock into what Koflanovich had to say,” he said with slightly more eye contact.
“I saw the four contracts that Terry proposed. Each of them had a clause enabling the band to fire one member. Who do you think he had in mind?”
Up to that point Ian had been merely sipping his drink. After I asked the question, Ian downed what remained in one large swallow and said, “I need a refill. Can I get you one?”
“Will you answer my question before you go?”
“Let’s stop pretending,” he said, increasing his volume. “You know it was me he wanted to oust.”
“That’s just it, Ian. Everybody else thinks it was you, but I don’t. Right now it’s just a hunch, but, if you’ll answer a few more questions I think I can convince the police that it wasn’t you,” I said.
“The police think it was me?” he asked with astonishment. “I thought they just arrested Chelsea.”
“They did, but that was before they learned somebody was about to get the sack. That’s what the cops call motive. Chelsea’s dad is rich enough to hire a dream team of lawyers and they know it. Personally, I’m sure she didn’t do it and it’s just a matter of time until she’s cleared.”
“So they think I’m guilty just because I knew I might get fired?” he asked with agitation in his voice.
“They also think you moved the glass partitions to help shield yourself from the blast, since the new configuration would have given you more protection,” I said, presenting my discarded theory as fact.
“It had to do with echo! I didn’t know there was going to be an explosion!” he boomed, and several of his compatriots stared at our table.
“I’m working with the primary investigator and I think I can convince him that you weren’t involved, but I need you to answer a few questions honestly if I’m going to be successful.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked, while staring into his empty glass.
“I don’t think Terry would have accepted you into the band three years ago if your substance abuse problem had been apparent. If this is true I need to know when you started hitting it hard and why,” I said.
“Can I get a refill first?”
“No. Tell me now,” I said, not wanting to give him time to come up with a bullshit story.
“I always liked the drink, but I didn’t get carried away in the beginning,” he said. “You’re right, Terry never would have allowed me in the band.”
“When did it pick up?”
“As I got famous, I started dabbling in a few drugs, then I would drink myself to sleep,” he said. “I guess it snowballed.”
“That doesn’t fit very well with my theory,” I said. “I think fame brought more parties, but your first CD brought the fame. I don’t see Terry carrying you if the heavy abuse surfaced early on. I’d guess it didn’t get to be a problem until the last six months.”
“You think something happened and you want to know what,” he stated. I raised my eyebrows and leaned forward. Ian continued, “OK. After the last CD there was a lot more infighting and I responded by running away rather than getting confrontational. I didn’t want to take sides. Once I became a total fuck-up nobody gave a shite what I thought. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“What was the infighting about?”
“The second CD attracted a different kind of fan. Terry wanted to stay true to our metal roots, but Nigel wanted to transition into more romantic songs. Terry didn’t like the idea of losing power. It definitely changed the way they started acting toward each other and I didn’t want to be caught in the middle.”
“I understand and I believe you, Ian,” I said with empathy. “Did you ask Terry about the contract?”
“No. I knew he was pissed at me and I didn’t want a donnybrook,” he said.
“So, what did you do?”
“I called Nigel. He’s been like an older brother to me. I knew Nigel couldn’t afford to get cut off for three years and he had some influence with Terry.”
“What did Nigel say?”
“He told me that my behavior would be the only thing that would make Terry want to take time off. He said that I needed to stop fucking everything up. I knew he was right, but I wasn’t expecting Nigel to whack me while I was down like that,” Ian said.
“Do you think it’s possible Nigel was involved in Terry’s death?”
“No! That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “He’d never do anything like that,” he added with less enthusiasm.
“It sounds like you’re not telling me something,” I commented.
“It’s just a feeling. It’s probably nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t. I’d feel like I’d be ratting out a mate.”
“The only way this is going to work out for you and the band is if we get to the truth. Nothing’s going to be right for you until that happens.” I said.
“I don’t want you telling Nigel you got this from me, OK?” he asked and I nodded. “Nigel has some lads from back home that most would consider hooligans. I’ve been wondering if maybe Nigel told those Teddy Boys that he was having troubles with Terry, and one of them took it upon himself to help Nigel out.”
Do you know any of their names?”
“No. I ran into them once at a club and Nigel made a point of not introducing me, and took his leave as quickly as he could get them out of there.”
“Is Nigel with them this weekend?”
“Nigel doesn’t keep me up on his itinerary.”
“Let me check it out,” I said. “In the meantime, see if you can stop acting like you’re trying to drown your guilt. I’ll see what I can do with the local bobbies.”
“You’re a prince, Duffy,” he said as he walked me to the bar.
“Another Bushie?” asked Bert.
“No Bert. Give me a glass of Watney’s,” he said and gave me a smile and a nod, downshifting to beer.
As I started home, I got an idea that could have a huge downside, but seemed worth the risk. I changed course for Rancho Santa Fe to drop in on the owner of the pink and gold guitar tattoo. When I reached the estate the sky had just gotten dark. I waited through four thirty-second guitar riffs before Nigel’s girlfriend finally flicked on the entrance chandelier and opened the door. “Change your mind Mr. Whats-yer-name?” she asked.
“It’s Jason and I couldn’t get that beautiful tattoo out of my mind. What’s your name?”
“I’zz Victoria,” she slurred.
“You aren’t entertaining anyone else are you, Victoria?”
“Nope,” she replied. “I’m in this big house all by my lonesome. C’mon in.” As she led the way to the living room, she didn’t stagger, but was decidedly careful in her movements, as if she was making a conscious effort to appear sober. “Would you like to ravish me on the davenport or would the settee be more to your liking?”
“Actually, I have a girlfriend and a great deal of Irish Catholic guilt. It will take a couple of stiff drinks before I could get past that,” I said with a smile.
“You better not tell Nigel you’re Irish Catholic if you know what’s good for you?” she said with one eye half closed.
“Why not?”
“Because he and his asshole buddies don’t like Irish Catholics.”
“But he has an estate in Ireland.”
“Protestant Ireland. Why don’t you make the drinks,” she said as she pointed at the bar.
I mixed enough to fill one large martini glass. I then took two glasses and filled them half way. I topped mine off with water and Victoria’s with vodka, then returned to the sofa where she was reclining on large pillows. “Have a drink with me,” I said. Victoria took a large swallow and made a face.
“You sure make a stiff drink,” she commented.
“The stiffer the drink, the quicker I get rid of the guilt.”
Victoria held up her glass and said, “Then let’s drink to a quick stiffy.” She laughed hysterically at her joke. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“That will only make the guilt last longer. Let’s talk about something else, like Nigel’s asshole buddies. Is he with them this weekend?”
“I don’t want to talk about them. They suck,” she said and took another long draw on her drink while I poured the rest of mine in a large vase holding a fichus tree.
“Ready for another one?” I asked.
“Schlow down stud,” she slurred. “I want you to last all night.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m just anxious to get in the mood.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I stood up, retrieved her glass, and walked to the bar. Victoria didn’t seem any closer to passing out than she had when I arrived. This time I made hers one-third martini and two-thirds straight vodka. “Let’s have a toast,” I said as I handed her the large V-shaped glass on a thick stem.
“What are we doin’ for?” she asked as she started to drift.
“Let’s drink to your gorgeous blue eyes.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she said and took a big gulp. Her eyes widened and she said, “That woke me up,” as she shook her head from side to side.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Mind if I put on some music?”
“Think somebody’s getting in the mood,” she said.
There it was, just as I suspected. No self-respecting British rocker could possible own a CD collection without Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. It’s a tremendous rock classic, but has always had the power to put me to sleep when I was tired but just couldn’t nod off. “How ironic,” Victoria said as the music started to play.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“First I mooned you, now you’re playing Dark Side of the Moon for me.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said and clinked her glass. She took a sip and stared at an aquarium built into the wall. We sat quietly listening to the CD for about five minutes, then I heard the sound of liquid pouring onto the rug. I poured my drink into the fichus vase, removed the glass from Victoria’s hand, and set out in search of Nigel’s office.
I found it on the first floor next to a guest bedroom. Unfortunately, I didn’t luck out like in Tecate. Nigel had a password-protected computer and 15 minutes of my best guesses did nothing to unlock it. I spent the next half hour going through a January-December accordion file filled with monthly bills. I took out a small spiral pad and noted the phone numbers of calls to Ireland from his phone bill. I also wrote down Nigel’s travel itinerary. I was about to leave when a picture on the wall caught my eye. A large group of twenty-something men wearing orange sashes walked along a road with spiral barbed wire separating the sash wearers from an angry mob. British soldiers in red jackets were posted at ten-foot intervals. Upon closer inspection I spotted Nigel flipping off one of the mob members. A small brass plate affixed to the picture frame said, “Help Charles Darwin – Kill a Catholic.”
I was enthralled. I spent another half hour looking at trophies, nick-knacks, and other memorabilia relating to Northern Ireland and, of course, rock & roll. I made my way from picture to picture all the way around Nigel’s spacious office. When I reached the doorway, there was Victoria with an angry scowl on her face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m just checking out Nigel’s pictures. I love the one over there with Nigel and Jimmy Page,” I said with a smile.
“Then why is Nigel’s bill folder sitting on the desk?” she asked with remarkable clarity.
“I was hoping it was an autograph file, but, you’re right, it was just bills,” I said. “How did you sober up so fast?”
Victoria opened her hand to reveal some spent capsules and said, “Amyl nitrate.” She continued to stare at me with intense suspicion. “I think you had better leave.”
“OK,” I said and walked out of the office.
“I’m going to have to tell Nigel about this,” she stated.
“That should be interesting. Let’s see; you tell him you seduced the guy who played in his band last weekend, then you got drunk, passed out, and caught him looking at his pictures in the study. What do you think he’ll say?” I asked.
“I’m not gonna tell him any of that. I’ll tell him you bullshitted your way in here and when I wasn’t looking you snuck into his office and snooped around.”
“And then Nigel confronts me and I ask him if the pink hue has faded off of the electric guitar on your heinie,” I said as I reached the door.
When I opened the door Victoria wiped her face with her hands and said, “Please tell me we didn’t get it on.”
“Victoria, we didn’t get it on. I was too grossed out when you peed in the fichus tree vase,” I said as I walked to the Acura, and sped off with my trusty spiral notebook in my back pocket.