Chapter 23
I called Dad at 8:00 AM and told him about what I had seen in Nigel’s office.
“He’s an Orangeman,” Dad said.
“University of Syracuse?” I asked skeptically.
“No. We’re talking about the Order of Orange. It’s been around since the 16- or 1700’s. O’Malley talks about them.”
“Any chance I could talk to O’Malley later today?”
“No problem. I’m meeting him at Casey’s around 5:00 this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”
I hesitated a moment, wondering if this would make me an honorary member of the Irish Mafia. But I definitely needed to find out as much as I could before Nigel returned. I had better things to do than spend the entire day in front of my computer, so I agreed.
My next call was to Ivan Chofsky’s cell phone. Svetlana Illich answered, “What is it, Mr. Duffy?”
“I need to meet with your boss today.”
“Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“He is at funeral, then meal with family,” she said. “Call back tomorrow,” she added and hung up. I called back immediately. “What?” she answered.
“Where is the funeral?” I asked.
“St. Nicholas,” she replied. “Mass at 9:00 AM, burial at cemetery behind church at 10:00 AM.”
“Where is St. Nicholas?”
“North of Escondido,” she replied and hung up again.
I didn’t have time to attend the mass, so I jumped into a dark suit and headed for the North County. I arrived at 9:50 AM and found two police vehicles with four uniformed officers guarding the gated entrance.
At the front of the barricade, I recognized Chofsky's bodyguard who I had tipped about Shamansky’s arrival. He had a word with the officers and I was admitted. He pointed out a path winding around the modest stone church that didn’t have the usual Spanish architecture found in most churches in California. Behind the church was a six acre cemetery, bordered by a wooded area on two sides and a canyon to the west. About a hundred yards away was a group of about twenty mourners. As I approached the group, I recognized Father Mencavich from my visit to Chofsky’s home. When I reached the mourners I looked at Ivan Chofsky and something was wrong. I only met the man once, but he appeared different. Maybe it was the light. I took another couple of steps toward him and two bodyguards grabbed me by my upper arms and directed me away from the flock. One of them was the man who led me and Shamansky to Chofsky’s home office. He asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I came to pay my respects,” I said and flexed my muscles once they let go of my arms.
“Mr. Koflanovich cannot talk with you today,” he said. “You must go at once.”
“I was there when Torhan died. What’s wrong with me attending his funeral?” I asked.
Before he could answer, a shot rang out from the tree line and Chofsky flipped onto his back as if his legs had been suddenly kicked out from under him. Several mourners screamed, Father Mencavich ducked behind a headstone, and I could hear the engine of a dirt-bike roar off in the distance. I ran to Chofsky and realized immediately that a body-double had been shot in the face, just above the jaw. I think the sniper may have realized it too because the force of the blast had detached a snap-on toupee from the look-alike’s bald pate.
I made my way to my car with the rest of the fleeing mourners as the police were unsuccessful in controlling the stampede. I had more important things to do than recount my involvement in the case with the Sheriff’s Department for the remainder of the day. I drove straight to Del Mar and called Chofsky’s phone a few blocks from the compound.
“What is it?” answered the charmless Svetlana.
“It’s Jason Duffy. I just came from the funeral where your boss’s look-alike was murdered,” I said accusingly.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.
“Put Ivan on the phone or I’ll call the police and tell them he arranged for the murder of some poor actor so that the Russian Mafia would think he was dead,” I said.
“Hold line,” she replied and three minutes of silence followed as I pulled up to the gate in front of the compound.
Another Russian waiter approached my car with a black towel over his hand. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Jason Duffy,” I said. “I’m on the phone with Svetlana Illich. She’s going to tell you to let me in soon.”
The guard rested the barrel of his gun on my half-open window and said, “I hope you are correct, sir.”
Svetlana came back on the line and said, “I will meet you at gate,” and hung up. I wish she would stop doing that.
Five minutes later Svetty had me comfortably ensconced across the desk from Ivan Chofsky who, like me, was wearing a black suit and tie. “I understand you witnessed the shooting at the cemetery,” he said with little emotion.
I didn’t want the conversation to start off on an adversarial note, so I simply said, “The poor guy never had a chance.”
“Did the police or anyone get a look at the shooter?” he asked.
“He was in a wooded area and escaped on a dirt bike seconds after your look-alike went down. Nobody saw anything.”
“Tragic,” he commented and we paused for a few seconds of silence.
“I need to ask you a few questions about your conversations with the surviving band members regarding your negotiations with Terry.”
“My negotiations were with Terry. Nobody else participated in them before Terry died,” he said.
“Are you telling me that you didn’t call each of the band members and tell them they were going to be without money for three years if Terry started a court battle?” I asked with the tone of a prosecuting attorney.
“It sounds like you already know the answer to your question.”
“I spoke with the band members about these conversations, but I got the impression one of them was not entirely truthful with me, so I would like to get your version of each of these chats, alright?”
“I am continuing to negotiate with the band and don’t think it would be appropriate to discuss negotiating strategy in the middle of the process,” Chofsky replied.
“I need an answer to these questions. We can either do it here and I will use discretion, or I can ask Detective Shamansky to have this conversation with you at police headquarters.”
“What makes you think he’s going to do what you tell him?”
“Because I’ll tell him you set up some poor schlep to get killed so that you could try to fool the Russian Mafia into thinking you‘re dead. It could easily get you deported back to Russia,” I said and waited for Chofsky to reply.
He pondered what I had told him and said, “Alright, I’ll trust your discretion.”
“Who did you call first?”
“I called Mr. Davis.”
“This will go a lot faster if you just tell me what you told each of them instead of me playing twenty questions with you for the next three hours,” I said.
“I told Mr. Davis that Mr. Tucker was putting me in a position where I had no alternative but to tie the band up in court. I let him know that my attorneys estimated the length of time to conclude that type of case, after appeals, to be approximately three years, and that during that time the new CD could not be released and the band could not play any of the songs in concert. I also pointed out that without the support of a new CD it would be unlikely that a concert promoter would advance Doberman’s Stub to stadium tour headliner, and may steer clear altogether if they got the impression they could be drawn into the lawsuit. This is essentially what I told each of them,” Chofsky said.
“What else?”
Chofsky stared at me for about ten seconds before continuing. “I pointed out that Mr. Tucker had the financial resources to withstand a long legal siege, but I thought it only fair that I make the other members of the band aware of the repercussions of a protracted court battle.”
“How did Ian respond when you gave him this news?”
“He used a substantial amount of foul language to express his displeasure at this revelation,” Chofsky said. “Once he calmed down he said that he trusted that Mr. Tucker would act in the band’s best interest, and he would abide by the consensus opinion.”
“Is that when you told him about the clause Terry put in the contract proposals enabling him to fire one of the members?” I inquired.
“That is correct,” he said. “Mr. Davis became very upset and verbally abusive. I couldn’t tell if it was directed at me or at Mr. Tucker. He concluded his tirade by hanging up before I could respond.”
“What was Nigel’s response to this bomb?”
“Actually, I contacted Mr. Pascal next. I believe Mr. Davis called Mr. Choate while I was discussing the matter with Mr. Pascal. By the time I reached Mr. Choate he was aware of the details of my conversation with Mr. Davis. I was not able to reach Mr. Choate immediately after my conversation with Mr. Pascal, and it is my opinion that he discussed the matter with Mr. Tucker prior to my call.”
“Considering that Nigel is the co-writer and, by default, second in command, why didn’t you confront him first instead of giving him the most time to prepare a response?”
Chofsky looked out his window for a moment and mulled his response. “As the Japanese say, I wanted him to save face.”
“It sounds like you were laying the groundwork for a coup,” I noted.
“Mr. Tucker wielded power like a dictator. I merely attempted to introduce a little democracy.”
“But in the end the dictator was overthrown.”
“You certainly don’t suspect one of the band members,” Chofsky said with more enthusiasm than at any point in our conversation.
“Why not?” I asked. “You planted the seeds for a revolution. Why are you surprised that one of these guys might have planted the bomb? If a band member was sure he was about to get tossed out of the band and cut off from his income stream, who else would have a better motive?”
“Mr. Tucker was not a likeable man. I understand he recently embarrassed some other business partners and had a major falling out with his wife, who I need not point out, was just arrested and jailed for the murder,” Chofsky said with a raised eyebrow as he tapped a pen point on a legal pad.
I could tell Chofsky felt he had gained the upper hand in our conversation and was anxious for it to end. I needed to run a bluff to keep the ball rolling. "Chelsea has been withholding some information that is embarrassing in nature, but will give her an alibi for the murder. I expect the charges to be dismissed within the week.”
“What is this alibi?”
“I swore to Chelsea and her lawyers that I wouldn’t reveal it under any circumstance, allowing them to break the news when it would result in the charges being dismissed.”
“I’m being open and honest with you,” he said.
“I’m not facing deportation for getting someone killed, not to mention the crimes you orchestrated against me and my staff. We’re nowhere near even in this relationship. What did Nigel say when you called him?"
“Mr. Choate tried to assure me that no final decisions had been made regarding litigation, and that we needed each other, and that both of us would suffer greatly from a stalemate.”
“What else did you tell him?” I asked as if I knew, even though I was fishing.
Chofsky once again gazed out his window, mulling a decision on what would be prudent to disclose. “I tried to bolster his confidence.”
I flipped my palms skyward in an effort to prompt him to elaborate.
“I told him that our A&R consultants attributed the band’s sudden surge in popularity to the Nigel Choate compositions.”
“Was this news to Nigel, or did you get the impression he already knew this?” I asked.
“This was a revelation to Mr. Choate, I am certain.”
“How do you know?”
“Up to that point he had held a stern, adversarial tone. When I offered this fact his manner changed and the way he said, ‘really,’ gave me the impression he was genuinely surprised,” Chofsky said.
“Did he ask you to elaborate?”
“No. But he did offer to avail himself to the negotiating process if I reached an impasse with Mr. Tucker.”
“Did you take him up on his offer?”
“I kept him apprised of new developments, and I’m glad I did considering he had to step into Mr. Tucker’s role.”
“As I understand it, he’s in the process of hiring an established manager who will assume that role,” I stated.
“He is seeking new management,” Chofsky said, side-stepping part of my question.
“Have you reached an agreement on the release of the new CD?”
“We reached an agreement on two major points,” he said. “First, I conceded that the escape clause was a mistake on my part and substantially diminished my position. Second, Mr. Choate conceded that Mr. Tucker was a tremendous talent and his absence will substantially diminish the band’s current and future value as of this date. So, we agreed to release the new CD under the terms of the old contract.”
“What about future CDs?”
“We agreed that Doberman’s Stub would remain with Cerise Records, and they would receive a raise within a rather wide range, depending upon the reputation and quality of Mr. Tucker’s replacement and the performance of the new CD. The exact amount is to be negotiated by the new manager, who will be selected by the band. It is a win-win situation for all parties,” Chofsky said with his first smile of the day.
“Except for Mr. Tucker, of course,” I said.
“Of course.”
“I assume if you paid an investigator to follow Terry when he was alive, you are also paying an investigator to keep an eye on Nigel. Is that correct?”
“Mr. Vandevere has been monitoring Mr. Choate’s activities,” he replied.
“May I see his file?”
“Mr. Vandevere has the file.”
“Will you call and instruct him to meet with me tomorrow, giving full disclosure?”
“I will. Now if you will excuse me I need to make some calls to Mr. Torhan’s family.”
“Thank you for your time and candor,” I said, and hoped Chofsky’s constricted sphincter speech patterns hadn’t rubbed off on me. Miss Illich escorted me to the gate.
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?”
“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.”
“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 on history by saying they formed as a counter-terrorism group, and that today they are just a fraternal organization. But 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.
“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’m 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?”
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.”
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.