Chapter 1
Chelsea Tucker entered my office exuding the kind of attitude I had come to expect from my financially privileged clientele. I took the lead.
“Before we get started let me express my condolences. Although I never met your husband, I found him to be a truly gifted musician.”
“Thank you,” Chelsea replied. “I understand you were a rock & roll musician yourself before you became an investigator. I’ve got to tell you, that’s a major concern for me. For every responsible adult I know in the music business there are a thousand flakes.”
“I played the San Diego club scene for ten years. But I wasn’t in it for the party lifestyle. I financed two degrees playing cover tunes until 2:00 AM most nights,” I replied.
“I went to college too, Mr. Duffy. I met as many flakes there as I did in the music business. Put my mind at ease. What can you do for me that other investigators can’t?”
Since this would be my first homicide investigation I couldn’t dazzle her with a track record of success and, since I’ve only been an investigator for two years I couldn’t impress her with my vast network of contacts.
“The music business is very unique. Most PI’s work either in a world of corporate executives or unfaithful spouses. I understand what motivates musicians, promoters, club owners, agents, roadies and groupies. Also, I liked Terry’s music and truly want to see his killer brought to justice.”
Sitting forward in her chair, locking her intense green eyes with mine, Chelsea asked, “Can you give me some references of clients you’ve worked with in the past?”
“A very important part of the service I provide is complete confidentiality. I’m sure you’d like me to show you the same consideration when we conclude our business,” I said.
“Right answer.”
“Why don’t you tell me how I can help you,” I said, assuming I passed the audition.
“The San Diego Police Department has been investigating Terry’s death for the past two weeks. I don’t like the direction they’re taking. I have a pretty good idea of who did it. But apparently they prefer to spend their time trying to link it to me because we took out an insurance policy within the last year. I understand that the police have to investigate me, but it doesn’t seem like they’re doing much of anything to track down Terry’s real murderer. That’s why I’m here,” she said, pushing her long black hair away from her face.
“The police managed to keep many of the details out of the press about what actually happened in the recording studio. I know it was a bomb that killed Terry. What else can you tell me?” I asked.
“Terry was a perfectionist. When the band was recording he’d work night and day to get just the right sound. He had a high-quality, portable recorder that he worked with at home to note ideas, changes and things that needed improvement. During recording sessions he kept the recorder on a little table next to him in the studio. Between songs he listened to his notes, and then told the band what to do.”
“Was the bomb in the recorder?”
“No, it was in the headphones. Terry complained that his old headphones weren’t able to screen outside noise. His band mates and sound techs were distracting him. So he asked me to buy a heavier set, designed for noisy environments. On the day he died, the band finished one of their songs and took a break. Terry put on the headphones, pushed play, and they exploded, killing him instantly,” she said as her voice shook noticeably for the first time.
“Who do you think is responsible, Chelsea?” I asked.
“Most of the guys were established musicians when they formed about three years ago. Terry and the lead guitarist, Nigel Choate, were both prolific songwriters. It didn’t take long until they had enough material for their first CD. They thought with their experience and hot demo they’d be in a position to, if not dictate terms to a recording company, at least manage to not get screwed. But the timing was really bad. All of the record companies were freaking about shared files on the Internet gutting their CD and download sales. The established record companies were in a wait and see mode, and it looked like the market was going to stay that way indefinitely until some legislation passed to eliminate piracy, or at least limit it. There was no way the band was going to sign one of the usual rip-off contracts the record companies use to swindle unsuspecting new bands. Just when things were looking their worst, this salesman-type Texan approached our manager with an offer that was about half-way between what Terry was looking for and what everybody else was offering.”
“How was the contract set up?”
“In the first part, the band agreed to record three CDs. The money for the first two was marginal. But the contract stipulated that if the first two CDs hit their sales goals that the money for the third CD would be increased relative to how the first two sold.”
It was obvious that Chelsea knew what was going on and did not emerge from the groupie bimbette gene pool.
“The first two CDs more than doubled their performance goals. But, when it came time for the record company to sweeten the pot for the third CD, the company president was supposedly out of the country on other business. The band proceeded with the recording sessions, but it became apparent they were getting the royal run-around.”
“You mentioned it was a two part contract. What was the other part?” I asked.
“It called for locking the band up for another three CDs, but it had an escape clause if they couldn't reach an equitable agreement on the third CD. That’s why Terry started recording without definitive answers on the contract re-negotiation. The band figured there was no way they would risk losing their biggest asset. I’m convinced Cerise Records was behind Terry’s murder. I want you to find out why and point SDPD in the right direction.”
After explaining the details on my fee, Chelsea reverted to the businesswoman persona she displayed at the beginning of our meeting. “I’m sure you’re a great detective, but I’m not committing to a long-term relationship until I see some results. I’ll pay you for one week, then decide if I want to continue. Is that satisfactory?”
“Only if you don’t expect me to solve the case in that time.”
“I expect significant progress, not a miracle,” she said as she stood up. “I’ll also expect regular progress reports.” She walked out of my office without the customary handshake or goodbye.
As a musician, I put up with drunks, hecklers and club owners who refused to pay up. In my three years as a mental health counselor I butted heads with several bureaucrats who routinely put their career self-interest far ahead of the needs of their clients. But these confrontations paled in comparison to what I knew I needed to do next. I had to ask my dad for a favor.
James Duffy spent thirty years with the San Diego Police Department, ten in a squad car and twenty as a detective. He retired the year I became a private investigator. I wish I could report a warm, supportive relationship, but no such luck. From the day Mom bought my first guitar when I was in 7th grade, Dad was sure he would find me dead in an East San Diego crack house. As a cop, he saw too many rockers end up on a slab in the morgue to let it slide when he saw his only son going down the same path. I don’t remember Mom and Dad having any serious fights until I started rocking out. Mom argued successfully that I had the benefit of good parenting and a strong sense of right and wrong. She wanted me to follow my dreams and Dad started spending a lot more time at the local cop bar. Whenever I started practicing, Dad considered it an open invitation to hang with his cop buddies. The bottom line was that their relationship suffered quite a hit, particularly while I was still in high school.
Dad hasn’t said much about my career as a PI. I get the feeling he’s keeping his opinions to himself to prevent more problems with Mom. He’s happy that I’m no longer a working musician. But I think he’s counting the days till I do something that will embarrass him in front of his cronies.
Mom has a fantasy that he’ll become my mentor, help me become a success and feel needed in the process. More importantly, she’s hoping we’ll patch things up and be more of a family now that we have some common ground. For these reasons, Mom was a willing co-conspirator when I called to ask her to keep him around the house so that I could get his advice on the case. I found him in the backyard watering the lawn.
“Hi Dad. Have you been doing any fishing with Kerrigan?”
“Cut the chit-chat. Your mother tells me you want something. Let’s just get to it,” he said with his usual amount of tact.
At that point I did the only thing Dad would go for - I gave him exactly what I had.
“So, what do you want from me?”
He knew exactly what I needed but he wanted to hear me ask. “I need to talk with the primary investigator on the case.”
“Son, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve always been on your side. I’ll do what I can to get you a sit-down. But I’m going to ask you to take a tip from your old man.”
“I did ask for your advice,” I replied, hoping the lecture would be mercifully short.
Dad shut off the hose to give me his full attention and read my reaction. “Most cops think of PI’s as pains in the ass. They think you guys are there to tap them for information with nothing of value to trade.
“These days, everybody who thinks he’s been wronged files a civil suit. They usually hire lawyers and PI’s who cite chapter and verse of the damned Freedom of Information Act and expect the cops to help them make their cases. Most cops act tough, like they’re not afraid of those jackals. But the truth is that their chances for promotion go right in the shitter if one of those assholes files a lawsuit against the Department. The sad part is that the cops end up jumping through hoops and hate every minute of it. If you tell the primary you’re there to do the legwork for a civil suit against the record company, he’ll probably cooperate and thank God you’re not wearing a Brooks Brothers suit.”
“I like it,” I said.
“Don’t forget to fill in your client and, for God’s sake, don’t mention that it was my idea.”
“Dad, I had no idea you could be so deceptive.”
“You’re welcome. Now go say hello to your mother and let me finish the lawn,” he said, concluding the conversation on his terms.
As I walked into the kitchen, Mom was waiting for me with an anxious look on her face. “How did it go?”
“Call 911 and tell them to bring the defibrillator. We actually had a productive conversation with no yelling and no sermons. I’m in shock.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Father Lavelle that my prayers are finally being answered,” she said with a genuine smile. “I think he’s mellowed out a bit since he retired.”
“Or was it since my band hung it up?”
“Hard to say. It all happened around the same time. What do you think?” she asked.
“I think we shouldn’t overanalyze it. Count it as a good day and hope it’s the start of a trend.”
“Amen,” she replied as Dad walked in the back door.
“One more thing, son,” he said. “I know the vic was a rock star, but I think it would be in your best interest not to mention your musical career to the primary.”