Chapter 3
I rarely work on Saturday mornings. So far, most of my clients have been either spouses who suspect infidelity or rich parents looking to bail their kids out of scrapes with the law. Business booms on Friday night. Saturday morning is for sleeping.
My first task was to call each of the band members to schedule a time to meet on Monday. I reached the bass player, Jack Pascal, who was quite cooperative. I left messages for drummer, Ian Davis, and lead guitarist, Nigel Choate.
Over the next two hours I reviewed the Internet research that Jeannine dug up yesterday. I immediately went to the material on Cerise Records and John Koflanovich. She tracked the business through two dummy corporations to a business called Yuliya, Inc., an electronic parts manufacturing operation based out of Tecate, California, a border town southeast of San Diego. Most of Yuliya’s officers share the sir name, Chofsky. Yuliya is a small, publicly held corporation on an over-the-counter exchange. Jeannine found it listed in the local stocks section of the San Diego Union-Tribune newspaper. In the paper’s archives she found a two-page feature on the company from 1990. It appears Yuliya has been essentially the same size since the early 1900’s. It was a privately held company based out of San Francisco until 1979, when it went public to finance the move to Tecate in 1980. Before doing so, Yuliya was known as Rasputin Enterprises. In the early days, Rasputin traded in machine parts and slowly transitioned to electronics as technology developed.
The phone rang. “Duffy Investigations.”
“Is this Jason Duffy?” asked the caller with a heavy British accent.
“It is.”
“Nigel Choate. Your message said you were hired by Chelsea Tucker.”
“I appreciate your time and I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” I said.
“Friend? Terry wasn’t a friend. I don’t think Terry had any friends. I don’t usually speak ill of the dead, but if you’re conducting an investigation you’re going to find this out sooner or later,” he said and paused. “What do you want from me Mr. Duffy?”
“I’d like to get together and talk about what the recording sessions had been like; if you noticed anything unusual. Those types of things,” I said.
“I went through all of that with the police. Does Chelsea think one of us did it?” he asked with stress becoming apparent.
“It’s nothing like that. Actually, she thinks Cerise Records may have been involved because of what was happening with the contract. I’d really like to get your take on it, as well as your thoughts on the record company rep who was at all of the sessions.”
Nigel started to relax. “I think she may be onto something. The cops didn’t really ask many questions about that Neanderthal from Cerise. I don’t like him. I don’t think any of the lads do.”
Nigel agreed to meet me on Monday to go into details.
As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. After answering with my usual salutation, I heard my girlfriend, Kelly Kennedy, say, “When did you start going to the office on Saturday?”
“Since I started working a high-profile murder case earlier this week.”
“Are we still on for the Padres game tonight or will you be holding a press conference?”
“Let me call my people and I’ll get back to you.”
“Your people are probably all in group therapy at this hour. You’re just going to have to decide all by yourself,” she said, enjoying the exchange.
“Well, we can’t disappoint all of those fans. I’m sure they’re expecting us.”
“What about dinner?” she asked.
“I thought we’d go with the cylindrically shaped, all beef, non-kosher specialty of the house.”
“If I have to eat another hotdog I’m not going to want to come within ten feet of anything that even remotely resembles a wiener for a long time.”
“As a former therapist, I feel duty-bound to help prevent wiener aversion. How does the buffet at the park restaurant grab you?”
“I’ll be ready by 6:00. See you then,” she said and hung up.
After a lunch break at the local deli, I was back at my desk by 2:00 PM. I decided to try Ian one more time. After six rings and a brief silence, a smoker’s grunt told me a semi-conscious human was attempting to communicate.
“Is this Ian Davis?” I asked.
“Who’s this?” was the phlegmy reply.
I started by telling him I work for Chelsea and briefly explained what I wanted. He agreed to a meet on Monday, though I got the impression he wouldn’t remember the conversation, since it was apparent he was still drunk from last night. I managed to find out where he would be on Monday afternoon to help avoid getting stood up.
By 3:30 PM I was getting ready to call it a day. I had just finished outlining another To Do list for Jeannine when I heard the front door open. I was sure it was Jeannine, since I definitely locked the door behind me when I returned from lunch. Fortunately, I had a convex mirror installed in the upper corner of my office when I first moved in, primarily to avoid old mental health clients who couldn’t let go of me as their therapist. But that was no familiar face walking through the door. I quietly rolled the middle drawer of my desk open and withdrew my snub-nosed .38 revolver. I then inched my way to a spot behind the door and wondered if he could hear the pounding in my chest. He rustled a few papers on Jeannine’s desk, then made his way for my office.
As he walked through the door, I stepped behind him and put the .38 against the nape of his neck.
“Freeze,” I said, knowing I sounded exactly like one of my Dad’s favorite cop shows.
The intruder was in his mid-thirties and built like a professional wrestler. I ordered him up against the wall and frisked him while maintaining the gun’s contact with his spinal column. He carried a large pistol and two extra clips. After lightening his load, I walked him back out to the reception area, where I could move him out of lunging distance before turning him around.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. He didn’t reply. “You can either talk to me right now or you can talk to the cops in ten minutes.”
“You call cops anyway if you don’t kill me,” he said with a thick Russian accent.
“That depends on what you have to say,” I offered, hoping to get some answers before arranging his accommodations at our county lock-up. “Did Koflanovich send you over here?”
“Like you visit Koflanovich yesterday?”
“I went over there to ask him a few questions. I didn’t break in.”
“You trick girl and knock Nicky unconscious. Not quite friendly visit,” he said.
“Tell me about Koflanovich. Why all the strong-arm security?”
“Your boss no tell? American Mafia keep many secrets.”
“Koflanovich is in the Mafia?”
“Not him, you!”
“I’m not in the Mafia and I’m not the one who needs to start answering some questions.” I walked over to the phone on Jeannine’s desk, picked up the receiver and said in a forceful way, “Tell me about Koflanovich or you’re off to the gulag right now.”
“Ivan is legitimate businessman. He move to US after daughter, Ivana, kidnapped in Ukraine. After your pig comrades cut off finger,” he said and spit on the rug.
“I have no pig comrades,” I said.
As I was about to ask my next question, Jeannine walked through the front door. When I turned to look at her, the Russian sprinted toward the balcony, smashed through the screen door and dove over the rail. I ran to the edge of the balcony in time to see the Russian dislodge himself from a couple of oleander branches two stories below, and run down the street. When I walked back into the office Jeannine looked to be in shock.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“I told the salesgirl I couldn’t wear this perfume. She said it would drive men wild. Is he dead?”
“He just ran down the street, and it wasn’t your perfume. He broke in and just escaped to avoid going to jail.”
“I’m going to wash it off anyway. I’ll be in the girl’s room,” she said and walked out.