Chapter 4
Kelly loves going to baseball games, though she doesn’t seem particularly attuned to what’s happening on the field. She grew up in a dysfunctional family with two alcoholic parents and two older brothers who followed their lead down the same road. Kelly got out at 18 to attend school on the East Coast, primarily to get away from the family. I think she likes engaging in what she perceives to be normal family activities. While I’m watching the game she does a lot of people watching, which is OK until she feels compelled to share. A little sharing is fine. Getting nudged in the bottom of the ninth with the game on the line is not.
We’re both constantly amazed that we are dating someone of Irish heritage. Kelly associates the Irish with alcoholism and her bad childhood. On the other hand, I think of how Mom had to spend so many lonely nights while Dad was hanging out with his Irish buddies. As a teenager, I would feel guilty leaving her alone while I went out with friends or played gigs with the band. I grew up not far from San Diego’s Little Italy section and dated girls of Italian heritage almost exclusively, until I met Kelly just over a year ago.
As is our routine, I slept over at Kelly’s house Saturday night, and we planned to have brunch after reading the Sunday papers, then go our separate ways. However, about once every month or two the Kennedy clan goes on the warpath and calls Kelly to be the arbitrator of who’s right and who’s wrong. They used to call at all hours, sometimes from jail. About the time we started dating, Kelly laid down the law and told them if they called before 9:00 AM she would change her phone number and make sure none of them ever got it again. At 9:01 AM Sunday her phone rang and she talked with them for over an hour. When she finished she asked if we could spend the afternoon at the mall and take in a movie. I managed to negotiate a no chick flick codicil to the agreement, and we had a fun day.
On the drive home I cruised the neighborhood surrounding Cerise Records and got lucky on two counts. First, the building offered underground parking for employees, requiring a keycard for entrance. There are two labeled visitor parking spots per tenant around the perimeter of the building. Second, there was a park directly across the alley from Cerise’s parking spots. Cory, my stakeout photographer, could easily sit at one of the picnic tables with a book and his trusty Nikon to keep tabs on the comings and goings of Cerise’s visitors. I called Cory and set up a meeting at the office for first thing tomorrow.
At 8:00 AM on Monday morning I met with Cory Pafford, who suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome. This is a very unusual psychological disorder that results in many victims uncontrollably uttering the foulest language you can imagine. Cory is forty years old and has been unable to hold a job for any length of time. He’s a truly gifted photographer who had a few of his photos printed in major magazines. Unfortunately, most of the steady jobs in photography involve working with journalists, babies, mommies and numerous others who are immediately incensed by the symptoms of Cory’s affliction. When I worked with him at the mental health center, I helped him get a job with a National Geographic journalist I had dated briefly. To make a long story short, apparently there is a lot more English fluency in Ecuador than you might imagine. When they got unofficially deported, Cory got officially sacked.
Since most of the obscenities Cory spews are not germane to the conversation, I’ll spare you as much of it as I can. I laid out his assignment and sent him on his way.
At 10:30 AM I rang the doorbell of Doberman’s Stub bassist, Jack Pascal. He lives in a large old house in a lower-middle class neighborhood. On the outside, it looked like most of the other houses on the block, in need of a paint job and some minor repairs. Inside was a very different story. A small entranceway was kept to match the exterior, undoubtedly to lead pop-in neighbors, girl scouts and delivery people to believe he was just like them. However, once we walked into the living room it was obvious that Jack had an artist’s eye for detail, and excellent taste. The furnishings were modern, but not trendy. The art was phenomenal and his use of electronics to conceal computer, sound system and TV was inspired.
“I’ll bet the neighbors think you’re a regular Joe Lunchbucket,” I said.
“That’s the idea.”
“Don’t they get curious when the bass riffs rattle their windows?”
“Check this out,” he said and led me out of the living room and into a room where all of the walls and ceiling were completely covered by one-foot square cubes, designed to absorb and dissipate sound. The soundboard, amplifier, speakers and cased guitars were all laid out and arranged as if he had prepped for an MTV Cribs photo shoot.
“If I had a set-up like this, my Dad could have actually spent time at home during my teenage years,” I said.
“You play?”
I explained a bit of my background and he selected a gray suede case that housed a 1959 Gibson Les Paul. The neck was as straight as any new top-of-the-line guitar you could buy at a quality shop. Jack got us plugged in and we jammed for about 20 minutes.
“You sound familiar. Did you play the club scene?” he asked.
“Yeah. I played rhythm guitar and sang for a band called Tsunami Rush until three years ago.”
“I heard you a few times. Good stuff. So, what do you want to know about Terry?”
“Could you take me through what happened the day he died?”
“OK. We all met at the Denny’s on Broadway, near the studio. I got there first and read the paper while I waited for the others. We ordered before Ian arrived, since he’s not very punctual. But he was only about 15 minutes late, which is as close to on time as he gets.”
“What did you talk about?”
“We covered the two songs we were going to be working on that day. We planned on finishing one up by early afternoon and starting on the other. Terry was excited about the second song. We had played it several times over the past month and Terry felt it had potential to be big. But he also couldn’t get comfortable with Ian’s drum line. To me, it seemed like Terry was blaming Ian’s lifestyle for why it wasn’t coming out like he wanted it. But Ian was playing it like Terry was telling him. Terry was just having a time making it measure up to his standards. Ian had about two bites of his breakfast before he and Terry got into it. The argument accelerated quickly and Ian left with most of his breakfast still on his plate.”
“Did Nigel take sides?” I asked.
“No. We usually tried not to do anything that would get Terry pissed at us. Terry was a lot mellower when it came to playing Nigel’s compositions. If it wasn’t his baby he didn’t feel the need to be the parent.”
“Were the headphones in Terry’s car while you were at Denny’s?”
“I guess so. He usually brought his recorder and headphones into the studio when he got there,” Jack said.
“Did you go straight from Denny’s to the studio?”
“I did. But I think Terry stopped at 7/Eleven for a gigantic iced tea. He’d work on it all day.”
“Did he carry everything in one trip from the car?”
“I don’t think so. It was too much stuff. He also had a briefcase for his sheet music and notes.”
“Did he keep the headphones in the briefcase?”
“No,” he replied. “It was one of those thin, Italian leather cases. The headphones were big and bulky. He carried them and the portable recorder in a nylon carry bag. He’d bring his guitar home, too. So I’m sure he made more than one trip to his car, or had one of the studio guys help him.”
“Did he usually lock his car?”
“If he was going in the studio for the day, he did. But he wouldn’t lock up in between trips to the car,” he said.
“Would he lock up for a quick stop at 7/Eleven?”
“Probably not.”
“How about at Denny’s?”
“Probably yes, but I’m not sure. There’s a view of the parking lot at that Denny’s. But, his guitar was in there, so, I’m guessing he locked.”
“Was the rep from Cerise Records at the studio when you arrived?”
“If we were there, he was there.”
“What’s your take on that guy?” I asked.
“He creeps me out. He acts like he suspects everybody of everything and it’s his job to control through intimidation,” he said. “Most record companies ply their talent with hookers, booze, and dope as an incentive to put out a hit. Cerise has Vlad the Impaler acting like we better make a hit, or else.”
“Did you see him touch the recording equipment at any time?”
“No,” he said.
“Is it possible he helped Terry carry in his stuff?”
“I don’t know. He certainly wouldn’t offer, but Terry liked to butt heads with him and would tell him to do manual labor tasks just to piss him off.”
“Would he do what Terry told him?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Terry would tell him to make himself useful and not be the only one in the studio not earning his keep. Terry was very good at getting his way.”
“Did you see anybody else around the headphones?”
“Just our roadie, GI Jo-Jo. Terry would put his stuff on a bench by the door and Jo-Jo would put it where it belonged.”
“Could Jo-Jo have carried the headphones into the studio that morning?”
“I wasn’t really paying that close attention. But I heard one of the cops ask Ian that question and Ian said Jo-Jo was helping him realign the glass partitions in front of his drum set when Terry walked in. I guess Ian was trying something different to get Terry off his ass.”
“Jack, you’re a bright guy. Who do you think killed Terry?”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought and here’s all I’ve got. Our name is Doberman’s Stub. Terry was definitely the Doberman. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. When dealing with record companies and promoters, every band could use a Doberman Pincher. If somebody pushed Terry, he would push back twice as hard. I’m a Golden Retriever myself. I’m convinced Terry was killed by a Pit Bull or another Doberman.”
As I drove away from Jack’s house, I was starved and not very focused. I couldn’t get the dog analogy out of my mind. If Dad’s a Police Dog and Mom’s an Irish Setter, what am I? Should I drive to the pre-scene of the crime and check out Denny’s Moons Over My Hammy or drive straight to PetCo. for some Kibbles ‘n Bits? My cell phone interrupted my ramblings.
“Hello,” I said.
“Time to pay the piper,” said Walter Shamansky.
“Kojak! I thought you forgot all about me. Then again, it is almost lunchtime,” I said, with much enthusiasm.
“Not today. I’ve already got a date.”
“Then what can I do for you?”
“Your boss is still number one in the charts for the homicide. But in the interest of being thorough, I thought I’d give you a chance to see if there’s anything to her theory about the record company,” Shamansky said.
“Have you actually talked with John Koflanovich at any time?”
“He’s out of the country a lot. But I see where you’re going. The Cold War is still very much alive at Cerise Records. Do I think they killed their top moneymaker? Not a chance. Business is business. It would be moronic. But getting stonewalled by the Ruskies is enough to make me want to punish them by putting you on their tail,” he said.
“How about this? There’s a park on the other side of their building. Cerise has two visitor parking spaces facing the park and it also faces the entrance to the underground employee parking lot. I can put one of my staff members in the park with a camera to track the comings and goings of the employees and visitors. How does that sound?” I asked without telling him the plan was already in action.
“Staff members?”
“What’s so-”
“No, wait. Don’t tell me. I got it. It’s an out of work keyboard player or some nutcase from the Mental Health Clinic,” he said.
“Does SDPD have a policy against hiring the handicapped?”
“Aha! Nutcase it is! Do you expect me to rely on the work of a mental defect if I have to go to court?”
“He does stakeouts for me all the time. He’s a top quality photographer whose photos were published in National Geographic and other major publications,” I said.
“Tell me those other publications weren’t porno rags.”
“Nothing like that,” I said.
“Can this guy testify if I need him on the stand?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“OK. What’s his major maladjustment?” Shamansky asked.
“He has Tourette's Syndrome.”
“Oh that’s just great. I can see it now. The prosecutor says, ‘Mr. Pottymouth, tell us in your own words what you saw outside Cerise Records,’ and he says what?”
“You don’t need to use him on the stand. His photos have time and date stamps. Didn’t you ever hear the expression: One picture is worth a thousand words?”
“Why don’t you personally sit on the place?”
“My pictures are awful. When they aren’t blurry it looks like I’m stalking Marie Antoinette,” I said. “Cory can get recognizable faces through rolled up windows of moving cars going in and out of that garage. I’ve seen them. They’re great.”
“In other words, Cory’s already there. This is no skin off your nose. So I didn’t actually use up that favor. You still owe me,” he said.
“Great minds think alike.”
“Then tell me when and where I’m thinking about viewing those Rembrandts.”
“My intuitive powers are revealing an expensive hillside eating establishment, sometime around lunch hour tomorrow,” I said with mystical inflection.
“Bingo! Make it 12:45,” he said and hung up.
While Jack Pascal chooses to blend into a working class neighborhood, Nigel tries to stand out in an upper class section of Rancho Santa Fe. The entrance to his driveway features a wrought iron gate adorned by two rhinestone encrusted ceramic guitars. I cruised up a fifty-yard driveway with perfectly maintained flowerbeds on either side.
The entranceway had a huge awning extending out from the second floor of the house, supported by polished marble columns. A beautiful outdoor chandelier hung from the awning. Although it had an aesthetically attractive look, it was totally impractical for San Diego, where it rains about as often as you hear the phrase: Who needs fire insurance?
When I rang the doorbell, instead of the usual chimes I heard a 30-second guitar solo from one of Nigel’s compositions. The door opened promptly at the end of the solo. I was expecting a white-gloved butler to greet me with a large measure of British stoicism, but instead, was pleasantly surprised to see a bikini-clad brunette in her early 20’s. Maybe you can get good help these days. I was shown into a music room where Nigel sat on an armless swivel chair between a guitar in its stand and an ultramodern blue glass desk.
“Come in Mr. Duffy. I’ve been expecting you,” he said in the accent I was expecting from the butler. “I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time. We’re going back into the studio for the first time since Terry’s death tomorrow and I’m expected to take up the slack.”
“How far are you from finishing?”
“The CD was supposed to be 14 cuts. We just finished number ten when Terry died. Our record company has agreed to reduce it to 12 cuts, but three of the last four were Terry’s.”
“I thought you usually split up the number of cuts pretty evenly,” I said.
“We did. It’s just that Terry liked to fuss with his songs and put off laying down the tracks until he was completely satisfied. I’m just the opposite. Once a song is written I can’t wait until it’s recorded.”
“Nigel, what can you tell me about the day Terry died.”
“Well, for starters, Vlad the Impaler was at the studio, as usual.”
“Is this the Cerise goon?”
“Exactly.”
“What’s his real name?”
“His first name is Vladimir. I don’t know his last name. He’s definitely not a real executive producer. This guy is muscle and nothing more. He wears a suit, but he’s definitely a Teddy Boy,” Nigel said.
“Teddy Boy?”
“A hood. An enforcer,” he said, and I nodded. “Vlad and Terry had an adversarial relationship. Terry felt Vlad was there to get the tracks down as quickly as possible and spare expenses for the record company.”
“Did Vlad ever tell Terry or any of you to speed it up?”
“Not in so many words. But, he always acted tough and liked to think he was in charge. Terry belittled Vlad as a way of keeping him in line. You could tell Vlad hated being treated like the imbecile he is. When you said on the phone that Chelsea suspects him, I couldn’t agree more.”
“I haven’t been able to get near him at Cerise. Any suggestions?” I asked, trying to wrangle an invitation to the studio tomorrow.
Nigel accommodated as expected. “I just had a studio guitarist cancel for tomorrow. I’ll tell Vlad you’re filling in for him. I was planning on laying down the rhythm tracks myself anyway.”
“I actually do play rhythm,” I said.
“Even better. Can we pick this up after the session?” he asked. “I’m not even close to where I need to be on this song.”
I agreed and showed myself out. As I reached the entranceway, I looked across the living room and through the glass wall into the backyard. Seated at the pool, facing me was the butler minus the bikini top. She smiled and gave me a finger wave as she sipped a drink through a straw. I returned her wave and exited the mansion.
It was only 3:00 PM and I wasn’t scheduled to meet Ian until 4:30. So I called Jeannine to see if there were any new developments. She said that Cory called about an hour ago and said to tell me a truck from Formal Affairs Catering had just visited Cerise Records. I had Jeannine look them up on her computer. As I drove over, I stayed on the phone with Jeannine while she checked out the catering company online. They didn’t appear to have any affiliation with the Russian community.
When I reached their reception desk I told the receptionist that John Koflanovich from Cerise Records had just sent me over and I needed to speak with the Catering Events Manager handling their affair. I did this using my best impression of a Russian immigrant. The Events Manager was a well-groomed woman in her late 40’s.
“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked.
“Mr. Koflanovich insist I serve on wait staff to help non-English speaking guests,” I said.
“This is very last minute. The party is tonight. We didn’t discuss this. We only use our own people.”
“It a, how you say – afterthought,” I said with a smile.
“I’m afraid that would be impossible.”
“More than half of guests speak only Russian. How many staff members you have speak Russian?”
“We have no Russian waiters, but I’m afraid our insurance and workers compensation would not allow us to let you work the party tonight. There’s just no time to get you approved,” she insisted.
“Mr. Koflanovich say to tell you if you no let me work, to cancel alcohol part of order. He bring in Russian bartenders,” I said.
She smiled, blinked about eighteen times and said, “Tell Mr. Koflanovich that Formal Affairs Catering still believes the customer is always right. I’ll have a little form for you to sign that says you are working for Mr. Koflanovich and not our company and, as such, are not covered by our worker’s compensation. If you get hurt you are not our responsibility.”
“Understand,” I said.
“You don’t need to be there for the set up. Guests should start arriving at 7:00 PM. That time will be fine. See Suzy at reception to get fitted for your uniform,” she said. Besides the uniform I got directions to the Ukrainian Citizen’s Club in North Park.
The Tillerman’s is a British rock & roll bar in Mission Beach. Rock was king and a large Doberman’s Stub framed poster hung on the wall behind the bar. I swung onto a barstool in front of the poster and ordered a Beck’s.
As the bartender poured my beer into a glass, I nodded at the poster and asked, “Are you a fan?”
“Yeah. They’re pretty cool,” he said. “In fact, if you stick around long enough you just might run into the drummer.”
“I heard he’s the wild one in the band.”
“You heard right. He definitely likes to party and has incredible stamina,” he said.
“Does he ever bring any of the other band members in here with him?”
“Hardly. He doesn’t get along with them and makes no secret of it.”
“Not even his fellow Brit, Nigel?”
“I think he feels like he owes Nigel for getting him into the band, since Ian is the youngest and wasn’t nearly as established when the band formed.”
“Couldn’t they be friends, just not drinking buddies?”
“One night at 2:00 AM I was closing up and Ian was potted. He found out that day that an uncle in Leeds had died and he couldn’t go home because of the band’s schedule. He was nowhere near passing out and needed a friend. I asked him if he wanted me to call Nigel and he said Nigel would tell me to throw his ass in jail. I thought he might just be feeling sorry for himself, but he wasn’t. He honestly believes Nigel would like him out of the band.”
“That sucks!”
“Speak of the devil,” he said. “Look who’s here.”
Ian made his entrance through the back door. He looked like a young Billy Idol with his wild blond hair, muscles, and sleeveless shirt. Ian ambled the length of the bar toward us, surveying the tables as he walked.
When he reached us I said, “Ian, I’m Jason Duffy. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I like the way you think,” he said to me. Then he turned to the bartender and said, “Bushmills.” As the bartender prepared his drink, Ian said to him, “So, Bert, I see you’ve been talking to the private dick. I hope you haven’t been telling tales out of school.”
“Just extolling your virtues, Ian me-boy,” he replied.
“How about if we grab a table and talk a bit,” I suggested.
After a long gulp of Bushmills Ian replied, “You think I don’t want to be seen at the bar with a dick.”
“We haven’t been called dicks since the thirties. You really should have taken an English as a Second Language course before immigrating,” I said.
Ian looked at Bert, nodded at me and said, “A comedian. Maybe we will have some fun tonight after all.” Then to me he said, “If you want to do the cloak & dagger we can take the table by the loo. If Bert’s been in there recently no one will come near us. But first give me a little topper, Bert.”
Once Bert refilled his empty glass we settled into a booth under a Rolling Stones poster. “OK, grill away. I’m as lucid as you’re gonna find me tonight.”
“Don’t you have a recording session first thing in the morning?”
“You’re on top of things. I didn’t find out about that until I listened to my answering machine a half hour ago.”
“I just came from Nigel’s. He’s working overtime to get a song together for tomorrow.”
“And I’m fucking off in a bar as usual. Did he send you over here to keep me sober for tomorrow?”
“I don’t work for Nigel, I work for Chelsea,” I said, trying to get him on a positive track. “She thinks the record company had something to do with Terry’s murder. What do you think?”
“She thinks the blond Bolshevik blew her husband’s mind?” he asked. “I concur wholeheartedly. I knew that fucker was bad news from day one.”
“Did you see him touch the headphones that day?”
“Yeah. I think I did. Terry was always trying to get him to do things. I’ll bet he planted the bomb while me and GI Jo-Jo were adjusting the partitions.”
“Weren’t the partitions and your drum set pretty close to the explosion?”
“Yeah. Thank God for the partitions or the best drum set I ever owned would have been covered in blood,” he said. Then quickly added, “That didn’t sound right. I probably told Terry to sod off every day I knew him, though not always to his face. But I’d trade me drums and swear off the booze forever if it would bring him back. He made me famous. I’m not too sure Nigel can keep the band together without him.”
“Let me ask you about the partitions. I don’t get it. You were halfway through a song and you adjusted the partitions. Isn’t the idea to maintain the continuity of the sound throughout the song?” I asked.
“My bad. I was a little hung over and I just had a row with Terry at breakfast over my part in his big song that we’d be starting later in the day. I thought about what he said on my way to the studio and figured out a way to finally please him, if that’s really possible. I was so excited about my idea that I forgot we weren’t finished with the other tune. Terry was about to go totally ballistic when GI Jo-Jo told him he marked the exact placement of where the partitions were, and could put them back in ten minutes. Terry chilled and things went pretty well till the explosion.”
“Shouldn’t you and Jo-Jo have been re-setting the partitions while Terry was listening to his recording?” I asked.
“Terry’s a workaholic. I don’t suffer from that affliction. I took a little break out at my car. A little taste of the Bushie,” he said holding up his glass. “I needed a little fortification before being browbeaten by the master.”
“What about Jo-Jo?”
“I’m sure he was making time with his groupie girlfriend.”
“I didn’t think roadies had groupies.”
“Delitah has been using GI Jo-Jo to try to get to Terry.”
“Does GI Jo-Jo know this?”
“Of course,” he replied. “But GI Jo-Jo has always been shy around girls. He’s happy to have a good looking babe toastin’ his buns, even if it’s just a temporary arrangement.”
“Ian, can I give you a bit of friendly advice?”
“Here it comes. Go ahead, get it over with.”
“You only have two more songs to go on the CD. The public’s probably going to like it no matter how good those songs are. You guys are in the middle of contract negotiations with your label. Cerise and every other major label will be paying very close attention to those two songs to decide whether or not Doberman’s Stub can make it without Terry. You’re going to be in the studio for what, maybe a week? Why not tone the partying down for one week, then throw yourself and your mates the biggest bash you’ve ever had? You seem to like this business. Why not give it your best shot to keep it going as long as possible?”
“Biggest bash ever. I already told you I like the way you think. Good advice,” he said.
At 7:00 PM I walked in the rear entrance to the Ukrainian Citizen’s Club in my waiter uniform. The Events Manager briefed me on my duties. I was to circulate with a platter of caviar, focusing on the Russian-speaking guests. About 100 people arrived in the next half-hour. The occasion was Ivana Koflanovich’s seventeenth birthday. I got a glance at the guest of honor, and she was indeed missing half of her left pinkie finger. Daddy looked like a successful businessman in a gray pinstriped suit. He was in his mid-fifties and had a bodyguard accompanying him at all times. Ivana had to endure both a male bodyguard and a matron shadowing her every step. What a way to live.
Most of the conversation was in Russian and seemed pleasant and cordial. I heard a couple of guys in their mid-thirties discussing business in Tecate, but nothing that stood out as illegal or sinister.
About an hour into the party I heard a couple of elderly women chatting when one said, “Ivan thinks the American Mafia has found him.”
“Oh my God!” replied the other. “What’s he going to do?”
“Double the security, upgrade alarms. What can he do? He can’t go back to Russia and he can’t keep running.”
“I honestly didn’t think the name change was going to fool them for very long,” said the second woman.
I felt a gun in my ribs and a voice in my ear. “Try same move again and I pull trigger.”
“Is that a new cologne, Nicky? You definitely weren’t wearing it on Friday,” I said, hoping to defuse the tension this man was exuding.
“Walk toward front door. No funny business,” he said.
As we made our way around the dance floor, I saw my opportunity and took it. Koflanovich was dancing with his daughter and I could see our paths were going to come very close. I assumed Nicky wouldn’t take the chance of inadvertently shooting his boss or the daughter.
When they were within two feet of me, in one motion I spun away from my captor, tapped Koflanovich on the shoulder and asked, “Mind if I cut in?”
When he let go of her to turn and see who was making the request, I grabbed Ivana and danced her toward the middle of the crowd. I reached a point where I could make a dash for the door and said, “You’re a wonderful dancer. Great party. Gotta run.”
When I reached the door I slowed my pace, knowing there would be more guards at the entranceway. As they checked me out in my waiter uniform,