Chapter 5
On Tuesday morning I stopped at the Denny’s where Terry had his last meal. I used my powers of persuasion and proclivity for bullshit to get seated in the section staffed by the waitress who served the band.
After some minor flirting I said, “I heard you served Doberman’s Stub the day of the murder.”
“How do you know that?” she asked.
“I overheard a couple of your coworkers talking. What were they like?”
“At first they were pretty cool. But then they got into a fight and the cute one took off without eating his French Slam.”
“Did the rest of them leave together?”
“No,” she replied. “The guy that got here first, left after the cute one. Then, a few minutes later, the other two got up together, but the English guy went to the bathroom while the guy that died paid the bill and took off.”
“Cassie, pick up,” said a voice from behind a row of steaming plates.
“Gotta go,” she said with a smile. I gave Cassie a $5 tip for a $3.95 breakfast and departed.
Twenty minutes later Cory showed me the fruits of his labor. Not bad for one day’s work. First, he came up with the tip about the birthday party. Then he gave me a veritable rogue’s gallery of thugs pulling in and out of the Cerise visitor parking spots. If I didn’t know better I’d think Koflanovich was casting for the Russian version of The Godfather.
Cory photographed every vehicle entering and exiting the building. I was able to pick four guys out of Cory’s array who were at the party last night. He got license plate numbers on three of the four guys. I took all of the pertinent photos and put them in a zipped satchel to show Shamansky over lunch.
Jeannine did a bang up job of getting background on people affiliated with Yuliya, Inc. and its predecessor, Rasputin Enterprises. Six years before the Russian Revolution, Josef Chofsky founded Chofsky Enterprises in San Francisco, which was renamed Rasputin Enterprises ten years later. The business became profitable almost immediately because they had connections in Moscow with the Romanov family. Chofsky exported as much technology to Russia as possible.
Besides advanced sales, the other facet of Chofsky’s business prowess involved training cheap labor to perform assembly tasks. In San Francisco, they employed Chinese immigrants for less than a quarter of what they would have to pay US citizens. When human rights groups began protesting and picketing in the 70’s, they switched from Chinese laborers to a Maquilladora operation using cheap Mexican labor. The company needed trained electronics technicians for key phases of the assembly process. San Diego was perfect, since it has an endless supply of trained techs being honorably discharged from the US Navy and in need of employment.
Once the USSR broke up, Yuliya shifted the majority of its business interactions to Russia. Obviously, family ties remained strong. They even changed the way they did business, relying on Russian electronics technicians to do most of the sophisticated finish work rather than using ex-Navy personnel.
Jeannine dug up an interesting report written by a stock market analyst. Yuliya initiated an extensive expansion into the Ukraine, then reversed itself within one year and pulled out of Russia altogether. The analyst believed the pullout was caused by extensive piracy perpetrated by the Russian Mafia. The pullout happened one year prior to the start-up of Cerise Records. That would give Koflanovich about the right amount of time to shut things down in Russia and get set up in California. Unfortunately, the article didn’t name any executives in the Ukraine.
I arrived at Larabee’s at 12:40 PM. Mrs. Cleaver gave me a look of vague recognition, so I told her, “Kojak, party of two.”
She immediately brightened and said, “Of course. If you’ll have a seat I’ll see if your table is ready.”
“Kojak sure gets the red carpet treatment around here,” I said. “Is it his witty Polish charm or does he know the owner?”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“We’re both detectives working on the same case.”
“Detective Kojak saved our little restaurant a couple of years ago. The owner used to have a partner until one day he cleaned out the bank accounts and disappeared with a nineteen year old waitress,” she said.
“And Kojak found the partner and the money and everybody lived happily ever after?”
“Something like that,” she replied. “Your table is ready. Would you like to be seated now?”
Shamansky rolled in at 1:00 PM looking sharp in his suit and tie. “You didn’t have to get all dolled up on my account,” I said.
“Court sucks!” he exclaimed with considerable frustration. “I work my tail off to bust these sleezoids, then help the prosecutor make his case, only to have some left-wing judge give a dead-to-rights repeat offender a free pass so he can qualify for Liberal of the Year at the ACLU picnic.”
While I was scrambling to come up with something to get Shamansky out of his foul mood, a Julia Roberts look-alike server came over and gave him a kiss on the top of his shaved head.
She said, “I always feel so safe whenever you’re around,” in a voice that would instantly melt ice from across the dining room. “I’ll be with you guys in a couple of minutes.”
Shamansky had an immediate change of mood and said to me, “Let’s figure out what we’re going to eat, then have a look at those pictures.”
For a moment his voice lost that cop-tone quality and it was quite obvious he was head-over-heels for our perfect 10 waitress. The thirty-year difference in their ages did nothing to deter his fantasy that he actually had a chance with this beauty. I think I became immune to love at first sight when I got to know Jeannine.
I had the feeling Shamansky would be riding the pink cloud through the end of dessert and I could probably get a lot more info than I had imagined if I played my cards right.
Once his heart-throb disappeared into the kitchen he asked, “Are the pictures in the satchel?”
I started off by showing him the crew from visitor parking.
“That’s Josef Kozlofsky,” he said. “He was a minor contender on the heavyweight boxing scene until a couple of years ago. I saw him box at least three times. What he lacks in skill he makes up for in ferocity, and man, can he take a punch.”
I made a mental note to scrap Plan A of hand-to-hand combat if I came across Josef in a dark alley. I was pretty sure I could take him with Plan B – the hundred yard dash.
Shamansky recognized three more of the 15 scary-looking visitors. He didn’t think any were known felons, but all had several scrapes with the law and all had reputations as very bad dudes.
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
“Something is definitely going down at Cerise Records. But these pictures aren’t enough to be able to get a requisition for more manpower from the brass.”
“Why not?”
“Because my boss is going to cite the names of about five gangster rap bands and tell me this is probably just a bunch of white guys trying to Gravy Train the idea,” he said.
We then looked at the rest of the photos I had selected and Shamansky supplied a few names to go with the faces. At that point our food arrived and our sexy server made another huge fuss over Shamansky.
“How could your boss not put two and two together? First you have a murder, then an uncooperative suspect who ducks you, then you have half of San Diego’s Russian bent noses popping over shortly after the murder,” I said.
“I think that’s putting three and three together, but who’s counting,” he said. “It’s not so much that this doesn’t look suspicious, it’s more that the case against your boss is looking better every day.”
“How so?”
“Let’s just say you better put in for your expense reimbursement soon. If I had to make an educated guess, I’d say your client will be wearing a numbered shirt by this time next week.”
“C’mon Shamansky,” I said. “I gave you some good stuff here. What have you got that makes her look so bad?”
“There are a few things, like the fact that she gave him the headphones, had access to them, and was seen fighting with Terry a couple of days before the murder. But the one that stands out the most is the fact that Chelsea’s dad owns a construction company that uses blasting caps for excavation. And, she took out a five million dollar insurance policy on him less than a year ago.”
“Most married couples have insurance policies and, from what I can tell, everybody that knew Terry fought with him on a regular basis. He was not your proverbial sweetheart by any stretch of the imagination.”
“What about the blasting caps?” he asked.
“Is there any evidence that she was in possession of blasting caps or came anywhere near where they’re stored?”
“We’re working on that right now.”
“We both know that you can find almost anything about anybody if you know your way around the Internet. Also, everybody knows that the spouse is always the top suspect. Framing Chelsea would be the easiest thing in the world. Especially if the police decide they don’t want to look at more than one suspect.”
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Duffy. Why don’t you leave fifty for the meal and take off. I’ll take care of the tip.”
Not at all pleased, but also not wanting to burn any bridges, I left the cash on the table and said, “I suggest the cherries jubilee for dessert.”
I arrived at Perfect Pitch Recording Studios at 2:30 PM. The band had just taken a break and was still gathered in the studio. I was immediately accosted by a blond behemoth in khaki slacks, blue blazer, white shirt, and striped tie.
“What are you doing here?” he shouted.
“Nigel Choate invited me to stop by,” I said as all three of the band members watched the exchange.
“No visitors! Get out now!” he exclaimed.
Jack Pascal stepped forward and said, “This guy is a rhythm guitar player. He’s going to fill in for Terry Tucker’s part so that the rest of us can stay in rhythm while we do our thing.”
“No one told me this. I was told an African man named Skeezie Johnson would be filling in,” he said and glanced at the clipboard in his left hand.
Jack replied, “Skeezie’s a little queasy. He won’t be joining us today.”
Vladimir Torhan looked perplexed, so I added, “Too much vodka. I just came from his place and he's blowing borscht chunks all over the bathroom floor.”
“Ah, hangover,” he said with a smile. Then, changing his expression he yelled, “I don’t believe you. Musicians always walk in with instrument. No guitar, no musician.”
“I was told I had to play Terry’s guitar to match up the sound.”
“Play something right now,” he demanded.
A couple of minutes later Jack had me plugged in and I was instinctively playing the riff I used to reserve for dates that I was trying to impress as being third base-worthy. By the time I had finished, Torhan had buttoned his blazer.
Nigel said, “Blyme! He’s bleedin’ decent.” He then handed me a photocopy of the sheet music for the next song and said, “I’m not going to ask you to sign a waiver because we’re not going to be using your tracks. But it would definitely help us out if you could fill in for the Skeezer today.”
“Sure. Whatever,” I replied.
“GI Jo-Jo will set you up in a practice room behind the recording engineer. Here’s the sheet music and a disk of what it’s supposed to sound like, with me playing both lead and rhythm. Stand behind the engineer and give me a wave when you’re ready to go,” Nigel said.
GI Jo-Jo stood about 6’2” and weighed around 225 lbs. He carried a Marshall amp into the 5’ by 9’ practice room, then went back for the guitar. When he returned I said, “Terrible thing that happened to Terry.”
“He was a hellofa good musician.”
“Was he a friend?”
Jo-Jo thought about this for about 15 seconds before responding. “I don’t know. There were four roadies on the tour and I’m the one he picked for the studio gig. So, I guess so.”
“Why do you think he picked you?”
“Because I worked with electronics in the Army. I can do cabling, sound board, minor repairs, and I’m not a complainer like most roadies.”
“Not even when your girlfriend talks about wanting to be with him?” I asked.
“Who told you about that?”
“One of the guys in the band mentioned it. I didn’t think it was a secret.”
“You’re all set to go here,” he said, and walked out of the room.
Along with the amp and guitar, Jo-Jo had set up a modular recorder with headphones for me to listen to Nigel’s disk. I wondered if it was the same make and model that had killed Terry. I gave the headphones a thorough pat-down before putting them on. After about twenty minutes I emerged from the practice room and stood behind the sound engineer. From that vantage point I could tell that the engineer had the best view of the blast, looking through the glass into the recording studio.
Nigel signaled the recording engineer to stop. While he spoke with Ian I said to the engineer, “It looks like you had a clear view of the explosion that killed Terry.”
“That’s what the cops thought, too,” he said. “But I was looking at the mixing board the whole time.”
“I thought you were on break, between songs.”
“Maybe the band takes a break between songs, but that’s usually my busiest time. I was multitasking, splitting time between critical listening and instrument review. I had to make sure we were set with what we had just recorded and didn’t need another take. That day it was especially important because I knew the drummer was planning on resetting the partitions. I was completely focused on what I was listening to and how it related to the sound levels I was looking at on my panel,” he said.
“Did you notice anybody near Terry’s table during the day?”
“No, but you sure ask a lot of questions for a rhythm guitarist.”
“I guess multitasking is big around here,” I said and noticed Nigel waving me into the studio.
It felt good to be playing with a band again. We spent the next 45 minutes wading through a couple of takes that didn’t please Nigel at all. On the third take he was giving everybody a smile and nod. Unfortunately, as we were coming out of the bridge, one of the bodybuilders that visited Cerise yesterday wandered into the studio and Nigel went nuts.
Torhan did his best to smooth things over, but Nigel was too distracted to continue. He called for a half-hour break and left the building. I walked over to Torhan, who was complaining about how much money a half-hour break would cost and decided it would be my best shot at pumping him for information.
I said, “That’s it for me, I’m outta here and I’m not coming back in a half-hour.”
“What are you talking about? There’s no reason to leave.”
“I didn’t like the idea of taking a gig where a musician got murdered in the first place. Then, I’m out there for less than an hour, standing right next to where Terry was blown away, and you guys let this thug come strolling in. Your security sucks. I can’t work under these conditions.”
“Boris Melsin is not a thug,” he said, looking at his comrade. “In fact, he was just assigned to the security detail here at the studio. It’s his first day on the job. He didn’t know where he was going. You see, there is no shortage of security.”
“How much security was here the day Terry was killed?” I asked.
“Just me that day.”
“I thought you’re supposed to be an executive.”
“I am, but I was also an amateur boxing champion in the Ukraine eight years ago. So, I am quite capable of handling myself in a fight.”
“The guy who killed Terry used a lot more firepower than fists.”
“I’ve got it under control,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket and revealing his shoulder holster and what appeared to be a Glock pistol. “If the killer returns, he’s dead meat.”
Nigel came back considerably more relaxed. I got the impression the band smoked a joint during the break. We then recorded his song in one take. Afterwards, he came up to me holding a single sheet of paper.
“I think I’ll have you sign a release after all. That wasn’t half bad,” he said.
I accommodated his request, but signed it Jason N. Daffy, as in: Jason not daffy enough to sign his rights away. Nigel wanted me to stick around for the last song, but I had an appointment with the band’s manager, Kirby Kaufmann, and the band’s attorney, at Kirby’s insistence. So I turned my back on potential rock & roll immortality to go do my job. Maybe the rock & roll dream finally is out of my blood. Then again, it could also be that I’m enjoying my role as a detective more than at any time since I hung out my shingle.
At first it was hard to imagine that an astute businessman like Terry Tucker would place his future in the hands of an obvious hack like Kaufmann. Then again, they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. Maybe Kaufmann is some kind of rock & roll savant. On the other hand, it was much more likely that Terry selected someone he could control with absolute authority; a puppet that wouldn’t be able to figure out what was going on with the recording contract.
Also present, and at least looking the part, was Attorney Elden Dumanis. At first they were friendly and asked that I express their condolences to the widow. But once I wanted to change the subject to the contract negotiations, it got acrimonious.
Kaufmann said, “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss the contract with you. It’s privileged information.”
“I work for Mrs. Terry Tucker. She inherits all of Terry’s publishing and recording interests.”
“We work for Doberman’s Stub. As much as we were sorry to see Terry die and all, he’s no longer a member of the band. We’re now accountable to the surviving three members and not to Terry or his widow,” said Kaufmann.
“Do you agree with this?” I asked Dumanis.
“Certainly. We’re talking about privileged information. If we share anything with you we are betraying confidentiality,” he said, then looked at Kaufmann and smiled.
“Then you won’t mind if I call my firm’s Entertainment Law Attorney,” I said.
They both looked a bit flustered at this suggestion, but agreed. Of course my firm doesn’t have an Entertainment Law Attorney on retainer, so I did the next best thing and called Bernie Liebowitz. I made the call from the desk phone.
When Bernie picked up I said, “Attorney Liebowitz, this is Jason Duffy. I need your expert opinion on a contract matter.”
“I take it you’re scamming some unsuspecting schmuck as we speak,” he replied.
“That’s correct. I’m meeting with the manager of Doberman’s Stub, Kirby Kaufmann and their attorney, Elden Dumanis. Can I put you on speaker phone?”
“Give me a minute to shove this stick up my backside. OK, I’m ready,” he said.
“Thanks. Here we go,” I said, and switched to speaker mode. “Let’s be informal. Bernie, this is Kirby and Elden. Guys, this is Bernie.” After everyone said hello I said, “Bernie, I’m working for Terry Tucker’s widow. I’m sure you read about the murder in the papers.”
“Of course,” Bernie said.
“Kirby and Elden feel they can’t talk with me about the contract they were working on with Terry since, being deceased and all, he’s no longer a member of the band. Now I feel Chelsea Tucker still has a right to be kept informed, particularly since her husband wrote about half of the songs and performed on the new album,” I said.
“Does Chelsea inherit?” Bernie asked.
“She gets everything. There are no ex-wives, no children, and not even any parents. Chelsea is the sole heir.”
“Then here’s the deal. Kirby and Elden are right. They can tell you as her representative or tell her face-to-face to take a hike and not share a thing about the contract,” Bernie said and the guys lit up like a Christmas tree. “However, if they choose to do that Chelsea can file an injunction against both the band and the record company, delaying the release of the album indefinitely. All of the proceeds of past albums would be put into a trust fund and held without disbursement until the matter is settled. She could even submit the court documents to ASCAP and hold disbursement of royalties from airplay until the case is decided,” Bernie said.
Elden chimed in, “If we fight this thing she could be broke for years.”
“Actually, her father owns a very profitable construction business. She doesn’t need the money,” I said.
Bernie added, “The only one who would profit from a fight is you, Elden. If it went on long enough you could own Kirby’s house.”
“Nobody’s puttin’ up their house over this thing. We just didn’t want to get sued by the band members for disclosing financial information to a non-band member. If the law says we have to talk, then as law abiding citizens we’ll talk till we’re blue in the face,” Kirby said.
“Thanks Bernie,” I said, ready to disconnect.
“I’ll just bill you for a half-hour on this one,” Bernie replied and hung up.
Over the next hour I confirmed two things. First, Terry was completely in charge of all facets of the negotiation with Cerise Records and second, he hired these two clowns based on their level of incompetence. Elden conceded that Terry retained another law firm to do the detail work on the new contract. Fortunately, Elden was a pack rat and had a copy of each version that had been prepared by the firm to date. I made copies of everything, determined their whereabouts at the time of the murder and asked for their opinions on who killed Terry.
Elden said, “I don’t have any idea who did it. But, I can tell you this: The last couple of times we got together he was worried about something.”
“That was just the pressure of getting the CD done and having to negotiate with the Russian Mafia,” said Kirby.
“What?” I asked. “What makes you think Cerise Records is connected with the Russian Mafia?”
“That’s what Terry called them all the time. Have you been in Koflanovich’s office? It’s like visiting somebody at a maximum security prison,” said Kirby.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“On the outside it looks pretty normal,” he said. “But once you get past the receptionist you’ve got armed guards, attack dogs, a laser security system, hidden cameras, and Koflanovich’s office can be instantly turned into a safe room. Fort Knox should be so secure.”
“I know in contract negotiations you usually ask for the sun and settle for the moon. Do either of you know where Terry was hoping to end up?” I asked.
They looked at each other, Kirby nodded, and Elden said, “He had a Plan A and a Plan B. In Plan A, Cerise gives Doberman’s Stub a new contract starting with the CD they’re finishing now. Like you said before, he knew he had Cerise over a barrel and figured he could get headliner money.”
“What about Plan B?” I asked.
Elden replied, “In Plan B, if and only if Cerise didn’t negotiate in good faith, Terry said something about getting them busted and going free-agent.”
“Do you know what he had on them?”
“He didn’t talk about that,” Elden replied.
“Was anybody helping him gather information?” I asked.
“I think so,” said Kirby. “He got a call on his cell when I was with him a couple of weeks before the murder. I only heard one side of the conversation, but it sounded like he was getting some dirt on Cerise or Koflanovich and he definitely liked what he was hearing. He told the caller to, ‘keep digging,’ and said ‘good work,’ or something like that.”
“Did he mention a name?”
“Not that I recall,” he replied. “But there is one other thing you might want to know.”
“What’s that?”
“The week before he died, Terry told me he was being followed,” Kirby said.