Rock & Roll Homicide (8 page)

Chapter 7

On Thursday morning we slept in until 9:30 AM and Kelly was extra attentive, perceiving that our relationship had gone to the next level with the meeting of my parents. She made crab omelets and asked a lot of questions about what my mom was like at various stages of my development.

I found a parking spot two blocks from my office and checked my watch just before walking through the door. It was 11:33 AM. As I entered Duffy Investigations, the first thing I saw was a file cabinet lying sideways on the carpet. I pulled my gun and stepped into the reception area. My heart sank. Lying on the floor was Jeannine with a gag in her mouth and her hands and feet tied together. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist and my first thought was that she had been raped.

When she heard the door open, she let out a muffled scream. She had her back to me and probably thought the perpetrators had returned. When she realized it was me, she started to cry. I removed the gag, untied her and held her as she hyperventilated and went into a panic attack. I found her prescription for Xanex in her purse and gave her a double dose. After about five minutes she was calm enough to talk. In the meantime I called the police.

“I look awful! I know I look awful!” she exclaimed between gasps.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

“Two men in black ski masks came in right after 9:00. They pointed guns at me and asked who else was here,” she gasped. “I think I said, ‘nobody’ but I’m not sure. Then they tied me up, put a gag in my mouth and searched the office. They took both of our computers.”

“Did they hurt you or do anything to you?” I asked as I prepared myself for the worst.

“Yes! It was horrible!” she screamed and again started to cry.

In as calm a voice as I could muster, I said, “If you’ll tell me what they did I can help you when the police get here.”

After stammering a couple of times she said, “The big one grabbed me by the arm and smudged my blouse. I tried to struggle, but the little one pulled my hair by my French braid and said if I didn’t shut up he was going to tie the braid around my neck and hang me from the ceiling fan.” Her hands began to shake.

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“They tied me up and threw me on the carpet,” she stammered.

“Did they do anything else to hurt you?” I asked. She nodded and her chin quivered uncontrollably. “What?” I asked.

“They broke my nail!” she blurted out as she held up her middle finger, flipping me off. I sat with her and waited for the police. I guess her skirt hiked up as she struggled to get free.

A squad car arrived about ten minutes after I called, and the officers made sure we didn’t touch anything until the place could be dusted for prints. We learned from Jeannine that the perps wore gloves, so the cops let me walk around to see if anything else was missing besides the computers. About a half-hour later Walter Shamansky made his entrance. He spoke with the patrolmen, then made his way into my inner office where he found me looking at a group of files thrown across the floor. He said, “You really ought to consider hiring a cleaning service. The slovenly look doesn’t cut it in La Jolla.”

“This was the work of the Russians. I’m sure,” I said.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“They took everything relating to the case, including all of Cory’s photographs. Nothing else appears to be missing,” I said. “Any chance of getting a search warrant for Cerise’s office?” I asked.

“I think the chances are pretty slim that they’d bring everything back to the office. If we get a warrant now and come up with nothing, it will be three times as tough to get another one on this case,” he said.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked feeling my adrenaline pumping. “My receptionist was assaulted at gunpoint, my office was robbed and we have a very good idea of who did it.”

“While you were in here I asked your gal if the perps had accents,” he said.

“And?” I asked.

“Red-blooded Americans, both of them,” he said.

“What about the parade of hired guns Cory photographed going into Cerise Records on Monday? It could have been a couple of those guys,” I said.

“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. From everything I’ve learned so far, Koflanovich is a careful man. I can’t picture him running an open casting call for a robbery,” he said.

I had to admit that Shamansky made a lot of sense. As I calmed down my brain started functioning again and I said, “When I was at the Ukrainian Citizen’s Club most of the guys under 40 had no accent. I think they were the Chofsky clan from Tecate.”

“That listens,” Shamansky said. “Is this the branch of the family that’s been in the US for almost 100 years?”

“One and the same. In fact, I recently learned that John Koflanovich changed his name when he entered the United States. It was Ivan Chofsky,” I said.

“All in the family,” he said. “I like it even better. But now the hard part is getting cooperation from Tecate PD. If we’re reluctant to get a warrant on Koflanovich, they’ll never approve one for a local company that employs recently discharged service men.”

I said, “I know exactly how I’m going to pay you back that favor.”  I then proceeded to give him the details of my plans for the weekend.

After the police left I told Jeannine I was hiring a bodyguard for her and the office. “Not a stranger,” she said. I made a few suggestions, but none met with her approval. Finally she said, “Delbert Henson.”

Fingernails scraped down a chalkboard in my mind. I could taste terrycloth in my teeth. Delbert Henson was in my therapy group with Jeannine for about a year. He suffers from delusions of grandeur. Every week Delbert would tell us a story where he ended up the hero. His self-lauding style and air of superiority made most of his fellow group members gag. They would tell him he was full of shit and get angry with him for making absolutely no effort to change. Jeannine never said a word about him in group or in individual therapy sessions. I always assumed she didn’t like him because he was about 100 pounds overweight, wore dirty T-shirts, and even dirtier sneakers to every session. He was the exact opposite of Jeannine.

“I think we need someone who is licensed to carry a gun. Somebody who understands police techniques and could actually defend you if these guys ever decide to come back,” I said in a boss-like tone.

Jeannine replied, “If you hire Delbert to protect me, I’ll clean up the office and keep coming to work. If not, I’m going to need a very long vacation. He still goes to the Center. He’s seeing Jake.”

     “You’re not dating him are you?” I asked.

“I haven’t talked with him since we were in group together. But I know that if he’s here with me I’ll feel safe, like I do when you’re here,” she said.

Hearing Jeannine equate me with Delbert Henson made my muscles flinch. Maybe it was the Xanex talking. She had just been through a terrible shock. But, knowing Jeannine as I do, there would be no changing her mind now that she’s taken a stand. It was either Delbert and Jeannine or no Jeannine. I owed her after what she had just been through. “I’ll talk to Jake, but I’m not sure he’ll allow it,” I said hoping I had found an acceptable out. Jeannine had always been good about obeying authority figures.

“If he says no I can always go on disability,” she said.

Ouch. A Workers Comp claim for a business with one full-time employee would skyrocket my rates. I’d also have to pay for a temp while she was out. But, more importantly, Jeannine knew everything that was in the missing computers. Also, I felt an obligation as her former therapist to keep a close eye on her mental health after going through today’s ordeal. “If Delbert is willing and Jake doesn’t have me committed for suggesting the arrangement, I’ll ask him to start in the morning, on one condition.”

“What?” she asked with a pout.

“When I’m in the office Delbert patrols outside,” I said.

“That would be OK,” she said.

I spent the rest of the day helping Jeannine put the office back together. I decided to bring in my home computer. On it I kept a brief summary of each day’s events since the start of the case. I also called my sister and arranged to borrow one she kept in her garage.

It had been one week since I was hired and time to find out if I was going to continue the investigation. I called Chelsea and gave her a summary of the week’s events, including the break-in, the robbery and the shooting. When I finished I asked, “Do you think I’ve shown enough progress to remain on the case?”

“Am I still the prime suspect?” she asked.

“You are,” I replied, “but SDPD is now very aware of the suspicious and criminal activities of Cerise Records.”

“I’ll retain you for another week, Mr. Duffy, but patience is not one of my virtues. I expect to be off of the suspect list by this time next week if you want to continue the investigation,” she said and hung up.

Chapter 8

On Friday morning I picked up Jeannine and drove her to the office where we hooked up my sister’s spare computer. Once again, Jeannine was working her magic on the Internet and by 10:00 AM I was scamming labor temp services. After a mere 23 strikeouts I hit pay dirt just after 1:00 PM. San Diego Tech-Temps acknowledged their relationship with Yuliya after I ranted about quality issues with their new electronic technicians.

I wanted to drive over immediately and sign up as a temp. But I had to stick around and conduct a job interview with a man who could leap tall buildings in a single bound. No, it was not a bird; not a plane; it was DELBERTMAN. Jeannine buzzed me to say Delbert Henson had arrived. A few seconds later Beauty and the Beast came through my doorway. Delbert sure knows how to put on the dog for a job interview. I think he was wearing the same dirty T-shirt and sneakers he had worn the last time I saw him three years ago. “Hello Delbert,” I said as I shook his beefy hand. “How are you doing these days?”

“Spectacular, Mr. Duffy,” he said. “Did you miss me?”

“Miss you,” I said, “why, according to Jeannine we can’t get along without you.” Delbert displayed a set of nicotine-stained choppers and nodded his approval. “I have a damsel in distress situation that calls for someone with your unique abilities.”

“Ooh,” he said as he rubbed his mitts together and raised his caterpillar eyebrows.

I continued, “Somebody broke in here yesterday and tied up Jeannine. She’s afraid to be alone and wants someone to protect her when I’m not around. It’s a temporary job until the bad guys are in the pokey. It pays eight bucks an hour, plus all the coffee you can drink.”

“It sounds like there could be some real danger,” he said.

“Jeannine didn’t put up a fight and they didn’t hurt her,” I said.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I have a lot of important things I do during the day.”

I replied, “I’ll get you a security guard uniform and any time I’m around you can go on patrol around the building.”

“Deal!” he exclaimed, then jumped out of his seat and shook my hand. “When do I start, boss?”

“9:00 AM Monday morning,” I said. I told Jeannine to find a local uniform store and arrange for Delbert to be outfitted appropriately this afternoon. She could accompany him since I would be leaving for the day and I wanted to make sure Delbert didn’t ask for a red cape to be custom fit onto his uniform shirt. I ended our meeting with a couple of personal hygiene tips and made a mental note to send him on time-consuming errands whenever client meetings were scheduled.

Getting signed up at the temp service was a breeze. I completed the paperwork, had three work shirts and laminated credentials in less than an hour. They assigned me to a shipyard first thing Monday morning, but I had other plans.

Chapter 9

On Saturday morning at 8:00 AM I entered Yuliya behind a group of four people wearing Tech-Temp shirts. One of them, a young Latino woman, asked if I was new. “First day on the job,” I replied, and got directions to the Men’s Room. I wandered around a bit, getting a feel for the layout of the plant. It was a two-story structure, encompassing about 20,000 square feet. Along the wall bordering the street were eight offices, four downstairs, and four upstairs. Only one of the offices was lighted. I assumed this belonged to the weekend boss. The Men’s Room was directly across from the offices, about forty feet away. All of the offices had large picture windows looking out over the main floor. One of the windows had a nice set of drapes. This was my target. My problem was that I could be seen from the main floor if I tried picking the lock to get into the office.

When I was in my first year of college at UCSD, I cruised through my General Education subjects until I got to College Algebra. There, I hit a wall. By midterms I knew I needed help. Since I was earning decent money with my band, I hired a tutor, Carl Jaffe, who had a rather nerdy appearance and personality. One day I asked him what he did for fun and he invited me to his dorm room. I was sure it was going to be a favorite computer game, but instead, Carl put on an astounding magic show. For the grand finale he had me put him in handcuffs, then wrap a chain around him and secure it with a big Yale lock. I then walked out of the dorm room to the end of the hall and back, as instructed. When I returned, Carl was lying on his bed with his uncuffed hands behind his head and said, “What took you so long?”

He swore the locks were real and I begged him to teach me how to pick a lock. Carl told me he would do so if, and only if, I passed Algebra with a B or better. It was a huge struggle, but I got my B. Carl taught me everything he knew and I’ve owned a set of burglary tools ever since. Today I would see if my countless hours of practice paid off. But I still had to figure out a way to do it without being seen.

I looked around the restroom and saw a freestanding cabinet. Inside were cleaning and bathroom supplies. I grabbed a bottle of Windex and a rag, then walked out of the restroom and up the stairs like I owned the place. No one said a word. I went directly to the draped office and looked back toward the assembly floor. A couple of women were looking my way and one of them pointed at me. I pulled out my Windex and began squirting the picture window. I worked my way across the pane, periodically glancing at the floor. The women were apparently satisfied that I was on the cleaning crew and went back to work. It took about 30 seconds for me to unlock the door.

Inside were two rooms. The outer reception area held a desk with two chairs to the right, and a large leather couch against the left wall. In the middle of the room was an oak door leading to the inner office. Fortunately, the drapes were drawn, so I didn’t need to worry about being seen. I relocked the door and went into Peter Chofsky’s office. I was very pleasantly surprised to find that the computer was still on and I didn’t need to call my computer geek friends to help me get past a security system.

Since I didn’t see my stolen computer lying around, I did the next best thing and brought up the
My Documents
files. There I found a folder named Duffy. The first file I selected was named Pix. Inside were images of the pictures Cory took outside Cerise’s building. This was hard evidence that the Russians had done the robbery. As I neared the end of the picture files, I found one of Kelly and I walking out of her condo building the evening we met my parents at the Padres game. There was also a picture of the four of us at the game, and a shot of Jeannine outside of her apartment house. This was getting scary. I can handle them coming after me, but my anger boiled over at the thought of them stalking my loved ones. I flashed on an image of Kelly minus half a pinky and felt like ransacking the office. When I got my emotions under control, I emailed the file to my Yahoo account.

Next, I opened a file called Bio and, sure enough, there was the kind of background information about me that I would supply a client as a private detective. I’m sure all of this stuff is somewhere in cyber space, but it sure looked like they hired a PI to check me out. I emailed the whole folder to myself and moved on to a folder named Cerise. This was huge, holding maybe 75 files. I started clicking through but found that most of the text was in Russian. I recognized one of the Tass news accounts of the kidnapping. I emailed the folder.

There was nothing labeled Doberman’s Stub, but I found a folder named Tucker. Inside was a bio, much like my own, along with a copy of all four of the contract proposals. In another file was every newspaper account of Terry’s murder. There was a separate file on Chelsea, complete with bio and pictures. I started to click through when I heard keys in the office door. I clicked off the computer screen, then moved with speed and stealth behind the inner office door, which was ajar. Through the door jam I could see the empty couch on the far wall. I looked around and saw a hockey stick with CCCC written on the side, mounted on the wall a few feet away. I heard a male and female in the front room. Quietly, I slipped the hockey stick out of its mounting brackets and inched my way back to the door jam. When I peeked through I saw the weekend boss unhooking the bra of an attractive young Latino woman.  Her face was rather plain, but strippers would kill for that body. As they got settled onto the couch I turned away, fearing I would be unable to defend myself if I was discovered with a boner bigger than the hockey stick I was clutching.

About five minutes later I heard the Latino woman yelp and shortly thereafter heard the boss say, “I need a smoke.” He took a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt that had been lying on the carpet, then pulled a green lighter out of his pants pocket. He flicked three times and got nothing but sparks. “Shit!” he exclaimed, “You got a light?”

“Sure,” she said sarcastically, “I always keep one in my thong for this kind of occasion.”

“Shut-up,” he said and walked toward me. I straightened up as best I could and held the stick in front of me. The door was at about a 45 degree angle. I wasn’t sure if it completely covered me. He must have walked around the left side of the desk, otherwise I would have seen him round the near corner. Luckily, the room was pretty dark because of the closed drapes.

I heard the weekend boss opening drawers in the desk. First he said, “God damn it.” Then he said, “What the fuck?” Next thing I saw was a large naked man pulling the door away from me with his left hand as he took a full-strength, swing at my head with his right. I instinctively ducked and spun away from the wall all in one motion. When I did this, with no intention whatsoever, I inadvertently brought the hockey stick up hard into the weekend boss’ package. He made a guttural scream, grabbed his crotch, and dropped to his knees, then toppled over sideways.

As I exited through the outer office, Miss Augusto was stepping into her thong. When she saw me look, she stopped what she was doing and gave me a smile. Once I was out of the upstairs office I walked quickly across the walkway and down the stairs. As I did this the sound of the weekend boss screaming, “Stop him!” echoed throughout the plant. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, three of the male workers were waiting for me, one holding a huge pipe wrench.

     In these situations my motto has always been: why fight when you can bullshit your way out? I jerked my thumb toward the upstairs office and using my most indignant voice inflections exclaimed, “That Russian fuck has been screwing my wife! He was on one of your coworkers when I punched him out! Why don’t you guys go rescue her and finish the job?”

The fact that the four of us were wearing Tech-Temps shirts worked in my favor. “I hate that asshole!” yelled a large guy with an anchor tattoo on his arm. “Let’s go guys!” he exclaimed as he bounded up the stairs two at a time. The other two followed and I walked out the door, then broke into a sprint for my car. But there was no chase. I expect my fellow Tech-Temps turned a white Russian into a black & blue Russian.

I had about six hours to kill before meeting my friends at Jake’s restaurant, then adjourn to The Belly Up for a Steve Poltz concert. I needed some more advice and determined that a night out with a couple of my friends could help considerably.

I returned to my office and read everything written in English in the folders I had emailed to myself. The pictures were slow to load, so after looking at just a few, I decided to check them out after the weekend.

When I arrived at Jake’s, Justin Emerson was sipping a Heineken and schmoozing with a cute brunette bartender. Justin, now in his mid-thirties, was managing a huge club in the Kearny Mesa section of San Diego when my band first started playing the local circuit. “Hey Justin, you’re looking great,” I said.

“Wish I could say the same,” he replied, then stood up and gave me a bear hug. “Just kidding. Actually, now that you’re not burning the candle at both ends anymore you look a lot healthier. You didn’t go and get married or anything like that did you?”

“Still single, but I don’t know about the healthy part,” I said as I lifted myself onto the stool next to him.

“Please don’t tell me you asked us here to say you have some terrible disease,” he said.

“No,” I said, “nothing like that. It’s just that I’m working on Terry Tucker’s murder and there are a lot of dangerous dudes involved.” I remember Justin mentioning Terry in a casual conversation a few years ago. I was hoping they kept in touch.

“Terry had more than his fair share of enemies, but what a talent,” he said.

“Did you hear from him at all in the months before his death?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, he called me about three weeks before the tragedy,” he replied. “We talked for about 15 minutes about the interests, concerns and passions of the late teen, early twenties age group. I hear Calvin’s joining us for dinner tonight, he’ll be able to tell you a lot more about that stuff than me.”

Justin was about to ask a follow-up question when Calvin walked in and we exchanged formalities. Justin let the hostess know our party was ready to be seated and we were off to our table almost immediately.

Since we were seated within earshot of twenty strangers I kept the conversation away from the investigation. There would be time to talk with Calvin later.

I had almost forgotten how much fun these guys could be. Since we all had music in common, that was the main topic for the evening. We arrived at the Belly Up in time to get one of the last vacant tables. A few minutes after our drinks had arrived, Calvin excused himself to go for a smoke. I followed him outside. “When did you take up this nasty habit?” Calvin asked as he lit up.

“I didn’t,” I replied. “I want to ask you a couple of questions that might help with a case I’m working.” I then told him about Doberman’s contract situation and asked, “What’s your take on how they would have fared on the open market if Terry was still alive and they were able to dissolve their contract with Cerise?”

Calvin replied, “The file sharing problem is still huge, but the demographic profile of Doberman’s Stub is through the roof. Their first CD was very good and performed beyond expectations with their target audience of males in their 20’s. But, the second CD performed very differently. They expanded their demographics tremendously. They held strong with their core audience while they also developed a surprising appeal among women, ages 15 to 35. Sales of the second CD were almost double those of the first CD.”

“That’s really strange,” I said. “I looked at some numbers last week and I could see that the second CD outsold the first, but I don’t recall it being by a big margin.”

Calvin said, “That’s because all those hot new fans ran out and bought the first CD after they fell in love with the second one. You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

“So they were on a major roll?” I asked.

“Big time,” he said. “When you cross demographics all of a sudden you can quadruple the number of radio stations playing your stuff. This creates residual income from airplay, increases downloads, boosts CD sales, and drives up demand and the asking price for concerts.”

“What brings in the most money?” I asked.

“Concerts” Calvin said. “Over 80% of the top 50 acts last year saw at least two-thirds of their income derived from concerts, and merchandising at concert venues. Doberman’s Stub was on the verge of being a headliner on the stadium circuit. They were looking at $25 to $50 million in tour income in the next year.”

“Now I’m totally lost,” I said showing my exasperation. “If the big bucks are in touring, why are they in the studio instead of riding the money train?”

“It’s a little complicated,” Calvin said, “but I assure you there is no active performer who could come close to Terry Tucker in his understanding of what it takes to become a star and stay on top. He was like a chess master in his ability to think eight moves ahead at all times. When their first CD,
Biscuit
, was released, they established themselves as an up and coming metal band. They were the warm-up act for midrange bands attracting the same audience. When their second CD,
Don’t Bury Your Bone
Alone
, came out they didn’t have the leverage yet to be a headliner at major venues. But, it was important that they toured right after the release to plug the album to the fans they had recently established.”

“To keep the momentum going?” I asked.

“Exactly,” he said. “I’m sure Terry was hoping the second CD would take off, but there are never any guarantees. Doberman made the right choice of being warm-up at stadium concerts featuring mainstream artists that would pack the house. This would ensure that they hit their performance goals with Cerise Records and, at the same time, give them a chance to expand their demographics.”

“But this meant less money,” I said.

“In the short term,” Calvin agreed. “But long term, it was a great strategy. The increase in downloads and CD sales for both CDs went way up, and they positioned themselves for a feature tour.”