Rock & Roll Homicide (5 page)

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 floor-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?” I asked.

He replied, “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,” he said.

“Nigel, what can you tell me about the day Terry died,” I asked.

“Well, for starters, Vlad the Impaler was at the studio, as usual,” he said.

“Is this the Cerise goon?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“What’s his real name?” I asked.

“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?” I asked.

“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?” I asked.

“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 PM. 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 as she checked out the catering company online. There was no indication that they had 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 Event Manager handling their affair. I did this using my best impression of a Russian immigrant. The Event 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,” she said.

“It a, how you say – afterthought,” I said with a smile.

“I’m afraid that would be impossible,” she said.

“More than half of guests speak only Russian. How many staff members you have speak Russian?” I asked.

“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 was pouring 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,” I said.

“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?” I asked.

“Hardly. He doesn’t get along with them and makes no secret of it,” he said.

“Not even his fellow Brit, Nigel?” I asked.

“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,” he said.

“Couldn’t they be friends, just not drinking buddies?” I asked.

“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,” he said.

“That sucks!” I said with a sincere expression.

“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 with a smile.

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?” I asked.

“You’re on top of things. I didn’t find out about that until I listened to my answering machine a half hour ago,” he said.

“I just came from Nigel’s. He’s working overtime to get a song together for tomorrow,” I said.

“And I’m fucking off in a bar as usual. Did he send you over here to keep me sober for tomorrow?” he asked.

“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 enthusiastically. “I concur wholeheartedly. I knew that fucker was bad news from day one.”

“Did you see him touch the headphones that day?” I asked.

“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,” he said.

“Weren’t the partitions and your drum set pretty close to the explosion?” I asked.

“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 his 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 asked.

“I’m sure he was making time with his groupie girlfriend,” he replied.

“I didn’t think roadies had groupies,” I said.

“Delitah has been using GI Jo-Jo to try to get to Terry,” he said.

“Does GI Jo-Jo know this?” I asked.

“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?” I asked.

“Here it comes. Go ahead, get it over with,” he replied.

“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?” I asked.

“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 Event 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,” she said.

“I honestly didn’t think the name change was going to fool them for very long,” said the second woman.

Just as she said this I felt a gun in my ribs and a voice in my ear saying, “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.