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 outside; 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,” he said.
“Don’t they get curious when the bass riffs rattle their windows?” I asked.
“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?” he asked. 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?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I played rhythm guitar and sang for a band called Tsunami Rush until three years ago,” I said.
“I heard you a few times. Good stuff. So, what do you want to know about Terry?” he asked.
“Could you take me through what happened the day he died?” I asked.
“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,” Jack said.
“What did you talk about?” I asked.
“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,” Jack said.
“Were the headphones in Terry’s car while you were at Denny’s?” I asked.
“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 asked.
“I did. But I think Terry stopped at 7/Eleven for a gigantic iced tea. He’d work on it all day,” Jack said.
“Did he carry everything in one trip from the car?” I asked.
Jack replied, “I don’t think so. It was too much stuff. He also had a briefcase for his sheet music and notes.”
I asked, “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?” I asked.
“If he was going in the studio for the day he did. But he wouldn’t lock up in between trips to the car, I’m sure,” he said.
“What about a quick stop at 7/Eleven?” I asked.
“Probably not,” he replied.
“How about at Denny’s?” I asked.
“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,” Jack said with an uncertain look on his face.
“Was the rep from Cerise Records at the studio when you arrived?” I asked.
“If we were there, he was there,” he responded.
“What’s your take on that guy?” I inquired.
“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?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Is it possible he helped Terry carry in his stuff?” I asked.
“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,” Jack said.
“Would he do what Terry told him?” I asked.
“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?” I asked.
“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,” Jack said.
“Could Jo-Jo have carried the headphones into the studio that morning?” I asked.
“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.”
I said, “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 and 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,” he said.
“Then what can I do for you?” I asked.
“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?” I asked.
“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 kil
led 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?” he queried with much skepticism.
“What’s so…?” I started to say when Shamansky cut me off.
“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 ebulliently.
“Does SDPD have a policy against hiring the handicapped?” I asked.
“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 asked.
“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 with some pride.
“Tell me those other publications weren’t Hustler and other porno rags,” he stated.
“Nothing like that,” I said authoritatively.
“Can this guy testify if I need him on the stand?” he asked.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said.
“OK. What’s his major maladjustment?” Shamansky asked.
“He has Tourette's Syndrome,” I replied.
“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?” Shamansky asked sarcastically.
I replied, “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?” he asked.
“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,” I said.
“Then tell me when and where I’m thinking about viewing those Rembrandts,” he said.
“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 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.
Rock & Roll Homicide Page 4