Rock & Roll Homicide

by R J McDonnell

  “What was the infighting about?” I asked.

  “The second CD attracted a different kind of fan. Terry wanted to stay true to our metal roots, but Nigel wanted to transition into more romantic songs. Terry didn’t like the idea of losing power. It definitely changed the way they started acting toward each other and I didn’t want to be caught in the middle,” he said.

  “I understand and I believe you, Ian,” I said with empathy. “Did you ask Terry about the contract?”

  “No. I knew he was pissed at me and I didn’t want a donnybrook,” he said.

  “So, what did you do?” I asked.

  “I called Nigel. He’s been like an older brother to me. I knew Nigel couldn’t afford to get cut off for three years and he had some influence with Terry,” he said.

  “What did Nigel say?” I asked.

  “He told me that my behavior would be the only thing that would make Terry want to take time off. He said that I needed to stop fucking everything up. I knew he was right, but I wasn’t expecting Nigel to whack me while I was down like that,” Ian said.

  “Do you think it’s possible Nigel was involved in Terry’s death?” I asked.

  “No! That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “He’d never do anything like that,” he added with less enthusiasm.

  “It sounds like you’re not telling me something,” I commented.

  “It’s just a feeling. It’s probably nothing,” he said.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I can’t. I’d feel like I’d be ratting out a best friend,” he said.

  “The only way this is going to work out for you and the band is if we get to the truth. Nothing’s going to be right for you until that happens.” I said.

  “I don’t want you telling Nigel you got this from me, OK?” he asked and I nodded. “Nigel has some lads from back home that most would consider hooligans. I’ve been wondering if maybe Nigel told those Teddy Boys that he was having troubles with Terry, and one of them took it upon himself to help Nigel out.”

  Do you know any of their names?” I asked.

  “No. I ran into them once at a club and Nigel made a point to not introduce me and took his leave as quickly as he could get them out of there,” he said.

  “Is Nigel with them this weekend?” I asked.

  “Nigel doesn’t keep me up on his itinerary,” he said.

  “Let me check it out,” I said. “In the meantime, see if you can stop acting like you’re trying to drown your guilt. I’ll see what I can do with the local bobbies.”

  “You’re a prince, Duffy,” he said as he walked me to the bar.

  “Another Bushie?” asked Bert.

  “No Bert. Give me a glass of Watney’s,” he said and gave me a smile and a nod as he downshifted to beer.

  As I started home I got an idea that could have a huge downside, but seemed worth the risk. I changed course for Rancho Santa Fe to drop in on the owner of the pink and gold guitar tattoo. When I reached the estate the sky had just gotten dark. I waited through four thirty-second guitar riffs before Nigel’s girlfriend finally flicked on the entrance chandelier and opened the door. “Change your mind Mr. Whats-yer-name?” she asked.

  “It’s Jason and I couldn’t get that beautiful tattoo out of my mind. What’s your name?” I asked.

  “I’zz Victoria,” she said with a slur.

  “You aren’t entertaining anyone else are you Victoria?” I inquired.

  “Nope,” she replied. “I’m in this big house all by my lonesome. C’mon in.” As she led the way to the living room she didn’t stagger, but was decidedly careful in her movements, as if she was making a conscious effort to appear sober. “Would you like to ravish me on the davenport or would the settee be more to your liking?” she asked.

  “Actually, I have a girlfriend and a great deal of Irish Catholic guilt. It will take a couple of stiff drinks before I could get past that,” I said with a smile.

  “You better not tell Nigel you’re Irish Catholic if you know what’s good for you?” she said with one eye half closed.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because he and his asshole buddies don’t like Irish Catholics,” she said.

  “But he has an estate in Ireland,” I said.

  “Protestant Ireland. Why don’t you make the drinks,” she said as she pointed at the bar.

  I mixed enough to fill one large martini glass. I then took two glasses and filled them half way. I topped mine off with water and Victoria’s with vodka, then returned to the sofa where she was reclining on large pillows. “Have a drink with me,” I said. Victoria took a large swallow and made a face.

  “You sure make a stiff drink,” she commented.

  “The stiffer the drink the quicker I get rid of the guilt,” I said.

  Victoria held up her glass and said, “Then let’s drink to a quick stiffy,” she said and laughed hysterically at her joke. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

  “That will only make the guilt last longer. Let’s talk about something else, like Nigel’s asshole buddies. Is he with them this weekend?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about them. They suck,” she said and took another long draw on her drink while I poured the rest of mine in a large vase holding a fichus tree.

  “Ready for another one?” I asked.

  “Schlow down stud,” she slurred. “I want you to last all night.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m just anxious to get in the mood.”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said.

  I stood up, retrieved her glass and walked to the bar. Victoria didn’t seem any closer to passing out than she had when I arrived. This time I made hers one-third martini and two-thirds straight vodka. “Let’s have a toast,” I said as I handed her the large V-shaped glass on a thick stem.

  “What are we doin’ for?” she asked as she started to drift.

  “Let’s drink to your gorgeous blue eyes,” I said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said and took a big gulp. Her eyes widened and she said, “That woke me up,” as she shook her head from side to side.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. “Mind if I put on some music?” I asked.

  “Think somebody’s getting in the mood,” she said.

  There it was, just as I suspected. No self-respecting British rocker could possible own a CD collection without Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. It’s a tremendous rock classic, but has always had the power to put me to sleep when I was tired but just couldn’t nod off. “How ironic,” Victoria said as the music started to play.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  She replied, “First I mooned you, now you’re playing Dark Side of the Moon for me.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said and clinked her glass. She took a sip and stared at an aquarium built into the wall. We sat quietly listening to the CD for about five minutes, then I heard the sound of liquid pouring onto the rug. I poured my drink into the fichus vase, removed the glass from Victoria’s hand, then set out in search of Nigel’s office.

  I found it on the first floor next to a guest bedroom. Unfortunately, I didn’t luck out like in Tecate. Nigel had a password-protected computer and 15 minutes of my best guesses did nothing to unlock it. I spent the next half-hour going through a January-December accordion file filled with monthly bills. I took out a small spiral pad and noted the phone numbers of calls to Ireland from his phone bill. I also wrote down Nigel’s travel itinerary. I was about to leave when a picture on the wall caught my eye. It was of a large group of twenty-something men wearing orange sashes walking along a road with spiral barbed wire separating the sash wearers from an angry mob. British soldiers in red jackets were posted at ten-foot intervals. Upon closer inspection I spotted Nigel flipping off one of the mob members. A small brass plate affixed to the picture frame said, “Help Charles Darwin – Kill a Catholic.”

  I was enthralled. I spent another half-hour looking at trophies, nick-knacks and othe
r memorabilia relating to Northern Ireland and, of course, rock & roll. I made my way from picture to picture all the way around Nigel’s spacious office. When I reached the doorway, there was Victoria with an angry scowl on her face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

  “I’m just checking out Nigel’s pictures. I love the one over there with Nigel and Jimmy Page,” I said with a smile.

  “Then why is Nigel’s bill folder sitting on the desk?” she asked with remarkable clarity.

  “I was hoping it was an autograph file, but, you’re right, it was just bills,” I said. “How did you sober up so fast?”

  Victoria opened her hand to reveal some spent capsules and said, “amyl nitrate.” She continued to stare at me with intense suspicion. “I think you had better leave.”

  “OK,” I said and walked out of the office.

  “I’m going to have to tell Nigel about this,” she stated.

  “That should be interesting. Let’s see; you tell him you seduced the guy who played in his band last weekend, then you got drunk, passed out and caught him looking at his pictures in the study. What do you think he’ll say?” I asked.

  Victoria replied, “I’m not gonna tell him any of that. I’ll tell him you bullshitted your way in here and when I wasn’t looking you snuck into his office and snooped around.”

  “And then Nigel confronts me and I ask him if the pink hue has faded off of the electric guitar on your heinie,” I said as I reached the door.

  When I opened the door Victoria wiped her face with her hands and said, “Please tell me we didn’t get it on.”

  “Victoria, we didn’t get it on. I was too grossed out when you peed in the fichus tree vase,” I said as I walked to the Acura, then sped off with my trusty spiral notebook in my back pocket.

  Chapter 23

  I called Dad at 8:00 AM and told him about what I had seen in Nigel’s office. “He’s an Orangeman,” Dad said.

  “University of Syracuse?” I asked skeptically.

  “No. We’re talking about the Order of Orange. It’s been around since the 16 or 1700’s. O’Malley talks about them,” he said.

  “Any chance I could talk to O’Malley later today?” I asked.

  “No problem. I’m meeting him at Casey’s around 5:00 this afternoon. Would you like to join us?” he asked.

  I hesitated a moment, wondering if this would make me an honorary member of the Irish Mafia. But I definitely needed to find out as much as I could before Nigel returned. I had better things to do than spend the entire day in front of my computer, so I agreed.

  My next call was to Ivan Chofsky’s cell phone. His assistant, Svetlana Illich, answered, “What is it, Mr. Duffy?”

  “I need to meet with your boss today,” I said.

  “Not possible,” she said.

  “Why not,” I inquired.

  “He is at funeral, then meal with family,” she said. “Call back tomorrow,” she added and hung up. I called back immediately. “What?” she answered.

  “Where is the funeral?” I asked.

  “St. Nicholas,” she replied. “Mass at 9:00 AM, burial at cemetery behind church at 10:00 AM.”

  “Where is St. Nicholas?” I asked.

  “North of Escondido,” she replied and hung up again.

  I didn’t have time to attend the mass. I jumped into a dark suit and headed for the North County. I arrived at 9:50 AM and found two police vehicles with four uniformed officers guarding the gated entrance.

  At the front of the barricade I recognized Chofsky's bodyguard who I had tipped about Shamansky’s arrival. He had a word with the officers and I was admitted. He pointed out a path winding around the modest stone church that didn’t have the usual Spanish architecture found in most churches in California. Behind the church was a six acre cemetery, bordered by a wooded area on two sides and a canyon to the west. About a hundred yards away was a group of about twenty mourners. As I approached the group I recognized Father Mencavich from my visit to Chofsky’s home. When I reached the mourners I looked at Ivan Chofsky and something was wrong. I only met the man once, but he appeared different. Maybe it was the light. I took another couple of steps toward him and two bodyguards grabbed me by my upper arms and directed me away from the flock. One of them was the man who led me and Shamansky to Chofsky’s home office. He asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to pay my respects,” I said and flexed my muscles once they let go of my arms.

  “Mr. Koflanovich cannot talk with you today,” he said. “You must go at once.”

  “I was there when Torhan died. What’s wrong with me attending his funeral?” I asked. Before he could answer a shot rang out from the tree line and Chofsky flipped onto his back as if his legs had been suddenly kicked out from under him. Several mourners screamed, Father Mencavich ducked behind a headstone and I could hear the engine of a dirt-bike roar off in the distance. I ran to Chofsky and realized immediately that a body-double had been shot in the face, just above the jaw. I think the sniper may have realized it too because the force of the blast had detached a snap-on toupee from the look-alike’s bald pate.

  I made my way to my car with the rest of the fleeing mourners as the police were unsuccessful in controlling the stampede. I had more important things to do than recount my involvement in the case with the Sheriff’s Department for the remainder of the day. I drove straight to Del Mar and called Chofsky’s phone a few blocks from the compound.

  “What is it?” answered the charmless Svetlana.

  “It’s Jason Duffy. I just came from the funeral where your boss’s look-alike was murdered,” I said accusingly.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.

  “Put Ivan on the phone or I’ll call the police and tell them he arranged for the murder of some poor actor so that the Russian Mafia would think he was dead,” I said.

  “Hold line,” she replied and three minutes of silence followed as I pulled up to the gate in front of the compound.

  Another Russian “waiter” approached my car with a black towel over his hand. “Who are you!” he demanded.

  “Jason Duffy,” I said. “I’m on the phone with Svetlana Illich. She’s going to tell you to let me in soon.”

  The guard rested the barrel of his gun on my half-open window and said, “I hope you are correct, sir.”

  Svetlana came back on the line and said, “I will meet you at gate,” and hung up. I wish she would stop doing that.

  Five minutes later Svetty had me comfortably ensconced across the desk from Ivan Chofsky, who was wearing a black suit and tie. “I understand you witnessed the shooting at the cemetery,” he said with little emotion.

  I didn’t want the conversation to start off on an adversarial note, so I simply said, “The poor guy never had a chance.”

  “Did the police or anyone get a look at the shooter?” he asked.

  “He was in a wooded area and escaped on a dirt bike seconds after your look-alike went down. Nobody saw anything,” I said.

  “Tragic,” he commented and we paused for a few seconds of silence.

  “I need to ask you a few questions about your conversations with the surviving band members regarding your negotiations with Terry,” I said.

  “My negotiations were with Terry. Nobody else participated in them before Terry died,” he said.

  “Are you telling me that you didn’t call each of the band members and tell them they were going to be without money for three years if Terry started a court battle?” I asked with the tone of a prosecuting attorney.

  “It sounds like you already know the answer to your question,” he said.

  “I spoke with the band members about these conversations, but I get the impression one of them was not entirely truthful with me, so I would like to get your version of each of these chats, alright?” I asked.

  “I am continuing to negotiate with the band and don’t think it would be appropriate to discuss negotiating strat
egy in the middle of the process,” Chofsky replied.

  “I need an answer to these questions. We can either do it here and I will use discretion, or I can ask Detective Shamansky to have this conversation with you at police headquarters,” I said.

  “What makes you think he’s going to do what you tell him?” he asked.

  “Because I’ll tell him you set up some poor schlep to get killed so that you could try to fool the Russian Mafia into thinking you‘re dead. It could easily get you deported back to Russia,” I said and waited for Chofsky to reply.

  He pondered what I had told him and said, “Alright; I’ll trust your discretion.”

  “Who did you call first?” I asked.

  “I called Mr. Davis,” he said.

  “This will go a lot faster if you just tell me what you told each of them instead of me playing twenty questions with you for the next three hours,” I said.

  “I told Mr. Davis that Mr. Tucker was putting me in a position where I had no alternative but to tie the band up in court. I let him know that my attorneys estimated the length of time to conclude that type of case, after appeals, to be approximately three years, and that during that time the new CD could not be released and the band could not play any of the songs in concert. I also pointed out that without the support of a new CD it would be unlikely that a concert promoter would advance Doberman’s Stub to stadium tour headliner, and may steer clear altogether if they got the impression they could be drawn into the lawsuit. This is essentially what I told each of them,” Chofsky said.

  “What else?” I asked.

  Chofsky stared at me for about ten seconds before continuing. “I pointed out that Mr. Tucker had the financial resources to withstand a long legal siege, but I thought it only fair that I make the other members of the band aware of the repercussions of a protracted court battle.”

  “How did Ian respond when you gave him this news?” I asked.

  “He used a substantial amount of foul language to express his displeasure at this revelation,” Chofsky said. “Once he calmed down he said that he trusted that Mr. Tucker would act in the band’s best interest, and he would abide by the consensus opinion.”