“Is that when you told him about the clause Terry put in the contract proposals enabling him to fire one of the members?” I inquired.
“That is correct,” he said. “Mr. Davis became very upset and verbally abusive. I couldn’t tell if it was directed at me or at Mr. Tucker. He concluded his tirade by hanging up before I could respond.”
I asked, “What was Nigel’s response to this bomb?”
“Actually, I contacted Mr. Pascal next. I believe Mr. Davis called Mr. Choate while I was discussing the matter with Mr. Pascal. By the time I reached Mr. Choate he was aware of the details of my conversation with Mr. Davis. I was not able to reach Mr. Choate immediately after my conversation with Mr. Pascal, and it is my opinion that he discussed the matter with Mr. Tucker prior to my call,” he said.
“Considering that Nigel is the co-writer and, by default, second in command, why didn’t you confront him first instead of giving him the most time to prepare a response?” I asked.
Chofsky looked out his window for a moment and mulled his response. “As the Japanese say, I wanted him to save face.”
“It sounds like you were laying the groundwork for a coup,” I noted.
“Mr. Tucker wielded power like a dictator. I merely attempted to introduce a little democracy,” he said.
“But in the end the dictator was overthrown,” I stated.
“You certainly don’t suspect one of the band members,” Chofsky said with more enthusiasm than at any point in our conversation.
“Why not?” I asked. “You planted the seeds for a revolution. Why are you surprised that one of these guys might have planted the bomb? If a band member was sure he was about to get tossed out of the band and cut off from his income stream, who else would have a better motive?”
“Mr. Tucker was not a likeable man. I understand he recently embarrassed some other business partners and had a major falling out with his wife, who I need not point out, was just arrested and jailed for the murder,” Chofsky said with a raised eyebrow as he tapped a pen point on a legal pad.
I could tell Chofsky felt he had gained the upper hand in our conversation and was anxious for it to end. I needed to run a bluff to keep the ball rolling. "Chelsea has been withholding some information that is embarrassing in nature, but will give her an alibi for the murder. I expect the charges to be dismissed within the week.”
“What is this alibi?” he asked.
“I swore to Chelsea and her lawyers that I wouldn’t reveal it under any circumstance, allowing them to break the news when it would result in the charges being dismissed,” I said.
“I’m being open and honest with you,” he said.
“I’m not facing deportation for getting someone killed, not to mention the crimes you orchestrated against me and my staff. We’re nowhere near even in this relationship. What did Nigel say when you called him?" I asked.
“Mr. Choate tried to assure me that no final decisions had been made regarding litigation and that we needed each other and both would suffer greatly from a stalemate,” he said.
“What else did you tell him?” I asked as if I knew, even though I was fishing.
Chofsky once again gazed out his window, mulling a decision on what would be prudent to disclose. “I tried to bolster his confidence.” I flipped my palms skyward in an effort to prompt him to elaborate. “I told him that our A&R consultants attribute the band’s sudden surge in popularity to the Nigel Choate compositions.”
“Was this news to Nigel, or did you get the impression he already knew this?” I asked.
“This was a revelation to Mr. Choate, I am certain,” he said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Up to that point he had held a stern, adversarial tone. When I offered this fact his manner changed and the way he said, ‘really,’ gave me the impression he was genuinely surprised,” Chofsky said.
“Did he ask you to elaborate?” I asked.
“No. But he did offer to avail himself to the negotiating process if I reached an impasse with Mr. Tucker,” he said.
“Did you take him up on his offer?” I asked.
“I kept him apprised of new developments, and I’m glad I did considering he had to step into Mr. Tucker’s role,” he said.
“As I understand it, he’s in the process of hiring an established manager who will assume that role,” I stated.
“He is seeking new management,” Chofsky said, side-stepping part of my question.
“Have you reached an agreement on the release of the new CD?” I asked.
“We reached an agreement on two major points,” he said. “First, I conceded that the escape clause was a mistake on my part and substantially diminished my position. Second, Mr. Choate conceded that Mr. Tucker was a tremendous talent and his absence will substantially diminish the band’s current and future value as of this date. So, we agreed to release the new CD under the terms of the old contract.”
“What about future CD’s?” I asked.
“We agreed that Doberman’s Stub would remain with Cerise Records, and they would receive a raise within a rather wide range, depending upon the reputation and quality of Mr. Tucker’s replacement and the performance of the new CD. The exact amount is to be negotiated by the new manager, who will be selected by the band. It is a win, win situation for all parties,” Chofsky said with his first smile of the day.
“Except for Mr. Tucker, of course,” I said.
“Of course,” he replied.
“I assume if you paid an investigator to follow Terry when he was alive, you are also paying an investigator to keep an eye on Nigel. Is that correct,” I asked.
“Mr. Vandevere has been monitoring Mr. Choate’s activities,” he replied.
“May I see his file?” I asked.
“Mr. Vandevere has the file,” he responded.
“Will you call and instruct him to meet with me tomorrow, giving full disclosure?” I asked.
“I will. Now if you will excuse me I need to make some calls to Mr. Torhan’s family.”
“Thank you for your time and candor,” I said, and hoped Chofsky’s constricted sphincter speech patterns hadn’t rubbed off on me. Miss Illich escorted me to the gate.
At 5:00 PM I walked into Casey’s Bar and spotted Dad with three of his fellow Friendly Sons of St. Patrick. I recognized O’Malley from the occasional backyard barbecue, but had never seen the other two. “Have a seat, son,” Dad said as I approached. “You remember Lieutenant O’Malley.”
I extended my hand to O’Malley and said, “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Glad to be of service,” he replied.
“Son, these are Detectives Seamus Fallon and Brendan Gillhouly. Guys, this is my son, Jason,” Dad said with the smile of a proud father.
After the handshakes Fallon said, “We know you’re here to discuss a case so we’ll take our leave. It was a pleasure meeting you.” Gillhouly agreed and they walked to the far end of the bar where a small group was watching an East Coast baseball game on television.
“So Jason,” asked O’Malley, “how can I help you?”
I spent the next five minutes describing what I had seen in Nigel’s office. When I told him about the inscription on the picture frame, Dad chimed in, “Those bigoted bastards.”
O’Malley asked, “Any idea what town they were in?”
“I think I saw a Portadown sign. Does that sound familiar?” I asked.
“That’s where the Orangemen cause the most trouble every year,” O’Malley said.
“Give Jason a little background,” Dad said to O’Malley.
“The Orangemen are members of the Order of Orange. They formed as a terrorist organization back in the 1700’s. Every year they hold parades all over Northern Ireland to celebrate a massacre led by William of Orange at the Battle of Boyne,” he said.
“Are you telling me that the government allows a terrorist organization to exist and hold parades?” I asked.
O’Malley r
eplied, “The Orangemen try to put their own spin control on history by saying they formed as a counter-terrorism group, and that today they are just a fraternal organization. But, you ask any Catholic living in Northern Ireland about the Orangemen and every single one will have a story about how Orangemen terrorist activities have affected at least one of their family members or ancestors. The Brits have been using them to do their dirty deeds for a couple of centuries. But this is the first time I’ve heard of them killing a Catholic on American soil.”
“The victim wasn’t a Catholic. I don’t think it was any kind of political statement. The motive was money,” I said.
Dad interjected, “But the method had Northern Ireland written all over it.”
“Tell me about the bomb,” O’Malley said.
“It was concealed inside an expensive set of headphones. The ear pads were packed with BBs, and each contained a blasting cap. It was detonated when the victim turned on his audio recorder,” I said.
Dad said, “It sounds like the perp might have been nearby or had a friend or family member potentially in the blast zone.”
“I agree,” said O’Malley.
“Why?” I asked.
O’Malley said, “Blasting caps and shrapnel have been commonplace bomb ingredients for a hundred years. But, most of the time it involves a blasting cap inside a jar of nails or screws. Lots of bang for the buck and it leaves nasty looking corpses. The bomb you described could only have pushed the BBs into the vic. Maybe a couple of small pieces of plastic get blown away from the headphones, but probably not enough to seriously hurt anybody else.”
O’Malley said, “Blasting caps are everywhere and not difficult to come by. They cause a small explosion that triggers a more potent explosion when positioned next to something like TNT. A blasting cap explosion is definitely powerful enough to push shrapnel into a human being. I’d call the device you described a cheap clean bomb.”
With business out of the way, Dad invited the other cops to join us and insisted on bringing up the fact that I am dating a Kennedy. I suffered through about fifteen minutes of cop probes before I was able to change the subject. “Do any of you know a PI named Axel Vandevere?” I asked.
Fallon replied, “I met him on a case a couple of years ago. What do you want to know?”
“He did some work for a guy I don’t trust. I’m wondering what your take is on him,” I said.
Fallon took a swallow of beer and said, “I asked around about him when I was on the case. I heard he used to work for Interpol until he drank himself out of a job. My experience told me it was probably an accurate assessment. The guy is smart and picks up on little details one day, then drinks on the job the next. If you’re lucky enough to catch him when he isn’t either drunk or hung over you’ll probably be impressed.”
On the way home I called Axel Vandevere and arranged to meet him at his office tomorrow morning. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not happy about having to share information with another private investigator.
Chapter 24
At 9:00 AM I arrived at the office of Axel Vandevere Investigations in a crumbling strip mall on the outskirts of an industrial park in National City. Vandevere sat at his desk smoking a cigarette. He wore a gray hat with a black band that looked like it was popular during the thirties. “You must be Duffy,” he said.
“That’s right, Jason Duffy. Thanks for seeing me,” I said and looked at the torn plastic chair on the other side of his desk.
“Have a seat,” he said as he waved at the chair with his hand.
“Koflanovich gave me the file on Terry Tucker and promised your full cooperation on what Nigel Choate has been up to,” I said.
“Personally, I think a PI should do his own homework,” he said, then took a huge drag on his cigarette.
“We’re all entitled to our opinions, but your boss says he wants you to answer my questions, so I suggest you cooperate,” I said leaning forward.
“Vandevere blew a plume of smoke toward me and replied, “Why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll let you know if you’re going in the right direction.”
I replied, “Did your boss tell you that I’m working with SDPD on this and he faces deportation if I don’t get full cooperation?”
Vandevere said, “And you think I’m such good pals with Koflanovich that I’ll do whatever you say?”
I replied, “I think Koflanovich is the richest client you’ve seen in quite a few years and your income will go right back in the toilet the minute he gets deported.”
“I like a man who keeps an eye on the bottom line,” he said with a nicotine-stained smile. “OK, I don’t want to sit here with you all day. Get on with your questions,” he said.
“How long have you been following Nigel Choate?” I asked.
“Since Tucker’s funeral,” he replied.
“If you want this to go quickly, tell me the most significant things you’ve observed,” I said. “What about his friends from Ireland?”
“Those guys are nuts. Their MO is to go to an Irish bar and start fights. Sometimes they dress in green and act like they’re buddy-buddy with the locals, then suggest another Irish bar and beat the snot out of their new friend or friends once they get them outside. Other times they’d walk into near empty bars wearing orange sashes and pick fights,” he said.
“Did Nigel get recognized?” I asked.
“No. He always wore a wig and a fake beard,” he said.
“Any other mischief besides the beatings?” I asked.
“O’Toole’s Bar in Clairemont keeps a two-tier party bus in their parking lot for parades and ballgames. I saw those hooligans blow it up a couple of weekends ago,” he said.
“Did you see what they used to blow it up?” I asked hoping it involved a blasting cap.
He replied, “A fuse. They just took off the gas cap, shoved a fuse in, lit it, then drove to a spot across a canyon from the lot, where they watched it explode and burn. They laughed and carried on so loudly while it was going up in flames that the bar patrons heard them over the roar of the fire and tried racing around the canyon to get them. But, by the time they got there all they found was an empty parking lot with the words ‘Orangemen Rule’ spray painted in orange on the pavement.”
“Do you know their names?” I asked.
Vandevere stood up and walked to a stack of file folders. He removed one sheet and handed it to me. The names Warren Bates, Devin Billingsly and Theodore Pine were typed neatly under the heading: Choate Associates of Interest. “Any chance you ran a rap sheet on these guys?” I asked.
“You may find this hard to believe, but the cops don’t run errands for me,” he said sarcastically.
“Let’s talk about the day Terry Tucker was killed. Were you at Denny’s that morning?” I asked.
“I was,” he said.
“Tell me what you saw after Terry left,” I said.
“He left Denny’s alone and went to the recording studio,” he said.
“What about his stop at 7/Eleven?” I asked.
“Is this a trick question?” he asked.
“You didn’t follow him, did you?” I asked.
“I may have had an errand to run. I don’t have a staff like some PI’s,” he said with a squint of the eyes.
He probably made a liquor store run and I didn’t see a point in trying to get him to admit it. “Were all of the band members at the studio when you arrived?”
“Yes. Terry was walking in the door when I got there. He left his trunk open. About five minutes later Joseph Martin came out and made two trips carrying Terry’s belongings into the studio,” he said.
“Did Martin grab and carry or did he take some time at Terry’s trunk?” I asked.
“Grab and carry. No chance he could have swapped headphones at that time. He was empty-handed when he approached and he was moving at a pretty good clip. No dallying whatsoever,” he said.
“Were you in the lot when the explosion happened
?” I asked.
“Actually, I was in the adjacent lot, but I was watching the building when it happened. The band must have just taken a break because I saw the drummer go to the trunk of his car to take a snort of hooch. Choate walked out right afterwards, then BOOM!” he said with sudden emphasis.
“What did they do?” I asked.
He replied, “Davis hit the pavement behind his car like he was afraid there would be a second explosion. Choate immediately ran back into the building.”
“One more question. Do you know where the hooligans stay when they’re in town?” I asked.
“Occasionally they stay with Choate, but most of the time they stay with a friend at a dump in Southeast San Diego,” he said and gave me the address.
“Do you have a name for the friend?” I asked.
“Desmond Thompson,” he replied.
I thanked him for his time and let him know I would be back in touch.
On my way to the courthouse I gave Dad a call and asked if he could check out the names Vandevere had given me. He said he’d be happy to help bring down the Orangemen.
I arrived outside the courtroom at 1:15 PM, just as a bailiff was posting the order in which the cases would be heard. Chelsea was listed third, which told me I had at least forty-five minutes before bail would be set. Shamansky arrived at 1:25 PM, just moments before the grand entrance of Reginald Rutherford, a legend among California criminal attorneys. Chelsea’s father was at his side. Chelsea’s attorney, David Stein, had apparently been demoted to the second string once the superstar was brought on board and walked three steps behind Rutherford.
“Chelsea’s up third,” I said to Shamansky, “can I talk to you in the juror’s lounge?”
Shamansky nodded and we walked out of earshot. “What’s on your mind, Duffy?” he asked.
I spent the next ten minutes giving him a synopsis of why I suspected Nigel. When I finished he said, “You have a new suspect every time I see you.”
“Chelsea’s already rich,” I said. “Nigel’s fortunes go in the dumper if Terry goes to war with Cerise. Chofsky was doing all he could to fuel the fires of dissent. And, Nigel hangs with a violent gang of hooligans.”
Rock & Roll Homicide Page 23