“He seemed OK. Personally, I think he looked a little rough around the edges, but professionally he was on his game tonight,” he said.
“Any word on possible replacements for Terry?” I asked.
“I heard a couple of rumors, but it certainly seems Nigel is very actively pursuing two of the top managers in the business. I’m liking Doberman’s chances of surviving a whole lot more today than when we talked last weekend,” he said.
Jasmine walked over to our table and I gave her a wave. She asked, “Hey rock star can I get you a drink?” She then put her hand on Kelly’s arm, smiled at her and said, “Don’t let him get a big head.”
“I don’t need a drink, but I can use a little information,” I said.
“He’s serious about this detective gig,” she said to Kelly; then to me she added, “What can I do for you?”
“Have you had any customers with Russian accents tonight?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, I have a table of four drinking triple Stoly’s,” she said. “They have a different pronunciation for Stolichnaya. One of them insisted I learn the correct way to say it. He was serious,” she said.
“Where are they?” I asked, and Jasmine pointed them out. “Thanks Jasmine, you’ve been a big help.”
I then nudged Calvin, who was listening to Bernie talk to a group of three friends. Calvin had brought his camera along to record my moment in the spotlight. “Calvin, can you take a few pictures for me?”
“I’ve got plenty of you already, but sure, why not?” he said.
“Not of me. There are four men sitting right over there,” I said and pointed once I was sure they weren’t looking in my direction. “Can you get some close-ups from here?”
“I can do better than that. I’ll just walk over and tell them I’m with Rolling Stone doing a piece on the California club scene,” he said and started to stand up.
I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down, “I think these guys are in the Russian Mafia. If you walk over there and take their picture they may shoot you on the spot,” I said.
Calvin looked at his camera and said, “I hear this model has a really good close-up lens. I’ll bet we can get some great shots from right here.”
Calvin looked a little tipsy, so I asked, “Mind if I give it a try?”
“Be my guest,” he replied and slid the camera in front of me. As I adjusted the lens for a close-up I recognized one of the men from Dad’s mug book.
I turned to Kelly and said, “I don’t want to alarm you but one of the Russian Mafia guys from Dad’s book is at a table with three friends. I’d like you to keep everybody together after the show and we’ll do a designated driver caravan out of here.”
“Where are they?” she asked.
I pointed them out and told her to be discreet. We didn’t want them seeing anyone point at them and we didn’t want one of our more inebriated group members getting brave. I had every confidence Kelly could handle the assignment. She said, “Don’t worry. With all of my experience handling drunks and seven-year-olds I’ll have no trouble with this group.”
The final Tsunami set rocked the house. The crowd was still very excited, I was pumped and Michael was floating about three feet above the stage. As expected, the crowd peaked during the Doberman set. We managed to maintain a near full house, although Justin was able to return to Bernie’s table about half way through the set. By that point the Union-Tribune reporter, who had been sitting next to Bernie, had departed and Calvin took his place. I would love to have a recording of that conversation.
I had a hard time keeping my eyes off of the Russian’s table. At first glance they appeared drunk, but minding their own business. The more I watched the more it seemed they had their eyes on a couple, three tables to their left. The man looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I tried to recall as many of Cory’s photos as possible, but I came up empty. Just before our last song it hit me. He was a front door guard at Ivana Chofsky’s birthday party. He was probably one of the guys who took a shot at me.
The Russian Mafiosos are probably following anybody and everybody who leaves Cerise Records in hopes that it leads them to Ivan Chofsky. If that’s the case then I may not be in imminent danger, but since both of these groups sent gunmen after me recently, I wasn’t intending to take any chances.
When we finished our last set I thanked the crowd and called the band together, “We have Cerise Records and the Russian Mafia in the house. Let’s stay together and get out of here as quickly as possible.”
I had hoped to have a candid conversation with GI Jo-Jo as he packed up the equipment, but, under the circumstances, opted to just let him know to leave our stuff on the stage for pick-up tomorrow.
We said goodbye to Bernie and arranged to swing by in the late afternoon tomorrow. We left a few minutes before closing. The door guard and his date were still at their table, and the Mafia members stayed put as we made our exit.
Chapter 16
I gave Kelly a kiss goodbye at 6:15 AM and headed for my office. I met briefly with Uri’s contact, Igor Shmalko, and by 7:10 we were on a conference call with Odessa Police Lieutenant Victor Sanchenko. Igor had a brief exchange with the lieutenant, then said to me, “Go ahead with your questions.”
“I’m a detective in San Diego, California. Recently, a man was murdered who was under contract to Ivan Chofsky. I began investigating Chofsky and, since then, have been shot at, had subordinates tied up and beaten, and my office was burglarized by his cousin’s men. It appears that he’s connected to the Russian Mafia. Do you think this is possible?”
Igor translated his response, “No. Ivan Chofsky could never join the Mafia?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Chofsky has a contract on his head. I know from informants that the contract is still in force,” he said.
“Chofsky now owns a record company. The murdered man was a star performer who was about to leave Chofsky’s company for another. So far, Chofsky has refused to cooperate with the police and is using strong-arm tactics. Why would he do this?” I asked.
“Chofsky doesn’t trust the police anymore. But, he will never trust the Mafia. I tell you that with absolute certainty,” he said.
“I read the Tass articles leading up to the recovery of Ivana, but there were no accounts of how she was returned. Can you fill me in?” I asked.
Lt. Sanchenko paused, “As one detective to another I will tell you if Mr. Shmalko agrees to keep this information completely confidential.” Igor agreed. “Chofsky cooperated with me and consented to arrange an exchange of the money for his daughter. We set up an ambush, using 25 officers. It turned into a massacre. Twelve police officers were killed and another six were wounded. Eighteen Mafia men were killed and twelve were wounded. It is not the kind of news that gets reported.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“There are still people who feel we were better off under the USSR. Bad news like this makes it look like we aren’t able to maintain order,” he said.
“How did the Mafia know you were waiting for them?” I asked.
“They had an informant at police headquarters,” he said.
“Is it possible that Chofsky might have been working with both sides to give his daughter the best chance for survival?” I asked.
“None at all. I made it very clear to him that they had no choice but to kill his daughter. As long as she was alive she could testify against her captors. When they mailed her finger to him he knew we were right,” Sanchenko said.
“Then why would he now resort to Mafia tactics himself?” I asked.
“I assume he fears the Mafia will catch up to him. He probably surrounds himself with tough men who will stand up to them. We Russians are suspicious by nature. Anyone born after the Russian Revolution into the USSR lived with the prospect of a neighbor or even an occasional family member turning him in for minor crimes against the state. I would not be at all surprised if Ivan suspects you of being part of the
Mafia,” he said.
“Last week a television station reported that they thought Ivan was connected with the Russian Mafia. They showed his picture and told everyone he owns Cerise Records. Do you think the Mafia will be coming after him soon?” I asked.
“If they mentioned the Russian Mafia and showed his picture, I’m sure assassins are on their way if they aren’t already there,” he said.
“Last night I photographed four men who I think are Russian Mafia. One is definitely living in San Diego, but I’m not sure about the others. Can I email you their pictures to see if you can identify any of them,” I asked. Sanchenko agreed and gave me his email address. I attached the clearest of the pictures.
“Lt. Sanchenko, while we wait for the picture to reach you, can you tell me anything about how organized the Russian Mafia is in the United States?” I asked.
“The Russian Mafia is located throughout the world. Wherever there is money to be made you will find them. The United States has been a major target since your economy is so affluent,” he said.
“Do they have their own local Mafia dons?” I asked. Igor had a problem interpreting dons, but they finally figured it out.
“Each cell has considerable autonomy, but each is beholding to Mother Russia. If a cell fails to pay its share to the home country, men like the ones you described from last night, pay a visit and collect in blood,” he said with an ominous tone. As I was formulating my next question he said, “Your email just arrived.”
“Do you recognize any of the men?” I asked.
He replied, “The man in the middle, with the striped shirt, is Boris Schmelnikov. He is a professional killer based here in the Ukraine. The man on his left is Dimitri Nazaroff. He finds people who don’t want to be found.”
“Thank you very much for your time,” I said.
“You can thank me by putting a bullet in Schmelnikov and Nazaroff,” he replied and hung up. I thanked Igor and impressed on him the need for confidentiality.
Chapter 17
Monday morning I went straight for the Entertainment section of the paper and was pleased to see the review of the Doberman’s Stub show made front page and included a color photo. Of course, it was shot from Nigel’s side of the stage, but I was clearly visible in the background.
In general, the reviews were favorable. I was described as “a journeyman local musician who did a commendable job subbing for the inimitable Terry Tucker.” The reviewer ended his article by describing the show as being “like seeing a terrific warm-up band. It leaves you anxiously awaiting the headline act, which will come with the release of the new CD and Terry Tucker giving his farewell performance.”
I picked Jeannine up at 8:45 AM and immediately became suspicious. She was smiling more than a lotto winner, and I suspected hanky panky. “I hope you behaved yourself after the show,” I said.
“I think maybe I’ve been behaving myself for way too long,” she said. “I had a great time since we went to Alpine.”
“Derek has a new girlfriend every month. I don’t want you getting hurt,” I said with a sincere expression.
“I know. You and Kelly have been terrific. But it’s not Derek,” she said.
“Kyle! That son of a bitch. He’s married, you know!” I chided.
“It’s Michael. He was very sweet and quiet and shy and protective and I really like him,” she said with a blush.
“Michael? Really? I’ve known Michael for twelve years and I’ve never met one of his girlfriends. I thought he was gay for years,” I said and suddenly wished I hadn’t revealed that to Jeannine.
“I guess the right girl never came along,” she said with a confused expression.
“I think you may be right,” I said. We had reached the office but I wanted to stay in the car and give her some advice on love and sex and heartbreak. But it didn’t happen because we were distracted by the cookie-stuffed face of Officer Delbert peering into the passenger window as he leaned his arms atop the roof of Dad’s car. He gave us a smile and confirmed my suspicion when he revealed his Oreo speckled teeth. “Let’s talk some more later,” was all I could muster.
I was tied up with calls from friends and voice-mail all morning. Most were concerning the California Confidential exposure, although a few were from early risers who read the paper. Two of the calls were noteworthy. The first was from California Confidential informing me that John Koflanovich, or one of his representatives, will be making a statement on the show this evening, refuting his connection to the Russian Mafia. They left a call back number in case I was interested in making a statement of my own.
The second one said, “Mr. Duffy, this is John Koflanovich. My business partner informs me that he met with you last week and recommends that we talk.” He then left his phone number and said he would be available at that number until 1:30 PM.
I dialed the number and reached a receptionist, then a female administrative assistant before being connected to Koflanovich. Not exactly the direct connection I was expecting. “Mr. Duffy, thank you for returning my call,” he said with a heavy accent.
“You are a difficult man to reach, Mr. Koflanovich. I think we could have avoided several problems if we talked a couple of weeks ago,” I said.
“It sounds to me like we both were operating on incorrect assumptions,” he said.
“I would still like to get together to discuss Terry Tucker’s death,” I said.
Koflanovich replied, “That can be arranged as long as you are willing to meet at a location I have deemed to be secure, and you come alone.”
“I can understand your need for security. I hope you can understand my need for security as well,” I said.
“Why would you need security? No one is chasing after you anymore,” he said with some agitation in his voice.
“Well, let’s see. First, I had a gun shoved in my face when I visited your office. Then one of your men broke into my office. Your relatives from Tecate entered my office at gunpoint, tied up my secretary and robbed me. Your men shot at me at the Ukrainian Citizen’s Club. And, your men put an unarmed associate of mine in the hospital while he was keeping an eye on Ian Davis. So, you’ll have to excuse me if I’m a little reluctant to meet in some remote location without any witnesses,” I said with a fair measure of attitude.
“Ancient history, Mr. Duffy. Let us initiate Glasnost in our relationship,” he said in a magnanimous manner.
“How would you feel about meeting with Detective Shamansky present? I know he has been trying to connect with you. I’d feel a lot less concerned about foul play if he went along,” I said.
“That would be acceptable as long as we confine the talk to Terry Tucker and the Russian Mafia. I don’t want to get into a debate about our ancient history,” he said.
“I’ll tell you what. I can avoid that subject if you can help my computers find their way home,” I said.
“That sounds like a reasonable request. How about if we meet at 10:00 AM tomorrow at my home? You are welcome to have additional police outside if that would make you feel more comfortable,” he said.
“That will be fine. What’s your address?” I asked.
“First I would like to ask you a question. One of my close associates will be making a statement on California Confidential this evening. They are sending a camera crew to our offices. He will be telling the public that I am in no way affiliated with the Russian Mafia. His statement alone will do little to sway public opinion. But if you were present and could say how you feel about what that show stated in your name last week, it could set the record straight. Are you willing to make a statement tonight?” he asked.
I was definitely not in the mood to do this guy any favors in lieu of all he had done to me. However, I liked even less the idea that California Confidential had been making statements in my name without ever confirming a single bit of information. “I’ll do it on one condition,” I said.
“What is that?” he asked.
“I don’t want to go inside yo
ur offices. Last time I was there I had a gun shoved in my face,” I said.
“What if they held the interview in front of our building? You certainly don’t expect us to try anything out in public with the cameras rolling, do you?” he asked.
“That would be acceptable,” I said reluctantly. He then gave me his address in Del Mar and hung up.
I reached Shamansky at his desk and asked, “How would you like to meet the elusive John Koflanovich tomorrow morning?”
“Why, do you have an appointment with his hit squad,” he asked.
“Mr. Koflanovich wants to make friends,” I said.
“Why do you suppose he did that? Is he afraid you’ll be joining Doberman’s Stub on a permanent basis?” he asked.
“I thought you had more important things to do than sitting around reading the Entertainment section,” I said.
“I tried the obituaries first, but you weren’t there,” he said with his usual sarcastic charm.
“Koflanovich wants me to go on California Confidential tonight and tell the world what a swell guy he is,” I said.
“Knowing how much you avoid the limelight, I’m sure you turned him down,” he stated.
“I’m tired of those assholes acting like they’re my mouthpiece. It’s time to call a spade a spade,” I said heatedly.
“I can’t wait to tune in,” he said.
“Why tune in when you can see it live. They’re shooting it in front of Cerise’s building at 7:45 PM this evening. Care to join me?” I asked.
“In other words, you still don’t trust them and you’d like back-up,” he said.
“I’m just keeping up my end of our deal to share information,” I said.
“You’re a piece of work, Duffy. Sure, why not?” he said. “The way trouble follows you around like an old mental health client, it will probably just save me a trip later on.”
Cory stopped by around noon to say he was sorry his disclosure to California Confidential nearly got me killed. I told him that after all he had been through he deserved a second chance. But, if he ever goes to the press or anyone else behind my back again, we’re through. Somewhere in a tapestry of profanity, Cory conveyed that he understood.
Rock & Roll Homicide Page 17
