Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set
Page 65
Captain Johnson was on the phone with the Chief, who would report to the Commissioner, and then the Mayor could have his press conference.
Father Dominic had spoken to Patrick, Agnes, and Angela, bringing them up to date.
I called Marcy. “Marcela, mi amor, que pasa? How are you?’
“Doing good, feeling good. Are you coming over?”
“I can if you want me to?”
“You want me to beg?”
“I wouldn’t want you to take over my role, no begging required. I’m over in Paramus, so give a little bit to get there.”
“I’ll get some food. Hungry?”
“You’re getting Cuban?”
“No, I had plenty of that in Miami. How about Italian from Vinnie?”
“I’m in. Say hello to Vinnie.”
“See you soon. Oh, and Mancuso.”
“Yes?”
“I picked the rings, and I spoke to Father Dom. We have our date all set.”
I started to get euphoric, palpitations followed. Two years in the making, and I was finally going to marry my soulmate?”
“Mancuso, are you still there?” Marcy queried.
“That’s great news. I’m on my way. Love you.”
40
Two weeks had gone by, and I had moved back with Marcy. Preparations were on their way to the wedding. I was living the dream. Two more days, and it would be Mr. and Mrs. Mancuso.
My only concerned was that she was having nightmares and had become, on occasions, very irritable. Furthermore, her angry outburst at times, in my estimation, was uncalled for.
Marcy had lost interest and postponed the FBI’s firearms test until after our honeymoon. After seeing her pumped the shotgun in Miami, I had no concerns that she would be able to pass the test without any issues.
Finally, I decided to approach her and air my concerns after dinner one evening in her apartment.
“How are you feeling? I asked, enjoying an after-dinner drink together.
“I feel great Joey. Why do you ask?
“Your nightmares, occasional outburst of anger. And, I think you’ve lost interest in getting your job back.”
She looked at me with a somber look. “I’m suffering from the stress of the wedding. I’ll be fine after we both say ‘I do.’ You’ll see. Think about it, we have tried to tie the knot twice, and what has happened? Both times something terrible happened to one of us. So, it’s anxiety, my love.”
“I can see that. I just want you to feel great and happy about what we’re doing.”
“Thank you, but, there’s nothing I’m looking more forward to, than our wedding. Hang in there Giuseppe, let’s do this.”
Epilogue
St. Helen’s Church looked beautiful the day our wedding. Associate Pastor, Father Dominic O’Brian, was smiles from ear to ear.
Marcy was beaming with excitement. Her wedding dress was magnificent. Alberto, her stepdad was to walk her down the aisle.
We had thought of having our reception at The Plaza, but at the last minute, we opted for Captain O’Brian’s Pub. A little tacky perhaps, but it was a place we loved to be at. And a hell of a lot cheaper.
After our first night at The Plaza, we were head to the Cheeca Lodge at mile marker 81, in Islamorada, Florida Keys.
I had never felt happier than after I said, “I do.”
— THE END—
A note from Owen Parr —
Thank you for taking the time to read: The Manhattan Red Ribbon Killer. I trust you enjoyed it
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Cover Artist; Island, at Selfpubookcovers.com for a great book cover.
Fred Filbrich, for making this story come to life with his expert narration and professional production of the audiobook.
And the many experts, attorneys, and law enforcement personnel that assisted me with the research. As I always say, in spite of the research, I may have taken some liberties, and any mistakes, or inconsistencies are my own.
All authors appreciate reviews on their works, and yours, would be greatly appreciated on Amazon.com. Thank you again.
Please visit my website at www.owenparr.com for my other titles, and the next Mancuso, O’Brian Crime Mystery Novel: The Case of the Antiquities Collector.
Other titles by Owen Parr
Operation Due Diligence —An International Political Thriller
Operation Black Swan —A John Powers International Intrigue -Book 1
Operation Raven —The Dead Have Secrets —A John Powers International Intrigue - Book 2
A Murder on Wall Street —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery –Book 1
A Murder on Long Island —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery –Book 2.
The Case of the Antiquities Collector —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery -Book 4.
How To Sell, Manage Your Time, Overcome Fear of Rejection —A non-fiction, Self-Improvement Book
All titles available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, and Audible.com
Visit our website at www.owenparr.com. Write the author at: owen@owenparr.com
THE CASE OF THE ANTIQUITIES COLLECTOR
A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery
Book 4
By
Owen Parr
The Case of the Antiquities Collector
A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery
Author: Owen Parr
Published by: Owen Parr
owen@owenparr.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
ISBN- 13: 978-1986941884
ISBN-10: 1986941884
Copyright © 2017 by: Owen Parr
Published in United States
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To the memory of my brothers and to their families.
Owen “Tony” Parr
Jorge E. Parr
In a statement, Manhattan District Attorney Cyrus R. Vance Jr. said:
“The art world must acknowledge that stolen antiquities are not simply collectible commercial property, but evidence of cultural crimes committed around the world. These important historical relics must be treated with caution and care, and galleries, auction houses, museums, and individual collectors must be willing to conduct proper due diligence to ensure that an item has not been unlawfully acquired.”
– Colin Moynihan, New York Times, October 11, 2017
“He who wants everything every time will lose everything any time.”
— Vikrant Parsal
1
Monday
I was enjoying the early morning privacy of our pub, savoring the aroma and taste of a cortadito, my morning Padrón Robusto, and the New York Post. I got a text late last night from Ruth Goldstein, a partner at Bevans and Associates, a criminal law firm my investigative firm works for. It read: “Joey, I’ll call you in the a.m. We have a client whose daughter has been abducted in Miami. Need your immediate attention.”
Besides being retired from the NYPD—more like purged—I was a private investigator and the half owner of an Irish pub and cigar club with my half brother Father Dominic O’Brian.
Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub & Cigar Bar was our center of operations, named after my brother’s grandfather. Sean O’Brian established the pub back in 1948 after his return from the ‘Big War.’ Almost seventy years old, the pub was now an institution in Manhattan’s Financial District. I loved the ambiance of the pub. Other than for the twenty-two television screens around the walls, Dom and I kept the pub intact and pristine. The magni
ficent, full-length, old oak bar remained on its left side, complete with a full-wall mirror behind it. Booths, tables, and green-shaded lamps adorned the dark-wooded plank floors. All very typical of what you would expect of an authentic Irish pub.
In 1969, the captain passed away, coinciding with Marine Sergeant Sean O’Brian’s return from Vietnam—that was Dom’s dad. He and his best friend and brother-in-arms Patrick Sullivan ran the establishment until Sean’s death in 2016. Father Dom, the associate pastor at Saint Helen’s in Brooklyn, inherited the pub in the same year the NYPD suits asked me to take my disability pay and retire. This was after sixteen years of dedicated service to the NYPD Midtown South Precinct and its homicide division and the best solved-case ratio in the city. So, Father Dom and I ran the pub together with Patrick Sullivan, whom we lovingly called Mr. Pat.
Mr. Pat, also a Marine, quickly became the face of the pub, the result of his red hair and full-faced red beard. To add to the character of the pub, we were fortunate that Mr. Pat spoke with an Irish brogue. Recently, Patrick qualified for his private investigator’s license and was now a full member of the Mancuso & O’Brian Investigations.
The vibration of my phone startled me out of my comfortable lounging. Balancing my Padrón on an ashtray, I glanced at the caller ID, and then at the time. It was eight-thirty in the morning.
“Ruth, how are you?”
“Good morning, Joey. I’m fine, thank you. Do you have a minute?”
“What’s up?”
“Let me get to the point. Mr. Aaron Drucker and his wife Meira Drucker have a daughter missing. We need you and your team engaged immediately.”
“When did this happen?” I asked, straightening myself up.
“It’s been two days since they’ve heard from her.”
“Does she live at home?”
“No. The Druckers are from Greenwich, Connecticut, but Gavriella—they call her Gavi with a ‘v’—attends the University of Miami.”
“Ruth, are you sure this young lady is missing? We’re talking about a college girl, Miami, South Beach clubs…”
“I understand what you’re saying. But there’s a lot more. We need to meet with the Druckers. Are you free?”
“My schedule is wide open. Have the Druckers contacted the police or the FBI?”
“No. They want to keep this issue private. You’ll understand when you meet with them.”
“How do you want to handle this?” I asked, somewhat confused as to why they didn’t want the police involved.
“I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes, and we’ll drive out to Connecticut.”
“Fine. Tell me, what does Mr. Drucker do, so I can get my team started on some research.”
“Aaron Drucker is a senior partner at Drucker, Feinstein & Associates. They’re a CPA firm in New York. I’ll tell you more on the ride up. Let me get going. See you in a few.”
“I’m at the pub,” I said.
“Aren’t you always?’
“Touché.”
Ruth Goldstein was a senior partner at Bevans & Associates, one of the largest criminal law firms in Manhattan, and to whom Mancuso & O’Brian Investigations was under retainer. This would be our second case working with Ruth and Bevans.
As I was about to disconnect the call, Ruth added, “Oh, by the way, please don’t mention this to Marcy.”
That caught me off guard. I thought for a second, and then replied, “No problem.”
Marcy was my soulmate, and as of a month ago, my new bride. Why ask me to keep it from her? The only answer I could come up with was that Marcy was a special agent with the FBI’s White-Collar Crime Division in New York City. So, my great deductive powers told something smelled a little strange
Despite being a cool day in Manhattan, rays of sun crept through the pub’s windows, illuminating the mirror and drenching the pub.
I sat back, retrieving my Padrón Robusto from the ashtray. I dipped the tip in what remained of the cortadito before taking a hit from it, picking up my phone again, and dialing Agnes.
“Hi, Joey, I’m thirty seconds from the pub,” she said, as she answered the phone.
“In that case, I’ll wait to see you here.”
Agnes Smith joined our team a few months ago on a full-time basis. She was our white-hat computer research specialist. Anything that was in the cloud—wherever that was—or anywhere else for that matter, Agnes could find it. Prior to joining us, Agnes was bored to death working at an insurance company, where she had to follow strictly-set rules regarding the internet and research. With us, not so much. The only problem was that she lusted for my brother Dom until she realized that he was fully committed to the church and his flock. Although Agnes found a partner at the very same church she attended every morning for Dom’s 6:30 Mass, her eyes couldn’t hide a slight glimmer every time Dom was present with our team.
“Good morning,” I said as Agnes walked into the pub. “Join me a second before I take off.”
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, taking out her iPencil and opening her iPad Pro to take notes.
“Do your usual cybernoscopy on Drucker and Feinstein, CPAs. Also on each of the partners, on Drucker’s wife Meira, and their daughter Gavriella with a ‘v’.”
“A small v. That’s Hebrew for ‘God is my strength.’”
“Well, supposedly she’s missing. I hope she has the strength.”
“Oh, my gosh,” Agnes said, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Do me a favor,” I said, standing and picking up the ashtray and coffee mug, “When Dom shows up, tell him I’ll call him and fill him in on the new case.”
“Where’re you headed?”
“To the Drucker residence in Greenwich, Connecticut with Ruth Goldstein.”
“Oh, so you picked up a case from Bevans, not from the NYPD?”
“That’s correct, which reminds me, if Marcy calls, don’t tell her anything about the case for now.”
“Ooo-kay boss,” she replied, her voice betraying a little apprehension. She smiled. “Keeping secrets already?”
I looked at Agnes from behind the bar where I was disposing of my stogie in a trash compactor. “I’ll explain later, smartass.” Marcy was loved by the entire team, and rightfully so, I might add. And now that we were married, the team protected her like an endangered species. Not that I had given them any reason to…well, maybe I did in the past.
Feisty Marcela Martinez was the hottest FBI special agent in the tri-state area. That’s not only my opinion, but that of many of my friends, both male and female. She was in her thirties and had long, smoky chocolate-colored hair, luminescent sea green eyes, and a natural honey-tanned body that must have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Perhaps I was a little biased toward my soulmate. Her sensuous neck was adorned on the right side by a little parrot. That’s right. She was a Parrot Head, which was interesting because you wouldn’t expect that a Union City, New Jersey-born daughter of Cuban immigrants would be a devotee of Jimmy Buffet, right?
My thoughts reverted to the case at hand. Investigating homicides was my forte, and this was not one, at least not yet, I hoped.
As I was about to step outside to wait for Ruth, Agnes asked, “What’s your initial read of the case?”
“I find it weird that they’re calling us in for something that’s not a homicide or a kidnapping. Something smells fishy. We’ll see.”
2
I stood by the front door of the pub as the usual rush of yellow cabs, cars, and busses whizzed by the corner of Beaver and Hanover Streets, creating a cacophony of sounds unique to this city. If I closed my eyes, sometimes I thought I heard the rapids of the Arizona River at the Grand Canyon. However, the occasional, “Hey asshole, fuck you!” from one driver to another always brought me back to reality.
Ruth drove up in her Mercedes S550 in Iridium Silver Metallic, and I jumped in her car. At least I was going to ride in style for the next hour and a half. Plus, I was dying to try the heated seats to keep my as
s nice and warm on the ride. It was February and still cold in New York. When I first met Ruth, I thought she looked like she could be on the cover of Southern Lady Magazine. She was graceful, always impeccably dressed. In her early fifties, with short blonde hair and deep blue eyes. And the slightest uplift in her voice that identified her as southern. Plus, she was a Kentucky bourbon drinker, neat. My kind of gal. Before Ruth and I could exchange pleasantries, a loud honk came from the MTA bus behind us.
“Everybody is in a hurry in New York,” she said as she stepped on the gas. She turned to me. “How you doin?” Ruth asked, trying to be funny, in my own New York Italian way.
I chuckled. “Living the dream, living the dream.” I say that to amuse myself, only because I feel like throwing up when I hear that from others. It never sounds real.
“Joey, you’ve gained some weight.”
“Shoot, you can tell? Married to a Cuban will do it. Between the rice, black beans, and fried plantains, I guess I’ve picked up a few. Seriously, is it that obvious?”
“You look fine. But maybe you should stop buying tapered shirts for a while,” Ruth said, turning to face me, sporting a grin.
“I don’t wear…okay, I get it. Great. Now, tell me about this abduction.”
“When the Druckers hadn’t heard from Gavriella in two days, they decided to call her landline at the dorm. This was last night. The young girl who shares a dorm apartment with Gavi hadn’t seen her in two days—since last Friday when she went on a date.”