Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  “Again, my initial reaction is that Gavi is just away for the weekend. But, you think differently?”

  “That was my first thought too. But, the Druckers told me she would have called or texted that she was going away. According to them, she calls them regularly.”

  Looking out the window; the sunshine I enjoyed momentarily in the pub was gone, replaced by an angry gray that was overtaking New York. “That’s odd for a teenager to do, calling her parents every day, right? But, I’ll take their word. Have they received a ransom call?”

  Ruth made a right turn to get on I-95 North. “Not yet, no.”

  “Has Gavi done this before?”

  “She’s gone away on weekends, yes. But, she’s always communicated with her mother about it.”

  “Okay, so why not call the police?”

  “About that. First, Miami PD is going to tell them the same thing we thought—a young girl out for the weekend. Second, Mr. Drucker wants it to stay private if it is an abduction.”

  “Why? Did he say?” I asked, a bit dumbfounded at the thought of not calling the police if your daughter was kidnapped.

  “He doesn’t want any publicity because he’s worried about his clients finding out.”

  “Seriously? He’s more worried about his clients than his daughter’s life? Who is this asshole?”

  “You’ll meet him soon and be able to ask your own questions.”

  “Let me ask you this: has he been your client before?”

  Ruth glanced at me warily. “A year ago, we defended him on an insider-trading case. He was acquitted.”

  Acquitted doesn’t mean not guilty, but I opted to ignore that. “I’m sure Agnes will get me the facts. What kind of clients does this guy have?”

  “Varied clientele. He does business in Miami and all over the world, in addition to New York.”

  “I’m going to need a list of his clients when I go to Miami.”

  “Good luck with that,” she replied, looking straight ahead.

  “Oh, I’ll get it. One way or another,” I replied with a chuckle.

  Ruth smiled. “Tell me,” she asked, “how’s Marcy doing?”

  “Marcy is fine physically. She’ll have no problem passing the FBI’s firearms test. But, according to what the FBI shrink is telling her, she’s suffering from PTSD. Of course, I knew that before she even went to the shrink.”

  “How so?”

  I lowered the temperature for my derriere and moved my seat back a bit. “Unfortunately, I’ve experienced some of the same symptoms after I was shot. While I’m not an expert on the subject, I’ve noticed the same ones on her. Nightmares, irritability, sleeplessness, loss of interest, plus a few more.”

  “I’d be going through the same if I’d been involved in two traumatic incidents in what? The last two and half months?”

  “Oh, I agree. Twice in the line of fire, and twice she shot someone dead. No question that’s traumatizing. I’m giving her all the space and support she needs.”

  “Are you guys living at her place?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I’m no shrink. Although, I play one at home with my husband and children. Perhaps a new abode would help. After all, that apartment may bring back some unwanted memories for her.”

  “We love the apartment, and she’s been there a bunch of years. But, that may be something to consider.”

  My cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me, Ruth. Yes, Agnes, what’s up?” I answered.

  “Hey Joey, Father Dom and Mr. Pat are here. Do you want to speak to them?”

  “Yeah. But before that, I need you to book Mr. Pat and me on a flight to Miami. Say, for tomorrow. And a place to stay near the University of Miami.”

  Ruth said, “I know a place.”

  “Hang on, Agnes,” I said, turning to look at Ruth, who proceeded to tell me.

  “There’s a Holiday Inn on US 1 right across from the university. Book us two rooms there.”

  “For how long?” Agnes inquired.

  I thought for a second. “I don’t know, maybe a week. We can always change that. Also, have you started research on Drucker and Feinstein?”

  “Yes,” Agnes replied.

  “Great. I may need to get their client lists. And, it’s possible I may not get it from Mr. Drucker. You know what I mean?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Collate it by city. I’ll need the Miami clients first.”

  “On it. Here’s El Padre.”

  “On your way to Greenwich?” Father Dom asked.

  “Yes. I’ll give you more details later. Plan on coming out here and meeting with the Druckers—maybe tomorrow. Can you that?”

  “We’re going to double up them like we usually do?”

  “That’s the plan. The Druckers first, then his partner Feinstein.”

  From experience, I’d learned that it was always good to ask a suspect or person of interest the same questions three different times. If they were making up the answers, they would change their story every time. However, if they were telling the truth, not only would the answers be basically the same, they would add more details to them. I think it was Mark Twain who said, “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.” So, Father Dom and I always tried to double up and ask the same questions.

  Dom replied, “I can do that after Mass tomorrow. Can I borrow your car? It’ll cost a lot for an Uber to go to Greenwich.”

  My slick red 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500 is my priciest and only possession. I only drive it on the weekends, and Dom wants to drive it to Connecticut?

  “Ah, I don’t think so brother. The license plate is only good on weekends,” I said, laughing. “Why not borrow the caddy from the pastor?”

  “Hah, I don’t think is proper driving the pastor’s car for our business.”

  “Just tell him you’re going to hear a confession in Greenwich. It is what you’re going to do, right?”

  Dom replied, disappointed, “All right Joey, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Put Mr. Pat on, and thanks, brother.”

  Patrick came on the line. “Hey lad. I hear we’re headed to Miami?”

  “Yes. Make sure you pack plenty of sun block. You Irish are too white for the Florida sun.”

  “Very funny. I’ll pack my Speedos too.”

  “Ah, that’s not a good picture. Talk to you later, Big Red Dude. Roger and out.”

  “Roger,” Patrick replied.

  “Big Red Dude?” Ruth quipped.

  “When we were in Miami a few weeks ago, two Cuban vice cops nicknamed Mr. Pat the Big Red Dude. In kind of fits, right?”

  “Yes,” Ruth said. “I like Patrick.”

  We drove for another thirty minutes until we finally came on Clapboard Ridge Road. The Drucker home, make that their stately Georgian mansion, was impressive. Bellissimo. The driveway of about one hundred yards long allowed us to appreciate the magnificence of the property as we neared. Awed by this mansion, I asked Ruth, “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes, various times. It’s magnificent inside,” she replied.

  If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it, so I asked, “Any idea how much this home is worth?”

  Ruth chuckled. “Five years ago, they paid twenty-two million.”

  “Oh, quite the bargain, I’m sure.” I paused for a second. “Ruth, I may be underdressed for this.”

  Ruth glanced at me. “You’re fine. Like I said, Mr. Drucker has been very successful.”

  No shit.

  3

  A maid opened the door to a twenty-foot-high foyer with marbled floors that were so bright, I almost put my sunglasses on. To my right was a sprawling curved stairwell, reminiscent of the Longworth home from my last case. But this one was twice the length and height.

  “Hi, we’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Drucker,” Ruth said.

  “Yes, good morning. Please come in. They’re expecting you in the living room. May I get you anyt
hing?” She stood to the side, pointing to a room.

  “I’m fine thank you,” Ruth replied, “but perhaps Mr. Mancuso would care for something.”

  The maid smiled and turned to me.

  How about eggs roulade stuffed with smoked bacon, fresh mushrooms, and spinach. Plus, a side of hash browns and a mimosa. Instead, I replied, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  I let Ruth lead the way while I buttoned my blue blazer and inspected my gray slacks. I looked cool. There was nothing to worry about. The Druckers stood up from one of the two sitting areas in the huge living room that overlooked the backyard from three double doors facing a never-ending manicured lawn.

  Aaron smiled and embraced Ruth. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Aaron. It’s unfortunate that we meet under these circumstances.” Moving back from his embrace, Ruth added, “This is Joey Mancuso.”

  I took a step forward as Ruth embraced Mrs. Drucker. “Mr. Drucker,” I said, “pleasure to meet you.”

  “Please, call me Aaron. May I call you Joey?”

  Call me poor. Replying, I said, “Please.”

  Aaron spread his arms and pointed to his wife. “This is my wife Meira.” Touching his wife’s left arm, he said, “Say hello to Joey.”

  Having been awed by the entrance and exterior of the home, I expected something similar from this couple. Instead, I found them down-to-earth, dressed casually, and without any pretentiousness. Aaron was a good-looking man in his fifties, black hair with graying sideburns. He was slim, but otherwise plain. The type of person you would want for undercover work—inconspicuous, like an accountant. Meira was in her late forties and attractive in her own right, with platinum hair and big, round amber eyes. I could see that she tried to remove a tattoo from her left arm. Probably a teenage indiscretion, which had no place in the sphere they moved in these days.

  Aaron pointed to the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, and we all took our seats. He asked, “I understand that Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub in New York City belongs to you and your brother?”

  I wanted to get on with my questions, but I supposed small talk was part of the warm-up. “Yes, it does.”

  “That’s been around, what? Fifty years?”

  “Actually, we’re about to celebrate our seventy-year anniversary.”

  “You still have the black and whites over the booths?”

  ‘Very much so, yes. That’s part of the history of the pub,” I replied.

  Drucker turned to Meira and added, “Honey, they have black and white photos of Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, Woody Allen, Mickey Mantle, and many more going back, I guess, seventy years. All of them from when those celebrities visited the pub. It’s quiet a collection.”

  Meira was not listening to this trivia. Her mind, correctly so, in my opinion, was on her daughter’s abduction. She simply said, “That’s very nice,” as she turned to look at Ruth, almost begging her to get started.

  Getting the message, Ruth gestured to me. “You have the floor, Joey.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sitting back and unbuttoning my blazer. Facing both the Druckers, I asked, “I assume no one has called you about Gavi?”

  Aaron responded, “None. We’ve had no calls.”

  This was not a good sign. If there had been a ransom call, we would know why she was abducted, at least. Hearing nothing opened the mystery to many possibilities, none of which were good.

  “Is it possible she is still out for the weekend and just hasn’t contacted you?” I asked.

  “We hope that’s the case,” Aaron replied. “Gavi’s roommate gave us the cell number and name of her date. Carlos. He’s not answering his calls. They all go to voice mail.”

  “Was Carlos just a date, or was he Gavi’s boyfriend?”

  Before responding, Meira glanced at her husband, as she admitted the truth. “Carlos is her boyfriend. Her roommate said that they went out Friday night and never came back.”

  “I see,” I said. “Do you think her roommate is covering for them?”

  Meira broke into tears, and said, “Oh my god, poor baby. What’s happened to her?”

  Aaron reached into his back pocket, took out his handkerchief, handed it to her, and at the same time grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently.

  “Has this ever happened before?” I asked.

  “No, no,” Aaron replied. “She will either call or text her mother daily. She’s never been out of touch for three days—or one day, for that matter.”

  “Have either of you met the roommate or the boyfriend?”

  Aaron looked at his wife, and Meira replied, “No, we haven’t. Her roommate is Jennifer. I don’t know her last name. She’s from Michigan, I think. We called her, asking about Gavi, and that’s how we found out she was missing.”

  “How about the boyfriend?” I inquired.

  Meira responded, “He’s not a student at the university. He’s a local kid from Miami, according to what Gavi told me.”

  “How old, do you know?”

  “Gavi sent me a picture of them both. He looks about twenty or so. He attends FIU in Miami,” Meira said.

  I looked up from my notes and asked, “FIU?”

  Aaron replied, “That’s Florida International University.”

  “Do you have a last name for Carlos?” I inquired.

  Aaron shook his head. Meira replied sheepishly, “Ah, no.”

  Your daughter is over a thousand miles away, and you have no clue who she’s hanging with? Is what I wanted to ask, but I said, “I’ve already booked a flight to Miami with an associate, so when I’m in Miami, I’ll need to speak to Jennifer, and with anyone else who knows Gavi. I’ll need any numbers local to Miami that you may have.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Meira.

  “Is Gavi active on social media?” I asked.

  Aaron turned to look at his wife, and she responded, “Of course. All these kids are. I know she’s on most of them.”

  “Good, my researcher can start there. We should be able to get more names from that. Let me ask this, is there any reason why Gavi would want to run away?”

  “Oh my god, no. None whatsoever. She loved her school. She was happy there,” Meira said.

  I wanted to ask questions to both Druckers separately, so I asked, “Mrs. Drucker, could you show me Gavi’s room?”

  Meira stood up. “Of course, follow me.”

  As we walked back to the foyer and up the stairs to the bedrooms, I asked, “Mrs. Drucker, do you have a good relationship with Gavi?”

  She was leading the way, turning slightly to make eye contact with me. “Please call me Meira. And yes, Gavi shares everything with me. I’m fortunate to have a very open relationship with her.”

  “Has she shared any concerns lately?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “How does she get along with Mr. Drucker?”

  “They speak at least once a week. She looks up to him and always seeks his approval on her studies and career.”

  “Does she have a major picked out?”

  “Accounting. She hopes to join her father’s firm.”

  We reached a large room, and Meira walked in and stepped to the side so I could enter. I expected to see a room with posters on the walls and pictures of friends. However, what I found was a sterile room—clean, organized, nothing on the walls. There was a large desk opposite the bed. I opened the drawers and found nothing. Okay, so perhaps she packed everything when she left. Examining the closet, I found clothes typical of a teenager. I turned to her mother. “Was this the way Gavi kept her room when she was here?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s very organized like her father. But she took pictures of her friends and a lot of her personal stuff. You know, knickknacks to make her feel at home in the dorm.”

  I visited the bathroom, looked around, and inspected the medicine cabinet. Nada. Did Gavi ever live here? I asked myself.

  “May I ask you a personal question about Gavi?”<
br />
  “Please do.”

  “Is she sexually active?”

  Hesitating at first, she replied, “She is. I took her to the doctor for her pills.”

  I nodded. “All right, we can go back downstairs. Thank you for showing me her room.” I paused as we began going down the stairs and asked, “Is there any reason you can think of why someone would want to kidnap your daughter?”

  Meira reached the foyer, stopped, turned around looked at me, and responded after a few seconds, “No. I’ve been thinking about that, but no.”

  “Any reason she would want to run away?”

  “Absolutely not. Like I said, we’re very close. I would know if something was bothering her.”

  “Does Gavi have any money of her own?”

  “She has a trust fund, but she doesn’t get any of that for another three years. Aaron gives her an allowance, and of course, we take care of all her school expenses.”

  “Are you aware of anything your husband is involved in that could trigger a kidnapping, other than for ransom?”

  She glanced back toward the living room and turned back to me. “My gosh, no. You think this has something to do with his job?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. Right now, I’m just asking general questions.”

  We walked back to the living room where Aaron and Ruth sat. “Mr. Drucker, may I ask you a few questions privately?”

  “Sure, Joey. Ladies excuse us for a minute,” he said, looking at Ruth, then at his wife. “Joey, do you like wine?”

  I didn’t look at my watch in case he would see me do it, but I knew it was still morning. “Yes, I do, but I’m fine for now.”

  He laughed as he led the way, “I wasn’t offering you a drink. I’m taking you to my wine cellar. We can talk there.”

  We walked through various sections of the massive home, finally arriving at the cellar. Aaron opened the door, stood aside, and allowed me to enter first. “Beautiful,” I said, walking into an octagon-shaped room with thick kelly-green Berber carpeting. Seven walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelving for a varied collection of wines. To my left, on the eighth wall, was an attractive cigar humidor with a nice collection of Cuban cigars, with a small wet bar in front.