Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  “Have a seat, Joey. I hope it’s not too cold in here for you,” Aaron said, pointing to an octagon-shaped table surrounded by club chairs. I noticed the table perfectly matched the walls.

  “What temperature do you keep the room?” I asked, pretending I was not cold. Man up, I said to myself.

  “I try to keep the room at sixty to sixty-five degrees for the wine. The humidor around seventy to seventy-five. Can I offer you a glass of wine and a cigar?”

  I was tempted to do both, but it was a bit early for wine. “If you have a smaller cigar, I’ll take you up on that.”

  Aaron walked to the humidor, opened it, and pulled out two cigars—Cohibas.. “These are the Medio Siglos, ideal for a quick, enjoyable smoke. May I cut it for you, or would you prefer a punch?”

  “On a small cigar, I prefer a punch, thank you.”

  From behind the bar, he brought over a large cigar ashtray with a gas lighter in it, the two Cohibas, and two bottles of sparkling water. Setting them on the mahogany table, he turned and switched on an exhaust system for the smoke. “Now,” he said, sitting back on his club chair, “what do you need to know?”

  I lit my cigar and looked at his eyes from behind the smoke. “Why not call the police or the FBI?”

  “Good question. Joey, I can’t afford to have my clients know that my daughter may have been kidnapped.”

  “Can I be brutally honest, sir?”

  His head shot back, inquisitive. “Please.”

  “There’s the kidnapping angle, but we haven’t had any demands yet. There’s also the possibility this was some sexual predator, which I hate to think about. And then there’s the possibility that Gavi could be on an extended long weekend, or that she simply ran away.”

  He didn’t react. He sat there, transfixed by the long ash his Cohiba was making. Finally focusing on me, he asked, “What do you think?”

  Okay, so he didn’t want to go there. I began my irrational way of asking questions, which I do to keep the person from planning an answer to my next question before I’d asked it. “Let me ask you something,” I said, ignoring his question. “How did you get caught up in an insider trading charge?”

  “I see Ruth told you about that. I’m sure she told you I was acquitted of all charges.”

  “She did, yes. But what led to it?”

  “I have a client who is a member of the House of Representatives—and because of that was exempt from the insider trading rule until 2012 when they passed the STOCK Act—who was buying stock in the healthcare industry.”

  “And he gave you a tip on buying it?”

  “No, not like that. At the golf course, he told me he was going to get killed on short-term capital gains because of some trading he was doing. Tempted, I asked what he was buying, and he told me the name of the company. Nothing else.”

  “So, you went out and bought it?”

  “First, I had my advisor check out the fundamentals on some stocks in the healthcare industry. You know, sales, earnings, profits, stuff like that. He did, and then he mentioned there seemed to be a few within the industry that displayed a lot of volume on the buy side. Meaning the stocks were being accumulated.”

  “So, you bought in?”

  He led out a puff of gray smoke, chuckled, and from behind the smoke, replied, “I bought and sold. They kept moving up, so I bought and sold again, and again. Piled a lot of short-term capital gains myself.”

  “Trading stock and making profits is not illegal. Why charge you with insider-trading?”

  “The Securities and Exchange Commission had a hard-on for the congressmen who profited from a bill they were discussing on Medicare. A few of them were buying the healthcare stocks in anticipation of the bill passing.”

  “But you said the STOCK Act put an end to that.”

  Aaron leaned forward and put his Cohiba on the ashtray. “Joey, how does a pack of wolves police itself?” He paused, opened his hands, and said, “Right? They watered down the bill before they passed it. And when the SEC inquired, their response through a brief was, ‘There’s no room for the SEC to inquire into the committee’s purpose or motives.’ End of story.”

  I looked at my own long ash and worried I was going to drop it on myself. Cautiously, I moved the cigar over the ashtray. “So the SEC went down a tier and came after people like yourself?”

  “You get the picture. Except, I never got a tip as to why I should buy the stock. I proved that I, together with my advisor, did our due diligence on the stocks we bought, just like everything else I buy. Period. End of story.”

  Barbra Streisand’s hit “People Who Know People” came to mind. “Back to Gavi,” I said. “For now, I’m going to assume that she is the victim of a kidnapping. Unless, of course, she shows up in the interim. Like I said, I’m headed to Miami tomorrow to begin questioning everyone she knows. My hope is that she was kidnaped for ransom and not abducted by a sexual predator, or even worse. There’s all kind of sickos out there abducting young girls and keeping them in basements, doing unspeakable things to them. A kidnapping for ransom, well, that’s our best hope of recovery at this point. Do you agree?”

  “I pray that she went off on a long weekend, but the kidnapping could be the case,” he replied, nonchalant. “However, you’re dismissing the boyfriend’s potential involvement in this. He may be the reason she’s missing.”

  “No, I’m not dismissing it. But, if that’s the case, then we have no foul play. I need to concentrate on the other possibilities and plan for them.”

  I don’t have a daughter, but I just painted a horrific picture about a possible sexual abduction, and this guy was without any visible reaction. “Let me ask you this: is it possible that you know something about a client’s dealings, and your daughter is a hostage of some kind?”

  He let out another big puff of cigar smoke. From behind the gray haze, I could still see his facial expression sour into a look of concern. His eyebrows narrowed. He was stalling for an answer, moving uncomfortably in his club chair and rubbing his nose. “Absolutely not. Do not go poking into my clients. That’s exactly the reason I don’t want the police involved.” He paused, sitting back. Letting his voice drop into a firm, stern tone he said, “Is that understood?”

  I was examining his reaction as I took a sip of my sparkling water. I looked at the label on the bottle. “Mr. Drucker, I have some rules,” I said without looking at him.

  “Yeah, how many?” he said, the edge never leaving his voice.

  “A few. But rule number one when I take a case is that I work for the victim. And as such, I’m going to pursue the case wherever it leads me—”

  “That’s why they call you The Last Advocate, right?”

  “Exactly. Now, is that understood?”

  4

  We locked eyes, two pit-bulls sizing up each other. I stood, still glaring at him. This conversation was over on my end. Gavi could be dead by now, and her father seemed to be more concerned about his clientele than her well-being.

  Aaron Drucker looked down as he pushed himself back from the table. “Very well, Mancuso, follow your leads. But I need to know every step you take, and I need a daily report from you. I want to know who you talked to and what you’ve uncovered.”

  Without saying another word, we began walking back to the living room, him leading the way. He hadn’t answered my question about possible client involvement. So, fuck it, I asked again, “I still need to know if there’s any possibility that a client of yours could be involved in this abduction.”

  He stopped dead in his tracks, turned to face me, took a deep breath, and replied, “Look, my accounting firm has clients all over the world. Some clients have unique requirements as to what we do for them, and one of those requirements is complete and total privacy—”

  “Yes, but could any of those clients be involved in a criminal conspiracy that you inadvertently uncovered, leading to your blackmail?”

  He looked agonized. “Why would you even consider that? Our
firm would never aid and abet a criminal enterprise. You seem to have a vivid imagination.”

  That, asshole, is the secret of my success, was what I wanted to reply. As a young detective with the NYPD, I became enamored with the Sherlock Holmes series. Arthur Conan Doyle not only made the stories interesting, but he used psychology in Holmes’s deduction prowess. I had even gone as far as reading up on Doyle and the way he thought as he created his plots. Looking beyond the obvious was inculcated in my psyche. “I suppose a list of your clients is out of the question?”

  He sighed. “Tell you what I’ll do, I’ll be in the office tomorrow and review every client. If I see any smoke, I’ll make a note and make you aware. Is that good enough?”

  Knowing full well that Agnes was—I didn’t want to use the word “hacking,”—was putting together a list of his clients on her end, I stopped pushing. “Very well. I may have my brother stop by your office tomorrow and ask you and your partner some more questions. I can have him call ahead, if you’d like.”

  “The priest, Father O’Brian?”

  “Yes.”

  Drucker smiled. “Is he as direct as you?”

  “He’s more politically correct, but he can filter out the bullshit quicker. Say about eleven in the morning?”

  “That would be fine,” he replied, shaking his head as we reached the living room.

  Ruth turned to look at us as we walked in. “You fellows done?”

  I could see Mrs. Drucker, tissue in hand, had not stopped crying. “Yeah,” I said, “we are.”

  Ruth hugged Meira, then Aaron, and in an attempt to calm everyone down said, “Joey will get Gavi back. Everything will be all right.”

  I walked toward Mrs. Drucker to shake her hand. “Mrs. Drucker, I may want my brother stop by and ask you a few more questions tomorrow. Is that okay?”

  Before responding, she looked at her husband.

  Aaron frowned. “His brother is a Catholic priest. It might be good to talk to him.”

  Meira turned back to me, “Very well. I’m sure that’s fine.”

  I nodded to Ruth, who said, “Thank you for your time. Hang in there. I’m sure this is no more than an extended weekend on Gavi’s part.”

  Meira broke out crying again. “Oh my god, Mr. Mancuso, do you think Gavi is all right?”

  I grabbed her ice-cold hands and held them tight. “This could be as simple as Ruth just said. We’ll get to the bottom of it quickly.” Glancing at Aaron, I added, “If you get a call from anyone, I need to know ASAP.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “Keep us posted.”

  Ruth and I got back in her car for the long drive back to Manhattan. “What’d you think?” she asked.

  I was looking out the window admiring the white oaks that lined the long-ass driveway. I thought for a second before turning to her. “I don’t know Ruth. I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  “How so?” She made a right turn out of the estate.

  “Didn’t you find his demeanor a bit too relaxed for someone whose daughter is missing?”

  “Joey—”

  The Waze App interrupted the conversation. “‘In zero point seven miles make a left turn to NY-9A.”

  “You were saying?” I asked.

  “I’ve known Aaron for some time. Inside he may be dying, but he holds it in.”

  “I hope you’re right, but something is telling me that he knows more than what he’s sharing.”

  “What about Carlos? Is it possible they’re still out there having some fun?”

  “That’s always a possibility. But, Gavi is a left-brained person like her father. She’s logical, organized. She’s diligent in contacting her mother daily. You should see her room. Everything is in the right place. No posters. Very sterile.”

  “So, you’re ruling out Carlos and the long weekend idea?”

  “I’m not ruling out Carlos. He could be a victim himself, or he could be part of the abduction. Like they say, hope for the best, plan for the worst, right?”

  “So, what is your conclusion?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t have one yet. It’s more like a fear that this abduction may have something to do with a client of his firm.”

  “Did you ask for a list of his clients?”

  I let out a bark of laughter. “He was adamant about not sharing that, which is why I think there’s a clue in there.”

  “That’s a problem.”

  “Not when you have an Agnes on the team,” I said, winking at her.

  Ruth shook her head. “Suppose you’re right. Why get us involved? He could just play it out himself.”

  “He needs to show his wife that he’s doing something. He just can’t ignore the situation. Speaking of Mrs. Drucker, I think she knows more than she’s telling us. Father Dom should be able get something out of her tomorrow.”

  My cell phone vibrated. It was Agnes. “Excuse me. It’s Agnes.” I answered. “Yes, Agnes, what’s up?”

  “I have you and Mr. Pat booked on American flight 1301 out of Newark at six a.m. Arriving in Miami at nine-thirty.”

  “Shit that’s early. But that’s good, we’ll have all day to work. Were you able to book the Holiday Inn?”

  “Yes. On Dixie Highway, right across the university. Mr. Pat has all the info, including the car rental.”

  “What about the list?” I asked. Ruth turned to look at me.

  “It wasn’t easy. They have some sophisticated firewalls and security, but you know me. I have it all listed with Miami-area clients first.”

  “How many in Miami?”

  “Just three.”

  The Waze lady began to tell Ruth where to get off I-95. She quickly lowered the volume.

  “Get on social media and start getting the names of Gavi’s friends. Start with her boyfriend Carlos, no last name, and then Jennifer, her roommate from Michigan, again no last name. Finally, anyone else in their sphere, primarily in Miami. We’ll want to talk to them.”

  “On it, Joey. How did it go with the Druckers?

  I ignored her question. “One more thing, Agnes. See if you can locate Gavi’s phone. I’ll text you her number.”

  “Who is her provider?”

  “Shit, I didn’t get that. Call the Druckers and find out. Is that important?”

  “Once I know her carrier, and if the Druckers have a family plan, then I can get into their account and see all of Gavi’s calls.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Where you headed now?”

  “On my way back. I’ll fill you all in later. Is Father Dom there?”

  “Yes, I’ll put him on,” Agnes replied. I heard a muffled conversation on her end.

  Dom came on. “Joey, how are you doing?”

  “Good, good, bro. Listen, tomorrow after your last mass, can you stop by the offices of Drucker and Feinstein? They’re in the city. Agnes should have their address.”

  “She has a lot more than that,” Dom quipped. “What about Mrs. Drucker? You still want me to meet with her?”

  I knew he was motivated by the idea of driving to Greenwich in my Mustang. “Did you get to borrow the pastor’s caddy?”

  “I told you I can’t ask him for the church’s car for our business use. It’s not proper.”

  “Right, right. You know how to drive a stick shift?” I asked, smiling.

  “Joey, you’re so full of shit. I was driving a stick when you were learning how to drive a tricycle. So, I’ll go see Mrs. Drucker after meeting with the CPAs. I’ll have Agnes call her and give her a heads-up.”

  “Okay bro, just stay under the speed limit. See you in a few, and I’ll brief you on my conversation with the Druckers.” I clicked off my phone.

  “Seems like you’re all set for Miami and the second round of questioning, as you guys like to do.”

  “We are. Let me ask you something. Would you mind if I take Marcy with me to Miami?”

  Ruth turned to look at me, then quickly back at the road, as we were getting off I
-95, “I don’t mind, but can we keep her professional involvement with the FBI out of this investigation?”

  “That’s not a problem. She’ll understand why we’re doing it, and she’s still on official leave from the Bureau anyway. Besides, I can probably use her Spanish while we’re there.”

  “Okay, just don’t get the Feds involved in this. Not yet.”

  I dialed Marcy to tell her to pack and called Agnes for a plane ticket. We’d just come back from our honeymoon in Miami Beach, so I knew she’d be excited to go back. Marcy was suffering from a little cabin-fever doing nothing after our wedding. Her firearms test and psych evaluation were pending, and she needed a distraction. Plus, God forbid she failed the eval. I wanted her to see she could easily fold right into our PI team. I’d planned on telling her that she would have first billing in the new Mancuso, Mancuso & O’Brian Investigations.

  Marcy graduated from Newark’s Rutgers School of Law, upon which she joined the FBI Academy. For the last two years, we dated and even discussed marriage twice, only to be interrupted by both of us being shot at various times in the line of duty. Of course, if you asked her, my occasional escapades outside our agreed monogamous relationship may have had an influence.

  In the evening, Marcy and I were relaxed in our Brooklyn apartment in anticipation of our Miami trip. The temperature was in the fifties and I grilled cheeseburgers on our balcony. Marcy served her favorite sides: New-York-style potato salad and coleslaw. A bottle of vino accompanied the casual dinner, with enough left over for our after-dinner talk. Although I promised Ruth, not to get the FBI involved, I wanted to brief Marcy and have her involved in the investigation.

  She washed, and I dried the dishes. My next purchase had to be a dishwasher. Once we completed our kitchen chores, I grabbed the bottle of wine and two clean glasses and asked her to join me in the living room, where I had some Baroque music playing in the background.

  “I think you’re ready for your evaluations,” I said. Two things she needed to conquer soon: passing the FBI firearms test and getting a thumbs up from the FBI shrink. When those things happened, she’d be reinstated for field work.