Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  “So, you think he was hiding the fact he flew the young lady to Saint Thomas?” Fernandez asked.

  “No question about it.”

  “What’s the status of your missing person?”

  I raised my phone as if to show them the message. “Just a few moments ago, I received a text from her father telling us that Gavi was on her way back to Greenwich, Connecticut.”

  Fernandez and Smyth exchanged glances. “I thought you said she attended the university here.”

  “She does,” I replied. “From the looks of it, she may have been on an extended long weekend with her boyfriend. And now, she may be flying back to apologize to her parents for scaring them.” I didn’t buy that myself, but I didn’t want to complicate the matter more at this point by going into more detail.

  Fernandez was taking notes on a small pad, and he shook his head a few times, raising his gaze toward me. “What is the full name of the young lady and her parents?”

  “Her name is Gavriella Drucker, with a ‘v.’ Her father is Aaron Drucker, and mother is Meira.” I spelled her name for them.

  “Let’s assume for a moment that Gavi flew to Saint Thomas last Friday and that the pilot was Troy, as you said. Why lie about it? What were they hiding?” Smyth asked.

  Before I had a chance to respond, Fernandez said, “Mancuso, we need you to be forthcoming with all the information you have. So far, I see no motive for someone to shoot out your tire and kill this other girl, Alexa. Come on man, tell us what you know.”

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and made eye contact with both detectives. “We were under the assumption that Gavi was kidnapped and that she was flown out of Miami Executive against her will. The fact that the pilot, Troy, lied about it confirmed our suspicions. We left the airport on our way back here,” I said, not wanting to share we were on our way to question the antiquities professor, “and that’s when our car was shot at.”

  “Did the Druckers report the kidnapping?” Smyth asked.

  “No, that’s why they hired us. They didn’t want the police involved.”

  “Did they get a ransom call?”

  There was only so much I wanted to share with them, so I didn’t tell them about the two million we knew was wired to Cayman. “The parents never told me they did.”

  We all sat there a few moments. As if in unison, we all glanced over at Marcy and Patrick, who were sitting in another area of the lobby.

  “Your wife is taking this hard,” Fernandez said.

  “I’m sure she feels culpable because she questioned your victim. If she hadn’t spoken to her, maybe she would not have been killed.”

  “Which tells me you think this Troy guy is connected to killing Alexa, but yet, nothing you’ve said gives us a reason for it. Other than the fact you said he lied to you.”

  “Any defensive wounds on the victim?” I asked.

  Smyth replied, “Not my case. Detective A. Rodriguez is the lead on that.”

  “A. Rod?” I asked.

  “That’s what we call him, but not the baseball player,” Smyth replied, smiling.

  “Guys, I’m sorry I don’t have more information to share with you. But, I would make Troy a person of interest at this point.”

  Smyth said, “The murder is not our case. But we will pass along your information to Detective Rodriguez. He and his partner may want to talk to you. Are you planning on being here a few more days?”

  “Now that our missing person case is over, we may fly back tomorrow,” I replied, knowing full well we weren’t going anywhere.

  Fernandez put his pad away and pulled out a card, “Here’s my card. As soon as you know your schedule, call me and let me know. We are never going to find out who shot your tire. You can pick up your car tomorrow. I wrote the address on the card.”

  “I’ll call the rental agency to deal with the car. What time was Alexa shot?”

  Smyth replied, “From what little we know, about the same time your tire was shot out. So, we know it’s not the same person.”

  Not the same person, but for sure ordered by the same person, I wanted to say. Instead, I asked, “Who found her so fast?”

  “A survey crew just happened to arrive at the scene a few minutes after she was shot and dumped there.” Fernandez got up from his chair.

  I stood up, looking at Smyth. “I don’t know, we may stay an extra day. As soon as I know what our plans are, I call you.

  “By the way, are any of you carrying?” Fernandez asked.

  “No, we don’t carry any weapons.”

  “What about your wife, the Special Agent?”

  “No, she wasn’t carrying. She was taking a few days off. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” replied Smyth.

  “What caliber was the shot that blew out our tire? Or, did you not retrieve the bullet?”

  Smyth responded, “Oh no, we got both rounds—.40 calibers, probably from a Glock 22.”

  “I see, thanks.”

  Fernandez gave me a cynical smile. “Mancuso, if you remember anything you’re not telling us, give us a call. We’re giving you the benefit of the doubt, but I still think you know more than what you’re sharing with us now.”

  He was right, and I felt like shit for not sharing more information, but we had too many people involved in this case already. “I will call you, Detective. Thank you for being so understanding with us,” I said.

  After they left, I walked over to where Marcy and Mr. Pat were seated. “Joey, I can’t help but think we’re at fault for this girl getting killed. I feel horrible.”

  “I understand, believe me I do. And I feel the same way, but it’s not something we could have foreseen.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m going to find her killer, if it’s the last thing I do. Plus, I’m going to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

  “I guess we’re staying here a while,” Patrick said.

  I nodded. “I didn’t have a chance to bring you up to date on Gavi. I got a text message from Drucker. Gavi is flying home today.”

  Marcy looked up, surprised. “What?”

  Patrick was stunned. “She’s flying back to New York? Today?”

  “Yes, I got the text when the detectives walked in.” I thrust the phone toward Patrick. “Here. Read it yourself.”

  “The son of a bitch, doesn’t even thank you for the effort.”

  “Let me see,” Marcy said, reaching for the phone. “So, the ransom worked?”

  “The ransom worked.”

  “We don’t have a case, then,” Patrick said.

  I shook my head. “Wrong Pat. We have a murder to solve, and maybe a major antiquities black-market ring to unravel. This ain’t over.”

  18

  Thursday

  Last night, Enterprise Rent-A-Car delivered a Kona Blue 2018 Mustang Shelby GT350 to our hotel. I loved my own 1967 Mustang, but this new baby was hot. Maybe an upgrade was in order. Marcy was still upset over the death of Alexa, and she wanted to get back home. I was glad in a way, because the work ahead of us was going to get dicey, and I didn’t want my FBI Special Agent involved in what we were about to do. But, this was going to be our first night apart since our wedding, and thus it seemed our honeymoon was momentarily on hold, if you know what I’m talking about.

  Patrick was scheduling our appointment with the professor at the University of Miami. I hoped to get more information on Sumerian antiquities, and whatever he knew about the black market for such.

  There was a lot going on with this case, and my gut feeling was that Gavi’s disappearance was but a small part of the overall picture. We had a fresh murder to investigate, and I was sure it tied into the bigger picture.

  Early in the morning, I drove Marcy to the airport. As the romantic that I am, the scene was reminiscent of Bergman and Bogart in the 1942 classic Casablanca. We embraced and kissed as we said our first goodbye since becoming husband and wife.

  Patrick
and I walked over to the university for our meeting with Professor Achilles Persopoulus, who was part of the faculty in the Department of Anthropology. His specialty was Islamic art.

  Doctor Persopoulus was not what I expected. For some reason, I envisioned a large man with a long gray beard and a pipe who wore a three-piece suit. What I saw was a short fifty-ish-year-old man, who was bald on top but had a white ponytail. He didn’t wear a three-piece suit, but a colorful Hawaiian shirt with palm trees on a sandy beach background. This guy looked more like a Key West–Conch Republic native and less like a Greek archeology professor.

  “You must be Mr. Mancuso. Finally, you’re able to keep your appointment,” he said. His voice was slow, low, and deep.

  I was amused at the contrast between his looks and his tone. At least I’d been half right. “Sorry about that Professor Persopoulus. We’ve been busy for a few days.”

  He smiled. “Please, call me Achilles or Doctor P. Most of my students do. They find it difficult, unlike you, to pronounce my Greek last name. Have a seat. What can I do for you?” He pointed us to a couple of arm chairs in front of his desk.

  I introduced Mr. Pat to Doctor P., and we sat down. His office walls were decorated with various artifacts, posters, and paintings of Islamic art.

  “We’re doing some research in Sumerian antiquities and the current interest in the black-market sale of such items. We were hoping you could give us a little background and perhaps share any information you have.”

  “Are you with a newspaper or magazine?” he asked, studying us from head to toe.

  “No, sir,” I replied. Now here was my conundrum, did I tell him why we were here? Or, did I make up some bullshit story? I decided to split the difference. “We’re private investigators back in New York, and we’ve been hired by a collector to do some research.”

  “I see,” he said, squinting his eyes. He added, in his slow deep tone, “I assume you know, when you say Sumerian antiquities that you’re referring to Sumeria, or Sumer, which is the earliest known area of civilization, also known as Mesopotamia, or modern-day southern Iraq?” he asked.

  I replied, “Yes, we’re aware of that.”

  “In that case, you should also know that excavations in that area of the world, including Syria, are illicit and being performed by terrorists, namely ISIS, as a means of trading antiquities for cash, and thus funding their terror campaigns.”

  I noticed Patrick glancing at me, but I didn’t return the gaze. I responded to the doctor, “Yes, we’re aware of that also.”

  “Well, Mr. Mancuso,” he paused.

  “Please call me Joey.”

  He smiled. “Joey, if your collector is a legit collector, then he would know that dealers of such antiquities have suffered financially for the sale and import of such artifacts. As a matter of fact, most serious dealers will not touch any artifact from that area that cannot be proven to have been exported before 1970.”

  “Doctor P., this is precisely the information we’re looking for. I’m curious how do the illegal artifacts move around?” I asked innocently.

  The professor sat back in his chair. My feeling was that he thought we were either full of shit or on a different expedition. He seemed amused at our questions for some reason, however, so he went on. “Many of the newly excavated antiquities are moved to Turkey or Lebanon first. From there, they find their way to London, Germany, and New York City. These are small statues, and some glass and other artifacts, some of which date back to 5000 B.C. and are quite valuable. There is no real market as a pricing mechanism, thus the value is whatever the highest bidder is willing to pay on the black market.”

  I asked a dumb question. “Who would want to buy these antiquities if they can’t display them or lend them to a museum?”

  The professor saw right through me. “What you’re asking me, Joey, is if I know any collectors of these illicit artifacts? Aren’t you?”

  I decided to come clean with the professor. He was being generous with his time and information. “Let me be honest with you, and I’m sorry we were not more forthcoming from the start. We are involved in a murder investigation that leads, more than likely, directly to people we think are part of this black-market.”

  Doctor P. moved forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his desk, he rubbed his hands. “Ah, a murder mystery. I love it,” he said, glancing at Patrick. “Who are your suspects?”

  “Right. We don’t want to involve you directly in this. After all, there’re all kinds of law enforcement agencies performing their own investigations. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course, of course. But, how can I help? Sherlock Holmes novels are my passion.”

  Patrick finally said something. “Funny you should say that, Doctor P. This guy here,” he said, pointing at me, “is a student of Arthur Conan Doyle. He’s studied the psychology used to create the character and takes pride in utilizing the style.”

  Doctor P. grinned ear-to-ear. “We’re two peas in a pod, aren’t we Joey?”

  I needed his help, but I didn’t want to encourage him to get involved. “Honestly, I’d like to know who would buy these black-market items.”

  Doctor P. pushed back on his chair, crossed his legs, and replied, “In general, many collectors get tremendous satisfaction from having possession of antiquities. Now, if they are illicit, or illegal ones, that adds a certain allure to having them. Being able to show them to your buddies privately gratifies their egos greatly. Does that make sense?”

  “Of course, it does. So, is there an organized black-market auction that you know of?”

  “I’m not in the inner circle, of course, but what I hear is that once these illicit dealers have items available, the word goes out to representatives of the interested buyers. Never the buyer themselves, you understand?” He went on, “No, they want anonymity and protection from prosecution. So, once the word goes out, what happens is that an unofficial auction is held in Germany or London, maybe even New York. It’s more like a silent auction where representatives come in, examine the items or items up for auction. Then, they contact the buyers and make an offer. Usually there’s a set period in which these previews and silent offers take place. Now, if the seller is satisfied with the offers, an agreement is reached. Or, the seller may refuse to sell the item, and the dealer is instructed to end the auction until a later time.”

  “It sounds pretty organized,” Patrick said.

  “It is, right? But, it lacks the sophistication and market participation if a Sotheby’s was doing it. But, it’s obvious why they do it this way.”

  “Doctor, I’m sure there’s no shortage of willing buyers around the world, but have you heard of anyone in particular in the US?”

  The doctor looked around the office, moved closer to his desk, and in a whisper said, “The grapevine keeps talking about some wealthy New Yorkers who can’t keep their hands off these artifacts.”

  I glanced at Patrick, “Do you know who?”

  “No. It’s all extremely hush-hush. But, there are many others—sheiks, billionaires, foundations.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Don’t these people realize that they’re funding terrorism around the world? That hundreds, thousands are being killed by the same people selling these artifacts?”

  “They don’t think of it that way. They compartmentalize the purchase and separate it from the activities of the sellers, right? They never see each other, so it makes it easier.”

  I added, “They can compartmentalize all they want. The bottom line is that they are funding terrorism. They’re as guilty as the person planting a bomb in a theater or whatever. They don’t scream Allahu Akbar when they pay for the artifacts, but they might as well.”

  “I agree, yes. So, what else can I help you with?”

  “I appreciate your time,” I began, “but we’ve taken up a lot of it.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I spend my time talking about things that happened thousands of years ago. Your investigation brings the pa
st into current events, and that is fascinating. There has to be more I can do,” the professor said, opening up his arms.

  I thought about it for a second. Ah, what the hell. “Well, have you heard of any companies in Miami that may have ties to the importation of these artifacts? Or, maybe laundering funds related to these activities?”

  He smiled, and as if he was playing the bongos, he started drumming on his desk with both hands. “I knew it! You have a suspect here in Miami. I can go undercover with you.”

  19

  As the professor bubbled over with excitement, my cell phone rang. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” I tapped the green button and walked out of the office. “Mancuso.”

  “Joey, this is Ruth.”

  “Yes, Ruth. How can I help?” I asked, knowing full well what she was about to say.

  “Aaron Drucker called me. He told me the good news about Gavi. She’s safe and sound, thank God. He also told me he texted and made you aware that your services were no longer needed.”

  “We’re all thankful that Gavi is safe. And, yes, I did get his text.” I didn’t want to tell her we were still on the case, albeit a new case.

  “I assume you’re coming back to New York today, because we have a new case we want you and your team to look into.”

  “More work is always welcome, thank you. I can send Larry and Harry to meet with you guys. I’ll catch up as soon as I’m back,” I replied. I felt comfortable doing that since that both worked for Bevans and Associates before joining our team.

  “Why? How long are you going to be in Miami?” she asked, somewhat annoyed.

  “We had a little issue with our car, and the local police want to get more answers. I imagine I’ll be here no more than two days.”

  “Did you have an accident?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Nothing to worry about. I can have both the guys stop by your office first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll call them now.”