Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  Turning back to face me, Petkovic said, “What do you want?”

  “You know who we are, right?” I said.

  “Yes, I know who both of you are. What do you want?”

  “Joseph, we have a few questions, and we’re hoping you can enlighten us with the answers.”

  “I can’t discuss any of my work. It’s all privileged information. You’re wasting your time.”

  A man approached from behind and put his hand on Petkovic’s right shoulder. “Joseph, you want to dance?” Abba’s “Dancing Queen” blasted from the speakers.

  Petkovic froze on his stool. Without looking at the man standing behind Petkovic, I replied for him, “He’s not dancing now. We’re talking.”

  The man looked at me and said, “Well, excuse me.” He then turned to look Patrick up and down and asked, “Big Guy, you want to dance?”

  “No, we’re talking here. Find someone else.”

  Making an about-face, the man left our area without saying anything else. “So, are you going to help us with a few answers?” I asked. “Then, we’ll leave you to your friends.”

  “What is it you want to know, Mancuso?”

  “I want to know who hired you to follow us in Miami.”

  He turned to face me, jeering. “You know I’m not going to reveal that. You’re in the business just like me.”

  “Joseph, I don’t know how much you know about what’s going on. Perhaps you’re only involved by following my team. Maybe you aren’t aware that there are dead bodies all around this investigation.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, fixing his gaze on me.

  I looked past him to Patrick. “Mr. Pat, how many have been murdered so far?”

  Petkovic turned to look at Patrick. “Nine people have been murdered, so far.”

  Petkovic’s face showed trepidation, and his eyebrows narrowed. “I have nothing to do with that. All the more reason for me to say nada.”

  “Look, Joseph,” I started, “all we need is a name, and we’re done here. I don’t need to expose any personal secrets you may have.”

  “You talking blackmail, Mancuso?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Is it still called blackmail if you expose shit through the internet? Maybe it’s called black-email. Whatever it’s called. A name will suffice, and then we’re out of your hair.”

  “Go to hell, both of you.” Petkovic said, motioning for the waiter to order another drink.

  “Joseph, I was willing to show some professional courtesy, being that we’re in the same line of business, but you leave me no choice.” I reached for an envelope inside my right coat pocket, pulled it out, and opened it. Removing some photos, I asked, “Does Maria know you come to this bar a couple of nights a week, or does she think you’re on a case?” I slid three photos of Petkovic at the bar and dance floor over to him.

  “You’re a fucking son of a bitch, Mancuso,” he said, keeping his eyes on the photos.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

  “Oh, and maybe Maria would be interested in the private bank account you have. The debit card you use frequently for a room at the Yotel, the budget microhotel on Tenth Avenue, between Forty-First and Forty-Second Street. How about the little gifts you—”

  Joseph interrupted me. “Enough with this bullshit. I can’t give you a name, man. You said nine people are dead? Well, fuck, I’m not going to be number ten.”

  “Tell you what, Joseph. We’ll play a little game. I’ll show you a list of names. With your drink’s swizzle stick, I’ll point to one at a time. When I point to the one I’m looking for, you blink twice.”

  Petkovic said, “I don’t know anything about the murders. My team was told to follow you in Miami. That’s all I know.”

  It was good he was opening a bit more. “How about my brother, Father Dominic O’Brian. Was your team following him too?”

  He raised his head. “That was another team. But yes, he was being followed after he met with Mr. Feinstein.”

  “So, originally the agency was hired to follow Feinstein?”

  “Both Feinstein and Drucker. They wanted around-the-clock surveillance on both.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no clue. I don’t get paid to ask questions.”

  “So, how are you going to recognize a name if I show it to you? You didn’t deal with the client, did you? Are you going to bullshit me and send me on a wild goose chase?”

  “I didn’t deal with the client for the original hire, but I did hand him an envelope with a report. They wanted nothing by email.”

  “So, why not just tell me the name?”

  “Show me your fucking list.”

  I pulled out a folded piece of paper with the names. We added a couple of bogus names, just to make sure he was on the up-and-up. I unfolded the paper, reached over to grab the swizzle stick he placed next to his drink, and began pointing to one at a time, looking into his eyes.

  Steve Cohen. No reaction.

  Freddy Opal. No reaction

  Jacob Ritchie. No reaction

  Jack Feathersmith. No reaction

  Thomas Lucio. No reaction

  “Joseph, none of these names mean anything to you?” I asked.

  “Hey, man, I recognized four of those names. Cohen and Feathersmith are hedge fund managers. Opal and Ritchie are two top banking executives. Lucio, I have no clue. The name you want is not on that list.

  Shit. Now what? I broke the swizzle stick in anger.

  Petkovic added, “Like they say, close but no cigar.”

  I exchanged glances with Patrick and asked Petkovic, “So, the person you met works for one of these guys?”

  “He’s the number two guy.”

  “And you’re not going to give me the fucking name?”

  “All I’m going to tell you is that on every anniversary, my wife makes me get her a gemstone. She loves that shit. Now, is our business done here?”

  39

  I couldn’t wait to get back to the pub to talk to Agnes, so I dialed her number on our way.

  “Good news, Joey?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I think so.”

  “Who is it?’ she asked with excitement.

  “We didn’t get the name. Just a hint. I need to know who the number two guy is for Freddy Opal.”

  “Opal, wow! He’s the top guy for NatCity Bank, one of the largest banking institutions in the country.”

  “Well, we didn’t get Opal himself, although he may very well be involved. I need his number two guy.” I said. I could hear Agnes’s fingers flying over the keys.

  “Okay, here it is. The number two guy—he’s the COO—Raymond Xavier Meadows.”

  “Prego, mi bella. See you in a few minutes.”

  We got back to the pub, and the place was packed with our first shifters. The Wall Street guys and gals were having a ball. They were consuming prime liquor and smoking some of our finest cigars. “It must have been a volatile day in the stock market,” I said to Patrick.

  “I know, right. The more volatile, the more transactions, and the more commissions. Look, our second shift is already packing the front of the pub. It’s almost seven. Sinatra’s “New York, New York” will be coming on in a few minutes.”

  “I love this energy in here.”

  It was our practice to play the old timers’ classics: Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Bobby Darin, whose “Mack the Knife” was playing in the background. Everyone loved it, and when “New York, New York” came on, a little magic happened. Every regular sang along. It also marked the end of the first shift, as our Wall Streeters would begin asking for their checks.

  After we renovated Dino’s Deli, which was the space our office and our new cigar club occupied, we made one additional alteration. We added a one-way mirror from the office side that looked into the pub. It allowed us to view the pub while we remained in the privacy of our office. Father Dom disliked the additional expense, though soon he realized that it allowed us to
keep an eye on the pub without being in the pub, which was a perk he was agreeable with.

  Our second shifters were the FBI agents, whose office was a few blocks away, police brass, which was also within walking distance to the pub, and other business executives. They’d show up a little after six-thirty.

  After a few handshakes, shoulder bumps, and high fives, Patrick and I entered our office, located behind our also brand-new O’Brian’s Cigar Club & Fine Spirits. There, the crowd was a bit more subdued. Soft, mellow music played in the background, and we only served prime liquor to our members. Life was good, and our enterprises were profitable for us all.

  Agnes was excited to see us. She was ready with fresh research on Meadows.

  “So, bella signorina, how you doin?” I asked, my New York Italian accent on full display.

  “I’m assuming my research worked on Mr. Petkovic,” Agnes said.

  “You bet it did. He called me a few nasty names, but hey, all’s fair in love and war, right?”

  We sat around the conference table to review what she’d put together on Meadows. Margarita, one of our hostesses from the Cigar Club—a knockout with beautiful green eyes and jet-black hair came in to see if we wanted something to drink.

  “We’re celebrating. Please get me The MacAllan 18, neat. Agnes, Patrick, what are we drinking?”

  Patrick ordered a twenty-one-year-old Vintage Jameson Irish Whiskey, also neat. While Agnes simply wanted a Stella.

  “Oh, by the way, Margarita, can you get me a Padrón Dámaso? I asked.

  Patrick quipped, “Shit boss, you’re going expensive tonight.”

  “Take advantage that Father Dom isn’t here. Get one for yourself.”

  Patrick smiled and nodded to Margarita.

  “Back in a minute,” Margarita said, leaving the room with a sway of her hips.

  Shaking my hands together in anticipation, I asked, “Tell me what you’ve got on Meadows.”

  “Raymond Xavier Meadows, born in Boston in 1978. Attended Harvard and graduated with a law degree and a master’s in international finance. He is married to Willa Andersen, thirty-eight, who attended Princeton and graduated with a degree in ancient history. She, however, is not working anymore, opting to take care of their two children, ages eight and six.”

  “Ancient history, that’s interesting. Go on,” I said.

  “When she did work, it was in an executive position at The Guggenheim Museum in New York.”

  “Ah, even more interesting.”

  “Mr. Meadows has been at NatCity six years and is in line to take over for Freddy Opal, who is sixty-two, when he retires. At least, that has been the scuttlebutt in the industry. Together, the Meadows have an approximate net worth of thirty-two million dollars. Most of that has been the result of stock options derived from his employment at the bank. Although, part of that worth is real estate owned in three states. A New York City penthouse, a home in Greenwich, and a home in Aspen.”

  Agnes stopped as Margarita came back with our drinks and cigars, and we waited for her to leave before starting again.

  I took a sip from my single malt and lit my Dámaso, passing my torch lighter to Patrick.

  Agnes went on, “Both are very active in charitable causes in the city. Mr. Meadows is a member of the Robin Hood Foundation. Quoting from Wikipedia: The foundation combines investment principles and philanthropy to assist programs that target poverty in New York City. Some notable names amongst the members who have served on the board of directors, are Jeffrey Immelt, Diane Sawyer, Harvey Weinstein, Marie-Josée Kravis, Richard S. Fuld, Jr., formerly of Lehman Brothers, Glenn Dubin of Highbridge Capital, Marian Wright Edelman, and actress Gwyneth Paltrow.”

  Patrick commented, “Lots of money in that group.”

  “Really. How about Meadows’s involvement in art collection? Anything on that?” I asked.

  “Both the Meadows are on the board of The Met. On a side note, recently there was an item owned by a couple that was on loan to The Met that was stolen from Lebanon. Over two thousand years old. The item was discovered by a curator, who raised concerns about the ownership. In the end, the Republic of Lebanon was able to recover the antiquity. But get a hold of this—the couple who owned the item had photos of their home appear in House & Garden Magazine. Because of the first controversy, someone took the time to review the home photos displayed in the magazine and found a second antiquity that had also been looted from Lebanon. The couple sold this second item for over four million dollars.”

  Patrick asked, “So, what happened?”

  “The Republic of Lebanon recovered the second item from the buyer of the antiquity, and the couple returned the four million plus dollars to the buyer.”

  I finished off my MacAllan and put down the glass. “From what we learned from our antiquities professor, Achilles Persopoulus, anyone buying antiquities, especially from this area of the world, should have the proper documentation. Otherwise, they’re taking a big chance.”

  “Is there anything specific to the Meadows and antiquities from Syria and Iraq, otherwise known as Sumeria?”

  “No,” replied Agnes, “although they are collectors of art. Their collection is estimated to be worth five million dollars, but it includes paintings and sculptures, not just antiquities.”

  “Let’s move on. What do you have on Freddy Opal?”

  “His original last name was Opaline. His paternal grandfather, born in Lyon, France, changed it when he immigrated to the United States. His first name is Federico, which is his maternal grandfather’s first name. He was a Spaniard. Although he signs documents as Federico Opal, few people know him as anything other than Freddy. Born 1956 in New York City. Attended Tuft’s and received a degree in economics. Later graduated from Harvard Business School with a master’s degree in business administration. He’s been in the financial industry all his professional life. He’s been married forty years to Shelley Muller, and they have three children, all grown and married.”

  I asked, “What about net worth?”

  Agnes scrolled down on her laptop and rolled her eyes. “Mr. Opal is estimated to be worth…ready? Two billion dollars. Properties all over the world, and yes, he is also an art collector, as are most of these billionaires.”

  “Fanculo, I knew I should have gone to Harvard.”

  Patrick chuckled but expressed a question he was pondering, “Are Mr. Opal, and his wife involved with any museum boards?”

  “Numerous, Mr. Pat, as you can imagine. They’re also on the boards of charities—The Shelley Opal Family Foundation, et cetera.”

  Giving this more thought, I asked, “Be more specific, Agnes. Tell me about the boards, charities, and foundations.”

  Scrolling through her laptop, Agnes replied, “There’s the Shelley Opal School of Medicine at NYU. Shelley is also a principal on two charitable boards, whereas Mr. Opal is just a member of them.”

  “I see,” I said. “What about their foundation. What’s its name?”

  “The Shelley Opal Family Foundation. From it, they make donations to numerous other charities and museums. Mrs. Opal is the executive director.”

  Placing my cigar on the ashtray, I moved back in my chair. “It seems Mrs. Opal is the one involved in these activities, right?”

  Agnes glanced at her laptop again, “Well, it makes sense for her to be the one participating. After all, this guy seems to be busy on his own, don’t you think?”

  I thought for a second. “You’re getting to be like Marcy, answering my questions with another question.”

  Agnes smiled and opined, “From what I’ve seen in the past—TV interviews, press releases for NatCity Bank—Mr. Opal let’s Meadows do most of the talking. He seems to be very private and reserved.”

  I added, “Now that you mention it, you’re right. He takes a back seat at any public event.”

  We all sat there taking in this information. Margarita came back in and asked, “Another round?”

  I pointed to Patrick. He n
odded. “Agnes, another Stella?”

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  I turned to Margarita, “Just for me and Mr. Pat, thank you.”

  “What do you think, Joey?” Patrick asked

  I thought for a second. “Honestly? I’m having a hard time believing these guys could be involved in so many murders. At the same time, if they are, the fact they’re funding ISIS by buying these illegal antiquities could be devastating to their careers and their standing in their social spheres.”

  “You think they’re both involved?” asked Agnes.

  “I don’t know what to say. Everything points to Meadows, right? I mean he’s the one trailing us in Miami. There has to be a reason why he’s so interested in our little investigation of Gavi Drucker. One or both of these guys is definitely our Sumerian art collector.”

  Patrick smiled. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Let’s see if Professor Achilles Persopoulus is up to a little caper.”

  Patrick chuckled. “Oh shit, here we go.”

  40

  Friday

  After being lectured by Marcy, a la Father Dom, I gave in and dialed Bob Olmec’s phone at seven thirty the next morning. “Agent Olmec, good morning. This is Joey Mancuso.”

  “Hey Mancuso, how are you? How’s Marcy?”

  “We’re both fine, thank you. Anything else on the fire at Meso Trading?”

  “Nothing much. The only thing I can tell you is that two Arabic-looking men were seen going into the warehouse an hour before the fire, but we have nothing on them. What are you up to?”

  “We may have something for you.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “We think we found one man, maybe two, who are involved in Sumerian antiquities. One or both of these men could be involved in antiquities and could be behind the murders to protect their identity.”