by Owen Parr
Father Dominic O’Brian, Associate Pastor at Saint Helen’s in Brooklyn, was named Pastor of the church when the Monsignor retired. He continued to tend to his flock with his twenty-first century approach to all things religious. The news about Agnes’s new-found love pleased him greatly, since in the past, Agnes had secretly wished he would abandon the church and fall in love with her.
Gavi Drucker was accepted at Harvard University to continue her studies in accounting and finance. She fully recovered from the trauma caused by her abduction. Her goal never changed: joining her father in his firm and one day taking it over.
The duffle bag found its way back to Aaron Drucker. One million three hundred seventy-five dollars, plus or minus a few bucks, remained after our expenses. Mr. Drucker agreed to open a trust fund in the name of Alexa’s mother in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars. He also handed me one hundred forty thousand dollars, our finder’s fee. Which, I reluctantly deposited and recorded as an investigative fee.
Drucker & Feinstein was not embroiled in any illegalities. The firm continued to be a top tier accounting firm in New York City, servicing clients all over the world.
Special Agent Olmec from the Miami Bureau merged his investigation with the New York task force. Banker Octavio Nuñez, from Solimark Bank in Miami, was arrested for money laundering and aiding and abetting ISIS. He awaited trial in Miami’s Federal court. MarAir, the private cargo and plane service, was closed, as was the remaining business of Meso Trading.
Detective A. Rod and his team with the Miami Dade Police Department homicide division continued to fight the good fight against the never-ending war against crime and corruption. Authorities in Saint Thomas retrieved the weapons from the bottom of pristine Charlotte Amalie Harbor and found Rob Silver’s prints and blood back spatter from Alexa Gould on one of the weapons. The DNA retrieved from the earing found at Alexa Gould’s murder scene proved to belong to Rob Silver, and the murder case was closed.
Lucy Roberts, my former partner and mentor at the NYPD’s Midtown South Precinct, had but a few months before she retired. She has agreed to seriously consider joining us at Mancuso & O’Brian Investigations.
Larry and Harry continue to handle cases for our investigative team. They enjoy the perks of our pub and cigar club, although recently they have both been asking about a 401(k) plan.
Patrick Sullivan has found a new calling after stepping from behind the bar and management of our pub. In his first few months as an investigator, he has proven to be an invaluable partner in our quest to be the last advocates for our victims.
Marcy’s parents, Alberto and Rosa, carry on their weekly visits to us—a Cuban family tradition, I’m told. And Rosa takes over our small kitchen regularly in her desire to show off her Cuban culinary prowess … and to fatten up “Joeycito”.
Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub & Cigar Bar was looking forward to celebrating its seventieth year in operation. We’re planning a big celebration with as many of the celebrities featured around the pub in the black and white photos who can join us for the occasion. Its sister entity, the newly formed O’Brian’s New York Cigar Club was growing daily, attracting new local cigar aficionados. The attractive décor of the interior of the club was now highlighted by a series of black and whites displaying the growth of New York City from the eighteenth century to today. A group of investors was pitching us on the idea of franchising the club in major cities around the country, with each uniquely displaying the growth of their city in black and white photos. Both Father Dominic and I were listening.
Marcela “Marcy” Martinez, my very Special Agent, was doing fine and dandy. The ability to renew her FBI career had given her tremendous satisfaction. If she was happy, I was happy. You know what I mean? She’s now talking about taking our sex life in a different direction, one which does away with the pill. Maybe it was time for me to grow up even more.
As for me? Life was good. I was married to a wonderful person with a loving family. Part of the formula for happiness, I have always defined, was feeling love for someone and having that someone love you back. I was there, at least for those two parts. My brother and I remain very close, although I do not confess my sins to him, or to anyone else, for that matter. Now, I had a new quest—being the last advocate for my dad. The information Tony the Hammer revealed was truly incredible.
THE END
Note from Owen
I trust you enjoyed the fourth Joey Mancuso and Father O’Brian crime mystery novel. I know I had a blast researching and writing the story.
All authors appreciate the purchase of their books and the time devoted by readers in reading them. There’s one more thing we appreciate and hope you take a few minutes to do, and that is to write an honest review on Amazon if you bought the print, eBook or on Audible.com if you purchased the audiobook. Thank you.
As always, I want to thank those individuals who assisted me in the research and details of the novels. In particular, I want to acknowledge the following:
Michel Rittenberg, who dropped in my lap the intricate plot of Sumerian antiquities being smuggled from Syria and Iraq.
Jessica Holland, my editor from Polgarus Studio, who did an incredible job in shaping and correcting the story, my grammar, and my dangling participles.
Fred Filbrich, the narrator for the audiobook. Fred did an outstanding job in the narration and production of the audiobook.
Rob, from www.selfpubbookcovers.com and artist, Island, for another amazing cover for the book.
I may have taken some liberties with police procedures, forensic analysis, and other technical items. I take sole responsibility for these errors.
Stay tuned for the next Joey & Father O’Brian novel, where Joey attempts to bring to justice the real killer of his father Paolo ‘Paulie’ Mancuso.
Visit owenparr.com and amazon.com/author/owenparr for all other novels and news about upcoming releases. Contact Owen at: [email protected]
Other titles by Owen Parr
Due Diligence —An International Political Thriller
Operation Black Swan —A John Powers International Intrigue -Book 1
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 Manhattan Red Ribbon Killer —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery Book 3
How To Sell, Manage Your Time, Overcome Fear of Rejection —A non-fiction, Self-Improvement Book
All titles available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, Audible.com, or, visit our website at www.owenparr.com
Write the author at: [email protected]
THE MURDER OF PAOLO MANCUSO
A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery
Book 5
By
Owen Parr
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: 978-1723308987
ISBN-10: 1723308986
Copyright © 2018 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.
“Revenge is sweet and not fattening.”
— Alfred Hitchcock
1
The sky was engulfed in a fiery orange sunrise. The waters of the Mediterranean were churning, whitecaps flickering with a bright carroty blush from the new sun’s rays flickering off them like fluttering candles. It was a spectacular view from my room on the twenty-thi
rd floor of the W Barcelona, on the beachfront of the famous Barcelona Boardwalk. It was six thirty in the morning, and I had just opened the curtains of my hotel room to witness this fantastic sunrise over Barcelona, Spain.
Three weeks ago, Antonino Falcone, known as Tony the Hammer, or il Martello within the famiglia, whispered information from his deathbed that could uncover my father’s killer. Twenty years ago, the murder of Paolo Mancuso quickly became a cold case. No clues. No leads. The NYPD made an effort to solve the case, but killings between Mafia families, as this murder was categorized, was never prioritized in the homicide divisions.
It was a Saturday in 1997, weeks after President Bill Clinton’s second inauguration. The Green Bay Packers had just defeated the New England Patriots in the Super Bowl. I sat on a stool at a bar in Little Italy, watching an FBI agent plead guilty for spying for Russia. I was a young punk of sixteen, eager to join the family business and be part of the famiglia. My dad stood to my left, Tony the Hammer to my right. A man entered the bar, walked right behind us, shot Tony in the stomach, and then delivered a deadly shot to my father’s chest. At that point, everything became a blur, and my memory of that moment is filled with gaps. I later heard that the shooter just walked out of the bar and disappeared into oblivion.
Tony survived the shooting. Five years later, he was found guilty of second-degree murder and sentenced to Rikers Correctional Center in New York. Which is where, fifteen years later, he succumbed to cancer just minutes after he told me who my dad’s real killer might have been.
Weeks after the shooting, I pleaded with Tony, who was still recovering from his wound, to have the family avenge my dad’s murder. “The family must follow the rule. An eye for an eye,” I’d demanded. And I always wondered why that never happened. That is, until his revelation to me before he passed, twenty years after the fact.
So, here I was in Barcelona searching for people responsible for my dad’s murder. The shooter was not my target; he had been a hired gun. No, my target was the people who’d ordered the hit. I wondered if Tony’s revelation was correct. And if it was, what course of action would I take?
That dreadful day back in 1997 turned out to be a pivotal day in my life, predicting how my life would turn out to be. I was enraged with fury, demanding revenge, only to see my father’s commilitoni, his brothers-in-arms in the so-called family, turn the other cheek. Instead, NYPD officer Alex Johnson, who was first on the scene of the shooting, took me aside, away from the gruesome, bloody scene where my father’s and Tony’s bleeding bodies lay on the white tile floor of the bar. From that point forward, Officer Johnson became my mentor, visiting my mother, Briana, and me on a regular basis. It was no coincidence that four years later, on my twentieth birthday, I joined the NYPD police academy, and six years after that served as a homicide detective for Captain Alex Johnson in the Midtown South Precinct in Manhattan.
I yawned, still suffering from jetlag and confused about the time difference. Making myself a coffee from a fancy coffee maker and attempting to read La Vanguardia, the daily newspaper delivered to my room, I sat by the full floor-to-ceiling window of my modern-appointed room looking at the Mediterranean. My Spanish was getting better, being that mi esposa, Marcy, was teaching me while I made an effort to reciprocate with Italian. Newly married a few months ago after having been together a little over two years, we were enjoying our lives together. Marcy was a Special Agent with the White-Collar Crime Division of the New York FBI’s office. Marcy had a law degree, but upon graduation, she was recruited to join the Bureau. My soulmate was born in New Jersey to Cuban immigrant parents, and besides being hailed as a hero about a year ago when she averted a mass shooting by two terrorists aboard a plane at Newark Airport, she was also known as the hottest special agent in the tri-state area.
My cell phone rang, displaying Marcy’s smiling face on the caller ID.
“Buenos dias, mi amor,” I answered.
“Hey, that was good. Did I wake you?” Marcy asked.
“I’ve been up for a while. You still up?”
“Yes. I was reading, trying to stay awake to call you.”
“How are you doing?”
“Concerned about your unexpected trip. We didn’t have a chance to talk much about it.”
“It was either ignore Tony’s revelation or finally try to find my dad’s killer.”
“May I remind you that you’re in a foreign country, and the way you do things could get you in lots of trouble? You’re not in New York anymore. I’m thinking of flying out there myself, just to make sure you don’t do something stupid.”
“I would love to have you here, so we can both enjoy this beautiful city. But, you’re FBI, and I don’t think it would advance your career to get involved in this. I appreciate your concern, but I can handle it.”
“That’s exactly what worries me, your ‘I can handle this’ attitude. Joey, answer this for me, are you there to seek justice or revenge?”
I hadn’t answered that question for myself yet. I thought for a few seconds. A Latin proverb came to mind. Revenge is a confession of pain.
Hearing no response from me, Marcy asked, “Joey, can you answer my question?”
“After all these years, the hate I felt and the revenge I pursued back then are no longer emotions I feel. I want to know the who and the why.” I paused. “And then, bring them to justice. Of course, I’m not even sure if this is going to lead anywhere. Twenty years have passed. For all I know, these people are dead.” Hopefully my response would calm her down. However, if guilty, they will determine their fate, I thought.
“That makes me feel better. But, I know you. If you find the perp, I hope you remember what you just said.”
“I hear you. I’m only going to be here a few days, just to see what’s what. I can’t afford to stay too long, and this hotel is fairly expensive.”
“You didn’t have to stay at the W, you know. Is that the building that looks like a sail?”
“Quite the site. As my taxi drove up last night, you could see the hotel’s illumination. Lights from top to bottom showing the outline of a sail.”
“Not that it makes any difference to some señoritas, but are you wearing your wedding ring?” she asked with a chuckle.
I knew that question was coming. “I can’t take it off. I think you made it a size too small on purpose. Besides, no señorita in the world can compete with you.”
“You better remember that, Mancuso. Love you. Call me tonight.”
“I love you back,” I said as we hung up.
Gazing again out the window, Marcy’s question about justice or revenge made me think. Was it merely justice I was seeking? Or, like the proverb, was I in pain?
2
My trip to Barcelona was indeed sudden. Three weeks after Tony’s deathbed revelation, I made an emotionally-charged reservations and took a car to the airport. I hadn’t even called my brother, Dom, now the new Pastor of Saint Helen’s Catholic Church in Brooklyn. Father Dominic O’Brian, whom I shared everything with, would be upset upon finding out about my trip. I needed to call him, but it would have to wait.
Father Dominic was my mom’s firstborn while she was married to Brandon O’Brian. Dom was fifteen years older than me, and when my dad was killed, he became my surrogate father and the guiding light in my life. Once his dad passed two years ago, we started running Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub & Cigar Bar, expanding our business to include the newly formed O’Brian’s Cigar Club & Fine Spirits in the Financial District of Manhattan. The pub, established in 1948 by his grandfather, was the center of operations for our Mancuso & O’Brian Investigative Services.
My phone rang again, this time the ID caller displayed the smiling face of Father Dom. “Brother, how are you?”
Not one for trivial matters, Dom went right into the conversation. “Marcy called last night after you left. You could have given me a heads-up on your plans. Why the mystery?” he asked with his slight Irish accent.
“No mys
tery, brother. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions. I wasn’t sure I wanted to pursue this. Once I decided to do it, I just got on a plane. Sorry about not calling you.”
“Why Barcelona? What’s there?”
“I told you before that I met Tony Falcone, my dad’s best friend, just before he died, and that he shared information as to the possible person who ordered my dad’s assassination.”
“You did. But, you didn’t say much more, and you didn’t tell me you were going to pursue this case. What do you think you’re going to accomplish after all these years?”
“Dom, this is something I have to do on my own. If I find the person, they need to be brought to justice. As I said, I wasn’t sure I was going to do anything. But, for the three weeks after Tony told me, the thought of closing this case was brewing in my system.”
“So, the great Joey Mancuso flies off to Barcelona to apprehend the killer. Alone, and surely without a plan. Who is this person supposed to be anyway?”
“All I got from Tony was the name Wetherly Stevens and to look in Barcelona. I was hoping—”
“Was Tony one hundred percent certain this Stevens is the killer?” Dom said.
“No. All he said was Wetherly Stevens and Barcelona, and that no other Mafia family had anything to do with Dad’s murder. Now I understand why there was no revenge killing back then from Dad’s own family.”
“So, you have nothing. Plus, this Stevens could have died already. It’s been twenty years, you know.”