by Owen Parr
I knew Dom was trying to protect me. Besides, he knew me better than I knew myself. “I know Dom, but think about it, if this guy is still around and he was, in fact, the one who ordered the hit on your father, wouldn’t you want to find out?”
“Have you located Stevens yet?”
“I have nothing. I just got here last night, and I was going to call Agnes this morning to start doing some research on him.”
“If you had done this using logic instead of emotion, you would have researched this guy before going on a wild goose chase. I can call Agnes and have her call you. But, tell me this—what if he’s alive? What is your plan?”
“Come on now, Dom. You know I make plans as things evolve. I’ll play it by ear first. I’m just here to gather information for now. Then, I,” I paused for a second, “we will put a plan together. Fair enough?”
“Don’t do anything stupid. Find out who he is, assuming he’s alive. Then, come back and we’ll work on it as a team. Can I have your commitment to that?”
I hesitated to reply too quickly, as I thought about it.
“Joey?”
“I will do that. Gather information and return to New York. Nothing to worry about. You said you were going to call Agnes? It’s what in New York? One in the morning?”
“One in the morning, yes.”
“I don’t want to bother her so late. I can wait.”
“Professor Achilles is in town. The three of us had dinner at Vinnies, and then they were going to a movie. It ended about twenty minutes ago. I’m sure she’s up.”
“Okay, I’ll text her. See if she responds. Otherwise, I’ll wait till later.”
“I’ll see you back in New York. Call me if you want to talk.”
I clicked off and texted Agnes. Within minutes she texted back. “I’ll be home in ten. I’ll call you.”
Agnes, an attractive single lady in her early forties, was our computer researcher and hacker extraordinaire. If the information was anywhere, she could find it. Agnes worked for an insurance company before she became a full-time employee of our team, and besides doing our research, she was also our office manager. In our last few cases, she’d been invaluable with her abilities to work the “cloud,” whatever that was. However, most of her discoveries would be what the legal authorities referred to as “inadmissible in court.”
I was back looking at the Mediterranean when my phone chirped. “Hi Joey, how’s Barcelona?”
“From what little I have seen, it’s beautiful. Sorry to bother you so late. Hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Oh, I see your brother told you Achi is in town,” she said, chuckling.
“Achi is the new handle for Professor Achilles? Cute. Say hello for me.”
“I will. Tell me what you need.”
“Listen, I need you to research a name.”
I went on to give Agnes the name Tony had shared with me, and even before we hung up, I could hear her tapping on her computer keyboard.
Agnes said, “Don’t go anywhere. I can give you some info before you hang up. By the way, how’s the hotel?”
“It’s nice, but wasn’t there something more economical?”
Agnes laughed. “Considering that we just had a nice windfall from the last case, I thought you might want to splurge a little. Plus, I’m thinking you’re taking on an alias for this case, so the hotel’s reputation might help. I can always move you to a budget hotel.”
“You’re are always thinking. This will do for now, unless I extend my stay.”
“Let me know. Here, I got something on Wetherly Stevens. Did you think it’s a person?”
“Yes, a name of an individual, why?”
“Wetherly Stevens is an old Wall Street partnership, a financial investment firm, established in New York in 1969. Originally formed by Alexander Wetherly and Richard Stevens. In 1997, they added a third partner, a Ms. Susana Roth. However, they always kept the name of the original two partners.”
“Those two have to be, what, in their eighties? Are they even still around?” I asked. My thoughts began to wonder how many directions I would have to go in.
“Hang on a second. I’m searching for that as we speak. Okay, here we go; Alexander Wetherly was born in 1939, so that makes him seventy-nine. He is retired and resides in Daufuskie Island, South Carolina. His partner, Richard Stevens was born in Rochester, New York in 1940, so he’s seventy-eight, or will be this year.” Agnes paused. I heard the rapid tapping of her keyboard.
“Keep going. You’re doing good,” I said as I waited.
“In 1998, Stevens opened a branch in Barcelona, as the company wanted to expand into foreign markets. He’s still active with the company and resides right where you are, still a senior partner running the Barcelona operation. Both these guys come from old money.”
“That’s great Agnes. What about Roth?”
“Getting there, Joey. If you want faster we might have to upgrade our internet service.”
“Sorry, no upgrade required.”
“Aha. Ms. Roth married Weatherly’s son in 1997, a Thomas Wetherly. Thus, she became a junior partner by penetration.”
“What?”
“Sorry, my joke. Anyway, Susana Roth is the CEO of the firm now and seems to run the New York operation. Not much else on Roth. I’ll have to dig deeper.”
“Do your cybernoscopy on all three and their spouses. See what else you can dig up.”
“Dominic was upset I didn’t tell him you were headed to Barcelona. I wish you had shared what your dad’s friend told you earlier. I could have a full dossier on these three by now.”
“Don’t worry about Dom. In all honesty, Agnes, I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved with this. But, something kept telling me to do it, so I got on a plane a flew out here.”
“Why start in Barcelona? You had a clue on Stevens?”
“All my dad’s friend told me before he passed away were three words: Wetherly Stevens Barcelona. So, I figured I had to start here.”
“And in fact, one of the partners is there. So, maybe it’s Richard Stevens who you’re after.”
“That would be too easy, I guess,” I replied, thinking that things were never that easy.
“What about an alias? Are you going to use one? I’ll need to know to do a work-up on you, unless you want to use an old one.”
“I think we should use an old one and save you some time, maybe bring it up to date. Let me think about it. All I’m going to do today is reconnaissance. Text me the address of the office here and Mr. Stevens’s home address when you can. Also, do me a favor, share this information with Father Dominic and Mr. Pat. I may want their input at some point.”
“You got it, boss. One more thing. You changed your appearance for the last case. That combed back, jet-black hair is gone. Did you shave your head again? If so, I may need to update your photo in the alias file.”
I laughed. Indeed, I had changed my appearance for the last case. “As a matter of fact, the local clerk at the passport check-in gave me some shit about that. My passport picture is older. And I had to explain I shaved my head and grew a beard. I’m letting my hair grow, but at the moment, I’m sporting beard and hair the same length, nicely cropped. I kinda like it for now.”
“Let me know, ‘cause if we need to update your profile on the alias, you can always text me a selfie.”
“Good thinking, I’ll let you know. Remember the text.”
“Yes, Joey, I’m on it,” she said patiently.
“Oh, by the way, remember Achi is no spring chicken. Don’t work him too hard.”
“Oh my god,” she laughed. “Can I file a sexual complaint?”
“Send yourself a memo. You’re the office manager.”
“Bye, Joey.”
Professor Achilles Persopoulus was a professor of archeology who specialized in Islamic art at the University of Miami. A mini look-alike of Jimmy Buffet, he had gone undercover with me in our last case. Achilles’s meeting with Agnes, who had been
twice unlucky at love and at one point lusted for my brother the priest, had been a godsend.
3
My taxi driver last night, Octavio, offered to drive me around town during my stay exclusively. Octavio’s last name, Cardona, he had explained, was the same as the town in which he was born, and being a local for all his life, he was a treasure trove of historical facts about Catalonia. Fortunately, his English was fluent, and we quickly took a liking to each other. I estimated he was in his early sixties, despite his fresh face. He could have been using Botox, but I doubted it. Just at six feet and about two hundred twenty pounds and a full head of gray hair, he was full of life and energy.
Promptly at eight this morning, he drove up the hotel’s porte cochere in his white Renault Captur, a comfortable subcompact crossover. He was wearing the same outfit as yesterday, but I could tell it was a freshly laundered light-blue shirt and a green tie.
“Good morning, señor. Where to this morning?”
Agnes had stayed up and texted me the address for Steven’s home and office. “How far is the town of Catella from here?”
“About fifty minutes. The town is approximately thirty-five miles north of Barcelona.”
“How about Passeig de Gràcia 19?”
“That’s the Bolsa de Barcelona, the stock exchange building. About ten minutes or less. Depending on traffic.”
Catella was the location of Steven’s home. I wanted to follow both he and his wife for a day or two in the process of my research.
“Octavio, let’s go to Catella first. Here’s the address,” I said handing him a note. “We’ll make our way back here later.”
For the next two days, we followed Mrs. Stevens and Mr. Stevens back and forth between Catella and Barcelona. For Mr. Stevens, his ritual stayed the same for the two days. In his chauffeur-driven Selenite Gray Metallic Maybach S560, it was home to office and back. Mrs. Stevens was a bit more erratic. Usually leaving home at about eleven in the morning in her chauffeur-driven black Mercedes S550. Her first stop was usually the exclusive shopping areas of Barcelona. Followed by a berenar de tapas, as Octavio had said a snack was called in Catalan. More shopping, then a late lunch at Mutis or Bar Mut, which Octavio referred to as a dark and elusive private bar club.
On my third day, I was still baffled by the connection between Stevens and my dad. What possible link could there be between a Wall Street entrepreneur and a wise guy from a Mafia family in New York? Was it a personal issue related to a woman? Nothing that Agnes researched gave any clues. I was getting bored, and I needed to act.
As I sat my phone chirped. “Brother,” I said. “How are things in New York?”
“All’s well here, Joey. How are you doing?”
“I’ve been busy doing reconnaissance, that’s all. But, it’s getting boring.”
“Why not come back, and we’ll do more research from here?”
“I want to try and connect with Stevens and his wife. Just play it out and see where it goes.”
“Fine, just let me know if you need anything from me. Let me put on Agnes.”
“Joey, how goes it?”
“I’m about to make contact. I want to speak to both and get back to New York.”
“Does Stevens still look like his photo on the website?”
“Agnes, this guy Stevens is a dead-ringer for the Monopoly Man. The mustache, white shirt, dark suit. No hat or monocle though.”
“How do you plan on making contact with him?”
“I’m working on that.”
“Why don’t you use your Giancarlo Perego alias?”
“You mean the freelance journalist?”
“The same. I have that website available and could activate it immediately. You could approach either one and tell them you’re writing an article of some kind. Maybe an exposé on expat entrepreneurs like Stevens.”
“Ha! That’s an excellent angle, Agnes. Once I meet with them, I can use that angle to meet with Wetherly as a follow-up.”
“Wetherly is retired in South Carolina. You plan on going there also?”
“Your email says Daufuskie Island. Yes, that would be my plan.”
“That might work with these two guys, but, it might not work with Roth, here in New York.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, I think your idea is excellent. Activate the website for Perego.”
Additional information on Stevens that Agnes provides me with showed that his wife Sofia Puig de Stevens was forty-three years old—thirty-four years his junior. They were married in Barcelona in 2008 after Stevens had his first marriage annulled in 1998.
“Your brother wants to ask you something. Hang on.”
Sounding a bit anxious, Dom asked, “Joey, how long do you plan to work on this?”
“Why? Do we have a case pending from the NYPD or the Bevans & Associates law firm?”
“No, not at the moment. However, the Barcelona W costs us over five hundred dollars a day. I just checked with Agnes.”
“I had no idea,” I replied, telling a little white lie.
“No, I’m sure you didn’t. I know we pulled in a nice bonus on the last case, but we have to save for the dry times.”
“Have Agnes get me a room at the Barcelona NH Hotel. It’s right around the corner from Stevens’s office, and if that’s too expensive, maybe she can find me a B&B nearby. Is that better, brother?”
“I think so, yes. Sorry to be a pain in the ass, but someone has to look out for the budget.”
“I understand, no problem. I’ll eat from the food carts on the streets, they have some great tapas,” I said jokingly.
He ignored my attempt at humor. “So, what’s your next move?”
“I’ll let you know, as soon as I know. Bye, Padre.”
Barcelona was a grand city. The architecture was magnificent, and yes, the expense of the W Barcelona was unnecessary. El Padre was right, why spend all that money on a room with a majestic view, incredible restaurants, spas, and much more, right?
So now it was time to put a plan in place and get on with this investigation. In all honesty, I was missing Marcy and feeling guilty for being here by myself.
4
I waited at the front of the hotel with my luggage as Octavio pulled up. “Are you leaving us, Señor Joey? he asked.
“No, Octavio, I’m moving to the Barcelona NH Hotel. Do you know where that is?”
“Of course, right around the corner from the Bolsa de Barcelona. You want to be closer to Señor Stevens’s office?”
I responded in the affirmative, not wanting to share Dom’s tight-fisted budget concerns with Octavio. “Octavio, wait for me while I check in,” I said as he made a left turn into Rambla de Catalunya. “From here, I want to go to the Stevens’s home and follow Mrs. Stevens.”
“Excellent, sir. Remember she normally leaves her residence around eleven in the morning.”
Thirty minutes later, I was back in the Renault on our way back to Catella.
“We have time, and I want to drive you by the Gaudi Basilica, it’s a magnificent piece of architecture. Only ten minutes away.”
“I’ve heard a lot about it. Yes, that would be fine, if you think we won’t waste too much time.”
“We should take time later and visit. I think your brother the pastor, would like to see you in some pictures at La Sagrada Familia Basilica.”
One of the things I appreciated from Octavio was that he never asked any questions. He did as asked and nothing more. However, during our time in the car, I had mentioned to Octavio about brother Dom and his pastoral duties at Saint Helen’s in Brooklyn. “That’s a great idea, Octavio, and his church is also of Gothic architecture. Let’s hope we have time to do that.”
“We make time, señor. You can’t go back to the United States and not have visited the Basilica. You know, Antoni Gaudi, the arquitecto, took over the construction in 1883 and combined Gothic with Art Nouveau style. When he died in 1926, thirty-three years later, the church was on
ly twenty-five percent completed. It is the largest unfinished Roman Catholic church in the world.”
After a slow drive-by on Carrer de Mallorca, I snapped some quick photos of the marvelous structure from the car with my iPhone. “I do want to visit if time allows.”
We arrived at Stevens’s villa right around ten in the morning. Now, it was a matter of waiting for Señora Stevens, so we could follow and make my next move.
On schedule, right at eleven, her black Mercedes S550 rolled out of the entrance on its way to Barcelona. The chauffeur could be seen driving, but the darkened windows in the back obscured Mrs. Stevens.
I sat up and said, “Remember, don’t get too close, Octavio. We don’t want to spook them.”
“Spook?”
“We don’t want them to know we’re following or spying on them.”
“No problema, Señor Joey.”
Forty minutes later we were back on Passeig de Gràcia. For a moment, I was concerned that Mrs. Stevens would be visiting her husband, which would radically change my plans. Fortunately, her Mercedes pulled over in front of what looked like a series of boutiques and a tapas restaurant. “Pull over, Octavio. I want to see where she goes.”
“I think she’s going to Txapela, the tapas place. Possibly for a cortado. Too early for lunch,” Octavio said as Mrs. Stevens walked into the tapas bar.
“I love cortados. Please wait for me here. I’ll bring you one when I get back. Anything else you want?”
“Since you’re offering, how about a bocata de jamón. Get one for yourself. They are delicious.”
“You got it,” I said as I got out of the car and gave chase to Mrs. Stevens.
Walking in Txapela, I spotted a stunning redhead sitting at the counter talking to the bartender. She wore a cream-colored linen pantsuit, which accentuated her red hair. Her drink, a Manhattan, matched her hair. Turning her head to look at me, she gave me a brilliant smile as she pushed her hair back to reveal a pair of radiant sea-coral green eyes. I politely smiled back and walked past her, sitting one stool to her left between her and another gentleman.
Txapela was a quaint little place catering mostly to locals, and that was a simple deduction on my part, as there was nothing in English and no pictures of the offerings, as most restaurants catering to tourists commonly displayed. The bar was tiled with colorful and lively Spanish tiles and a clean, bright-white granite top. On the wall, there was a blackboard, framed by dark wood shelves of vinos, written with white chalk, of all the tapas available.