Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  I wasn’t interested in the history of the markets, but I needed to pretend to be as I took notes. Raising my head from my notebook, I said, “Your company survived the crash.”

  “You can say that our scary start of 1969 was a silver lining. As a result, we were very frugal with expenses, and on the investment side, we were very conservative with what we did with our clients. So, yes, we survived when others failed.”

  “Let’s jump ten years ahead to 1997, to the time you added a third partner.”

  “Carlo, you seem to have a knack for picking bad years for the markets,” he said, laughing.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ll tell you about our third partner in a second, but October 1997 was another horrific month in the Dow Jones. We thought we were back in 1987. Anyway, yes, we did add a junior partner in April of 1997. Alex, my partner, had a son—has a son, I should say. Thomas is his name. This kid is a dingbat, an idiot, and he had no interest in our business. He wanted to be an artist of some kind. Poor kid, he has no talent whatsoever. But the lucky bastard—” he began.

  “Oh my god, you’re talking about Thomas,” Sofia said, covering her mouth with her right hand, as she walked into the room.

  Stevens asked, “What gave it way, my love? Dingbat, idiot, or lucky bastard?”

  Sofia smiled as she took a seat. “Sorry to interrupt. Please go on.”

  “Well, the lucky bastard was hanging around the old art district in Chelsea, in New York City. Do you know where that is, Carlo?”

  “Yes, of course. Please continue.”

  “Right. Thomas was drinking at some dive bar, and lo and behold, he meets this Harvard graduate with two degrees—law and finance. Long story short, they fell madly in love and got married.”

  “Was she rich?” I asked.

  “Ha, rich? She owed more money in school loans than my Mercedes is worth. Rich in imagination is what she was.”

  “So, she became a partner right away?”

  “I was already planning a move to Barcelona and had been for a while. Alex was planning his getaway to retire, and we had no one in the firm we felt could carry on with the business. In other words, we had no bench, no one ready to step in, which was our fault. However, I must say that this girl, Susana something or other, seemed very qualified. A self-learner and eager to help. She asked that we pay off her school loans as a signing bonus, which took balls to do for someone without any experience or clients.”

  “And did you pay off the loans?”

  “We gave her a check for two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars for her to pay it off.”

  “So, then what?”

  “She began as a stockbroker and proceeded to grow a very high net-worth clientele on her own. Soon, she was our number one broker and started hiring and training others.”

  “She’s a lovely and accomplished lady,” stated Sofia.

  “So, it was a natural progression?” I asked.

  “Alex stayed on longer than he wanted, but he loved this girl. Plus, he was happy for his son.”

  “The dingbat,” Sofia quipped.

  Both Richard and I looked at Sofia. Richard added, “The lucky bastard.”

  “And now she runs the company in New York?” I asked.

  Stevens raised his empty Gibson glass. “Amor, otro Gibson, por favor.”

  Sofia stood up. “How about you, Carlo? Another single malt?”

  “Sure, thank you.” I handed Sofia my empty glass. Turning back to Richard I decided to test the waters. “Was there anything else that happened in 1997 that’s memorable?”

  Stevens blinked rapidly a few times and shook his head. “Memorable? No, nothing. We had a little glitch at the start of the year. But nothing major, no.”

  I made a mental note of that. “Okay, back to my prior question. Susana runs the company now?”

  “Alex and I are still the owners and the only members of the board. We made Susana the CEO. We have no plans to walk away, but at some point, I’ll retire, and she’ll run it all.”

  “You’ll close the office here?”

  “The move here was mostly for convenience. Sofia wanted to move back to her place of birth, and we had the means to accomplish that. The operation here, while profitable, is a small percent of the overall revenue.”

  “I’m curious, concerning Susana. Did you ever do a background check on her? I mean, she showed up, married Thomas, and becomes a partner. Sound like she may have been the lucky one.”

  “Carlo, you sound like a detective in an investigation,” Sofia said. “But, you’re right, these guys never bothered to check her background.”

  “Sofia, Carlo is a journalist, and a good journalist is always asking questions. By the way, my darling, you and I met similarly, and I didn’t do a background check on you.”

  “Ricardo, we met at a bar at The Plaza, definitely not a dive bar,” she said. “Perhaps you should have done a background check on me.”

  Not to worry, I will do a background check on both of you. This relationship they had was strange. Did they move to Barcelona to get away from something? After all, it was only months after my dad’s murder that they left New York.

  Stevens added, “The girl proved herself, and as I said, Alex saw in her what he hoped to have seen in his son. Everything worked out.”

  A maid came into the room and announced lunch was served.

  Sofia stood up. “Boys, let’s move into the dining room.”

  As we walked, I asked, “I would like to interview Mr. Wetherly and Susana. Could you arrange that?”

  “I thought your article was on expat entrepreneurs?”

  “That was the original idea. But, this story has legs, and I would love to tie in all the partners. That’s if it’s okay with you, of course, Mr. Stevens.”

  “By all means. I can arrange that. But, Alex lives on an island off Hilton Head, South Carolina. Can you travel there?”

  “That’s the benefit of being a freelance writer. If you can set it up, I’ll go there next.”

  “Consider it done. We’ll call Alex after lunch. I’m sure he’s anxious to have a visitor.”

  “Wonderful. Now, I’d love to hear about you two. How you met and all the details.”

  Stevens pulled out a chair for his wife. “What do you think Sofia, should we give him all the details?”

  She smiled, looked at me, and replied, “Maybe only the good ones.”

  6

  Lunch lasted for two hours. A variety of wines, Spanish and French. A Zarzuela, Sofia had called it, which was a fantastic seafood soup, to start, followed by a baked Dorada a la sal, or dolphin covered in salt and wrapped. Plus, a wide selection of desserts. The only thing missing was a cigar, which I planned to smoke once I got back to the hotel.

  After about an hour of small talk, it was time for me to vanish. We exchanged pleasantries, and I thanked the Stevenses for their time and a great lunch.

  “Back to your hotel, señor?” asked Octavio, who arrived minutes after I called him.

  “Yes, please Octavio. Do you know a good cigar store in Barcelona?”

  “Casa Fuster, on Rambla de Cataluña. Not too far from your hotel.”

  “Stop there before the hotel. I’m in the mood for a good cigar. By the way, we have an early start tomorrow. I need to be at the airport two hours before my flight.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  I wanted to call Agnes and see if she had done any more research on Richard and Sofia Stevens. There was more to this couple than met the eye. The whole marriage and their difference in ages were off. The fact Mr. Stevens was a gay man living a lie in a marriage with an “understanding,” as Mrs. Stevens referred to it, was a bit odd to me.

  I looked at my watch that I had left on New York time. It was noon there. I dialed Agnes. “Agnes, it’s me.”

  “Hey there. How’s Barcelona?”

  “Beautiful city and great food,” I replied. “Did you book a place for me to stay on Daufuskie Island?
”

  “I’ve got you staying at bed and breakfast. Also, I’ve arranged a private boat to take you there. The regular ferry that runs between Hilton Head and the island does not operate at the time you arrive. The owner of the B&B is going to have you picked up at the dock where the boat drops you off.”

  “Excellent. Have you done any more research on the couple here?”

  “Not much on the wife. I still need to dive deeper. Yes, on Mr. Stevens. I think I have everything on him that you would want.”

  “Do a deep dive on her.” Being cautious with what I said, I added, “There’s more to the story. Something is off. You told me they married in 2008. However, I was told they met in New York in 1997 and then moved to live in Barcelona in 1998.” I noticed Octavio looking at me as he drove.

  “Your brother would say ‘to live in sin.’ Very well. I’ll retrace my research.”

  “One thing I found to be a coincidence is that both Susana and Sofia met their respective husbands in a bar, but most interesting is that they both met them in 1997. You know what I mean?”

  “It’s a bit odd, yes. I’ll follow up on that.”

  “Okay, what about Alexander Wetherly?”

  “I’m going to send you an email with everything I found on Alexander Wetherly. You’ll have plenty of time to read it on your flights tomorrow.”

  “About that. I’ll be flying for a whole day, stopping in three different cities.”

  “Sorry about that. No many good connections between Barcelona and Savannah, Georgia. You know what I mean? By the way, Mr. Pat wants to know if you want him to join you in Savannah.”

  “No, not at this point. I only plan to be there a day.”

  “I haven’t made arrangements for your flight back to New York. Should I do that for the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes, do that. See if there’s a direct flight, please. Anything else going on there?”

  “No, we’re good. I’ll talk to you soon,” Agnes replied.

  Patrick Sullivan, or Mr. Pat, as we referred to him, was in his early seventies, and served with Dom’s father, Marine Sergeant, Brandon O’Brian, during the Vietnam war. Upon their return from the war in the late sixties, both worked hand in hand running the pub initially opened by Captain Sean O’Brian, Dom’s grandfather. Mr. Pat, who spoke with an authentic Irish accent at will to add authenticity to the Irish pub, stayed on with us, and we made him a partner in our enterprises—the pub, the investigation services, and the newly formed cigar club. During his service with the Marines, Patrick served a year with naval investigations, NCIS, and recently became a certified private investigator in New York, along with Dom and myself.

  Grinning, Octavio offered in the form of a question, “You do good research for your articles, sí?”

  “You have to be thorough if you want to write a good article. I need all the facts before I write.”

  “You have worries about Señor y Señora Stevens?”

  I looked at Octavio. “No, no worries, but there’s more to their stories than what they told me. If I’m going to write an article, I want to be sure I know about who I’m writing about. Do you know anything about them?”

  “No, señor. Never met them, but—” he hesitated.

  “But what?”

  “If you want me to follow for a few days, maybe I can report back to you on what I see.”

  Everybody wants to be a detective. This was not a bad idea. “You know what, Octavio? Yes, do that, but make sure you follow on the weekend also. We seem to know their schedule during the week pretty well. However, make sure they don’t know you’re following.”

  “Not to worry. I’m an avid reader of Mickey Spillane’s detective novels—his Mike Hammer series. I learn from that.”

  I laughed. “Good. Very good. I can pay you in advance.”

  “No, sir, pay me when we’re done. You can send money via PayPal.”

  “PayPal! That’s fine. I’ll do that. Now, let’s go for a cigar, and I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

  7

  We arrived at Casa Fuster just before seven in the evening. The sun was setting, and the city lights began to illuminate Barcelona with a seductive palette of dimming sunlight. I was falling in love with the architecture and the seductive ambiance of the city. I made a mental note to return with Marcy in the not too distant future. I didn’t know what it was, but the feeling of being here with Marcy was exciting. Maybe energized was a better word.

  “Octavio, do have time to join me in a cigar and a drink?”

  “Of course. Thank you. Let me find a place to park.”

  “Is this building Casa Fuster?” I asked as he pulled in front of the magnificent structure.

  “Yes, sir. It’s a hotel.”

  “Valet park. I’ll take care of it.”

  The concierge suggested the Mirador Blue View Terrace at the top of the hotel. Taking the elevator to the top, we exited into an open expanse of sky before us.

  “In the daytime,” Octavio began, “you can see the Tibidabo there.”

  “I can see the sail of the W hotel. This is very nice.”

  I perused the extensive drink menu, wanting to order another pour of Aberlour, the eighteen-year-old single malt I drank at the Stevens’s. I did a double take when I saw it listed on the menu at three hundred dollars for a pour. I guess the double pour was on special, listed at only five hundred dollars. I could see Father Dom’s eyes reviewing my receipts for the trip.

  A beautiful Catalonia waitress, with brown hair hanging down to her lower back, came over , and asked, “Catalan, Español, or English.”

  “Ingles, por favor,” Octavio replied.

  “Our feature drink is the Bombay Casa Fuster Martini. Bombay is our bar’s sponsor. What can I get you, gentlemen?”

  I pointed to Octavio. “I’ll have that, thank you,” he said.

  The drink tempted me, but I had a single malt and wine. Mixing gin with that would have required two Zantac 150s as opposed to just the one. “I’ll have The Macallan twelve. And two Padrón Maduros. Thank you.”

  “Tell me about your family, Octavio.”

  “My wife, Rosario and I have been married forty years. We have a married daughter in Madrid, who is a banker. She and her husband, Arturo, gave us a wonderful grandson, Fernando.”

  “Sounds like a beautiful family. You’re blessed.”

  “Yes, we are. Thank you. How about you, sir?”

  “Please call me Joey. Just recently married, no children yet.”

  “Don’t wait, señor. They are indeed a blessing.”

  “My wife and I are working on it,” I said, smiling.

  “Señor Joey, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Please.”

  “Are you really a journalist?”

  Our drinks came, and I waited for them to be served, which gave me time to think about my answer. I had gotten to know Octavio well in the days we had been together. He seemed more trustworthy and private than a Swiss banker. Of course, these days, who knew if that was fair? “Octavio, I’m a private detective now. I was with the New York City police for sixteen years before that,”

  “A detective?”

  “Why? Is it that obvious?”

  “The manner in which you conduct your surveillance. And, the questions you ask on the phone. They are more like a detective than a journalist.”

  I grinned. “How long were you with the police?”

  “Ah. Is it that obvious? Yes, well, I was with the Barcelona Guardia Urbana, Barcelona City Police. Also, a detective.”

  “Did you retire?”

  “I put in my time,” he said. He leaned forward, looking around, and whispered, “Too much corruption. Like your movie Scorpio.”

  “Serpico. About a New York City detective.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “So, we have a lot in common.”

  “As I said before, I’ll help you here anyway I can. If you want.”

  “I do want you to help, yes.
There’s not much more to do.”

  “Are you investigating the Stevens family?”

  I sat back and lit my cigar. “Let me tell you why I’m here.” I gave Octavio the story from the day my father was shot and killed in Little Italy up until today.

  “You said your father was mafioso?”

  “My father was two people,” I said, using two fingers to describe my point. “He was a wonderful and caring father, but not a good husband, as he was not faithful to my mother. But, I never saw him hurt my mother because of his unfaithfulness. Maybe my mother was hurt by it, but I never saw or heard them fighting.” I paused to take a sip of my single malt and drag from my Padrón.

  “You said he was two people.”

  “Yes. In his professional life, he was not a good person. He did things that he shouldn’t have done as a member of his ‘other family.’ You know what I mean?”

  Octavio nodded as he placed his cigar in an ashtray. “Illegal things?”

  I nodded.

  “And you carry that inside you?” he asked, touching his chest.

  Huh. Very observant of this fellow. I sat back and crossed my legs. “You know, I think I do, now that you mention it.”

  “Are you very intense in your investigations?”

  Shit, this guy was reading me as if I was as simple to read as a children’s book. “Yes, I am. I still hold the record for the best solved homicide case ratio in my old precinct in New York. Why?”

  “Maybe you’re trying to make up for your father’s crimes?”

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, opening them to see the sky, which had gone dark, and the lights of the city shining brightly. “I think that is a very accurate observation. One that I hadn’t thought of. Are you sure you’re only a retired policeman?” I asked, glancing back at Octavio.

  “Ah, Señor, I’ve been around for a while.”

  “Yes, but I have my brother, the Padre, who’s a deep thinker, and he’s never asked me those questions.”