by Owen Parr
“Is she attractive?”
“Very much so,” I said, knowing full well what the next question was going to be.
“Did she make a pass at you?”
I ignored the question. “Speaking of that, Mr. Wetherly admitted to me that a couple of days after meeting Sofia, she made a pass at him. That was fresh from having picked up Richard Stevens at the bar.”
“Good diversion, Mancuso. Tell me how she made a pass at you.”
“Right. You don’t miss much, do you?”
“That’s how I became a special agent with the Bureau. So?”
“She invited me to dinner, asking if my hotel had room service.”
“That’s original and straightforward.”
“For the record,” I began, “no room service or encounter ensued.”
Marcy smiled. “If she made a pass at Wetherly, it tells me it wasn't love at first sight with Stevens. More like opportunity at first sight.”
I nodded in agreement. “I’m still lost at any connection between these people and my father.”
“You think Tony the Hammer was right?”
“I have to think he was. He wanted to tell me before he died. If not, why the revelation at the end of his life? Keep in mind the year 1997. It all began in that year. My dad was killed, Sofia meets Richard, and Susana meets Alexander Wetherly’s son, Thomas.”
“Thomas is the father of this kid in Daufuskie Island, Alexander H. Wetherly, right?”
“Correct.”
“How did Thomas Wetherly and Susana meet?”
“Thomas is—was—an aspiring artist. According to Stevens, Thomas was hanging out in the art district in Chelsea, and while drinking at dive bar, met Susana.”
“And, don’t tell me, it was love at first sight again.”
I smiled. “Supposedly, Susana has law and finance degrees from Harvard.”
“Okay. So, this young lady with degrees from Harvard and a bright future ahead of her is at a dive bar, picks up an aspiring and broke artist, falls in love, and gets married. All in the space of one year.”
“It’s like a fairy tale, almost a Hallmark movie. They got married in 1998, same year Richard also wanted out of New York. So, he and Sofia vanished to Barcelona. Thomas, who had no interest in joining the family business, finds a wife who all of a sudden is interested in joining the family business. Old Mr. Wetherly wants out due to his Parkinson’s and turns over the business to Susana. Everyone is set, and they all live happily ever after.”
“You’re right. Add a couple of antagonists, and you have a Hallmark love story.”
The captain interrupted our discussion. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re making our approach to La Guardia…”
I thought for a moment. “Could the antagonist have been my father?”
22
Daufuskie Island was quiet and tranquil, albeit all that happened. Barcelona was a beautiful city. But, New York had a beat of its own, a vibrancy unequaled in other cities. I love New York, I thought, as our Uber made its way from La Guardia to our abode in Brooklyn. I was anxious to get back on the case. But after the murder case, my alias might have been exposed, so Giancarlo Perego was out the window now. Tonight, I’d have to come up with a plan, since Joey Mancuso investigating the murder of Paolo Mancuso may not work to my advantage.
The next morning, Marcy dropped me off at the pub on her way to the Bureau’s office on 26 Federal Plaza, just blocks from Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub and Cigar Bar. Both my brother, Father Dominic O’Brian and I owned the pub since his dad, Marine Sergeant Sean O’Brian had passed away a couple of years ago. Located on the corner of Beaver and Hanover streets in the Financial District of Manhattan, our pub was about to celebrate seventy years of operation. I made Mancuso and O’Brian Investigative Service’s office look like a modern police squad room with desks, a large round conference table, and large, a white electronic board and a large television screen. There was also a two-way mirror from the office side into the pub.
Walking into the pub, I could tell it was a busy night last night, as I picked up the lingering aroma of gin, Scotch, and beer mixed in with a slight hint of the good premium cigars our patrons consumed. Picking up the New York Post from the floor that was delivered through our mail slot, I made my way to the espresso machine. Made myself a café con leche, double Cuban espresso, hot foamy milk, a little sugar, and following the old recipe of Marcy’s Cuban grandmother, a smidgen of salt, which I was told, removes the bitterness from the coffee. My morning cigar, a Rocky Patel Vintage 1999 clipped, rounded out my morning routine. Life was good.
Arriving at eight thirty in the morning, right on schedule, was my brother, Father Dom, fresh from his two morning masses at Saint Helen’s in Brooklyn.
“Brother, there’s fresh Cuban coffee for you. How have you been?”
“I’ve been fine. Busy with Easter week at the church,” he said, sitting down with an espresso. “From your email, I see you were rushed these last few days.”
“Yes, quite so. A sad case all around. Now, it’s time to tackle the other case.”
“Where do you want to start?” Dom asked.
“Let’s wait for Mr. Pat and Agnes to come in. Otherwise, I’ll have to repeat myself. How’s the new gig as full pastor of Saint Helen’s?” I asked. Dom was recently promoted—I guessed was the word—to the pastor of the church after the retirement of the previous priest.
“Doing double the work until I get another priest to take over my old duties.”
“Then you’ll be in a leadership position, and you get to sit around and bark orders, right?”
“I wish.”
Patrick and Agnes both walked in punctually at nine. Everyone knew I was in at eight for my much-needed few minutes of solitude time. Dom came in at eight thirty for our brotherly talk. Everyone else was free to arrive at nine.
In his Irish brogue, Patrick said, “Welcome back, Mr. Detective of the Year.”
“Thank you,” I said smiling. “Good morning to both of you. Get your coffees and let’s meet in the office. We have work to do.”
Moments later, sitting around the conference table, I began. “Dom, I’m going to have to rely on you and Mr. Pat to do most of the work on this. At least the meeting with Susana Wetherly, the lady running Wetherly Stevens. Are you going to have the time?”
“As soon as Easter week is over, I will. Why?”
“Well, it’s possible that my Perego alias was compromised after the last few days. Although, only three police officers know my real identity. Plus, the attorney for young Alex Wetherly will know who put the case together, and I may have to testify on the ongoing cases as Joey Mancuso. As soon as that happens, then all these people we’re investigating are going to know my real identity.”
“And you think that’s a problem?” Agnes asked, putting down her coffee mug.
“I didn’t want to tip our hand to the Wetherlys and Stevenses that I was involved in solving my dad’s cold case. However, we may not have any choice in the matter.”
“What about the NYPD? Are you going to get them involved in your dad’s case?” asked Patrick.
“Yes, but this is still a twenty-year-old unsolved cold case. We need to move the ball forward before they pay attention to it. I don’t want to get our friend Captain Alex Johnson involved prematurely.”
“That makes sense,” offered Dom. “We’ve been reading all of Agnes’s research. I think Susana Wetherly needs further attention.”
“I agree,” I said. I pointed to Agnes. “Any fresh info on her?”
“Susana Roth is a mystery. Very little information available on her or a Susan Roth. I mean, there’re others with the same name, but not our Susana Roth.”
“What about Harvard’s record? Anything there?” I asked.
“No Roth graduated with a law or finance degree in the years I’ve checked.”
“Could she have changed her name?” Patrick asked.
Agnes turned to Patrick, who sat to her
right. “Not legally. If she did, there would be a record.”
“That in itself is a clue. If she’s not who she says she is, then there’s a reason for it,” added Dom.
“Did you check her registration to become a stockbroker?”
“That she did. Susana Roth applied in 1998, took a course, and passed it,” Agnes replied.
“Then, from what I understand, she provided her fingerprints at that point. There has to be a way to match that, right?”
“I’ll check that further. Before we get too far into this, Achi is going to be in town for a while. He’s meeting with NYU again, as well as with Columbia, for a professorship position. He would love to help again.”
I saw Patrick roll his eyes as I pondered that offer.
Professor Achilles Persopoulus was a character, but he was very helpful in our last case with the antiquities collector. Plus, he played his role professionally. Cupid struck since meeting Agnes a month ago, and these two had fallen in love. “Huh, I’ll consider that.”
“Understand something,” Dom said. “This is a non-paying case. I don’t think we have the budget to pay for the professor’s time.”
“Oh, my goodness, don’t worry about that. He doesn’t need to get paid. He loved working with you guys last time. You should hear him tell his stories to the students at the University of Miami.”
“I can imagine,” Patrick added.
Achi, as Agnes lovingly called the professor, seemed to have lived all over the world. At least, he had a mystery thriller to tell about every escapade he had. He could be useful for this. However, Patrick and Achi were diametrically opposed in everything to do with this world. Their debates about the merits of the Vietnam War or global warming, or anything, were hotly debated.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Agnes. I’m sure Mr. Pat would enjoy doubling up with him again.”
“Oh, he loved Mr. Pat,” Agnes alleged, turning toward Patrick.
“And, I love the professor too,” quipped Patrick, with eyes wide open.
Dom had enough of the small talk, as usual. “Enough of the lovefest. What’s the order of business?”
“Joey, what do you remember of the shooter?” asked Patrick.
“Not, much, Mr. Pat. I was facing the bar and watching a TV screen when I saw the man in the bar’s mirror. All I remember are the shots, first to Tony the Hammer, then to my dad. At that point, everything is a blur. I recalled my father falling backward into the bar, then his legs gave out, and he fell on the floor.”
“Anything about the shooter himself?” Patrick asked again.
“Nothing. Other than he was white, but nothing else. Maybe he was in his fifties, but I can’t be sure about that.”
“And, they never caught him?” Agnes asked.
“No, they never did. From what I heard, he just walked out of the bar after the shooting holding the gun in his hand. Moments later, Captain Johnson, then a patrolman, and his partner arrived at the scene.”
“And you always thought it was another Mafia family who was responsible,” Patrick stated.
“For a few days after, I was in shock. That’s when big brother here,” I said, putting my hand on Dom’s arm, “became my savior. But, I do remember being consumed by revenge and wanting dad’s family to get even.”
“Joey always thought the family let him down,” Father Dom said. “Had he been older, I think he would have taken matters into his own hands, and from what we know now, he could have easily made a mess of the whole thing.”
“You mean because Tony said that another Mafia family had nothing to do with it?” Agnes asked.
“Exactly,” Dom said.
“But, he did know it had to do with Wetherly and Stevens?” Patrick asked.
I was listening to this back and forth as I thought things out. “And Barcelona for some reason.”
“The only connection to Barcelona would be Stevens and his wife, right?” Patrick asked.
“Are you saying that only those two could be the key to this? Not the others?” Dom inquired, looking at Patrick.
“Maybe not,” Patrick replied, “but I think more research needs to be done about why Barcelona and why those two.”
“Let’s recap a second,” I said. “Stevens and his wife, Sofia, left for Barcelona in 1998, months after the murder. Supposedly, it was because Sofia wanted to move back home. I’m sure to get away from Steven’s wife too. The opening of a branch in Barcelona was just a convenient reason to justify the move and still be involved in the business.”
“Any children from Stevens and his first wife?” Patrick asked.
“None,” Agnes replied.
“Could Tony have shared what he knew about Wetherly and Stevens and the shooting with anyone else?”
“Tony and my dad were best friends. If it was personal, I doubt he would have. I don’t know why he waited twenty years to tell me. I wished he would have told me sixteen years ago when I first joined the NYPD.”
“How about Vinnie, the restaurant owner we always go to?” Patrick asked. “He was friends with both, right Joey?”
“He was, Mr. Pat, but I did speak to Vinnie just before going to see Tony at Rikers and shared why I was going. He didn’t act like he knew anything.”
“Maybe a follow-up call is in order,” added Patrick.
“Good idea, I’ll do that,” I said. “In the meantime, I want to create a timeline of Stevens’s wife, Sofia Puig, from as far back as we can go. I want to follow her steps from Barcelona back to the first time she came to New York.”
“That’s going to be tricky research for me,” said Agnes.
“Fortunately, we have a man in Barcelona who can help with that.”
“Who is that?” Dom asked.
“The fellow I hired as my driver. He’s a retired detective for the Barcelona police. As a matter of fact, I hired him to do more surveillance on the couple before I left.”
“Okay. So, what do you want to do about the people here? Susana Roth, married to Thomas Wetherly?” asked Father Dom.
I sat back glancing at the ceiling and thought for a moment. Without looking down, I said, “Agnes was going to try and see if Susana Roth is her real name. Based on that, we can plan our next move. I’ll call Vinnie to see if he knows anything and have Octavio do more digging on Sofia in Barcelona.”
“Joey, how about Marcy? She works in white-collar crime. Could she find out if there was ever anything on Wetherly Stevens?” asked Dom.
“Excellent idea. That’s why your name is on the door. I’ll definitely do that.”
23
“You want me to surveil Susana Wetherly?” Patrick asked.
“Better yet,” I replied, looking at Agnes, “what’s Larry and Harry doing?”
Larry and Harry were two detectives we inherited when we became the sole investigators for Bevans & Associates, the biggest criminal law firm in the city. Agnes, who doubled up as our office manager, usually had them working on smaller cases we picked up. Both were good detectives, thorough and very inconspicuous.
“Nothing major at the moment. You want them involved?”
“Patrick, instead of you doing the busy surveillance job, let’s have Larry surveil Susana and Harry follow Thomas. I want to know where these two go for the next two days. That will give Agnes time to do a deep dive on Susana.”
“I’ll call them and get them on it,” Agnes said.
“Sounds like you have this planned out. I’ll talk to you all later. I’ve got to get back to Saint Helen's,” said Father Dom, getting up from the conference table.
Dom began to walk out of the office and into the pub side and ran into a man, who had just walked into the pub. With the door still open, we overheard the start of the conversation.
“Sorry sir, the pub opens at two in the afternoon.”
“Are you Mancuso?” asked the man. His voice was raised.
“No, sir, I’m his brother, Dominic O’Brian. How can I help you?”
“Is Mancus
o here?” he asked, voice louder still.
I stood from the table.
“Do you have an appointment?” Dom asked. He moved to block this man from going into the office as I came through the doorway.
“Who the fuck needs an appointment to walk into a pub?”
“Sir, you don’t—” Dom started to reply.
“Excuse me. Who are you?” I asked as I walked past Dom to face this man, who wore a black trench coat.
“Are you Mancuso?” he asked still louder. His movements were exaggerated, like a man agitated. He moved his right hand into the pocket of his coat.
From nowhere, Dom grabbed the man’s arm and held it stiff. “What’s in the pocket, sir?”
“Get the fuck off me.”
“I’m Mancuso,” I said, moving in closer to the man. “Calm down and take your hand out of your pocket.” I could smell the alcohol on his breath as I grabbed his shoulders and gently helped him take a seat.
“I have nothing in my pocket. You want to frisk me?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” replied Father Dom. A moment later, Dom said, “He’s clean. Just a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.”
“Now, sir, who are you? And, what do you want?” I asked. “Mr. Pat, can you get him a bottle of water?”
“My name is Thomas Wetherly. My son is Alexander Wetherly.”
We all glanced at each other. “I see,” I said, pulling out a chair and taking a seat in front of him. I leaned forward. “I’m sorry about your son. What can we do for you?”
“Where the hell do you get off playing a stupid game with my invalid father? Pretending you’re some kind of bullshit reporter and then embroiling my son in some serial killing and rape, for heaven’s sake. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Sorry, that happened. Your son pretty much admitted to helping dispose of some of the bodies.”
“Of course, he did. You pressured him to do it without representation. Plus, plus, he was blackmailed into disposing of the bodies by that maniac couple. My son is a born leader with a bright future ahead of him, and now…” His voice trailed off.
“Here lad, have a drink of water,” Patrick said, handing him the bottle.