Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  “I think we knew that from his visit here,” Patrick said.

  “Right. Anyway, he admitted to his marriage being screwed up. Well, he said fucked-up. He also said that both he and senior Wetherly thought Sofia Stevens was a gold digger from the get-go and that the marriage between those two, the Stevenses, is also screwed up.”

  “Did you ask about the investment firm?”

  “I did. He said Susana was his savior, because in 1997, when she joined, Wetherly Stevens had a fallout and almost closed the company. Since Thomas didn’t want any part of the company, when she showed up, the partners pretty much turned things over to her. That’s when Stevens left for Barcelona.”

  I closed my eyes and thought back. “Huh. I’m remembering my conversation with the Stevenses during lunch, and I seem to remember Stevens saying they had a glitch in 1997. He didn’t elaborate. Maybe that was it.”

  Harry added, “Thomas also said that when Richard Stevens and senior Wetherly finally give up the firm’s reigns, Susana, he, and Sofia become the owners. Although he wants nothing to do with it.”

  “So, the sisters take over,” Agnes said.

  “Yes,” I said, “but I don’t think that was their motivation. Had it been, they could have done something to Stevens and Wetherly before. No, they’ve been living the high life, doing pretty much what they want and running the show. There’s more to this.”

  “Everything points to 1997 as the year things changed. Sofia meets Richard Stevens, and Susana meets Thomas Wetherly. The Stevenses leave for Barcelona the same year, and Joey’s dad is murdered,” Patrick said.

  “Joey, I know you don’t want to talk to your mother about this, but she might remember something that happened that year that could shed some light on 1997,” Agnes said.

  “I know. I’ll call her and ask. We need to do a deeper dive on Maestro. It looks as if he connects to all of these people through his employment at the banks.” I added, “I’m still hopeful Vinnie remembers something, but that’s a long shot.”

  Larry added, “Of course, tonight you and Marcy might pick up some clues if Susana and Maestro speak openly in the restaurant.”

  “That would be a bonus, Larry. I’m thinking if my dad was somehow involved with these people and got himself killed, then they were all involved in some criminal activity. Paolo Mancuso was not a marriage counselor or Boy Scout leader. You know what I mean?”

  Everyone remained silent, knowing full well that I was hurting inside as I admitted that.

  I looked around the table. “Hey, it is what it is. Let’s reconvene here tomorrow morning. I’ll call my mom and Vinnie later. Then, I’ll have my date night with Marcy at De Novo.”

  Everyone remained seated around the conference table. I walked back to the pub side and picked the paper and sat in a booth. I needed some alone time. I was hurting inside and putting up a façade with humor, and indifference was getting to me. It’s been twenty years since my dad’s murder and there’s not a day I don’t think about it. All my successes as a homicide detective and all the accolades I’ve received mean nothing. Nothing, unless I can solve this murder.

  29

  I called Marcy to let her know about our dinner plans and the reason for the impromptu date night. Following that, I called Vinnie to see if he remembered anything about a Susana in my dad’s past life, to which he apologized for not recollecting anything. Then, it was time to call my mother in Florida. I had put it off long enough.

  Briana Mancuso had been married to Sean O’Brian, Father Dom’s dad. Then they divorced, and she married my father. I’m sure that she was oblivious to my dad’s career at the time, but there’s was no way she didn’t know later. Yet, she remained in love and dedicated to her husband and family until his death.

  After three rings, she answered. “Joey, good to hear from you. How’s Marcy?”

  “Mom, we’re both doing fine. How are you?”

  “How much time do you have?” she asked with a chuckle. “I’m fine. Pains here and there. By the way, when am I becoming a grandmother?”

  “Hah. We’re working on that almost daily. Hopefully soon.”

  “I spoke to your brother Dominic yesterday. I was so happy when he became the head pastor at Saint Helen's, and I’m so happy you two are so close.”

  “We see each other daily. We have a good thing going here. How’s Naples?”

  “Naples is quiet. They roll up the sidewalks here at six in the evening.”

  “So, I take it you’re not clubbing at night?” I asked, laughing.

  “Hardly. Two of my lady friends and I are thinking of moving to The Villages, you know, up in Central Florida.”

  “The Villages?” I asked, alarmed. That place was a public health nightmare, if what Agnes told me was true.

  “There’s a lot more going on there than here. Lots of activities, golf, tennis, and such.”

  It was the “and such” part that concerned me. But, I needed to get on with my questions. “Mom, can I ask you something about Dad?”

  “Oh. What about him?”

  “I hate to bring past bad memories into the present, but I’m working on his murder. Do you mind?”

  “Joey, I’ve made my peace with the past. Your dad was a good father to you, and in his own way, he was a good husband to me. His lifestyle and infidelities, well, I’ve had to compartmentalize them for my own sake. You’ve reopened the case?”

  “I received some information that could lead to his killer.”

  “The shooter?”

  “No, not the shooter, but maybe the person who ordered the hit.”

  “After twenty years, it would still be good to bring closure to that dreadful day. How can I help?”

  “Do you recall the name Susana Roth or Rothberg?”

  There was silence for a moment. “Can’t say that I do.”

  “How about Sofia Puig?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, how about Charles Maestro?”

  “Maestro?”

  “Yes, Charles Maestro.”

  “No, nothing comes to mind with those names. Tell me, what made you open the case again? I know you’ve done it a few times before to no avail.”

  “Right. Remember Antonio Falcone?”

  “Tony the Hammer, of course. Your dad’s best friend. Why?”

  “Well, he passed away a few months ago, and before he did, he revealed some names to me, which he said had to do with Dad’s murder.”

  “And the names you gave me are those?”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “So, tell me exactly what he said.”

  “All he said was the Mafia had nothing to do with it, and then in his dying breath, he said, ‘Wetherly, Stevens, Barcelona.’”

  “Your father never discussed his work with me. Barcelona doesn’t register at all. But Stevens Wetherly sounds familiar. Is that a person?”

  “Think hard, Mom. And no, it’s two people. Richard Stevens and Alexander Wetherly.”

  “Joey, I’m having trouble remembering why I opened the fridge these days. You’re asking about things that happened more than twenty years ago.”

  “I know, I know. Take your time,” I said, hopeful these two names registered with her.

  “There’s something about those two names that ring a bell, but I’m not clear on them.”

  “So, maybe you overheard a conversation Dad was having?”

  “That’s the only way I would know those names. But wait, I kept a few of your dad’s belongings. I think I have a little black phone book of his.”

  “Yeah? Can you get it?”

  “Oh, Joey. I don’t have it here. I rented a self-storage space with a friend. She and I store crap from our past in there. I’ll have to drive there and get it tomorrow.”

  “How about today? Can you get it today and overnight it to the pub?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “It’s important, Mom.”

  “Okay. As I said, I’ll try. How’s Patrick?”
r />   “He’s doing fine. Working with us still.”

  “I’ll have to call and say hi. Maybe I’ll get him to retire and move to The Villages.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he would consider that. We’ve heard what goes on there.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. My friends would love Patrick.”

  “And, I’m sure he would love them back. Now please, go get that and send it to me. You have my address at the pub?”

  “Call me when you get it. Love you, son.”

  “And I love you, Mom.”

  Finally, there was the possibility of a breakthrough.

  Marcy and I waited in the parking lot for Susana and Maestro to arrive. As observed by Larry a few days before, Susana drove a two-door Mercedes S-class, and Maestro drove a black Mercedes CLS. Predictably, they were sitting at the small bar as Marcy and I walked in. We requested a table, but told the maître-d we wanted to enjoy a drink at the bar first.

  As we sat next to the lovebirds, I noticed Maestro frown as we took our stools. I sat to his left with Marcy to my left. Maestro proceeded to turn his back to me and face Susana, who sat to his right. They lowered their voices as they continued their conversation. However, being almost shoulder to shoulder with Maestro, I could still hear part of the discussion.

  Marcy ordered two Moscow mules as I paid attention to the couple.

  “So, who was it that questioned you?” Maestro asked, almost in a whisper.

  “Here, I have his card,” Susana said, pulling out Patrick’s card, I assumed. “Patrick Sullivan, Private Investigator. “Big red-haired guy with a full red beard.”

  “He’s working for the New York Stock Exchange?”

  “He said he works for a law firm who works with the Exchange.”

  “What law firm?”

  “I wrote it down on the back of the card, take a look.”

  There was a pause. Then he said, “Howie and Associates. Huh, they specialize in securities law. You think this guy is for real?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I called you. It seemed a little strange. You think someone is suing the firm or me?”

  “The issue with the compliance procedures was settled, right?”

  “Yeah. We agreed to pay a fine without admitting guilt and to change the way we did our compliance. That should have been the end of that.”

  “What else did he ask you?”

  “A bunch of other shit. He wanted to know about the partners, who is managing the firm, about my husband's involvement in the company, and about my name change to Roth, but what was unsettling was when he asked if we banked with AmericanCiti Bank. Why would he ask that?”

  “I don’t know. That’s strange, and it bothers me.”

  “The only thing I can think of is that the compliance issues had to with wire transfers, which your bank handled for us. Maybe he just wanted to know if we still do business with the bank.”

  Our Moscow mules came, and I reached over to grab my frosty copper mug and winked at Marcy.

  “Did he ask about your schooling?” Maestro queried.

  “Shit! About Harvard, no. Why? That’s never come up. Your sister in records there did a great job. That’s never been an issue.”

  “Just wondering where this guy is coming from, that’s all.”

  “I told him about my parents, and—”

  “Wait. You told him you were adopted and who adopted you?”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “Damn it, Susana,” he said raising his voice, and quickly turning slightly toward me, to see if I was listening. I reached over and gave Marcy a soft kiss on the cheek. Lowering his voice again, he went on. “Anyone with that information can find out about Sofia. All they have to do is find your parents and ask. You gave him their full name?”

  “I was thinking of the Exchange and our other stuff,” she said, glancing around. “I never thought it was anything to do with Sofia or me. You think I fucked up?”

  “I’ll do some research on this Sullivan character,” he said, looking at the business card again.

  The maître-d approached the couple. “Your table is ready. I’ll bring your drinks to the table.”

  Maestro got up from his stool and gave me the evil eye again as they left for their table. I saw them sit down at a four-top. Maestro handed the maître-d a bill and whispered something in his ear.

  Moments later, Marcy and I were seated at a two-top by the kitchen door. Nowhere near earshot of the couple.

  “What do you think?” Marcy asked.

  “For one thing, he’s going to find out who Mr. Pat works for.”

  “I thought Agnes took care of that.”

  “Yeah. But, if he digs deep enough, he’ll find Patrick’s license is registered with Mancuso and O’Brian Investigations.”

  “And of course, they know who you are.”

  “Maybe they’ll think I’m still involved with young Alexander’s case.”

  “How so? He’s already been charged. Why would you be investigating the mother?”

  “I know.”

  “What else did you learn? I couldn’t hear much”

  “They confirmed for us that her Harvard records are faked. Maestro had his sister falsify them,” I said, as a waitress handed us our menus.

  “Two more Moscow mules, please,” Marcy said. As the waitress left our table, she asked, “His sister works in the records department at Harvard?”

  “Evidently. That’s what Susana said.” I took a sip of my mule. “For someone who is supposed to be so intelligent, she talks too much. She told Patrick about her parents, and now we have a lead at Harvard.”

  Marcy smiled and looked at the couple. “She is blonde, you know.”

  “I thought those jokes were not politically correct anymore.”

  “Have you ever known me to be PC?”

  “Not even close. Agnes can find out about Maestro’s sister.”

  “Anything else that our blonde lady blurted out that could help?”

  “She blamed her slipup with her parent's name on being concerned about the Exchange and ‘our other stuff,’ she said.”

  “Now that could be interesting. ‘Our other stuff’ could mean she and Maestro or the bank and the company.”

  “Or both.”

  “Good work, Mancuso. Let’s order. I’m starving. You eat something light. I’m feeling romantic.”

  “In that case, I’ll order oysters on the half shell as an appetizer. And the risotto with oysters. What do you think?”

  “I think one order of oysters is enough. I do have to work tomorrow.”

  30

  Mornings alone at the pub was my favorite time of day. Not including my home time with my wife, of course. Marcy dropped me off at eight in the morning, and I went about my usual routine—Cuban coffee and steamed milk, the New York Post, and a morning cigar. I sat on the pub side. The quietude of the establishment in the morning was a distinct contrast to a few hours ago when the pub was humming with patrons, the sound of laughter, clinking glasses, Sinatra, Martin, and my old favorite tunes in the background. The pub had a life of its own. The aroma of gin, Scotch, bourbon, beers, and cigars lingered in the empty space, blending into a fragrance of its own.

  Sitting with my cigar, my café con leche, and the paper at Broadway Joe’s booth, I looked around at all the faces of the other celebrities whose black-and-white photos adorned the now-empty booths. They all seemed to be looking at me: Norman Mailer, with a rare smile, standing next to Captain O’Brian, Truman Capote with a smirk, holding his first novel with the captain. Derek Jeter, a relatively recent addition to the gallery of celebrities, with Brandon O’Brian, Dom’s father, after his fifth World Series victory with the Yankees. They all seemed to be asking, “So, Joey, how are you going to solve this murder? Close this case, my boy.”

  At eight thirty in the morning, the sound of rushing traffic and car horns usually flooded through the front door, breaking the stillness of the pub, but today, however, I would
not enjoy my brother time with Father Dom, as we usually did every morning after his two masses at Saint Helen's. Father Dom was off on a retreat, tending to his flock with his twenty-first-century approach. His pragmatic style of religion, he’d said, was necessary if he was to preach the faith to the younger generation. This half-hour together was our time, and as much as we butted heads on the means and methods of solving our cases, in the end, we were brothers. All for one, and one for all.

  Right at nine, both Agnes and Patrick walked in.

  “No Father Dom today?” Agnes asked.

  “He’s off on a single mothers’ retreat for two days. Help yourselves to coffee.”

  “Have you seen the whiteboard I started in the office?” Agnes asked.

  “I haven’t walked in there yet. Plus, I don’t know the password for your laptop.”

  “For future reference its DocAchi1. Capital D and capital A.”

  Smiling, I said, “Makes sense.”

  “I began putting together photos of all our players in this puzzle. Now, all we have to do is arrange them in an order that fits the case,” Ages added.

  “How was your date?” Patrick asked.

  “Very revealing. I’ll brief you in a minute. Let’s walk to the office side.”

  Agnes sat at the conference table while she fired up her laptop. Larry and Harry walked in with coffees in their hands, saying their good mornings.

  “Let’s see what you got, Agnes.”

  The whiteboard lit up, and Agnes stroked her keyboard. Photos of all our players were lined up on the board. Some of the images were from social media pages and websites. Others, from our surveillance of the suspects.

  “Put Charles Maestro at the top.”

  “You think this guy is the mastermind?” Patrick asked.

  “No. I don’t have the mastermind yet, but this guy is at the center of the whole thing. At least, he’s connected to everyone on the board,” I replied. “Now Agnes, move Stevens and senior Wetherly to the right side and draw a line on both to Maestro.”

  With a few simple strokes of the keyboard, Maestro and the partners were connected.

  “I’ll share with you how I got that connection in a minute. Let’s move the sisters, Sofia and Susana, to the left side. Again, draw a line to Maestro. Now, form a line from the sisters to the partners.”