by Owen Parr
“If he used an old book, I doubt they can break it. I’m sure the code was personal to him.”
“We do know from Tony the Hammer that Wetherly and Stevens had something to do with it. Shit, I’m sure Tony knew more than he was able to tell me. You know what I mean? I should have stayed in touch with Tony.”
“Don’t beat yourself up with that, Joey. If Tony had wanted to tell you, he would have reached out to you long ago,” Patrick said.
“It’s all beginning to take shape, but it’s still a shot in the dark. There’re just so many suppositions at this point. Think about it,” Agnes went on, “we have five persons of interest because I don’t think we can call them suspects. We’re making the leap that one or more of these persons had the agent tortured and killed and then killed the CI, and we now are assuming the CI is your dad? Wouldn’t you call that a huge stretch?”
I thought about that and my excitement deflated. I had this feeling that we were on the right track, but there were so many loose ends. “The only thing we have going for us is Tony the Hammer’s last words.”
“Let me ask you a question, Joey, and I hate to drop this at this point, but if your dad was the CI, is it possible his famiglia were involved with the partners and had him killed?”
“Shit, you guys are like chaperones walking into the party during a slow dance and killing the mood. Yes, Mr. Pat, that is possible. Except, again, for Tony’s words. Why would he lie to me on his deathbed? No, we’re on the right track. All we have to do is find the clues.”
“Maybe we can break the code. I hope it’s not like The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown,” Agnes added.
Just like the other day, we heard a distant hello from the pub’s side. I hoped that it was FedEx with my mom’s box of surprises. “I’ll get it, Agnes,” I said.
Walking over to the other side, I saw a man with an envelope, not a box. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Giuseppe Mancuso?”
“Yes.”
“Here you go,” he said, handing me an envelope. “You’ve been served.” He made a notation on a clipboard and walked out.
I opened the envelope and stopped right at the entrance to the office.
“Did you get your mom’s stuff?” Agnes asked.
“I’m being sued.”
“Sued? For what?” Patrick said.
“I have to read more, but it’s some bullshit about the way I tricked their son. And for stressing out senior Wetherly, or some crap about me playing the role of a journalist with him. It’s a fucking nuisance lawsuit, that’s what it is.”
“Weren’t you working with the police on Daufuskie Island?” Agnes asked.
“Of course, I was, but anyone can sue anyone for whatever. What bullshit. Now I have to waste time with this and get an attorney. Son of a bitch.”
“Do you think they know we’re investigating them? They could be doing this to slow you down,” Agnes said.
Patrick asked, “How would they know we’re investigating them?”
“It’s possible. I overheard Maestro telling Susana he was going to look into you. If he checked your PI license, they’ll find out you’re associated with Mancuso & O’Brian.”
“There’s also the possibility Ana Maestro called her brother and told him about Marcy and me talking to her.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Patrick said.
“We scared Ana pretty hard. I think we played that wrong with you questioning Susana Wetherly. But, water under the bridge, right?”
“So, you think they’re onto us?” Patrick asked.
“Maybe. But for which crime? Were they involved in my dad’s murder? Or are they worried about that ‘other stuff’ Susana mentioned?”
Agnes chuckled. “If Father Dom were here, he would ask, ‘why can’t we get involved in a simple case. We always get the ones with multiple crimes.’”
“I’m not going to waste time with this lawsuit. I’ll just have an attorney deal with it. Paolo Mancuso’s death is going to be solved this time around. Fuck it.”
Riley MacClenny, our recently hired pub manager, walked in with a box. “Joey, this just came for you.”
Riley looked like a younger Patrick Sullivan. Tall, red hair, and a full red beard. When Patrick left the management of the pub to join our investigative team, we held out to find an Irish replacement. We probably broke some State and Federal hiring laws in doing so, but Patrick had become the face of the pub, so we needed a suitable replacement. Riley had been the perfect replacement for him.
“Here we go,” I said, placing the box on top of the conference table.
33
Opening the box, we found a variety of items. Many had nothing to do with what we were looking for. A Zippo lighter, a small framed picture of dad and me at Coney Island eating a hot dog. A handmade birthday card I made for my dad when I was five years old. My dad’s senior year high school yearbook. These four items I decided to keep. A five-inch switchblade, which I handled carefully and decided to dispose of immediately, fearing any kind of DNA match that would open a can of worms. Then, I found what we were hoping for—three paperbacks. Robert Ludlum’s The Icarus Agenda and The Aquitaine Progression and Scott Turow’s The Burden of Proof.
Laying out all the items on the table and standing in front of them, I said, “The blade goes into a Ziploc bag, and I’ll dispose of it in the Hudson River. These four items,” I said pointing, “I’ll keep as mementos. And now, we have three novels to read and see if one of them is our key.”
“Do you think the yearbook has any significance?” asked Patrick.
“It is a bit odd that my father would keep that, right?”
“Let’s not ignore it. Maybe that’s our code key,” Agnes added.
“Too many photos and not enough words for it to be the key. We’ll hang onto it for now.”
“Maybe there’s a photo that has a clue?” Patrick asked.
“Maybe, but Joey is right, not enough to decipher all the notes,” Agnes said.
“Okay. Put the yearbook aside for a moment. Let’s work on the novels.”
“How do you want to do this?” Patrick asked.
“Each of you pick one, and I’ll take the last one.”
“I like Ludlum, so I’ll take The Aquitaine Progression,” Patrick said.
Agnes said, “I’ll take The Burden of Proof by Turow.”
“Very well. I’ll take The Icarus Agenda. If anything, we’ll enjoy these. They’re great authors. I always saw my dad reading these types of novels at home when he wanted to relax.”
“But how do we go about it?” Agnes asked.
“I’ll have Marcy send us copies of the pages that are coded for the years 1996, 1997. I don’t think we need to go back before that. As a matter of fact, I’ll call her right now and have her do it, so we can get started immediately.”
“In that case, how about some more coffee and a cigar?” Patrick asked.
“I’ll get the coffee. You get the cigars, Mr. Pat,” offered Agnes.
Ten minutes later, Marcy emailed us the pages that I requested. Agnes made three copies. This was still a long shot, but why would dad keep these three books? I still was doubtful he was the CI. However, if the FBI agent had something on him, then he would probably cooperate to continue to take care of mom and me. We were, after all, his first priority, even though his lifestyle outside the home suggested otherwise. That, I was sure of.
“Okay, boys, here are the pages listed by dates starting, January 1, 1996. These codes run into each other. What are we looking at?”
We sat around the conference table again. “Agnes, please flash one page on the large screen. Let’s look at it for a moment and see if there’s some order.”
Agnes did as I asked. We all stared at the screen. On it, we saw the following: 6/2/3-4, 6/4/3, 7/23/2/F. The series of numbers separated by hyphens, dashes, and commas went on and on. We continued to stare. I noticed that the same sequence appeared repeated on occasion. I said, “I think I ha
ve it.”
Both Patrick and Agnes looked at me with curious expressions.
“What is it?” Patrick asked.
“If Dad did use a book, and let’s hope it's one of these, then the sequences we’re looking at refer to page number slash line number slash word.”
“What about the letters shown?”
“Maybe those refer to names. It’s not likely to find the proper name you need in a book, right?”
“If you’re right, this is a pretty crude coding system. But, I will say, without the book, no one will ever decipher this, not even the best cryptanalyst,” Agnes said.
“I think he was keeping notes for himself. Not intending to communicate with anyone, thus, he only needed the book for his own use.”
“Don’t you think he might have communicated with the FBI agent via code?” Patrick asked.
“Maybe, and if so, the agent would have a copy of the book. But, we don’t need that. If one of these books is the book, we can interpret the whole thing ourselves.”
“This can be a monumental task. You want us to write the words that refer to the codes for all the pages?” Patrick asked, with a sigh, balancing his cigar on an ashtray.
I laughed, almost spilling my coffee. “No, Mr. Pat. We’re going to find out right now which of these three books is the one.” There was a quick way to do this, but it eluded both Agnes and Patrick.
“Tell us how,” Agnes remarked.
Just as I was about to show them, my cell phone rang. Ruth Goldstein.
“Yes, Ruth. What’s up?” I said holding out a hand to halt the conversation with Agnes and Patrick.
“I guess you’ve been served.”
I frowned. “Yes. What’s that all about, Ruth?”
“Look, I’m sorry. Susana and Thomas Wetherly asked Sam Cohen to do that.”
“It’s a nuisance lawsuit. As soon as I get an attorney, he’ll have it dismissed. It’s a waste of time for both you guys and me. The only thing different is that it’s revenue for your law firm and an expense for me.” I knew as I soon as I blurted that out, that it was not the right thing to say to her.
“Joey, that’s not fair. We’re not doing this for the billable hours. I’m offended you would even think that.”
“Okay. Look, I’m sorry I said that. I’m just pissed at getting sued. That’s all.”
“I understand. Look, I should tell you that you’re about to be served again. Cohen is ready to take yours and Marcy’s deposition. So, don’t get pissed again. I told you Cohen was going to do that.”
“Ruth, the kid was an accessory to murder. Maybe more than one murder. Cohen should plead it out before going to court, or they may put the kid away for a few years.”
“I’m sure Sam will visit that possibility. In the meantime, he’s going forward with a defense.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“We have Larry and Harry working on a small case for us. You’re aware, right?”
“Yes, and thank you for that. I hope is not the last case we work for you.”
“I’m hopeful it won’t be, but I’m just one vote among many partners.”
“Fine. I’ll guess I’ll see you at the depo. When is it going to be? Do you know?”
“In about two weeks. I’ll see you then, Joey. And again, sorry about the lawsuit.”
Shit. This lawsuit was like a like a dizzy moth flying around your face. I had no time for it right now. I had to give either Maestro or Susana credit, though. By filing a lawsuit against me and the investigation agency, what they had accomplished was preventing us from directly speaking to them. No matter that we were investigating another issue, we would not be able to question them ourselves. Very clever.
“Let’s get back to the job at hand. Agnes, take your book and read from page six, line two, words three and four. See what you have.”
“Okay. Page six, line two, words three and four,” she repeated as she looked for it. “‘was sure.’”
“Now, page six, line four, word three,” I said.
“‘Two.’”
“Then, go to page seven, line twenty-three, word two.”
“‘Hundred.’”
“So, we have: ‘was sure two hundred,’ add an F. Could be Francs?”
Patrick said, “I did mine while you were doing that. Mine reads, ‘that all per familiar,’ plus an F.”
“Huh, maybe he meant family? F for family,” I said. “Hold that thought, let’s see my book. Come on Ludlum, give me the code,” I said as I looked at my pages. “Okay. Page six, line two, words three and four are ‘covert operations.’ My eyes opened wide. “Sounds better. Let’s see, page six, line four, word two: ‘work.’ Then page seven, line twenty-three, word two, that is ‘with.’ I like it,” I said. Then repeated all the words together, “Covert operations work with, and then add an F. How about ‘covert operations work with FBI?’”
“Bingo,” Agnes shouted. “I think we found the book.”
“Maybe. It sounds like it could be. Can you order five books from Amazon? Let’s divide up the work? Get Larry, Harry, you, and Patrick one. Divide my dad’s notes in five, and let’s get it done.”
“We don’t need the physical books. I can get five eBooks downloaded to each of our tablets or phones right now.”
“Good. Give me the first twenty percent, and I’ll start right now. Also, I’ll take the yearbook home. I have a hunch.”
34
The task at hand was daunting. It took us into the evening for each person to complete their deciphering. In the end, we had an entirely composed translation of my father’s notes, starting January 1, 1996, and ending one day before his murder.
We ordered some pies with various toppings as we got ready to compile all the individual notes into one document. Father Dominic joined us at the office at about eight in the evening, fresh from his retreat for single mothers, and I brought him up to date.
“Great work guys. Let’s take a break and enjoy the pizzas. Then, if you can stay, let’s brainstorm on what we have uncovered,” I said.
“What do you have, Joey?” asked Dom.
“Brother, I think we have the motherload. We seem to have dates of money transfers, possibly names, at least the initials of some of the players involved in a money laundering scheme. And, there also seems to be a connection to illegal betting on sports.”
“Is it enough to get the authorities involved?” Dom asked.
“Unfortunately, what we have is hearsay. We have no collaboration with a second party. Plus, these being dad’s notes, and the fact he was not a registered CI with the FBI, no district attorney will be willing to start an investigation.”
“How do you know he was not a registered CI with the FBI?”
“Had he been, then his identity would have been a matter of record. The fact the investigation into these people ended with the death of the agent tells me they had no record of the informant. Plus, another FBI agent told Marcy that the Bureau didn’t have the name.”
“The people who ordered his hit didn’t know that. So, they eliminated him to be on the safe side.”
“Exactly, brother. No agent, no CI. Case over.”
“Now what?” Dom asked.
“Now we have to find a way to put the pieces together and find a means for someone to turn on the others.”
“Was every one of the suspects in on eliminating the agent and your dad?”
“So far, the sisters may not be implicated in that. However, it’s obvious they had a plan of their own to hook up with the partners. I think the traumatic experience these two ladies had in losing their parents at such an early age and then being separated made them self-centric and callous. They were going to take care of themselves at whatever cost.”
“Yet, they were part of the scheme when the murders took place,” Dom offered.
“It’s likely they knew about it and went along with it. Let’s wait until we have the whole transcript put together, and then we can review everything. Right n
ow, I’m starving and need a bathroom break.”
Fifteen minutes later, hunger satisfied and eyes focused, we gathered in the conference room. I excused Larry and Harry. These guys were nice guys and were good detectives, but they seldom added anything to our brainstorming sessions. Besides, I felt better with just Agnes, Patrick, Father Dom, Marcy, and myself.
“Okay team, let’s take each piece that we have in order. I’ll start since I have the first section. Agnes, I think you should make an outline as we hit the bullet points.”
“My laptop is fired up. I’ll be flashing my outline on the electronic whiteboard as I write.”
“Good. Now, from what I have, we know the covert operation began in early January 1996 between my dad and the FBI agent. His name is not identified in any place in my section. Only the letter F, which we assume is for FBI. However, we know from Marcy that the agent tortured and killed was Michael Huntley. Do any of you show his initials anywhere on your part?”
Both, Agnes and Patrick shook their heads.
“Like you, I have the only F when it makes sense to say FBI,” Patrick asserted.
“Same with the other guys and me. I looked over their notes,” Agnes added.
“By the way, I examined the yearbook last night, and I found a fascinating thing.” I paused. “I think I found why the FBI, or to be more specific, Agent Michael Huntley, gave my dad a break on whatever illegal action he was involved in and made him a CI.” I paused again looking around the table.
“And?” Father Dom inquired.
“It seems my dad and Huntley went to high school together. I searched for all the names we have, and Huntley’s popped out in two photos in the yearbook. One next to my dad in basketball uniforms. It seems these two were friends back then.”
“That would explain the connection and the unwillingness to charge your dad with a crime,” Patrick suggested.
“I know, Mr. Pat. But, if he had charged him with a crime, perhaps both would have lived a little longer.”
“Joey, there’s no sense making those suppositions,” Father Dom said. “God gave us a free will, and we all make choices in life. Some good, others not so much. History is full of what ifs. I think we need to move on.”