by Owen Parr
Stevens shook hands with Octavio, and we proceeded to the living area. “Mr. Mancuso, I really did not appreciate your hoax about being a journalist. You’ve lied to everyone. Everyone. What is it that brings you here?”
As we sat, I said, “Do you know where Sofia is?”
“She’s on holiday in Morocco.”
“Do you know who she’s with?”
“No, I don’t, and I don’t care. We have a mutual arrangement, and it works well for us both. Why do you ask?”
“Do you know when she’s coming back?”
“She didn’t say. We own a property on a little beach town called Wadmersilk, Morocco.”
“Well, she’s with Susana Wetherly.”
“Oh. I didn’t know Susana was joining her.”
“There’re a lot of things you don’t know, Mr. Stevens.”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
I smiled as the maid came over to ask if we wanted anything to drink. Stevens frowned since he didn’t consider this a social visit. Looking at him, I said, “What am about to tell you may require a drink or two. Not in celebration, however.”
“Very well. What would you like?”
“We’ll join you with two Gibsons. Make it easy.”
He turned to the maid and asked that she make three Gibsons.
“Mr. Stevens, there is a warrant for the arrest of Susana Wetherly, for the murder of an associate of yours. A Mr. Charles Maestro.” I said as I began my shock treatment.
“What? She killed Maestro?” he asked in astonishment, sitting forward.
“She might have. Now, she’s a fugitive, and your wife may know about the murder.”
His eyes opened wide. “My wife? How is that possible?”
“Did you know that your wife and Susana are sisters?”
46
He almost slid out of his chair. “What kind of game is this you’re playing, Mancuso?”
“No game, sir. Both Sofia and Susana were born in Barcelona to the Andreu family. Unfortunately, the Andreus died in a car accident when they were five and four years old. Both girls ended up in an orphanage and were adopted separately. Susana to a family from the United States, and Sofia to a local family here. The Puigs,” I said, turning to Octavio for confirmation.
Octavio nodded.
“Why wouldn’t they tell us? Susana has been with us twenty years or so, and so has my wife. Why lie about it?”
I needed to tighten the screws a little more. “Mr. Stevens, I don’t think Sofia is coming back to Barcelona.”
“But—” he said.
I didn’t let him finish his thought. “And, when you check your account for the investment firm tomorrow, you might find that it has been emptied.”
“You can’t be serious. They absconded with the firm's funds?”
“Maybe everything you own in a joint account, as well.”
The maid came back with the three Gibsons. I waited for her to leave the room. Just before she vanished, Stevens told her to make three more as he gulped his almost empty in one shot.
“What you’re saying is incredible. Why are they doing this?”
“Well sir, Mr. Alexander Wetherly, your partner, has already corroborated this. The money laundering and layering scheme you both had with Maestro and his banks almost ended, when Wetherly wanted it stopped. You were afraid to stop it, for fear of the organized crime repercussions. That disagreement almost closed your firm back then.”
Stevens lowered and shook his head. “We should have closed the firm at the time.”
“And that was the fear that drove Maestro to concoct a scheme—schemes is a better word. He planted Susana with Thomas Wetherly and with your company. He also planted Sofia with you. See, he knew both of you very well and knew exactly how to get this done.”
“In truth, Sofia was after Alexander. She admitted that to me once. But, then she said she fell in love with me. I’m sure that was a lie also.”
“Maestro needed to keep the laundering and layering going, and he wanted to expand it. So, his plan, or perhaps Sofia’s plan, was to take over the company, and I guess, all of your family’s lives.”
“Oh my god. I can see it clearly now. Yes.”
“And of course, you’re aware that the illicit dealings have continued, and that you’re very much involved, right?”
“I had nothing to do with the murder of Maestro. I assure you of that.”
“But, you’re part of the laundering and layering?”
“I knew this would come to haunt me someday. Yes, I’ve always been afraid to stop. Once it started, I didn’t know how to end it. My god.”
“Maestro recently called your home. Did he speak to you?”
“No. I wasn’t aware he called.”
“He must have called for your wife.”
“I didn’t even know they knew each other.”
“Well, Susana and Maestro were having an affair.”
“An affair? Does Thomas Wetherly know?”
“I don’t know. But, let’s change the subject to 1997.” I paused to get his attention. “Who ordered the hit on the FBI agent who was investigating your company?”
“Oh, my. Maestro and Susana came to me with the idea. Shit. My life is over, but I’ve lived with this guilt so many years. I might as well come clean now. I had a candid conversation with Sofia, asking for her guidance back then. We weren’t married, but we were lovers…” his voice trailed off.
“She suggested you go through with the assassination?”
“She did. She said it was the only way to end the investigation. Otherwise, I was going to prison.”
“So, you see how these three played you.”
He sat back and looked at the ceiling. “Yes, they did. They did.”
“Was Mr. Wetherly part of this?”
“No. Alexander was ready to walk away. He never knew we took matters into our own hands.”
“Were you aware that there was a second person murdered after the FBI agent?”
“Yes, some kind of informant for the FBI.”
“Did you agree to have him killed?”
“I was told we had no choice. He could easily have gone to another FBI agent and told him everything.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“No. I never knew his name.”
“His name, sir, was Paolo Mancuso.”
“Oh my god. Your family?”
“My father, sir.”
Stevens closed his eyes. He grabbed his left arm and became short of breath.
“Are you all right?”
“I need my pills.”
“Where are they?” Octavio asked, standing up.
“In my right pants pocket.”
“Let me get them for you,” said Octavio, reaching into his pocket. “Nitroglycerin?”
“Yes, yes,” Stevens replied.
Stevens sat still for a while. His breathing returned to normal.
“I assume you have a heart condition?”
“Yes, for the last ten years.”
“What you’ve shared here today is not going to cure that. However, I think, as the saying goes, you took a load off your chest.”
“It’s funny. I feel better having said that. But, when you told me it was your father, well…” his voice trailed off.
“Mr. Stevens, I was a policeman for sixteen years, the last ten in homicide. What you’re feeling is normal. Confession cleanses the soul.”
“What now?”
“I want you to write down everything we spoke about. Starting with 1996. Including the fact Sofia and Susana withheld the fact they were sisters. I believe you were manipulated.”
“So, in effect, a confession.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you want me to go back to the US? I’m going to need a good lawyer.”
“Yes. And, I have a law firm I can refer you to.”
“Are you coming back with me to the US?”
I turned to Octavio.
“Do you have a passport?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, I’ll have Octavio accompany you. I’ll have the attorney waiting for you at arrival.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to Morocco.”
47
I had one-fourth of the individuals responsible for my dad’s murder. Maybe one-half, as Maestro had already paid for his sins. Now, I needed to come up with a plan for the sisters. It was going to be tough bringing these two to justice. I remembered Marcy’s question when I first arrived in Barcelona. “Are you there to seek justice or revenge?”
We arranged for Octavio to stay with Stevens overnight. I didn’t think he was a flight risk, but why take a chance? I had his confession signed and witnessed in my pocket. He wasn’t getting away.
A friend of Octavio drove me to the Barcelona Airport, where I had to make flight plans for Casablanca. I didn’t want to waste a night. The next Air France to Casablanca would depart in three hours, which would give me a chance to make some calls.
“How did it go?” Agnes asked as she answered my call.
“I have a confession in my pocket from Richard Stevens. Unfortunately, the sisters are gone to Morocco. Octavio is flying back with Stevens. I’ll be calling Ruth Goldstein to represent him. Then, I’ll call Marcy to guide me on how we charge Stevens. She can call the State’s Attorney for New York.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Is Achilles still in town?”
“As a matter of fact, he’s here. We were going out for drinks after work.”
“Great, let me talk to him. First, find me a hotel in Wadmersilk, Morocco. It’s a coastal city on a beach. Text me the address. Put on Achi, please.”
“Hi, Joey, how can I help?” Achilles asked excitedly.
“Professor, in one of your many stories, you mentioned once you were in Casablanca, right?”
“Yes, yes. What do you need? You need me to fly there?”
I laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. Do you know any bad hombres there? Not murderers, but lowlifes—like delinquents?”
“Ah, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. One time we had—”
“Wait, wait. That’s great. Now, here’s what I want you to do.”
Hanging up with the professor, I called Marcy and gave her an update. I wanted Stevens to turn himself in, accompanied by Ruth Goldstein, and Marcy agreed to make the arrangements.
Next, I called Ruth and advised her of what was about to happen. I also told her that I had a signed confession and that I would send her a copy via email.
I arrived at the Mohamed V International Airport with an address for the condominium Sofia and Susana were in. At the airport, I exchanged dollars for Dirham, which was about one MAD per ten cents. I boarded what looked like an official taxi and asked the driver to take me to the address Agnes had texted me. This little town was fifteen minutes outside of Casablanca, and as we arrived there, I could tell it was a perfect place to hide. There was nothing in the area, just apartments across from the beach. My “hotel” was nothing more than an apartment converted into a type of bed and breakfast. My room was on the second story, one of the three bedrooms in the unit. The owners occupied the other two. At least it was going to be cheaper than the W in Barcelona.
After settling in, I asked my host, who spoke a little English, for directions to my destination. To my surprise, their property was three units over. In my room, I reviewed the emails I had received from Agnes and the Professor. I got a kick from Achilles’s email. He had listed three names of local delinquents, categorized by the illicit type of crimes they were known to practice. I settled in on Abad Baba.
My hostess prepared a meal consisting of lentil soup and a chicken lamb biryani, which besides being very aromatic and spicy, was very good. My evening was over, and my plan was in place. A friend of the family would drive me back to Casablanca in the morning and hang with me as needed.
The rising sun shone through my window before my alarm went off. The Atlantic Ocean view I had was quite amazing. A mixture of various shades of blues, greens, and silver patches covered the still waters. I could hear the rustle of the gentle waves as they caressed the empty beach with a soothing rhythm of their own. Dressed and ready to go, I went downstairs to a breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs, toast, and a robust coffee.
Chihad, my driver, arrived in a somewhat dilapidated vehicle—a four-door something or other.
“Good morning, sir. My name is Chihad. Where would you like to go? Perhaps a tour of Casablanca?”
“Thank you, Chihad. I have a specific location in mind,” I said, handing over a small piece of paper with the address.
He looked at it, and I watched his expression through the rearview mirror. Opening his eyes, he turned halfway to look at me and said, “This is not good location to go. No tourist area.”
“It’s okay.”
“Do you speak any other language besides English?”
“A little Italian. Why?”
“American tourists become easy targets, especially where you want to go. Take off any jewelry you’re wearing,” he said, looking at my watch.
“This is not an expensive watch.”
“Take off and put in pocket. It’s better. Speak Italian or English with a European accent, not American.”
As we approached the address I had for my local criminal, Abad Baba, I could understand what Chihad had said. We stopped on a small and narrow street with various street vendors and tiny storefronts.
“We are here, sir.” Chihad pointed to Café Baba, a seedy coffee and whatever storefront.
“This must be the local Starbucks,” I said.
“Be careful. I wait in car for you.”
I stepped out of the car, and felt hundreds of eyes laser in on me. Fortunately, my Italian complexion did not signal me out as much as if my Irish blue-eyed brother would have. Still, the feeling was not comfortable. Walking into the establishment, I located a man wearing a blue kaftan shirt over jeans and slippers, who seemed to be in charge. “Hi, I’m looking for Abad Baba,” I said.
“Who is looking?”
“A friend of mine, Achilles Persopoulus, gave me his name.”
“The little professor?” the man asked, smiling.
“Yes, the same.”
“I’m Abad,” he said, extending a handshake. “The professor called.”
I looked around and noticed the gaze of everyone on us. Abad was short, dark-complexioned man of maybe fifty. The scar on the right side of his face would easily identify him as a bad hombre in a Hollywood movie. “Can we speak privately?”
“Follow me,” he said, as he promptly walked through a door and into a small storage area.
“My name is Joey, and here is what I would like to do.”
After a few minutes of explaining what I had in mind and trying to justify why I wanted to do it, Abad said, “I don’t care why you want to do this. I can do. It will cost you five thousand American.”
“How about two thousand five hundred?”
“Four thousand.”
“Three thousand.”
“You have cash?”
“I have Dirhams.”
“In that case, it’s going to be thirty-five thousand Dirhams.”
“I have thirty thousand Dirhams. No more.”
“You have money now?” he asked, looking at my pockets.
“I give you half now, half when it’s done.”
“I take all now, or no deal.”
I had no choice. I handed Abad the Dirhams and hoped for the best.
“Three days. We do in three days.”
“Very well.”
“Don’t come back here. Say hello to the professor, and tell him my sister, Karima, still loves him. She wants him to come back.”
“Ah, yes. I will do that.”
48
I hung around the beach for two days, keeping a low profile. Disguising myself with a djellaba, a long loose garm
ent, and a baseball cap, both borrowed from my host, I occasionally walked their dog, Jiji, around the beach and maintained lax surveillance of the sisters. I did notice that for those two days someone else was surveilling them.
Their routine was simple. They hung out at the beach, and every other day they drove into town. I hadn’t seen any visitors come to their place. They seem to be carefree and enjoying the fruits of their labor. Occasionally, they would sunbathe on a rooftop patio. Their attire was simple, none. Not that I was a peeping-tom, but the view from my second-story room did have a view of their rooftop. And, in my effort to surveil, I did find out that Sofia was a real redhead.
Day three was here, and it was payday. Right around ten in the morning, sirens could be heard in this tranquil area as they approached our street. Neighbors began to file out of their homes to examine the reason for the commotion. Four police cars and two police vans parked in front of the sisters’ home, and rushed the front door. Without bothering to knock, they pushed the door open and entered.
Within a few minutes, a crowd gathered across the street from the sisters’ home. I was right in front of the observing and curious crowd, no longer disguised. I crossed the street and stood right in front of their home, awaiting their departure. The front of the house had been cordoned off, and a few policemen stood a few feet from me talking. My host walked over to stand next to me. I asked, “Can you tell me what the police are saying?”
“They got a tip that these ladies were dealing drugs. Hash, marijuana, and cocaine.”
“Did you know them?”
“No. Occasionally we say hello when we walk Jiji.”
“What happens to them if they find drugs in their home?”
“Oh, oh. Very bad thing. Police are very harsh here. You don’t want to go to prison in Morocco. Especially for drugs. And especially if you are a western woman.”
“How long in prison, you think?”
“More than ten years, sir. But, a year in prison here is like five years. No good. No, no.”
A few moments later, both sisters were walked out, still wearing silk nightgowns. They were cuffed and being pushed into a police van. Two other officers stepped out of the home, each with a transparent plastic bag. From the looks of it, each pack contained the evidence that would send these ladies away for quite some time.