by Owen Parr
Before the van’s door closed, I made myself visible to Sofia, whose facial expression was one of hatred as she cursed the policeman holding the door open. She tossed her hair back with a jerky motion of her head. As she straightened her head and looked up, I smiled and looked directly into her eyes. Her eyes opened wide, and her jaw dropped.
Just before the van’s door closed, I tipped my baseball cap, gave her a good-bye wink, and blew her a gentle kiss.
Epilogue
“We’re pregnant!” Marcy said when I entered the apartment. Simultaneously, Patrick popped a non-alcoholic bottle of Champagne, and everyone clapped. I embraced Marcy with the broadest smile I’ve ever had, and hugged her tight, before realizing that it might have been too tight and pushing her away to the sound of more laughing. I kissed her. Next, my mother hugged and kissed me, followed by Dom, Agnes, Patrick, and Achilles. They say bad things come in threes, but I guess good things do too. The murder of Paolo Mancuso was solved, the perpetrators would soon get their day in court, and we were pregnant. Life was good.
We decided to keep the sex of the baby unknown. However, the professor immediately started a pool. The bets on a girl far exceeded a boy. I was fine either way, although my money was on a boy.
Richard Stevens was charged with first-degree felony murder under New York’s penal law 125.27. Ruth Goldstein was representing him.
Sofia Puig de Stevens and her sister, Susan Wetherly, were charged with possession of illegal substances and intent to deal in Morocco. They were found guilty. Their fate would be ten to twenty years in a Moroccan prison.
The murder of Charles Maestro became an unsolved cold case. The twenty-two caliber gun owned by Susana Wetherly was never found, and thus, no connection was ever made to her.
Alexander Wetherly, the elder, remained living on Daufuskie Island, sitting in what he called God’s waiting room. No charges were brought against him.
Young Alexander Wetherly took a plea bargain and was charged with aggravated assault and sentenced to one year in prison. He became a witness for the prosecution of Alice and Arnold Bixby in South Carolina.
The Bixbys were charged with multiple counts of first-degree murder. Each would stand trial separately. Sam Cohen was representing them.
Carmelite Alva, the widow of Bernard, was still working at the bed and breakfast on Daufuskie Island.
Arnold Bixby’s redneck cousin, Bobby Valentine, was doing his best running the B&B.
Father Dom recovered nicely from his flesh wound and returned to his full pastoral duties at Saint Helen’s in Brooklyn. So did the parishioner who was shot along with him.
Agnes was delighted that the little Greek professor, Achilles Persopoulus, had received a job offer at Columbia University as head of the Anthropology School. A wedding was probably in the works.
Octavio, my man in Barcelona, received a substantial payment via PayPal. He was not only a good and decent man, but he had helped me come to grips with some of my demons. I owed him more than I paid him.
I never spoke to my mother about her life insurance payment or about her pension. There was no need to do that.
The bills for travel and hotels came in, and I told Agnes to pay them quickly before Father Dom could audit my expenses on this case. They were a substantial amount.
The only thing that concerned me at this point was the favor I owed to certain people.
THE END
Joey and Father Dom return in 2019
***
And now, a preview of a new series.
The Case of the Dead Russian Spy
A Jack Ryder
Crime Mystery
Novella 1
By Owen Parr
CHAPTER ONE
Thursday
Sitting in my recliner, I could pick up the occasional scent of diesel fuel mixed with brine that pervaded the marina. I was enjoying the view of Biscayne Bay in the salon of my home, a fifty-four-foot Ocean Alexander, which was more spacious than the first apartment I ever lived in. It was a warm summer day, the first day of June, and from here on out, the heat and humidity in Miami Beach would take center stage in most conversations around the Miami Beach Marina. Before making this marina my home, I had done my research and homed in on this location. I was two minutes to the Atlantic Ocean, with no fixed bridges to deal with. Plus, within walking distance, I had the beaches and the trendy nightlife of South Beach clubs and restaurants. The marina itself was perfect for me—four hundred boat slips, water, electric, and internet services, all available on each slip.
Patches of cumulus and stratus clouds adorned the otherwise clear baby-blue sky, as the west skyline foretold of an impending summer storm moving east. I’d taken Max out for his evening routine and was relaxing in the salon when we both heard a knock on the starboard side.
“Permission to come aboard?” said the voice.
Max let out a tiny bark, as he looked at me. Using my index finger, I pointed at Max, which he knew was a signal not to bark anymore.
Opening the door that led into the salon area, I replied, “Come on in.”
“Good evening,” said a biracial, blue-eyed, middle-aged man with wraparound sunglasses on his forehead, a crew cut, a full mustache matching his brown hair and broad smile. “Are you Jack Ryder?”
“Yes, I am. You are?” I asked as I examined his attire of leather sandals, khaki cargo pants, and a tapered blue shirt, which outlined his well-built upper body.
“Mr. Ryder, my name is Logan Robert. I’m a detective with the Major Crimes Division of the Miami Beach Police. Do you have a minute?”
“Have a seat,” I replied pointing to one of two recliners in the salon area. “The last person I killed was three months ago in my latest released novel. What can I do for you?”
“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about.”
My name is Jack Ryder, and I’m an author of crime novels. Two years ago, I retired from a very lucrative career as a financial analyst for a well-known Wall Street firm. One year before, my wife of ten years decided she needed her space, one which she informed me did not include me, and we amicably went our separate ways. The only contested item in our divorce proceedings was Max, a beagle. Fortunately, my pit-bull attorney prevailed, and I got full custody of Max. She, that being Allison, my ex, had visiting privileges, provided she announced her intentions twenty-four hours ahead of time, which was a good thing, since I regularly had a female visitor sharing my master stateroom.
The Easy Ryder was my new home that I docked and lived onboard at the Miami Beach Marina. I bought the fifty-four-foot Ocean Alexander built in 1987 because of its name. Mine being Jack Ryder, get it? However, I must admit that it was a very comfortable old yacht with three staterooms, a galley, a huge salon, twin diesel Caterpillar engines, and a fourteen-foot Boston Whaler atop the back. And, just as I did with my ex after we moved in together, I had fallen in love with her. Since my retirement from the daily grind, I had turned my creative juices to writing crime mysteries. My last release, The Case of the Missing Stripper, had reached number two on the New York Times Best Seller list, never making it to number one. A whole litany of “Killing,” someone or other books, kept me from reaching number one three times. Life was excellent, and Max and I were enjoying ourselves in South Beach, Florida.
“Logan, how about a Stella?” I asked my guest. “By the way, my dad was Mr. Ryder. I go by Jack.”
“Sure. By the way, you look younger than what I expected.”
“Oh. What did you expect?”
“I read up a little on you, and it says you’re retired from Wall Street and are now an author. So, I expected you to be at least in your fifties. But, you look like a California surfer, no older than forty.”
Handing him his beer and sitting across from him, I said, “Hah, the sun-bleached blond hair is from my time in San Diego. And, I do surf, or did. As to my age, I’m forty. After graduating from school, I put in seventeen years in New York, invested my money well, and decided
it was time for a career change. So, here I am. What about my last book? Did you read it?”
“I did. Tell me about the murder of your character, Nolan Hayes. How did you come up with the manner in which he was killed?”
“You mean the torture and shot to the forehead?”
“Yes.”
“That’s probably the least creative part of the book. I think you could find that in many books. It’s your typical torture before execution, right? My character, Hayes was a double agent for the Russians and for a US spy agency. Why are you asking me this?”
“Yes. But, the torture itself was very detailed.”
“You mean the slicing of the ears, one little piece at a time?”
“There is that, and the breaking of the kneecaps.”
“I wanted to emote pain and suffering in my description.”
“Shit, you did. At least with me.”
“Good. So, what about it?”
“Have you been watching the local news?”
“I haven’t watched the news for two years, and I’m loving it. Max and I,” I said, pointing to Max, who had made himself comfortable between the two of us, “live in a small world. The marina, our eclectic neighbors, the beach, the local joints, the sun and the sea. I travel to the Keys in the boat twice a year, hang out on Islamorada and Marathon for a month at a time before coming back here.”
“In that case, you’re not aware of a murder that took place a few blocks from here two days ago?”
“Haven’t heard a word.”
“Well, Miami Beach Police is running the case, but we’ve already had a few so-called Department of Justice personnel stopping in and asking about it. Spooks, if you ask me. I’ve seen enough of their types in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“You served there?”
“Special Forces. Four tours.”
“Thank you for your service. But, what has this got to do with my book?”
“Our victim was tortured and killed in exactly the same manner described in your book.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Ears sliced off and broken kneecaps?
“Exactly as you wrote it.”
“Was the vic a spy?”
“Well, these characters roaming our station won’t admit it, but we think so. Not much known about the vic.”
“Have they taken over the case?”
“I think they’re afraid to. If so, they’re admitting to something they seem to want to keep quiet. But, they’re hanging around the station like flies on molasses.”
“The moment you uncover something, they’ll shut you down before you can say, Go Heat!”
“That’s what we’re afraid of.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
“Two things, if possible,” Logan said, pausing.
I think he was hesitant in asking. “How about another beer?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“So, don’t be shy. Tell me what you need.”
“You’ve demonstrated in your crime novels to have a certain knack for solving crimes.”
“Wait, wait, let’s not confuse writing fiction with real life.”
“You have a systematic and logical way of analyzing your crime cases that in many ways is superior to what some police departments do. We would like your help in working this case.”
“I’m flattered, but again, I’m a retired financial analyst and a fairly new author of crime novels. I don’t know how I could help.”
“I’ll be the detective. You’ll be the analyst. How’s that?”
“Okay. You said two things. What else do you need?”
Looking around the salon, as if looking for others, he said in a low voice, “We want to run the case from here, away from the station. As I said, too many flies there.”
“From here, you mean my boat?”
“Yes. You, me and,” looking down and petting him, Logan added, “Max.”
“You keep saying ‘we.’ Who else is involved in this secret caper?”
“There’s the major for the Investigative Division, my sergeant, and me. No one else knows. We’ll be running a parallel investigation from the station to keep the spooks occupied.”
“You think you can fool the spooks? Are they FBI?”
“They simply said DOJ. No other alphabet agency, which could mean any one of many, right?”
“Well, they even have some with no overt names these days.”
“I think we can make faster progress without having someone looking over our shoulders.”
“I don’t know, Logan. My life is so simple these days. Do I really want to get involved in a murder investigation, and at the same time run afoul of some alphabet-less Feds?”
“I understand. That was my nice cop approach. Now, here’s my bad cop approach. Because of the similarity of this case with your book, the major wanted to bring you in for questioning. And that, my friend Jack, would have complicated your life with our visitors. He still thinks you may have some involvement.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Two nights ago when our vic was tortured and killed, you had an alibi.”
I smiled. “I did? What kind of an alibi?”
“Let’s see, you ordered from right here in the marina, from a restaurant called Monty’s. Two half-racks of baby back ribs, fries, and coleslaw. One chocolate cake. And of course, you had your Stellas and tequila shots. Did I miss anything?”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Oh, wait. I forgot to say, Odette spent the night here.”
“You know Odette?”
“She’s my roommate.”
I put my hands out, as if saying, ‘wait a moment.’ These special forces guys supposedly knew ten ways to kill you with their hands in seconds. “I had no idea, man. I don’t know what to say.”
“Relax, brother. I didn’t say she was my lover. She’s my sister, and we share a two-bedroom apartment not too far from the marina.”
“Shit, don’t do that.”
“That’s how I know about you. Odette doesn’t stop talking about her author friend. She’s impressed with anyone who has their picture in a book.”
That might have been why I went to bars with my book and just happened to lay it down with my impressive, good-looking face showing. Instead, I said, “Oh, that’s funny.”
“She loves her autographed copy.”
“And, you read her copy of my book. That’s how you connected the dots?”
“Small world, isn’t Jack?”
“Too small.”
“Okay, Jack, what’s it going to be? Let me partner up with you and work from here, or take you in for questioning?”
I didn’t have much of a choice. Admittedly, I didn’t want to get tangled up with Feds. “How about another beer, partner?”
-END of Preview-
Note from Owen Parr
As always, I want to thank you for reading this novel. I hope you enjoyed it. A favor I would ask is if you liked the novel, please take a few moments and write a short review. You can reach my Amazon Author page by going to: www.amazon.com/author/owenparr
I would like to thank the following:
Jessica Holland, my editor from Polgarus Studio, who did an incredible job in shaping and correcting the story. Her suggestions made the novel that much better.
Fred Filbrich, the narrator for the audiobook. Fred did an outstanding job in the narration and production of the audiobook.
Rob, from www.selfpubbookcovers.com and artist, Island, for another amazing cover for the book.
I may have taken some liberties with police procedures, forensic analysis, other technical items and legal matters. I take sole responsibility for these errors.
Stay tuned for the next Joey & Father O’Brian novel and a new series of crime mysteries.
Visit owenparr.com and amazon.com/author/owenparr for all other novels and news about upcoming releases. Contact Owen at: [email protected]
Other titles by Owen Parr
Operation Black Swan —A John Powers International Intrigue -Book 1
The Dead Have Secrets -Operation Raven —A John Powers International Intrigue - Book 2
A Murder on Wall Street —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery –Book 1
A Murder on Long Island —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery –Book 2
The Manhattan Red Ribbon Killer —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery —Book 3
The Case of the Antiquities Collector —A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian Crime Mystery —Book 4
How to Sell, Manage Your Time, Overcome Fear of Rejection —A non-fiction, Self-Improvement Book
The Case of the Dead Russian Spy —A Jack Ryder Crime Mystery —Novella 1
All titles available at Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com, Audible.com, iTunes, or, visit our website at www.owenparr.com
Write the author at: [email protected]