by Owen Parr
The Unsub
A Joey Mancuso,
Father O’Brian
Crime Mystery
Book 7
By
Owen Parr
THE UNSUB
BOOK 7
A Joey Mancuso and Father O’Brian Crime Mystery
Author: Owen Parr
Published by: Sand in My Shoes Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
ISBN- 9798679994935
Copyright © 2020 by: Owen Parr
Published in the United States
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
“Unsub” -Noun
(in police use) a person of unknown identity who is the subject of a criminal investigation.
Dedication
During the writing of this novel in the summer of 2020, the world was going through a pandemic. So, I want to dedicate this work to all medical personnel and first responders who were the frontline warriors combating this awful virus.
“He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have. “
Socrates
1
Joey Mancuso ~
Just as Marcy and I pulled into our underground parking at our apartment building, I received a text from Captain Alex Johnson, my longtime friend and former boss.
Joey, I have a friend in Miami Beach, Ed Wells, he’s a Sergeant with the Miami Shores Police. We met here in New York at the Police Academy when we both started. Anyway, his son was killed two nights ago in what appears to be a hit and run car accident in Miami Beach. It was one in the morning. Call me ASAP. Thanks.
Saturday night, and we had just returned from our favorite Italian restaurant, Vinnie’s in Brooklyn, to our new rental apartment at Brooklyn Heights, from which I enjoyed a side view of the East River and lower Manhattan.
As soon as we walked into our apartment, Marcy went to put away our leftovers, and I called Johnson. “Good evening, Captain Johnson. Sorry you couldn’t make it to Vinnie’s. We had a great time.”
“I wish I could have, but something came up I need your help with. Do you have a minute?” Johnson asked in a serious tone.
Captain Alex Johnson from the Midtown South Precinct in New York and I had a special bond. I worked for him during my years as a detective. But our bond really developed long before that. When I was sixteen, my father was shot dead in my presence in a Little Italy bar by some goon who disappeared after the act. Young Officer Johnson was first on the scene, and he pulled me out of the melee that ensued. From that point forward, he became one of two mentors, and his influence likely kept me from following in my father’s footsteps as a uomo d’onore—or made man in one of New York’s five mafia families.
I grabbed my coffee and sat down in my easy chair in the living room. “Of course. What’s up?”
“I need a personal favor, Joey. And, I’m sorry to ask. I know you and Marcy just finished the ordeal with her being charged in a double homicide and that poor Army captain being abducted.”
FBI Special Agent Marcy Martinez, my wife of a little over a year, was known as the hottest FBI agent in the tri-state area. Which pretty much told you what she looked like. Long, highlighted, thick brown hair, and unbelievable bright emerald-green eyes. I had fallen in love with all that was Marcy. Her looks, spunky personality, and humor. Of course, the Glock she carried on her waist sealed the deal for me about three years ago. Born in Union City, New York, from Cuban immigrants, she was my one and only soulmate. I was more than fortunate to have found her, and I knew she felt the same about me.
“Captain, you’re family. What is it you need? You said it appears to be an accident?”
Johnson sighed heavily. “Ed, my friend, doesn’t believe it was an accident, but there’s no proof that it wasn’t.”
“So, he’s suspicious that his son was murdered. But Miami Beach Police don’t think so? If it’s a hit-and-run, it becomes a charge of unintentional vehicular manslaughter. Still a crime.”
“There’s more to it than that. Ed believes it was premeditated murder. And, he doesn’t want to challenge his bothers-in-blue at the Miami Beach Police. You see his dilemma?”
“Of course, I do. But, I’m sure MBPD will investigate and try and find the perp. Then, they can determine motive, right?” I could understand the father’s feelings. But perhaps he was jumping to an unfounded conclusion.
“Joey, we both know that a hit-and-run investigation doesn’t get the same scrutiny that a murder would," Johnson said tightly. "And, that’s what Ed is afraid of.”
I stood up to glance at a party boat that was making its way up the East River. I was paying attention to the captain, but so far, I didn’t know what this was leading to. “Captain, could it be Ed is making more out of this than what it is? I mean, I understand he’s the father and all, but—”
He interrupted me. “Like I said, he knows things about his son. And the police there don’t want to take it into account,” he said, some anxiety in his voice.
His tone gave me the impression he thought I wasn’t taking this serious enough. Which wasn’t my intention. I pulled a chair from the dining room table. “Was his son in a gang or dealing drugs?”
“Nothing like that. On the contrary, his son had just graduated from college and started a new job. I met him two years ago when we had Thanksgiving dinner together here in New York.”
Marcy sat at the dining room table with her cup of coffee. She'd changed into her favorite home attire, a loose black sweatsuit. She was anxious to watch the second episode of Michael Connelly’s Bosch series on Amazon Prime. I threw her a kiss and flashed my palm, asking her to give me five minutes. She smiled and nodded.
“So, what is it you want me to do, captain? Call your friend Ed?”
“Don’t you have a friend, the crime mystery author who used to be an investment banker here in New York? I think you told me he moved to Miami Beach and is now a consultant to the Miami Beach Police.”
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. “Yes, Jack Ryder. What about him?”
Jack Ryder and I had met on a case I worked for the NYPD years ago. He had been a very successful investment banker. We hit it off and became good friends after the case. He and I were very much alike in personalities, and although from two different worlds, we bonded quickly as if we'd known each other for many years.
One morning, his wife announced that she needed her space—space, she said, that didn’t include him. So, after a contested divorce to settle the issue of who would have custody of Max, they split the assets and separated. The next morning, Jack walked into his palatial office in the financial district of New York and handed in his resignation. He was done with investment banking, bosses, suits, ties, and the rest of the bullshit that came along with it. He and Max, his beagle, headed to Miami Beach, where he bought a fifty-four-foot old yacht and became a liveaboard crime author.
“Well, maybe he can look into this case for Ed. Would you mind calling him
? I’m sure Ed can pay for his services.”
I frowned. “I don’t think anyone is worried about getting paid. But I don’t know, he’s an author, not a private detective.”
“You told me he’s worked for the MBPD in a few cases and has been very successful, right? I don’t know how else to help Ed. He called me and was distraught.”
I chewed on that for a minute before speaking. “Let me ask you something and I trust your judgment. After speaking to your friend, do you seriously think there’s more to it?”
“I do, Joey, otherwise I wouldn’t bother you with this. I made the same arguments to him that you’re making to me. There’s more to it,” he said emphatically.
“Hang on a second, captain,” I said as I covered the mouthpiece and addressed Marcy. “Hey, you wanna go to Miami Beach for a few days?”
Miami Beach had been our honeymoon location almost two years ago, and we had had lots of fun while there.
Marcy’s eyes opened wide, and she smiled. “Sure. Why?”
“Can you take off from the Bureau for a few days?”
“I’ve just been reinstated, so I have no pending cases yet. I’m sure they’ll be fine with that. Why, what's going on?”
My index finger went up, asking for a minute. Getting back to the captain, I said, “Tell you what, captain, I’ll call Jack and ask. But regardless, Marcy and I will fly down and either look at the case with Jack or by ourselves.”
Johnson let out a long sigh. “Joey, there’s no need for you guys to do that. I’m sure your friend can talk to Ed and determine quickly if there’s more to the case. I didn’t mean to involve you guys.”
“Listen, Marcy and I had planned to take a few days down in Miami anyway,” I blinked to Marcy, “so we’re more than happy to do it. Besides, it'll give me a chance to visit with Jack.”
“Joey, seriously?” asked the captain.
“Say no more. We’re on it. Send me the information on your friend by text. We’ll fly down Monday. Let him know we’re coming.”
“I owe you, Joey.” Unveiled gratitude bled through his voice.
“And I’ll collect,” I replied, laughing.
I owed him that much. His friendship throughout my youth had been invaluable. And now, my little enterprise, Mancuso and O’Brian Investigations, was consulting for the NYPD Midtown South Precinct thanks to Johnson. Plus, a few days in Miami Beach with my wife wasn't going to be a hardship.
2
Monday Evening
Jack Ryder ~
Full moons were causing what was being referred to as king tides. The water levels were rising with every full moon in Miami Beach, triggering flooding in many streets in South Beach. Today, we were experiencing one of them.
My yacht was almost at the level of the dock, and if it wasn't for the pilings, it would be on top of the dock. After a month in Islamorada, anchored bayside in a little cove off Mile Marker 76, just outside of Robbie’s Marina, I was back home and docked in my slip at the Miami Beach Marina.
Max, my beagle, beamed with excitement at being home, a few steps away from his favorite grassy area. Sitting on the deck at the stern of the Easy Ryder, my old fifty-four-foot yacht, I was chilling and enjoying a beer, the ocean breeze, the combined distinct redolence of diesel and brine that impregnated the marina, and the view of the bay as it flowed like a stream of melted glass.
The Easy Ryder was my new home. Not long ago, I bought the elegantly appointed Ocean Alexander, built in 1987 because of its name. Mine being Jack Ryder, get it? However, it was a very comfortable, old, but elegantly decorated yacht with three staterooms, a galley, a huge salon, twin diesel Caterpillar engines, and a fourteen-foot Zodiac inflatable boat mounted atop the bow. Just as I had with my ex after we moved in together, I had fallen in love with the Easy Ryder. Since my retirement from the daily grind, I had turned my creative juices to writing crime mysteries.
Glancing to my right toward the entrance of the docks just as dusk was settling in, I saw a familiar face approaching. Former NYPD Detective Joey Mancuso. He smiled and waved. Max wagged his tail, recognizing Joey as he came closer.
“Say hello, Max,” I said, and Max barked twice.
“Ahoy, captain, permission to come aboard,” Joey said as he reached the starboard side.
“Detective Mancuso and FBI Special Agent Marcy, welcome aboard, but if you don’t mind, shoes come off please.”
Marcy turned toward the west, wide-eyed at the ominous dark clouds lingering there.
“That’s not coming this way for now. The winds are from the east,” I said, giving her a helping hand as she stepped onto the boat.
“You’re a meteorologist now?” Marcy asked, smiling.
I grinned at her teasing tone. “No, but when you live aboard a boat, you learn these things. Now, what’s up? You called yesterday. I have a feeling this is more than a social visit. Have a seat. Can I get you a beer?”
“We were sitting around New York City and we said, ‘Hey, why not go visit Jack in Miami Beach?’” Joey said.
I snorted. "Right, and I‘m joining the priesthood tomorrow. Speaking of which, how’s Father Dominic?”
Father Dominic O’Brian was Joey's half-brother.
“Oh, he’s doing great. He’s the pastor now and said to say hello,” Joey said, sitting down in one of teak chairs I kept on the deck.
We went on to catch up for a few minutes and the conversation evolved into more serious things. New York sport’s scene, the retirement of Eli Manning from the New York Giants after sixteen years, the Jets' inability to have a winning season. Finally, Joey asked the question on every New Yorker’s mind when friends moved to Miami.
“So, are you a Miami Dolphin fan now?”
I smirked. “Hah, it would be a lot easier if they could have a winning team. But no, once a Jets fan, always a Jets fan.”
We laughed.
“So, let me tell you what we came down for,” Joey said.
“Good, good, so what’s up?” I asked.
“I want to pick your brain and see if you have time to help me on something,” Joey replied.
“Tell me about it. What about a beer?” I asked again. I thought Marcy looked pregnant, but I wasn’t going to make that mistake twice. Once before, I had asked a lady if she was pregnant. After she replied no with a frown, I'd wanted to disappear pronto.
Joey looked at Marcy. She shook her head no. “Maybe later we’ll have something. Anyway, this young fellow was killed four days ago in a hit-and-run accident as he traveled west on the MacArthur Causeway from the beach to downtown Miami on his motorcycle,” Joey said.
I turned toward the southeast and pointed. “That’s MacArthur Causeway right there." Both Marcy and Joey followed my index finger, looking at the causeway. “So, if you‘re investigating, then it wasn’t an accident. Was he murdered?”
Joey shrugged. “Right now, it’s still ruled a hit-and-run. But witnesses say a car changed lanes and positioned itself behind the motorcycle, sped up, and struck the bike from behind. Then, fled the scene.”
Maybe a coincidence. But, if the car positioned itself behind the bike with the intention of hitting it, it could be more than a hit-and-run. “Did anyone get a license number?”
“No, it was one o’clock in the morning. The vic’s name is Gene Wells, and he was going home after clubbing in South Beach.”
“Did they at least get a description of the car?”
“All we have is a dark blue or black four-door sedan. Nothing else.”
“What about Wells, anything on him?” I asked.
Joey shook his head. “Not really. Twenty-three-year-old. Just graduated from Florida State. Started working at a small hedge fund firm in Miami Beach just recently. This was his first job out of school. His dad is a sergeant with the Miami Shores Police.”
I considered all that. “Was he drunk?”
“No. His blood alcohol level was well below point zero four. Point zero eight is the limit,” Joey replied.
Joey went on to explain his friendship with his captain, and his captain’s relationship with the father, Ed Wells.
“You said he was clubbing in South Beach. Did you visit the club?”
“We have not. The police report says witnesses saw him there talking to a girl he was ‘trying to pick up.' But he left alone.”
“You think the girl had a boyfriend that got pissed and did this?”
“I don’t know. No one could identify the girl.”
I was wondering what my role was here. This appeared to be a hit-and-run. Which the MBPD could easily handle. “Joey, I don’t know what I could add to this case. You don’t have much to go on. Did this fellow live alone?”
“No, like many millennials these days, he was living with his parents,” Joey said as we both glanced at two jet-skiers zipping by the marina.
“The police officer, have you spoken to him yet?” I asked, turning to look back at Joey.
“No, I was waiting for the services and burial to conclude. I’m planning on meeting him soon, maybe tomorrow. Join me?” Joey asked.
“Sure. Let me know when.” How much time was all this going to take? I loved the visit and discussing a potential murder, but I was in the middle of a new novel, and sometimes solitude to get work done was the priority.
“Also, I was hoping you talk to the Miami Beach police since you’ve been working with them. Maybe find out if they know more than what’s in the police report,” Joey said.
“That’s not a problem. Sure, I can do that. As a matter of fact, let me make a call,” I said, reaching for my cell and walking into the salon.
“There’s another twist to the story,” Mancuso added, getting up from his chair and following me down to the salon. “I think I’ll take that beer now. Make your call, I’ll go to the galley and get one.”