The Unsub: Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mysteries Book 7: (Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery)

by Owen Parr

  “Dom, I don’t think we're going to have enough time to do it that way this time. This is the busy time for Bobal and company. However, I think we should pay him a visit at his home.”

  “Just show up?” Dom asked.

  “I called his office here in New York and could only leave a message. I assume he was too busy to talk. He hasn’t called back, so yes, we’ll just show up. Can you stay?”

  “Sure. I’ll stay. Do we have any official capacity to question him?” Dom asked.

  “I forgot to mention, Captain Johnson, at the encouragement of Miami-Dade’s sheriff’s department, hired us to consult on this. So, we’re officially on the case.” That meant we had more authority.

  “Where does he live?” asked Patrick.

  I pointed to Agnes and nodded for her to respond.

  ”Yes, I have that,” Agnes said, scrolling through her laptop. “His official residence is Miami, but he rents an apartment in Midtown at 15 W 52nd Street here in New York. It’s called Avalon Clinton. There’s a doorman, so you have to go past him to go to his apartment on the twentieth floor.”

  “What about their offices?” I asked.

  Without missing a beat or lifting her head from the monitor, Agnes replied, “Hensley Building on Park and East 45th Street, third floor.”

  “Okay, good. Larry and Harry, take one of our burner phones and call the office for Jan Bobal. I don’t want anyone seeing who’s calling. He’s more than likely not going to pick up the call during trading hours. Just make sure he’s there. Then, camp out at his office and follow him when he leaves. When he arrives at his apartment, give me a call, and Father Dom and I’ll show up.”

  Agnes added, “I’ll print pictures of Bobal, so you guys can recognize him.”

  Larry picked up a burner from a file cabinet and headed to the pub side to make the call.

  “Agnes, fire up the smartboard. Let’s start putting some names up,” I said.

  Our smartboard was Bluetooth-connected to Agnes’ laptop. It was in front of our conference table and was six-feet-high by eight-feet-wide. I loved it.

  “Okay,” I said as it came alive. “Start with Bobal’s wife, Valeria Drako, and the picture of her dad, Stevan Drako. Write Drako crime family.”

  Agnes’ fingers glided over her keyboard and posted the social media picture of Valeria and Stevan.

  “Good, good,” I said as everyone looked at the screen.

  Before I mentioned the next item, Agnes flashed below the Drakos and added the name of Peníze Private Equity, followed underneath it by Fönix Securities, and a picture of Jan Bobal.

  “Perfect. Put a picture up of George Newton, the senior partner at Fönix, next to Bobal.”

  Patrick got a wave from Larry who had made the call from our cigar club. Walking back to our table. He reported, “Larry says, Bobal is at his office. They’ll take off and keep an eye on him.”

  I nodded and relit my Gurkha I had abandoned on the ashtray. After a few puffs, I said, “Now, Agnes, below Bobal, add a blank for the goons.” I joined Dom and Patrick in laughing as Agnes wrote "goons" on the blank. “Then, to the side of Bobal, write James below Gene, and under the goons, Jack Ryder.”

  Pictures of all our participants were displayed on the smartboard.

  “Are we missing anyone?” asked Dom.

  “I think we have them all,” Agnes replied.

  I looked and looked. I was thinking we were missing someone. But who? Then, it hit me. “Marcy mentioned that a certain New York senator called the FBI to complain about the inquiry into Fönix Securities. Name unknown.”

  Immediately, Agnes flashed a blank with "Senator?" on the board and connected it to Fönix.

  “Great,” I said. “Now, I think we have our cast of characters.”

  Everyone was looking at the board. I couldn’t picture the corners of this puzzle yet. The why was missing at this point. Maybe it was the illegal stock trading. That was an obvious motive, but there was more, much more. We had the Czech Republic, a US senator, the FBI being handcuffed by State. And then we had Bobal and the two companies. My eyes were focused on the victims.

  “Is Marcy going to try and find out who the senator is?” Dom asked.

  “She probably knows by now. I’ll get the name later,” I replied. “So, the first order of business is to question Bobal tonight. From there, we’ll continue as things develop.”

  “I’ll start research on the two senators from New York. This way, I’ll be ahead of the game,” Agnes added.

  “Good idea, Agnes,” I said.

  “I’ll stay here in case you need me later,” Patrick offered.

  I began preparing my questions for Bobal. I was curious about why he left Miami so suddenly. Who were the goons that worked for him? And, why did they kill James and kidnap Jack? I was full of questions, but we had to tread lightly, or he was going to lawyer up quickly, and we didn't want that.

  21

  Joey Mancuso ~

  Dom, Agnes, and I hung in the office waiting. Patrick was mingling with the patrons. It was almost seven in the evening, and the nightly attraction at the pub was about to happen.

  From the office side, the three of us approached a one-way glass from which we could see the activity in the pub. And there it was, our background music began playing Sinatra’s "New York, New York." On cue, all the regulars sang, followed by all the other patrons. Everyone joined, along with the staff and Patrick.

  We did this every night, and not only did everyone enjoy the moment, but this was normally followed by fresh orders of drinks and cigars. It never failed. The word had spread around town, and many came just for the moment.

  At seven fifteen, Larry called me on my cell. “Joey, we followed Bobal from his office to a restaurant. Now, he’s entering his apartment building.”

  “Excellent. Stay put in case he leaves. Father Dom and I are on our way. After we get there, you and Harry can take off. Thank you and good work. See you in a few."

  “We’re on?” asked Dom.

  “We are. Can you call an Uber?”

  “I’ll call,” Agnes replied.

  “Let’s leave through the cigar club door. Otherwise, it’ll take fifteen minutes to shake hands and say hellos.”

  Our cigar club was in front of the office. It had a door that led to the pub side and a front door. Both doors were only accessible by a FOB card for the members of the club. At this time of night, there would be very few people in the club itself, if any.

  It took twenty-five minutes for our driver to maneuver her way to Midtown and the location of Bobal’s apartment. Standing by the front door, both Larry and Harry approached Dom and me.

  “Anything going on?” I asked, studying my surroundings. Two things stood out in most New York City streets: uncollected garbage bags and scaffoldings on almost every other building. Although, here on 52nd Street, that wasn't the case. Instead, the sidewalks were clean, the trees well-cut. There was a certain calmness here.

  Larry threw his thumb back to the entrance. “There was a man in the lobby waiting for him when Bobal got here. They shook hands and both entered the elevator together. About fifteen minutes ago, the man left.”

  I nodded absently, still scanning the area. “Anyone you recognize?”

  Larry and Harry looked at each other and shook their heads. “No. It was dark and we couldn’t take a clear picture of him.”

  “How was he dressed?” Dom asked.

  “He was wearing a suit and tie. A professional type. Tall and black hair,” replied Harry.

  “Did he walk here or take a car service?” I asked.

  Harry offered, “He stepped into a limo.”

  “Okay. Thank you. We’ll see you guys tomorrow,” I said, turning to walk to the front door of the apartment building.

  Entering the lobby, we encountered cream-colored marble floors with gold strains running through it. It was a peaceful setting composed of sofas and sitting areas over a gold-and-beige area rug that matched the s
trains of the marble, along with rust-colored flower arrangements. We walked toward an elegant black reception counter with a reddish marble floor-to-ceiling backdrop that complemented the entire ensemble. Behind the desk was a middle-aged lady wearing a dark blue suit and an open-collar blouse. She had short, chestnut hair and a friendly smile.

  “Hi, Carol,” I said, reading the nametag on the left side of her suit.

  "We're here to see Mr. Jan Bobal.”

  “Good evening,” she said. “Is he expecting you?”

  Both Dom and I took out our NYPD consultant IDs and showed her. “I’m Joey Mancuso, this is Dominic O’Brian. We’re not expected, no. But we need to see Mr. Bobal.”

  “Very well, Mr. Mancuso. Let me call Mr. Bobal.” Having said that, she dialed a four-digit number, fiddling with some paperwork on her desk as she waited for a reply.

  Dom and I looked around the lobby as we waited for a response.

  “Huh, I’m getting no response. Maybe he jumped in the shower. Let me try again,” she said, dialing again.

  We could hear the rings. One, two, three, four, five. No answer.

  Shaking her head, she said. “Let’s wait a few minutes and try again. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “Are you calling his landline or his cell?” I asked.

  “We have an internal line that most tenants forward to their cell phone. We don’t have their personal numbers. I know Mr. Bobal has his forwarded. This way, if anyone or a delivery shows up, I can just dial four digits and he answers wherever he is.”

  Interesting. “I see. Let’s give it a couple of minutes and call again,” I said.

  “Of course,” she whispered.

  “What’d you think?” Dom asked as we walked away from the desk.

  “What do you do with your phone when you take a shower?” I asked Dom.

  “I usually take it to the bathroom and listen to music or an audiobook.”

  “But, you do it in case you get a call, right?”

  “Yes, but not everyone is so tied to their phones that they have to have it with them twenty-four-seven.”

  “Maybe some people. But this guy? For sure.” I couldn’t figure out why Bobal wouldn't answer his call. He couldn’t be asleep so quickly. Did he have a date waiting for him and was in the middle of something?

  I went back to the desk. “Carol, does anyone live with Mr. Bobal?”

  “Sometimes his wife, Mrs. Bobal, visits. But most of the time, he’s here alone.”

  “Who was the visitor he had earlier?”

  She looked at the guest registry and hesitated. “I don’t know if I should be revealing that.”

  “Carol,” I smiled my best smile, “we're with the NYPD. Are you going to make me get a warrant to see the registry, really?”

  She turned the book around so I could see for myself, avoiding outright telling me. Smart cookie.

  I looked at the last two entries. Only one was listed under Jan Bobal. Senator Thomas Shenbeck. I raised my gaze to look at Carol. “Senator Shenbeck was the one who was waiting and left about thirty minutes ago?”

  Without replying, she nodded. “Let me try to call again.”

  There was no answer.

  “Do you have a key for his apartment?” I asked. “Something could have happened to Mr. Bobal.”

  She picked up a two-way phone, pressed a button, and said, “Johnny, come to the front desk. Johnny?”

  “QSL,” said a voice through a crackling line.

  “Johnny is our security person. He has a master key and can let you in.”

  I turned around and leaned against the reception counter with Dom standing in front of me. I looked at my phone. It was eight pm.

  “Is there a back door to the building?” Dom inquired.

  “There is, sir, for deliveries and access to parking. But, no one has entered or left through that door. I have the monitor right here,” she said, pointing to it.

  Dom leaned in to look. “I see. Thank you.”

  “Hey, I’m Johnny on the spot. What can I do for you guys?” said a young fellow of about twenty-five. Dressed in dark blue pants, a nicely pressed white shirt with a blue tie, and a walkie-talkie two-way radio hanging from his thin waist.

  Before I had a chance to introduce ourselves, Carol told Johnny who we were and what we needed to do.

  “Oh, my gosh. Let’s go see if anything happened,” Johnny said. Turning around and flashing a big smile, he asked Carol, “Does Mr. Bobal have company tonight?”

  “No, no company tonight,” she replied.

  We entered the elevator and Johnny pressed twenty. I asked, “Does he usually have company?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Not usually, just occasionally when he’s in town by himself.”

  “Does his wife come up with him?”

  “Sometimes. Other times he’s by himself,” Johnny replied.

  “But he has visitors when he’s here alone?”

  “Like I said, you know, occasionally,” he replied, blushing.

  “Steady person?” I asked.

  “Hah, no. Not that I can tell. I think it's a service. You know what I mean?”

  “Ladies?”

  Laughing, he replied. “Oh, yes, ladies. Good-looking ladies.”

  After the customary ding, the doors opened into a well-decorated area. Wall mirror facing the elevators, table with flowers. Plush-carpeted hallways going left and right.

  Reaching unit 2017, Johnny knocked on the door. He waited and knocked again and again.

  “Opened the door,” I demanded, “and stay here.”

  Johnny did as request and stood aside.

  Dom and I walked in. I made it a point to look at my watch. It was eight fifteen in the evening. I was struck by the stunning views of the Manhattan skyline through the floor to ceiling windows. No matter how many times I looked at the skyline, I always stopped to see the vastness of this vibrant city. From this northwest view, I could see Central Park, the Hudson River, and all cranes signaling the new high-rises being built.

  I noticed Dom making his way into the apartment. “Don’t touch anything, brother,” I said as I slowly walked in.

  “I’ve got my hands in my pockets.”

  “Mr. Bobal,” I called out, standing in the foyer area. No response.

  I called out again and once more. No response. Shit, what was going on? This guy was supposed to be here. Could he have gone down to the gym? I called out again.

  22

  Joey Mancuso ~

  Nothing seemed disturbed as we made our way through the living room, kitchen, and dining room. There were two, empty wine glasses next to a bottle of French wine.

  “Dom, let’s check the rooms. I’ll go left. You go right.”

  We entered a hallway leading to the bedrooms. Dom opened the door to a bedroom on his way and said, “This bedroom is fine.”

  “The word is ‘clear,’ Dom,” I said, half-jokingly.

  I approached what I thought was the master bedroom and stopped at the closed door. Picking up the scent of gunpowder, I looked back to see where Dom was. I put up my right hand, signaling Dom to stop. I didn't know what I'd find on the other side of that door, so I moved carefully.

  Opening the door slightly, I poked my head in. The room was dark, but a glaring light of some kind shone through the shadows. I hesitated momentarily. I heard the sounds of shots being fired rapidly and cars racing through a crowded street. A gunfight of some kind?

  Sure enough, on the TV was a rerun of a Fast and Furious movie. I clicked the lights on with my elbow. There he was, Jan Bobal. His body lay on a king-size bed, blood all over his chest, legs hanging limply over the side. I looked around. Was there anyone else here? Was the killer hiding? These were the times when I wished I had my Glock. But I didn’t carry anything other than a knife anymore.

  “Dom, here,” I whispered, and said out loud, “NYPD. Come out with your hands in the air. You have no place to go.”

  I hoped no one was here,
but if the killer was hiding, he or she would realize they were trapped.

  Dom walked in and inhaled a sharp breath. “Oh, my God.”

  Bobal had been shot twice in the chest. I cautiously approached the body and checked the pulse on the side of his throat, pressing two fingers on the carotid arteries. He was dead, but his body was still slightly warm.

  Blood covered his bare chest. Some blood had pooled in his belly button and ran down to his white underwear, which was the only thing he was wearing. His eyes were wide open in horror. Blood spatter covered the carpet in front of the bed from the back spatter of the shots. More blood spatter on the right and left side of the body and all over the comforter.

  There were two holes in the bed’s headboard, seemingly from the rounds that went through him. He must have been standing he was shot.

  “Dom, please pull the cord for the TV. Don’t touch the remote. And then, check the bathroom. But be careful, I hear the shower running.” I could see steam coming from the bathroom, too.

  “Why don’t I throw a shoe or something in the bathroom?” he asked, and he was serious.

  “Don’t touch anything. This is a murder scene. It’s fine, just move slowly. I’ll check the closets.”

  He disappeared into the bathroom, and the sound of the shower cut off seconds later. “The shower was on. All the towels are wet, so he took a shower. I smell something in here, you want to check it out?”

  I walked into the bathroom and immediately picked up the scent of eucalyptus and menthol. Aftershave. Bobal probably showered and shaved.

  “Could it be the cologne from the killer?”

  “No, take a look at the opened bottle of aftershave on the counter.”

  We went back to the bedroom.

  "Is he dead?” Dom asked as he stepped out of the bathroom.

  “I’m afraid so. Did you touch anything?”

  “No, like I said, I keep my hands in my pockets, but I brushed the towels with my arms, they’re wet.”

  I nodded, eyes scanning the crime scene. “So, he showered and shaved, then he possibly heard someone come in the room. Or, maybe that someone called out to him. He then steps in front of the bed and pop, pop. Two in the chest.”