by Owen Parr
I wanted to lighten the atmosphere and get him to relax. He was still as tight as Carlos Santana’s guitar strings. “Do you like this pistol?”
He nodded. “It’s small and easy to carry, and I do have a permit in Florida and New York. It’s just for personal defense.”
“The caliber is a .380, correct?” I asked, looking at him and sitting back myself.
“Yes, it is,” he replied, blinking repeatedly. “Do you know the caliber of the pistol that was used to kill Jan?”
Not wanting to reveal anything at this point, I replied, “Not now. But I never said it was a pistol, did I?”
“No, you didn’t. My mistake in making assumptions.”
“When did you fire it last?” I asked as Dom walked back from one of the bedrooms. I noticed Dom shaking his head, which I understood to mean he found nothing out of the ordinary.
“Yesterday. I go to Westside Range on West twentieth,” Newton replied.
“And you cleaned the gun?”
“Always, every time I shoot.”
Changing my questioning, I inquired, “Why would anyone want to kill Mr. Bobal?”
Dom interrupted. “May I get some water?”
I wanted to scream at Dom. We’d had this conversation before. I asked a crucial question, and I waited for both verbal and non-verbal responses. But then, out of left field, comes a non-related question. It was like a little fart in the middle of a romantic, steamy moment.
Newton began to stand, but Dom said, “I’ll get it from the kitchen. Stay put.”
“Oh, okay. Yes, there’re bottles in the fridge. Help yourself. I should have offered before.”
“No problem, I’ll get us water,” Dom said and walked into the kitchen.
Newton sat back and pondered my question for a few seconds, then he shrugged. "I can’t think of any. Robbery maybe?”
I hummed noncommittally. “Maybe. Let me ask you, did he have access to your proprietary algorithms for your stock picks?”
“You know about that?” He asked, cocking his head and blinking rapidly.
“We’re following a case that originated in Miami, where one of your traders, Gene Wells, was killed in a hit-and-run. Then, James Roth, another associate in your office, was shot and left to be eaten by the alligators in the Everglades.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, my God, you think this is tied to that?”
I stared at him. “I don’t know. What d'you think?”
From a corner of my eye, I could see what was about to happen. Dom returned with three bottles of water and laid them on the coffee table.
Taking advantage of the moment, Newton reached for one, opened it, and replied, “Wow, you're thinking Wells' death was not an accident?”
I was starting to get annoyed. This guy was avoiding my questions by asking his own. He was toying with me, and I was falling for it.
But, Joey, remember, this guy has a genius IQ.
“Look, Mr. Newton," I said shortly, "we’ve given you the benefit of doubt so far. But, sir, you’re the only suspect currently. I think I’m going to let the detectives assigned to this case take over the questioning.”
He scowled. “I don’t know why anyone would want to kill Jan. And—and I have nothing to do with the other two deaths.”
“I’m calling the detectives, and they’ll come over to take you to the precinct,” I said, taking out my phone.
Newton looked at Dom. “I’m calling my attorney.”
“That’s your right, sir. Please go ahead,” I heard Dom reply as I talked to Detective Farnsworth
Dom got up and retrieved the half-empty water bottles from the coffee table and walked them to the kitchen. “Can I throw these away?”
“Put them in the blue recycle trash can, please,” replied Newton.
We waited for the detectives to show up, and they took George Newton to Midtown South Precinct. His attorney would meet him there, and more than likely very little more information would be forthcoming from him. To say our suspect was pissed was akin to asking Tiger Woods if he was upset at missing his last put for a win at The Masters. I didn’t think my Alfred E. Neuman lookalike was capable of murder. But then again, everyone was capable of murder given the right motivation, weren't we?
Dom and I finally made it down to the lobby, where Carol was getting ready to call it night. “Detectives,” she called out. Dom and I approached her counter. “I kept playing the video after you went upstairs because I was still puzzled by the HVAC person that we never saw leave.”
I smiled, glancing at Dom. “And you found him.”
“No, but I did find a gentleman walking out whom I don’t recognize,” she replied.
“You know everyone here from their backside?” Dom asked, his lips twitching in a smile.
“We all have our little quirks we pick up from our jobs, right? Mine is recognizing everyone from how they walk, even if I can’t see their faces,” she replied, grinning. “Anyway, there’s a man who walked out just before you fellas walked in, and I’ve never seen him before, except when he walked in the back service door in a uniform.”
“Play it, Carol,” I said, walking behind her counter.
There was, in fact, a man who walked out the front lobby who possibly resembled, at least in stature, the HVAC man Johnny let in the back. But he wasn’t wearing a uniform or boots. He was wearing a khaki windbreaker, shoes, sunglasses, and a different baseball cap. Never showed his face to the camera.
“And you’ve never seen this guy before?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t. I’m sure of that,” she replied firmly.
“How about Johnny? Is he still here?” Dom asked.
“He’s gone for the day. But I did ask, and he agrees it could be the same guy,” she said excitedly.
I wasn't entirely convinced, but it was a good lead to follow up on. “Can we have a copy of the tape?”
“I don’t know how to do that. But here, take it. I’ve already put a new one in the recorder. Bring it back, though,” she said, giving me the DVD. “It has everything we looked at today.”
“Great work, Carol. Thank you,” I said, patting her on her back.
We walked out of there after a long evening. Was Newton our guy, or was this mystery person the real perp? Maybe he was a hired killer. We’d already had two of those before. There was more to this case than the theft of the laptop and phone from Bobal’s apartment. Someone was after something, or they were cleaning up. Was Newton in danger himself?
“I’ve called for an Uber. So, what do you think?” Dom asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I didn’t know if I should recite the litany of thoughts I had just had or keep it simple. Before I had a chance to respond, Carlos in a small red SUV of some kind was there for us. The Uber must have been around the corner because it arrived within two minutes.
After we got in the car and buckled in, I replied, “Right now, I have more questions than answers. But when have you seen us get a simple case?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Dom replied with a wry grin. “By the way, you think Newton will be arrested?”
I pondered that. “Nothing to hold him on. He’ll clam up and say nada.”
“So, they won’t be able to get his prints at this time,” Dom stated.
“No, but I’m sure they’re on file somewhere.”
“Here,” he said, pulling out an empty water bottle from his inside jacket pocket. “We have a head start.”
I laughed. “You’re slick, Padre. What you did is illegal.”
Dom gave me an innocent look. “But he said to throw them away.”
I grinned. “Unfortunately, they were in the garbage in his apartment. You had to wait until the garbage was taken out. But hey, who gives a shit, right?”
“Never thought of that.”
Dom was always giving me a hard time for stepping out of the lanes. So, here I had a little chance to get back at him. “Sleep on it, brother. Tomorrow at your six-thirty
Mass, say a little prayer asking for guidance. We sure need some help. And let’s meet up at the pub tomorrow morning as usual.”
“Aren’t you going to the precinct to help with the murder book?” Dom asked.
Through the rearview mirror, I noticed Carlos’ eyes opened wide when he heard murder book. “No, I’ll have Captain Johnson send these guys to our pub around eleven. We’ll do it there.”
With that, the conversation became trivial, and we didn’t discuss the case any further.
26
Joey Mancuso ~
Minutes before nine, everyone sat around the conference table in our office. Dom in his usual spot to my left, and Patrick and Agnes to my right. Remnants of our morning coffee lay strewn about the table.
“So, boss, where do we stand with this case?” Agnes asked. She had flashed our players on the smartboard from the last time we looked at it.
I looked at the board and back at Agnes. “Unfortunately, our main character, Jan Bobal, was murdered yesterday in his apartment.”
Patrick shot back in his chair in amazement, not saying a word.
Agnes gaped. “Oh, my God, are you kidding us?”
“We wish we were,” Dom replied grimly.
“What happened, guys?” asked Patrick.
“I’m afraid we have to start over, our main suspect is no longer able to answer any questions,” I replied and went on to give them the details of our late evening.
After my quick dissertation of the events, Agnes asked, “So, how do you want to go about this?”
“Right. We need to find anyone with motive, opportunity, and the means to want Bobal dead. That’s where we start. So,” looking at the board, I instructed, “put a line across Bobal’s name.”
Instead of a line, Agnes put a cross over his name in the box she had created for him in our diagram of characters.
I snorted. “Cute, Agnes. Now, below his name, let’s brainstorm who could—would have killed him.”
Patrick spoke first. “The Czech organized crime family that has an interest in the company. They could be responsible for all our vics.”
“True,” I replied and nodded for Agnes to add them under Bobal’s name.
“George Newton, his partner,” Dom said.
“How about the mystery man you mentioned?” Agnes queried.
“Add a blank box for him, yes. But was he acting alone or as a contract killer?” I asked.
Agnes added a silhouette of a man and question marks.
“Who else? Come on, think outside the box,” I stated.
“His wife,” Marcy said as she walked into our office, looking as beautiful as always. “It’s always the spouse.”
“Welcome, Special Agent,” I said, smiling, happy to see her.
“Here, Marcy, I’ll slide over,” Dom said, making to get up, but Marcy waved him off.
“You’re good, Padre, I’ll just sit here,” Marcy said, pulling out a chair to the left of Dom.
“This might be too vague, but what about a discontent client?” Patrick asked.
“Mr. Pat, when brainstorming, anything goes. We have plenty of time to scratch it off later. But yes, a client is a possibility, but these people seemed to have always made money for their clients,” I said.
“Ah, we forgot the senator who visited him,” Agnes said.
“Good, good. What’s his name again?” I said.
“Thomas Shenbeck,” Agnes replied, looking at the notes on her tablet.
“And,” Dom began, “possibly the last person to have seen him alive before he was killed.”
“So, we have five potential suspects including the Czechs. I don’t know where to go with that.” Turning to Marcy, I asked, “Marcy, your investigation was DOA, right?”
“That’s correct. We were shut down, but the SEC is still investigating the trading patterns of the company. However, the Czech connection and possible criminal activities are dormant now,” replied Marcy.
“Then we need to stick with our four suspects, namely Senator Shenbeck, mystery man in the baseball cap, Bobal’s wife, Valeria Drako, and Newton. We need to either eliminate or incriminate,” I added. It was time to discard the cards that weren't in play. A full hand of unplayable cards was just distracting and cumbersome.
“We pretty much got everything we’re going to get from George Newton. Speaking of which, who do we have that can check this bottle for prints?” Dom pulled out the bottle from the jacket hanging on his chair and placed it on the table.
“Here, Father, I’ll take care of that,” replied Agnes, reaching for it.
“Agnes, get a plastic bag for the bottle. Also, try and locate Valeria Drako in Miami. Maybe I’ll have Jack Ryder and Detective Robert Logan question her.”
“Who was going to notify her of her husband’s death?” Patrick asked.
“Detectives Farnsworth and Charles. Which reminds me, they’ll be here at eleven this morning,” I replied.
Patrick shot me a strange look. “What for?”
“I need to bring them up to date on everything that happened in Miami. It’s got to be included in the murder book,” I replied. Not that I wanted to spend more time with those clowns.
"I have an address for Shenbeck’s office in the city. I imagined you’ll want to talk to him,” Agnes said.
“Thanks, Agnes. Padre, do you need to go back to St. Helen’s?” I asked, patting him on his right arm.
“Not until four in the afternoon. So, if you want to go to Shenbeck’s after the detectives leave here, we can do that,” Dom replied.
“I should make an appointment for you guys. Otherwise, Shenbeck may not be there,” Agnes noted, looking down at her tablet.
“Yes, do that. But make sure he understands we’re there representing the NYPD,” I added.
“Joey, I just thought of something. If we wait for the detectives to come in, they’ll want to question the senator themselves. Perhaps we should go now and avoid that. What’d you think?” asked Dom.
I sat back, clasping my hands behind my head. The last thing I wanted was those two brain-challenged detectives involved in questioning the senator. “Good point. We don’t need that. Agnes, what’s the address for Shenbeck?”
Agnes scrolled down a few pages. “780 Third Avenue, Suite 2801. I’ll call now to make sure he’s there.”
I looked at my watch, stood up, and pointed to Patrick. “Mr. Pat, do me a favor. Call Captain Johnson and tell him we had to follow up on a lead. Let Farns and Charles know to meet us here at two in the afternoon.”
“On it," Patrick replied.
Agnes put down the phone. “Shenbeck is there and waiting. He wanted to know the nature of the visit.”
“And what did you tell him?" I asked.
“Official NYPD business, that’s all,” she replied. Good girl. Always the smart cookie.
“Has the news media reported the Bobal’s murder yet?” asked Patrick.
Marcy chimed in. “I haven’t heard or read anything about it yet.”
“I’m sure it’ll be in the news today. Right now, it’s best if Shenbeck is not aware,” I said.
“Amir, in a silver Toyota, will be here in ten minutes,” Dom said.
“Marcy, can you put together all you have on the Drakos? And, anything on Fönix Securities?” I asked.
“You’re going to get my ass fired from the FBI." She sighed. "But yes, I’ll see what I can do. Unless you guys develop a connection for the murders to these companies, I’m afraid the FBI is sitting it out.”
As Marcy said that, I went back to the thought I had had before. George Newton, forty percent owner of Fönix Securities, could be the next victim. He must know everything that went on. And, if they were cleaning up, how long before he was taken out? “You know, if the Czechs are wanting to disassociate themselves from the trading irregularities of Fönix and the SEC investigation, Newton’s days could be numbered. Shit, he knows everything going on, and these people have so many other illicit businesses they do
n’t need the extra scrutiny.”
“Well, should we warn Newton?” Dom asked, looking at his watch.
I looked at the time on my phone. Our Uber ride should be here any moment. “Let’s talk on the way to Shenbeck. Maybe we can stop by Newton’s after. If he fears for his life, maybe he’ll open up about the trading secrets of his company.”
“If you can get him to disclose a crime in their trading, then my unit will be involved,” said Marcy.
“Joey, we’ve to go,” Dom said and added, “If that happens, he’s looking at joining the WITSEC program. Doubt he’ll want that.”
“Better to be a live witness in the protection program, than a dead witness,” I commented wryly. “See you all later.”
27
Joey Mancuso ~
On our way to question Senator Shenbeck, Dom and I agreed that I would stop by Newton’s place and instill the fear of God in him and get him to confess to whatever trick they were paying with the stock trading. Our thought was that they were involved in insider trading, thus their success in all their trades at Fönix. Short of that, Marcy’s FBI White-Collar Crime unit wouldn't get involved.
Amir, our Uber driver, took Pearl Street to FDR North, and we arrived at Shenbeck’s office in fifteen minutes.
As we entered his office, the receptionist asked, “Are you Mancuso and O’Brian?”
“Yes,” I replied, approaching the desk.
“Very well," she said shortly, moving away from her computer. "I’ll walk you to the conference room. The senator is waiting for you there. He asked that you be brief. He has another engagement.”
We walked in the room and the senator sat at the head of the table, his back turned to us as he spoke to someone standing next to him. When the other man saw us enter, he nodded to the senator, upon which he stood and greeted us.
Smiling, Shenbeck extended his hand. “Gentlemen, good to meet you. This is Lance Friedman, my chief of staff. Please, have a seat, and let’s make this quick.”
We shook hands with both and did as asked. The senator was well-dressed in a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie. About sixty years old, with thinning black hair. Skinny Friedman looked slippery in his shiny black suit, bright teal tie, and matching pocket hanky. A sharp, thin, rather long nose held his frameless round spectacles. About fifty with long black hair that had a flip in the back over his neck.