by Owen Parr
I stopped about fifty feet on the lawn in front of Wells and Johnson. I couldn’t see their faces. "Sergeant Wells… Ed, let’s end this now without anyone else getting killed. If you drop your weapon, all can end peacefully.”
Wells' face was in constant motion, rotating from left to right, trying to locate the snipers he knew would be there. I could see movement from inside the house as SWAT members positioned themselves.
“I’m sorry about your friend. But you put him in harm's way,” Wells shouted to me.
I tried another tactic. “Ed, the snipers aren't going to shoot you if you put your weapon down. Captain, are you all right?”
Johnson tried to smile a little, but it was brittle. “I’m fine, Joey. Why don’t you move back?”
Wells was sweating profusely, his white shirt wrinkled and wet with perspiration. Still standing behind Johnson, Wells put the weapon below his jaw, his index on the trigger.
“Ed, don’t do it. It's not the way out,” I shouted, my whole body tense.
Once before, I had seen a suspect take his own life by shooting himself through the lower jaw. The bullet penetrated his brain and exited through the skull, opening a hole at the top of his head. Immediately, a geyser of blood shot up two or three feet above his head with a continuous force that lasted half a minute before the man dropped dead on the floor. It was not a sight I could ever forget, and one I didn't want to see again.
“Ed, please, don’t.”
I could hear Emely’s loud, desperate pleas to her brother from half a block away. "Don’t do it, Ed! Don’t do it!"
The muzzle blast was near deafening.
The blood rushed up, as I expected. The captain ran forward but was bathed in blood. Johnson stood next to me as we watched Wells wobble, then drop to his knees, then fall forward. A continuous flow of blood flooded the green grass. I closed my eyes.
49
Joey Mancuso ~
The tense scene ended abruptly. EMT personnel rushed to inspect Johnson, who was unhurt. Emely abandoned the cordoned-off command center and ran to her brother, kneeling and crying over his blood-soaked body. Blood still trickled out of his head.
Officers walked into the home to begin a search. Marcy walked over to me in a state of horror at the scene she had just witnessed. I stood there frozen in time, still unwilling to accept what I had seen with my own eyes. Twice now, I had witnessed this horrific scene. Why had it come to this? Could I have done anything different to solve this case instead of entrapping our unsub? If I had known it was brokenhearted Ed, a police officer, could I have intervened somehow? This would remain with me for a long time. I worried about the captain and his own thoughts about how this went down. Would he blame me?
Finally, Emely was helped up so that Ed's body could be covered. She walked over to the captain with her now-bloody hands to her face. “Why? Why, Alex?” she asked between sobs and tears.
The captain embraced Emely. Both were covered in Wells’ blood. “I’m so sorry, Emely. I tried to stop him,” he said, holding her tightly and trying to console her, but he had his own tears. “Regardless of these erratic actions, your brother was a good man.”
“I told him he didn’t have to do this. I would have tried to stop him, even call the police, had I’d known he was going to kill two men. Such a way to end your life,” she said, still in the captain’s embrace.
I took a step closer to them. "Emely, I hate to do this now, but do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
Emely raised her gaze toward me. EMT personnel handed both her and Johnson some wet wipes so they could clean their hands and faces. She replied, sobbing, “I understand.”
I nodded. “When did Ed arrive from Miami?”
“A few days ago, maybe five, I think,” she replied, furiously scrubbing her hands with one of the wet wipes.
“Did he tell you why he came to New York?” I queried.
“He said he was undercover and following up on a case from Miami. And he would only be a few days,” she replied, now standing on her own.
“You said if you had known he was going to kill two people, you would have said something. When did you find out he killed two people?” I questioned.
“Just yesterday. That’s when he became drawn and despondent. He didn’t make sense anymore." She shook her head.
"Did he say who his target was?”
“All I remember is he said he got the last one. He was complaining someone got to one of his targets before he did,” Emely replied.
I exchanged surprised glances with Johnson.
“Did he say who his targets were?” Johnson asked, nearly finished with wiping himself off with the wet wipe. Only faint smudges remained.
“All he mumbled was that the three killers of Gene paid for their deeds,” she said, wiping her tears away. “That’s when I realized he was seeking revenge for Gene’s death, and not working on a real case. But he wouldn’t let me out of the house or make any calls or I—” She broke into tears again.
“Don’t blame yourself, Emely,” Johnson said gruffly, embracing her again.
“Captain,” a New Jersey officer said, “we recovered a laptop and a phone from a box in the room our…Sergeant Wells was occupying. Also, look at this New York Post.”
We walked toward the officer. The Post was opened to the news story about Patrick, and his name was circled with a red marker.
“Emely, are the laptop and phone yours?” Johnson asked.
She looked at the officer and the items and shook her head. “No, he brought that to the house a few days ago.”
“Those are most likely Bobal’s. Wells was using them probably to research the companies,” I said to the captain, then turned to Emely. “One more question, Emely. Do you know the names of the targets he had?”
“All I know is he saw his second target get shot. That’s all he said."
“Thank you,” I said and nodded to Johnson to walk away from Emely. We took a few steps away, and Marcy moved in closer to Emely to comfort her.
“You heard what she said, right? Ed killed two people, not three. We still have a shooter out there,” I said.
“I agree,” the captain said. “He killed Bobal and removed his laptop and phone. Then, he missed Newton but witnessed his murder. And then, he came after Patrick.”
“We have work to do. I’m taking off with Marcy. Are you sure you’re all right?” I studied him closely, looking for any signs of him not being okay.
“As best as we both can be after witnessing this shocking scene. I’ll be fine." His small smile was sad. "How about you?”
“Not something I wanted to see a second time in my life. I’m fine, thanks. We’ll talk later,” I said, walking back to Marcy and Emely.
Marcy and I left the scene. She knew I had been a few feet away when Ed pulled the trigger. So, we remained silent on our ride back.
I was in shock, from both the suicide and the new developments. Was there an end to this?
But my mind replayed all the suspects, trying to pinpoint who Newton’s shooter could have been. Turning my attention from the outside view to Marcy, I grabbed her right hand. “How are you?”
She swallowed hard. “Never seen anything like that. I feel so bad for Emely. What a shame it happened this way.”
“I know. And now we still have an unsub for Newton’s murder.”
“Anyone in mind?”
I let go of her hand, putting both of mine on my head. “No, right now I feel like I have an anvil inside of my head. I can’t think clearly.”
Marcy took a quick glance at me. “I’m sure tomorrow you can begin to decipher this. We both need some rest tonight.”
***
It was six in the morning when Marcy’s alarm went off. I hated the sound she had set her phone alarm to. I think she called circuit or something. She claimed it made her snap and pop out of bed. It made me want to grab the phone and snap and pop it out a window. But a happy wife is a happy home.
Marcy was anxious to find out if the FBI was going to greenlight the investigation of Peníze and the Drakos. She dropped me off at the pub at eight after a few hours of sleep for both of us.
I was back on the hunt with one more killer to uncover. In all my years at the NYPD and the couple of years at our own private practice, I had never had a case with so many victims, other than the serial killer we captured a while back.
After making myself a double espresso in the pub, I went into our office and fired up the smartboard. I would let Agnes put a cross on our newly named mystery man. I sat forward, leaning my arms on the conference table, and stared at it. My killer was there. His picture was staring at me, but who?
Agnes and Patrick walked in together right before nine with coffee in hand.
“Mr. Pat, what the hell are you doing here?” I asked, surprised to see him.
Walking slowly and gingerly, he sat down in his seat and replied in his Irish brogue, “Lad, I can’t stay home and be smothered all day. No more chicken soup. I need to be here.”
“Long day yesterday,” Agnes said, plopping down in her seat with a sigh. “At least we’re done with this case.”
“Not quite yet,” I replied.
“Is the good Father coming in?” Patrick asked.
“No, not today. Confessing his sinners, I think. He texted me,” I responded.
I went on to recount the end of yesterday, leaving out the gory details of Wells' suicide, which left both baffled and shaking their heads.
“Well, unless we have a new player, our guy should be right up there,” Agnes said as I finished and pointed to the smartboard.
“Oh, our guy is up there,” I attested, confident in that. “Let’s brainstorm a minute. After we read the documents that were locked in Newton’s safe, who had the most to lose when those become public?”
“There were twenty-two clients who knew what was going on, and more that participated in the illicit scheme,” Agnes replied.
Patrick gasped. "Oh, my. I wasn’t aware of that list. We have twenty-plus new suspects?”
“No, Mr. Pat, you were in the hospital. The list names…” I went on to give him the cliff notes version. “So, back to the question. Who has the most to lose?”
“Everything points to Senator Shenbeck if he’s considering a run for the White House,” Patrick replied.
“I’m glad the meds aren’t clouding your thinking,” I said, smiling. “And you’re correct.”
“Yes, but you want to exclude the other twenty-one?” asked Agnes.
“No, now we can set aside twenty of them. We don’t have the time and I don’t have the patience to profile twenty suspects.”
“So, who’s the other, Shenbeck’s chief of staff?" asked Patrick.
I smiled. “That’s our only other suspect right now.”
“Hang on a second, guys. If I remember correctly, Lance Friedman had an alibi that evening,” she stated, scrolling madly in the case notes on her tablet.
We waited patiently for Agnes to reach her destination. But I began to recollect something, and I think she was right.
She looked down at her tablet, her face illuminated by the screen's light. “Here, the night Newton was shot, Valeria Drako Bobal and Stevan Drako were having dinner with an attorney to discuss her possible divorce from Mr. Bobal. Joey asked Detective Charles who the attorney was. His response? Lance Friedman,” she concluded, looking up at us with satisfaction.
I dropped my head and thought for a second. “Which restaurant was it?”
Agnes looked down. “Ruth Chris Steak House.”
“Where?” I asked, knowing the answer now but wanting confirmation.
“West 51st Street,” she replied.
“That’s it. We got him,” I said, smiling and looking up.
“You lost me, boss,” Patrick said.
“The Alvin Clinton, Newton’s place, is on West 52nd Street. Go to Google maps and find out how long it takes to walk from there to Ruth Chris,” I said, drumming my fingers on the tabletop.
“Four minutes, according to this,” Agnes replied.
“Okay, so now, find out who made the reservation to the restaurant that night. Dollars to cannolis, it was Friedman for an obvious reason.”
Agnes went on to call the restaurant as Patrick asked, “What was the TOD on Newton’s murder?”
“I remember that it was between six thirty and nine in the evening. So, let’s see when our suspect was at the restaurant.”
“So, Friedman is protecting the senator?” Patrick queried.
“Maybe, but I think he’s protecting his possible ride to the White House as the chief of staff for the president. Capire?”
“Got it,” Agnes said, raising a hand with index finger extended. “Lance Friedman made the reservations for nine thirty. And, they were seated at nine forty-five.”
I opened my palms, satisfaction flowing through me. “We got him.”
“How are you going to do this? He’s not going to confess, and we have little or no proof,” Patrick asked.
“Working on that. Hang on a second,” I said and dialed Marcy. “Mi amor,” I began.
“Joey, I’m in the middle of a meeting. I can’t talk—”
I didn’t let her finish. “Text me your contact at the IRS. I love you,” I said quickly.
“IRS? What now?” Patrick asked with a slack jaw.
“That’s the source of this year’s bonuses,“ I replied in a deadpan tone.
“I’ll tell you later, Mr. Pat,” said Agnes.
Moments later, my message app went off with Marcy’s contact. “Guys, I’m out of here. I’ll be back after I meet with,” I looked at my text, “Iggy Whittaker in the Bronx.”
“That’s a long ride, maybe an hour,” Agnes said.
“And worth every minute, email me the file with all the names, so I can forward it to this guy at the IRS, but before you do, I want you to do something…” I replied, grinning as I stood up.
When I told her what I wanted her to do, she grinned. “Oh, that’s clever.”
50
Joey Mancuso ~
I called Johnson on my way to see Iggy at the IRS Office of Whistleblower, who, unknown to him at this point, was about to become my BFF. The captain was still recovering from yesterday’s traumatic experience but was working and ready to seal the deal.
Without giving him much of an explanation on how I intended to extract the truth, and strongly requesting that his crack detectives didn't partake in my party, I got him to acquiesce without any blowback. I would call him at the conclusion of my meeting with Iggy, and he would pick me up to plan the closing of this case. All he had to do for now was make an assertive effort to meet with Shenbeck and Friedman at two in the afternoon. Simply tell them we wanted to bring them up to date on the capture of our shooter.
“Captain, there’s another favor I need before we get to Shenbeck’s office. I’m having Agnes prepare a six-pack of photos and two videos for the only witness that saw a man walking in the walkway between 51st and 52nd Street before Newton was shot. I want Officer Smythe, who interviewed her at the scene, to visit with this lady and show her these.”
“You think she’s going to recognize one of these two?”
“I’m hoping she can, yes. Have Smythe call me the moment he meets with her. Agnes is sending him the six-pack and videos.”
***
Iggy Whittaker was a very low-key civil servant who looked every bit as I expected. Clip-on blue tie, a cheapo white shirt, and dark slacks that were two inches too long. Add in uncombed and thinning brownish hair and a thin mustache to match. And of course, the thick-rim black glasses that were standard-issue when graduating as an actuary or anal analyst from a local state college.
I sat with him and made him tell me the procedures to adhere to in order to qualify for a bounty when exposing tax cheats. The only reason he gave me the time of day was that Marcy, whom he met and probably secretly lust after, had recommended he see me. I sat
patiently as he went over every detail and more. Once I was convinced that I would get paid if the illicit funds were clawed back from our perps, I emailed him the attachment marked B that Agnes had sent me with all the goodies. Names, dates, amounts, and offshore accounts.
Iggy opened the file. His eyes widened as he looked over the Excel spreadsheet. He would look up at me with a silly-ass grin, then down again. Rubbing his hand over his greasy hair, he was in a state of bliss, as if J-Lo had just accepted his dinner invitation.
“Thank you, Mr. Mancuso, thank you. This could be the biggest tax evasion case in the history of our agency,” he said, almost reaching an orgasm.
I was curious, but I didn’t want him tabulating numbers now, so I asked, taking a chance, “Any ballpark figure on what is in it for me?” He took out his calculator. Oh, shit. “No, no, just ballpark it,” I said quickly.
He looked at the column with amounts and glanced up. “We’re talking millions and millions of illicit gains, none of which was reported, so thirty percent of that, wow, you’re in for a very, very nice bounty. That is, of course, if we’re successful.”
That sounded perfect to me. I stood. “Thank you, Iggy. I’ll follow your instructions and get these papers back ASAP.”
“No, thank you again and say hello to Special Agent Martinez,” he responded, taking my cue and standing up. We shook hands, and I was out of there.
Happy days were here again. I wiped my hands with my handkerchief to remove the grease, took the elevator down, and dialed Johnson.
As I reached the lobby of the building, Officer Smythe was calling. “How did it go, Smythe?”
“Went well, sir. I first showed her the six-pack of photos. She really didn’t pick anyone on the photo, but she did recognize number five on the bottom.”
I opened my copy of the six-pack to see it was Friedman. “But you’re saying she knew the guy?”
“Yes, she said it was the chief of staff for Senator Shenbeck. She’s seen him on TV. The others, she had no clue.”