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

by Owen Parr

  The others were three fakes, and two of Wells, one as the janitor with his makeup and one without.

  “That’s fine and she’s correct. What about the videos of the two guys walking?” Agnes had sent a short clip of Wells dressed as the HVAC person in the Avalon Clinton the day he shot Bobal, as well as a copy of a city traffic camera showing Friedman crossing 7th Avenue back to Ruth Chris Steak House that she had obtained. We assumed it was after shooting Newton.

  “No, sir. Nothing on the fellow in the office building, and the other is too far and dark. Anything else I can do?”

  “You’re good. Thanks very much.”

  “I hope it helps,” he said before disconnecting.

  Yes, it would. My plan was coming together.

  After forty-five minutes of waiting for Johnson, I had already allocated the bounty. Investments, a new home, bonuses, a college fund for little Mancuso, a nice present for Jack and Odette’s wedding, and another one for Robert Logan, who I assumed would be the best man

  I jumped in Johnson’s car and he asked, “Why were you at the IRS?”

  Okay, add a gift for Johnson. “I'll let you know a little later. Let me tell you what I want you to do.”

  Before I had a chance to explain my stratagem, he asked, “Is this one of your off-Broadway plays?”

  I ignored his question. My off-Broadway plays, as he called them, had resulted in numerous arrests and cases solved for his unit. I knew he didn’t care for my non-protocol antics, but he never had a problem with the closing act.

  We arrived at Shenbeck’s office and were made to wait twenty minutes before we were ushered into a conference room. As expected, Friedman was by Shenbeck’s side.

  “Congratulations,” Friedman said with a wide grin as he stood up. “You got the shooter.”

  51

  Joey Mancuso ~

  “Thank you,” replied the captain, smiling and shaking hands with both Shenbeck and Friedman. I followed suit, sans the smile.

  “Have a seat, tell us how you nailed him,” said Friedman.

  The captain turned to me and nodded.

  “We still have a couple of items we need to resolve and if you don’t mind, we need to ask you a few questions,” I began.

  Friedman’s expression went from a silly-ass grin to a glowering look. “What could we possibly know about these murders?”

  “That’s why the questions. For instance, senator, you were at Mr. Bobal’s apartment the evening just minutes before he was killed, correct?”

  “We already—” began Shenbeck.

  “Wait a second, the killer, the Miami cop, confessed to these murders. I was told this morning by your detectives. What are you doing?” asked Friedman, pushing his phone off the table and standing up. His eyes were on fire and his face followed suit.

  I made a mental note of that and glanced at the captain, who said, “This is an official NYPD investigation, which is still on-going. If you’d like, we can conduct these at the precinct.”

  The senator put out his hand to stop Friedman. “Have a seat,” he said, pulling on Friedman’s suit sleeve. “We have nothing to hide here. Yes, I was. But like I said, you knew that.”

  “And the evening that Mr. Newton was killed, where were you?” I asked.

  “That was the next day. My wife and I had company at home,” Shenbeck replied without hesitation.

  “How about you, Mr. Friedman? Where were you that evening when Newton was shot twice in the chest?” I asked, my arms on the tabletop, index finger pointing at him.

  Friedman sat back and sighed. “I’ve already answered that question to your detectives once before. It should be in your files. I was having dinner with clients.”

  I played dumb. “Oh, my mistake, that’s right. You were having dinner with Stevan and Valeria Drako at the Ruth Chris on 51st Street.”

  “That’s exactly right and you can check that,” Friedman shot back.

  “We did and you’re right. As a matter of fact,” I closed my eyes, then opening them, I added, “you had reservations at nine pm if I’m not mistaken.”

  Friedman remained quiet.

  “What else do you need to know?" asked Shenbeck, gesturing for us to get a move on.

  I touched Johnson's arm, giving him the cue of what I wanted next.

  “At this point,” said Johnson, “we need to talk to you separately, or we can go to the station.”

  Friedman sputtered in indignation. “That's preposterous! This is an official questioning you said, correct?” The captain nodded. “Then, as the attorney for the senator, I need to be present,” Friedman said in a hostile manner with a haunted look.

  “Actually, I just want to talk to the senator first. I’m not asking any questions of him,” I replied, not being totally honest. But I had to do this before he lawyered up and shut down as tightly as a clam.

  “I’m not an idiot, Lance, and I’m an attorney myself. I’m fine with that,” Shenbeck said. “There’s another small conference room outside and to the left.”

  Johnson rose, and Friedman begrudgingly followed.

  “Thank you, senator,” I said. “May I sit next to you? I’d like to show something I have in this envelope.” I placed two spreadsheets on the table, one marked A and the other B. “Please open the spreadsheet marked A.”

  He read the top lines, turning pale. He grimaced and winced at the same time. Pushing the spreadsheet out of his way, he demanded with a snarl, “What the hell is this?”

  “That, sir, is the end of your political career and more than likely your ticket to a ten-by-eight cell,” I replied in a deadpan tone.

  Shenbeck looked at me, swallowing hard. “Is this extortion? Who else has this list and where did you get it?”

  I ignored the questions. “Senator, right now, in the other room, your chief of staff is probably blaming you for the murder of Mr. Newton.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” he asked, turning as red as a tomato.

  “We have a witness to the Newton murder that recognized Friedman from a series of photos.”

  “But he has an alibi!” he exclaimed.

  “We have traffic cam video showing him crossing 7th Avenue from the Newton building to the restaurant that evening, right before nine pm. He had plenty of time to commit the murder and have dinner with the Drakos.”

  “Why are you telling me all this? Why not arrest him?”

  “The question is, sir, did you tell him to kill Newton to keep him from talking and exposing that list?” I asked, bringing the spreadsheet back close to him.

  “I would never do a thing like that,” he replied, transfixed on the spreadsheet with an odd look in his eyes.

  “Did you know he was going to kill George Newton?”

  He didn’t reply and here was when I thought he would say the magic word: lawyer.

  I tried a different approach. “Take a look at the list marked B."

  He opened the list, immediately noticing his name was missing. His eyes widened. “What is this now?”

  “That is the list I’m prepared to hand over to the IRS and Captain Johnson now if you cooperate.”

  “But this isn't the original spreadsheet, is it?” he asked in a somber tone.

  “No, sir, but it will buy some time to negotiate with the Feds. There’s no get-out-of-jail card available.”

  After a moment, he swung his steely gaze up to meet mine. “What do you want to know?”

  52

  Joey Mancuso ~

  Walking over to the doorway of the other conference room, I called Johnson. As we entered the room with Shenbeck, I said, “Captain Johnson will record your statement.”

  Then, I whispered a few things to Johnson and went back to sit with Lance Friedman.

  “You guys are wasting our time," he barked. "This guy Johnson made repeat everything that’s already on file with your two other idiots.”

  That part about the idiots was right. Johnson had bought me time with trivia. Now, it w
as my turn to squeeze the tourniquet on Lance.

  “You’ve been speaking to the detectives quite a bit, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve called Detective Charles for updates. The senator needs to be informed,” he replied, leaning forward.

  “Did you speak to him after Mr. Bobal was killed?”

  “Of course, I did. You know that. I established my alibi.”

  “And once they cleared you, did they give details of the murder. For the senator’s benefit, of course.”

  “They did, they told me some details that weren't for public knowledge.”

  “Right. So, you knew about the two to the chest, and about the up close and personal.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I want to show you something. May I come around to your side of the table?” I asked, standing up and moving over.

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” he replied sarcastically.

  “This is a video of a traffic cam on the corner of 7th Avenue and West 51st Street. Notice the clock on the top right.” I played the video.

  He raised a defiant eyebrow. “So? That’s me crossing over to go to Ruth Chris right before our reservation. What about it?”

  “Now, take a look at these photos.” I flashed the six-pack.

  “That’s the killer,” he said, pointing to Wells’ real photo. “Cute, why am I in the grouping?”

  “A witness that saw the shooter walking on the walkway between West 51st and 52nd Street right before Newton was shot recognized you from this six-pack,” I said and sat back.

  He kept his eyes glued to the six-pack without saying a word. “You have nothing. An eyewitness saw me walking? That’s bullshit, Mancuso. Who d'you think you’re dealing with here, some idiot? You have no weapon, no eyewitnesses to the shooting, I’m sure no forensics. Otherwise, I’d be in a cell by now. So, my crime is walking on the street on my way to a restaurant, is that it?”

  “Partner," I said slowly, so he understood every word I said, "if I don’t get you this way, I’m going to get you another way. By the way, the senator already threw you under the bus.”

  A momentary gleam of uncertainty flashed in his eyes before his spine stiffened and he shot me a look of disdain. “I’m sure he didn’t do such a thing. He’s a shoo-in for the White House and he’s not about to incriminate me or himself in this charade of yours. He’s no fucking genius, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Okay, have it your way. Now, let me show you something else,” I said, pulling out the A spreadsheet from a manila envelope. “Here, take a look.”

  He let out a big breath as if he had just finished pressing a two-hundred-pound barbell. He didn’t say a word, his body tightening as he sat there.

  I grinned. “Lance, say goodbye to the White House. You’re going away for a long time. Maybe they can knock off some time if you cooperate.”

  “I want an attorney now,” he finally said.

  “I understand. Let me just give you a few questions that will help you out a lot if you can answer them now.”

  “You can ask, but I may not answer,” he offered.

  “No problem.” I knocked on the wall adjacent to the other conference room, signaling the captain to join me.

  The captain walked over, sat in front of Friedman, turned his recording app on, and read him his Miranda rights, adding date, time, and those present. Friedman sat stoically and said nothing.

  “Mr. Friedman, you’re going to be charged with Felony A-1, murder in the first degree under New York penal law section 125.27, which carries a death sentence,” began the captain.

  “New York doesn’t carry out death penalties,” Friedman uttered.

  “Maybe,” I offered as the captain looked at me, and while he didn’t verbalize it, I understood his look to mean hey, it’s my turn. “Sorry, sir, please go on.”

  “Once we turn you over to the Feds, you’ll be charged with violating Rico Statutes Title 18, Code 1961, for murder and extortion,” said Johnson. “Additionally, you’re facing felony charges for tax evasion, Title 26, Code 7201.”

  I wanted to ask, How do you plead, asshole? but I was getting ahead of myself. I let the captain continue.

  Johnson hit pause on the recorder app. “Or, if you cooperate, maybe we can find a way to lessen the charges. Up to you.”

  “Keep talking,” Friedman said, glancing slightly at Johnson.

  Johnson went on silkily. “For one, we can drop first degree to manslaughter. You had an argument with Friedman, you fought, and you shot him to protect yourself. Think about the two different outcomes of a guilty verdict.”

  Friedman crossed his arms. “What do you want?”

  Hitting record on the app, the captain asked, “Did you kill Newton on your own, or did someone order the hit?”

  “I deal with my lawyer present,” he replied.

  “Who orchestrated the two robbery attempts on the Newton home?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Who ordered the murder of Gene Wells?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Who ordered the hit on James Roth?”

  “Lawyer.”

  The captain looked at me, and I smiled. I knew we had our man. The little slick bastard was going down for this.

  Johnson went on. “Who orchestrated the tax evasion scheme?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Is Stevan Drakos or anyone associated with him the masterminds behind these murders and the tax evasion scheme?”

  Friedman looked up at Johnson, then glanced at me. “Lawyer.”

  Johnson nodded my way. I knocked on the wall again, and Johnson and I stood up. Two uniforms walked into the room.

  “Mr. Friedman, please stand. We’re placing you under arrest for the charges outlined,” Johnson said.

  The officers frisked Friedman and cuffed him behind his back, and we walked out of the conference room to join Detectives Farnsworth and Charles, who were with a cuffed Senator Shenbeck.

  53

  Joey Mancuso ~

  And that was that.

  Oh, don’t fret, I’m not going to leave you with a cliffhanger. I would never do that. But perhaps you’ll join me with an adult beverage and, in my case, a good cigar while I wrap this case up. Give me a minute while I move over to the cigar club and sit in one of our comfortable leather couches. I’m going to put on some John Coltrane in the background.

  I’m ready if you are.

  There were no winners in this saga. Greed, corruption, and murder took center stage. I remembered an Albert Einstein quote as I reflected on this case three days later. “Three great forces rule the world. Stupidity, fear, and greed.” All the players were guilty of one or more of these evils. In the end, none were rewarded with any satisfaction.

  Let’s begin with tall and gangly Officer Smythe. When I first met this young fellow, he was just out of the academy. I remember looking at an asparagus when I introduced myself at the scene of a murder on Washington Park South. Captain Johnson took my advice and moved Smythe into his detective unit. I know Smythe is on his way up in the NYPD, and I’m hoping for the best for him.

  My favorites team of detectives, Farnsworth and Charles, were moved over the Cold Case Unit. NYPD’s Cold Case Unit is the largest in the US, with approximately twenty detectives working a log jammed full of cases, which, a few years ago, exceeded ten thousand unsolved crimes. Unless I get contracted to work a cold case, I won’t be able to pick their brains. Too bad for me… Not. I don’t mean to be so disparaging of this duo, but I'm tired of the banter.

  Captain Alex Johnson continues to lead his squad. He’s confided in me that he might consider retirement soon. With over twenty-two years of service, he qualifies for one half his salary plus other benefits. Like I said before, I have a special place in my heart for him and hope he stays around for a few more years.

  Let me get another pour while Mile Davis now plays "It Never Entered My Mind." I’m getting to the main players in just a moment while I sip on this smooth Balvenie single malt scotch. />
  My duo of private detectives, Larry and Harry, continue to help me and work on the smaller cases I’m not interested in. I really didn’t want to deal with small cases, but at Agnes’ suggestion, we have these two guys do it. It pays their salary, so there are no issues.

  Our adopted uncle, Patrick Sullivan, recovered well from his broken ribs under the care of his now-steady companion, Carla Miranda. His recent skirting of death may precipitate his retirement to Costa Rica, which he had contemplated before. Dom and I will miss him, but at seventy-two and with all his life’s occurrences, from serving in Nam up until now, maybe it’s time for the slow and easy life on a beach with a good companion.

  Agnes Smith, our office manager and cloud angel, is probably the best asset of the Mancuso & O’Brian Investigations. Happily married to my little Jimmy Buffet buddy, Professor P, she’s going nowhere and remains dedicated to our team, sharing our values and commitment to keep the moniker we earned a few years back from the local press as the Last Advocates of the Victims.

  My brother, surrogate father, and mentor, Pastor Dominic O’Brian of Saint Helen’s Catholic Church in Brooklyn perseveres in the fight, in the uphill good fight of preaching to his ever-dwindling congregation. He’s given up most of his duties as co-owner of our little enterprises but is still the auditor of all our expenses. His love for solving crime is still present and something he will continue to do as much as possible. I need him to curtail my out-of-the-box thinking and activities that may get my ass thrown in jail or damage one of our cases. Not that I’m going to change, mind you. But a little restrain is always welcome.

  Our pub and cigar club continue to attract our regular patrons and grow daily. The financial district in Lower Manhattan is still a vibrant part of this great city. We are fortunate to have inherited this seventy-year-old institution of a pub.