by Owen Parr
Marcy took over. “She was upset about not going on the trip. Her engagement was off, or at least, momentarily off. What do they say about a scorned woman?”
I replied, “Hell has no fury like a scorned woman.” “Exactly, remember that.” Marcy added, “I think she saw
Parker as her ticket to the high life she coveted so much.”
Father Dom asked, “That’s it? Her only motivation was marrying Parker? Is that enough to kill him?” “Let’s assume,” I said, “that Parker told her the affair was off, that it was over between them. She went into a rage, hit him with something, and pushed him out the window.”
“We need to find out more about her past,” Marcy said. “She may have other motivations. Did she have any money invested with Parker’s company?”
“Good question,” I replied. “We don’t know that.” “Something else on Melody,” Dom said. “She has
a dinner date with Evans to discuss her acting career this evening.”
“What?” Marcy asked, surprised. “In the middle of all this, she’s thinking about her acting career?” “That’s not what Evans is thinking about,” I alleged. “Where are they meeting? Maybe we can follow and listen in.”
“At her apartment,” responded Dom. Marcy joked, “That’s convenient.”
Dom inserted, “I also asked if she knew Albert, and she replied no to that, although her body language told me something different.”
“We don’t have anything that ties them together. But the partners, or at least Evans, did lie about knowing Melody,” I said. Dominic was thinking; I could see his mind working.
“Brother, what are you pondering?”
“What if Parker just jumped?” Dom asked.
“Shit, bro, you’re the one that started this whole conspiracy murder theory. Now you think he just jumped?” “I’m just saying.” Marcy chimed in. “Wait a second. Then what about the young girl, Kathy; she was run over by a car? And from the looks of it, it was an intentional hit-and-run.”
“Yes, but,” Dom replied, “maybe that’s related to your case, the Ponzi scheme. Someone was afraid she knew too much.”
“Brother, as the trained homicide detective that I am, if Kathy knew too much, then Parker knew as much or more. You know what I mean?”
“Are you saying,” Marcy rejoined, “that the partners are the main suspects behind Parker’s death? Kathy’s accident happened before I showed up to speak to them about their alleged scheme.”
“Yeah, but they knew they had some shit clogging up their pipes. They have major financial issues, according to you,” I said.
Father Dom said, “Let’s go over the partners’ motivation and opportunity while we are on the subject of Evans and Albert. Starting with Melody telling me she saw them as they possibly might’ve walked out of his office before she walked in.”
“Sounds timely,” Marcy said. “If in fact Melody is telling us the truth and Parker wasn’t in his office, and assuming the partners walked out of his office, then we can assume they saw Parker last.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “What if they walked in, and like her, they didn’t see him there? See, the problem is that we don’t know when he hit that landing on the second floor. That screws up our timeline. All five of these people were there, in the office. All five, assuming the partners went into his office, could’ve been the last to see him and shove him out. Right?”
“Okay, so back to the motivation on the part of the partners. Let’s analyze,” Dominic said. “There’s a whole litany of motivators for them,” Marcy began. “The alleged Ponzi scheme cover-up, the insurance they’re going to collect on Parker’s death, the money they need, the ability to keep Parker’s clientele and not share a partnership cut for him. I mean, the list is large, isn’t it?”
Dom asked, “The insurance they’ll collect doesn’t have the same suicide clause?” “It may have, but normally, that clause voids the policy in the first twelve months of the policy. After that, it’s in full effect regardless of the COD,” I said.
Marcy added, “Father, that’s done to prevent a person from securing a policy knowing they’re about to commit suicide and leaving money to the heirs.”
Father Dom nodded, “The assumption then is, if someone is going to take their life, they’re not going to wait one year to do it.”
Marcy smiled. “Exactly. Taking one’s life is a drastic move, normally associated with a mental imbalance. Someone that’s depressed isn’t likely to wait that long.”
I added, “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. More than likely, the motivation for the act would resolve itself in some fashion, given time.”
“Based on what you both have said,” asked Dom, “is it possible that Parker was so depressed with everything crumbling in his life that he took his own life?”
“You’re back to this? Really?” I questioned. “He was about to make partner. He was celebrating here the other night. Shit, he even said he was moving to the Big Apple. Why blow all that?”
Dom added with a bit of humor, “We could ask our resident ghost, Jimmy.” I laughed, “That’s an idea. All we need is a Ouija board.” Marcy quipped, “Jimmy, the resident ghost? Explain, please.”
I responded, “Jimmy Hoffa, the union leader, disappeared in 1975, days after visiting our pub with a small group of men. Patrons who saw him here before his disappearance have always said he’s buried under the wooden planks behind the bar.”
Dom added, “That’s a funny story; however, there are reports Hoffa was last seen in his car and in Detroit, before his disappearance.”
“That’s hilarious,” Marcy quipped. “Don’t want to be a party pooper, Joey, but let’s get back to our case. Parker was under a lot of stress. For one, his constant quest for new clients and money. And then there’s others: the current clients complaining about the returns and the inability to cash out the clients, due to their illiquid investments, as well as the possibility that he was involved in the Ponzi scheme. That’s a lot of stuff going on. Not to mention his expenses in keeping Ms. Melody overlooking Central Park.”
“So, we close the case. I go back to tending bar. Brother, you go back to Saint Helen’s to tend your flock, and Marcy, you follow up on the Ponzi scheme.”
“Don’t be such a hothead, Mancuso.” Marcy said, “This murder mystery needs a resolution.”
I thought for a minute there that this was over. I hate it when people go dead and no one is blamed. Admittedly, this could go either way, suicide or murder. My gut was telling me this was a murder—make those two possible murders and at least five suspects.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Background checks were going good on our suspects. Fortunately, I still had some friends on the force with access to data. Plus, a lady friend, Agnes, who was hot after brother Dom. Agnes was working at an insurance company; she could research just about anyone and anything. Marcy was taking care of the research on the partners—namely, Evans and Albert, so my research through my sources was limited to Mr. Parker and his wife, Adelle Parker; Melody Wright, Parker’s hot squeeze; and Adelle’s father, a Mr. Andrew Huffing.
I opened the bar at two in the afternoon. For a Friday, things were slow with the early shifters, as I called them. While Fridays are busy for Happy Hour, our clientele of Wall Streeters has a habit of taking off early on Fridays and getting out of Dodge for the weekend. The top one percenters live in Manhattan and hang out with their kind at upscale, uptown local establishments. Others cozy up to Connecticut with their manicured lawns. The rest go across the Hudson to Jersey. Our second shifters—my unsavory friends, cops, and others—do frequent the bar, but their shift doesn’t start until about six in the evening. Mr. Pat wasn’t scheduled to come in until four in the afternoon, which was our custom for the hardworking Mr. Pat on Fridays.
Just before four in the afternoon, Mr. Pat rolled in and joined me in the Andy Warhol booth where I’d stationed myself to do some work on my notes. This semiprivate boot
h, probably with the most worn leather but definitely the most comfortable in the joint, was all the way in the back-right corner. In the mid-1980s, Warhol—when not at The Factory, his studio, or in the evenings at Studio 54—would come here to get away from it all. His friends would never think to find him at an Irish pub.
I raised my head when I heard the traffic from the outside, which was my signal that someone had walked into the bar. “Mr. Pat, two assholes wearing cheap suits walk into a bar,” I murmured, leaving it at that.
Mr. Pat asked, “Is this a joke?”
“No,” I said. “But two cheap-suited assholes just walked into the bar.”
Patrick turned his head to see the two assholes make a beeline to our booth.
“Mancuso, we need to talk,” said asshole uno. “Detectives Farnsworth and Charles, you guys married yet?” I asked. Detectives Bob Farnsworth and George Charles were NYPD dicks, both of whom I’d had the displeasure of working alongside in my immediate past life at the NYPD.
Mr. Pat, gentleman that he is, said, “Detectives, have a seat here. I was just getting up. What can I get you?” “It’s good to see that someone has manners in this establishment,” said Charles. “Two Cokes would be fine, thank you.”
I said, “Patrick, make those fountain sodas. Bottles are too expensive for these guys.” In reality, Charles had been a friend and a nice guy, but after being assigned to Farnsworth, he became asshole numero dos. When the situation called for the good-cop-bad-cop routine, these two couldn’t do it, no matter how hard they tried. Neither could pull off being the good cop. I did say they were assholes, right?
They smiled at Patrick and took a seat across from me. “Mancuso, it’s good to see you’re still a shithead,” said Farnsworth.
“Takes one to know one,” I replied. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“Stop the shit, man. We need some information,” said Charles.
“What kind of information?” I asked, looking at Charles.
“Are you working the jumper from Monday on Pine Street?” asked Farnsworth.
“Who wants to know?” I asked.
Farnsworth replied, “For a private dick, you’re not very perceptive. Who the hell else is asking?”
Patrick brought over the two Cokes and set them on the table between us.
I said, “You forgot their umbrellas.” Patrick walked away, hiding a smile. Charles stepped in. “Listen, the mayor called the commissioner. The commissioner called the captain at the precinct. Someone with heavy juice called the mayor evidently, and we were asked to follow up with you. That’s all.”
“Why me?” “Joey, we were at the coroner’s office,” said Charles, using my first name to soften the tone. “We found out from Doctor Death you’d been asking questions about the jumper. So, we figured it was you. We have some questions of our own.”
Farnsworth blurted, “Yeah, like who is your client? And why are you investigating a suicide?” “The first word in ‘private investigator’ is ‘private.’ Why does everyone seem to ignore that? My client wishes to remain private, period.”
“You want to see how fast you and your priest brother lose your PI licenses?” Farnsworth asked. I stared at this idiot, and I really wanted to reach across the table and pounce on him. “My brother has nothing to do with this.”
Charles said, “Evidently, he’s been asking questions too.”
“You have files on this?” asked Farnsworth. “I don’t keep files anymore. I memorize everything,” I replied. “Aha,” Farnsworth retorted, “they still have a file on you. The captain said to remind you. And we need some answers.”
I started to get out of the booth, and Charles gingerly grabbed my arm. “Joey, just answer some questions, man. We’ll get out of your hair. We need to go back with something. You know what I mean?”
I waved over to Mr. Pat. “Please get Detective Farnsworth a plastic glass. He’s going out on the street with his Coke.”
“Wait a fucking minute,” Farnsworth began. “No, you wait a fucking minute. I don’t have to answer any of your fucking questions,” I said.
Charles interrupted, “Joey, Joey.”
“I’ll talk to you. Your partner waits outside, or you go back with nothing,” I said. Charles nodded to Farnsworth, pointing to the front door with his chin. Patrick poured the remaining Coke from the red- faced Farnsworth’s glass into a plastic glass with a top and a straw. Farnsworth removed the straw and threw it on the table as he turned and walked out.
“You love doing this shit to him, don’t you?” Charles asked, smiling.
“I forgot how much I disliked him,” I replied. He took a sip from his Coke. “I really like your place. Business good?”
“Excellent. I never thought I’d enjoy being the proprietor of a bar.”
“You still hooked up with the Cuban bombshell FBI agent?”
“Marcy?”
“Why, is there more than one hot Cuban FBI agent? If so, I want to meet them.”
“You’re married with kids, or did Jenna kick your ass out?” “Happily married twelve years, brother, which is not bad for being married eighteen, right?” Charles said, laughing.
“Bring Jenna over one night. I’ll have Marcy join us.” “I’d like that; yes, I’ll do that. Now listen, brother, what do you know about this jumper that we don’t know?” I didn’t want to give out too many clues as to why we thought this was more than just a suicide. I didn’t need the NYPD involved in this case, especially after finding out there was a call to the mayor. But I did want to give Charles something to go back with so he’d leave us alone.
“There’s a grieving wife who’s losing about two mil in insurance benefits. If this guy committed suicide, she gets zilch. You know what I mean?”
“So, the widow is your client,” he said, not in the form of a question, but statement-like. I let him think that and proceeded. “It’s a nothing case, just something for us to do. Who knows? We might pull in other clients because of this.”
“Do you have any reason to think it wasn’t a suicide?” I said, “We should wrap this up in a few days. It was ruled a suicide, and the likelihood that someone had a hand in pushing this guy out the window is a stretch at this point. If anything develops to the contrary, I’ll call you.”
“Fine, Joey, I’ll go with that,” Detective Charles said. “Can I pay you for the Cokes?”
“Get the fuck out, man. Be sure to call me. And bring Jenna, but leave the asshole home.”
Charles got up, bumped shoulders with me, shook my hand, and headed out to his sulking partner. My only guess was that the call to the mayor came from either U.S. Representative Stevens—the man running for Congress back then, Evans, or Albert, which added a twist to our investigation.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Marcy walked in about five thirty. The regulars knew better than to even glance at her. But the newbies—and it never failed—could not get over this stunning work of femininity. Clad with tight black jeans, a sports jacket, and a shield with a forty-caliber Glock 22 strapped to her thin waist, Marcy was, to them, a hot lady with legs that didn’t quit.
“I just got reamed a new one,” she said, kind of pissed. “That’s going to be confusing,” I replied. “What do you mean?” she asked, paused, and then added, “Never mind. You are so vulgar.”
“Have a seat, relax, and tell me about it. How about a Pellegrino?”
“No, have Mr. Pat make me a mentirita. I’m off duty, thank God.” I walked over to the bar and asked Patrick for a Cuba Libre, which is rum, in Marcy’s case, Bacardi Rum and Coke. Cubans in the U.S. use the word mentirita, which means ‘little lie.’ ‘Cuba Libre’ means ‘a free Cuba,’ and Cuba is under communist rule. There are no freedoms in Cuba under the Castro’s: thus, the name.
I waited for the drink to be prepared while Marcy cooled off a bit. Walking back to our booth, I said, “Patrick is working on a second one, considering its two-for-one until six p.m.”
“That’s funny.”
>
“Tell me, what happened?”
“My boss was all over me. Evidently, they found out I’m helping you with the jumper case.”
“I have a feeling I know why, but why do you think?” “It’s a known fact we sleep together, and someone is complaining about you and Father Dom asking about a suicide. So, they put two and two together.”
“Why do they call it ‘sleep together’? I’ve never understood that. Do you?” “Joey, this is serious. I’m using FBI resources to help two private investigators on a case that’s not even a case. I can get fired for this.”
“Then we’ll open a bar in the Keys, and fuck ‘em all.”
“Seriously?” “With your Jimmy Buffet parrot-head tattoo on the back of your neck, your body in a halter top and hot pants tending tables, we’ll make a killing.”
“If we can’t discuss this like adults, I’m leaving.” “Sorry. I had a visit from two detectives earlier in the afternoon about the same thing. Someone called the New York mayor complaining about Dom and me asking questions about the jumper. So, the mayor called the commissioner, and it came down to these two guys wanting to know why and what.”
“Who do you think called, Evans and Albert?” “Remember my case with the homeless John Doe?” “What about it?”
“The two men in the alley that were arguing, they-” Marcy interrupted, “—were the congressman and Evans.” “The congressman was only a candidate then, but yes, the same two.”
“So, you think that Evans called the mayor as a push back to our—make that your—investigation?”
“It’d seem Evans or the congressman did, right?” I said, as Patrick brought over her second Cuba Libre. “Thank you, Mr. Pat. They’re perfect as usual,” Marcy said, as Patrick smiled.
A uniformed policeman opened the front door and handed a waitress a large envelope. “Ah, my research just got here.”
“Who brought it?”
“A uniform just handed it to Alina.”