A Murder on Long Island: A Joey Mancuso Father O'Brian Crime Mystery (A Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery Book 2)

by Owen Parr

  Now, I was a proprietor of a pub, a full-time business owner no longer wearing a gun to work, and our relationship had blossomed once again. The occasional crime solving case my brother and I took on as private investigators, she felt, would suffice my angst for crime solving. How would she react to me becoming a consultant for an NYPD homicide division? I thought to myself. I would have to address this with her, but it had to wait after the newly acquired case was solved, one way or the other. There was no time to waste pondering what both Marcy, and my brother Dom, would have to say about my newly uncovered opportunities, both of which excited me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The loud sound of a car horn brought me back from my altered state of consciousness. The stream of cars and yellow cabs flowed steadily outside our pub’s door. Usually quiet inside our pub, before the start of business at two in the afternoon, the opening of the door allowed New York City to infuse our pub with its captivating sound. Someone was walking in, and I had no idea who it was.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, “we don’t open until two.”

  “Oh, I know. You must be Joey Man-cue-so,” a well-dressed fellow from central casting in his late thirties said. “I’m Special Agent Tony Belford, with the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division. Is Marcela here yet?” he asked, walking over to me and extending his hand.

  I got up from the booth and shook hands with central-casted Tony, “Hi, happy to meet you Tony, but no, Marcy is not here, and it’s Mancuso,” I said, checking my hand for fractures, as he let go. “Was she expecting you?”

  “She was supposed to be here first, but I’m always early. Never know how traffic is going to be,” Tony replied. “I’m Marcy’s new partner.”

  “Oh, great. So, how you doin’?” I asked, in my Italian slang.

  “Living the dream, my man, living the dream.”

  I tend to judge people by how they dress, perhaps judge is not the proper word, more like ‘read’ people. This fellow was ready for the cover of GQ Magazine. Brooks Brothers suit, Hermes tie, and Gucci shoes. Not a blonde hair out of place, a perfectly trimmed pencil mustache adorned his otherwise Adonis sculptured face. He was not dressing for himself, no, this asshole was dressing for others, and he wanted to create an image to be judged by. So, I did. An ‘asshole, at best’, I thought. “Have a seat,” I said. “I didn’t know Marcy had a partner.”

  “Right, neither did she, until yesterday. I just got assigned here by FBI Director Wright, and Marcy’s in charge of showing me the ropes in New York.”

  “So, you’re a new agent?”

  “Hardly, Joey, I’ve been in Chicago’s office, and this is a new assignment for me. I’ve been a special agent for some years now, probably have more experience than Marcy, herself. I’m a Harvard graduate with a law degree, and a bachelor’s in criminology,” he said, emphatically.

  Oh, she is going to love this guy, I thought. “Can I get you anything?” I asked, politely, but biting my tongue. This guy was a like a prairie dog; his neck moved almost three hundred and sixty degrees as he glanced everywhere.

  “Noo, noo, I don’t drink or smoke. Got to keep the temple in shape. Thank you, though. I do love your place, very urban.”

  ‘Urban?’ What the fuck does that mean, asshole? I said to myself, “I was just about to light a new cigar. I’m sure Marcy will be here soon, have a seat,” I said, heading rapidly to my humidor to find a smelly stogie.

  “I hear you and Marcy are good friends.”

  “Is that what she said?” I asked, turning back and realizing he was two steps behind me. I could now see he was wearing a wireless earbud in his left ear. Maybe waiting for a call from Scotty on the Enterprise.

  “She said you were good friends, have been for a couple of years.”

  “We are excellent friends that sleep together, and have discussed marriage,” I said sternly, sounding like a high-school kid protecting his first girlfriend.

  “I had no idea.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Ignoring me, GQ Tony said, “Joey, you mind if I look around at the black and white photos? I should bring you a picture of President Obama and me, to hang on your wall.”

  I ignored that. “Knock yourself out, sport.” Marcy better get here quick, or we might have a homicide right here in the pub, I thought.

  The front door swung open, and in walked Marcy. She looked perky today, sporting a new hairdo, not her usual ponytail with her long thick amber hair. No, today’s hairstyle was a beauty parlor production. It was styled and looked great. But why now? I thought. Plus, no pants, and blazer. No, Special Agent Martinez was wearing a dress and a matching top that hid the Glock on her waist. If I didn’t know better, these two appeared to be Special Agents Barbie and Ken.

  “Looking good, Marcy, what’s up, lover?” I asked, letting out a big puff of cigar smoke.

  “Hi, Joey, I see you met Special Agent Belford,” she replied, walking by me, on her way to the asshole who was at the back of the pub looking at the photos on the walls.

  I turned around as she walked back, admiring her incredible figure. “What, no kiss?” I asked, raising both my arms.

  She ignored me, as she spoke to Tony. They laughed together for a minute and walked back towards me.

  “We have to go,” she said, and smiling at Tony, she added, “we have a new case, and I need to bring Tony up to speed on our way there.”

  “Can I see you later? I’m done by eight tonight. Maybe dinner?”

  “I’ll have to call you and let you know. I’m sorry I was late, I had wanted to introduce you to my new partner.”

  “My fault Marcela, I was early. Joey and I have already made our acquaintance.” GQ Tony said.

  “Yes, we did, I know everything about Special Agent Belford,” I added.

  “In that case, I’ll call you later, Joey.” Marcy said, as she came close to me and whispered, “Isn’t he great?”

  I almost swallowed my cigar. “Oh yeah, just great.” I said, rolling my eyes.

  She smiled, kissed me on the cheek. Turned around and walked out of the pub, not saying another word.

  “Man-cue-so,” GQ Tony shouted back, “it’s two in the afternoon, get those cold beers ready,” he said, laughing and walking out behind Marcela.

  Who was this effin guy? How obnoxious is too much? Marcy was in for a surprise. So much for the morning. Now, I had to get started on the Longworth case. My first stop was going to be the offices of Attorney Adams, to review the files they had on the case. Next, I wanted to sit with Mr. Longworth himself, who, while out on bond, was wearing an ankle bracelet, and living at The Plaza Hotel, on Fifth and Central Park South, while the trial was going on.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The case files were well organized and laid out for me in a small conference room at attorneys Adams and Pearson’s office, which coincidentally, or, by design, are in the same building as Mr. Longworth’s office. A beautiful bookcase adorned the length of a wall, filled with law books, I guess. I’ve always wondered if they’ve read all these books. After about an hour of perusing the files, I concluded that a whole year of investigation led to nothing other than bullshit. Either Longworth was guilty as hell, or someone had failed to do their homework properly.

  Billy ‘Crunchy’ Williams, the investigator hired by Adams, was late in joining me. It didn’t take long to find out why this short, hefty fellow with bad hair and a cheap suit was nicknamed Crunchy. He was incessantly crunching ice he carried in one of the containers that keep things cold or hot for what, thirty-days? I could see this guy was going to be an annoyance.

  “The Joey Mancuso, what a pleasure to meet you,” Crunchy said, in a frail voice, extending his thick, tiny right hand. “I was looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Billy, don’t believe everything you read, a pleasure to meet you, too,” I said, lying through my teeth.

  In between biting down on ice, he said, “Please call me Crunchy, everybody does.”

  “Very
well, I’ll do that. Have a seat; I want to go over these files with you.”

  Undoing the button on his jacket, he sat down and with his tiny hands pulled himself closer to the table. I don’t think his feet reached the floor.

  “When did you get involved in the case?”

  “The day after the murder. Mr. Adams hired me.”

  I was having problems hearing him, with the wispy voice and freaking ice in his mouth. “You said you were hired one day after the murder?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding.

  “You don’t work for Adams exclusively?”

  “Only on occasion. I have other clients,” he said, wiping his wet lower lip.

  “I see. Tell me what you think?”

  He snorted something incomprehensible, which I ignored, then said, “I think he did it. I think he’s guilty.”

  “In all this time, you’ve found no other persons with motives or opportunities?” I said, looking up from the files.

  “Some with motives, maybe. Everyone has enemies, right?” he said with a laugh, opening up his arms. “But no one we could connect to the murder, no.”

  “Did you interview Mr. Longworth?”

  “Yes, of course. He maintains his innocence, but there’s just too much evidence against him. You know what I mean?”

  “Nothing in these files exonerates him, no. As a matter of fact, everything here points to him being culpable.” I said, pushing the data away from me on the table.

  He clasped his hands, “That’s what I mean, Joey. His wife’s blood on his clothes, his fingerprints with her blood on the murder weapon. The time it took him to call nine-one-one —,”

  I interrupted, “How long did it take him to call nine-one-one?”

  “We know from the alarm system, that he turned off the alarm at eleven-ten that night. We know that’s the time he got home, because he admitted to that. It wasn’t until eleven-thirty-five that he made the call to nine-one-one.”

  “That’s a twenty-minute gap between entering the home and calling for help. Doesn’t seem unreasonable. He comes in, walks upstairs, finds the body, then secures the home, as he said, and then makes the call,” I summarized.

  “The prosecution presented it differently. They claim he came into the home with a plan, a premeditated plan. He shot his wife, then realizing he had blood all over him, went downstairs, shot into the ceiling for an alibi, then called nine-eleven.”

  “Was there anything missing from the home?”

  “You mean, was this a robbery gone wrong?” Asked Crunchy, in between crunches of ice.

  “Exactly.”

  “Nothing was missing, no,” he said, as he sneezed into the right sleeve of his cheap jacket, and then wiped it off with his left hand.

  Why don’t men carry a handkerchief anymore? I thought to myself. “Did you investigate to see if there had been robberies in the area, which could tie this to a possible break-in and create doubt for the jury?”

  “Adams and Pearson have not explored that angle, no.”

  “But did you, Crunchy, consider that?”

  Apologetically, and a bit quizzical, he replied, “No, I did not. Should I do that now?”

  “I’ll take care of that,” I replied, writing down some notes.

  Attorney Pearson walked into the conference room, his comb-over hairdo looked like he had over done it with hair spray. I guessed he checked for wind speed before leaving his home this morning. “How’s it going, fellows?”

  Crunchy looked at me, and I, at Pearson, “Not very well. Have a seat, I would like to ask you some questions,” I said, pointing to a chair across the table from me.

  “What’s on your mind?” Pearson asked, with a look of consternation.

  I sat back in my chair, “You said before, that the prosecution is going to use as a motive, the fact that Mr. Longworth thought his wife was having an affair?

  “That’s correct, that’s correct. Crunchy was the investigator hired by our client, and will testify to that effect.” Pearson replied.

  I looked at Crunchy, “You investigated the affair?”

  Crunchy looked at me, but did not respond.

  Before Crunchy answered, Pearson said, “Yes, he did. But he never proved anything, because Mrs. Longworth was killed just when he started the investigation.”

  “Correct,” said Crunchy, biting into his ice.

  Ignoring Crunchy, I asked Pearson, “Did you guys pursue that investigation on your own? Because if you prove Mrs. Longworth was not having an affair, that could blow up the motivation angle being used by the prosecution, right?”

  Pearson swiveled uncomfortably in his chair, “No we did not, Joey. We didn’t want to open a possible Pandora’s box. But even if she was not having an affair, and Mr. Longworth thought she was, they are going to use that against him.”

  I was having a problem with this. “Let me ask you something Mr. Pearson, even if you proved that she was having an affair, it’s privileged information. But at least you guys would know. And if she wasn’t, then you have an argument to offset theirs.”

  Pearson glanced at Crunchy and replied, “Even if Sheila was not having an affair, they have so much against Mr. Longworth, that we felt unless we find the real killer, there’s not much we can do.”

  Shit, even a public defender with little experience could do better than these guys, I thought. “I see, so you wait until the last two minutes of the game to call me in, and expect I’m going to throw a Hail Mary pass and win the game?” I asked, a little perturbed. “Let me correct that, you weren’t going to call me in at all, it was the daughter of Mr. Longworth, Margery, I think you said her name is, who is the one that insisted on us getting involved, right?”

  Pearson turned to Crunchy, and said, “Crunchy, may I speak to Joey alone?”

  Crunchy pushed back from the table, gathered his container with the ice and replied, “Of course, Mr. Pearson; I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  Pearson waited for Crunchy to vacate the room and said, “Look, Joey, I’m sorry you’re upset, and I understand. The fact is, Marshall, my partner, is very close to the Longworths, and he did not want to expose any scandals about affairs, if there was one. As much as both of us, that being Marshall and me, want to believe Harry’s innocence, we think he did it.”

  I looked into his eyes and said, “Forgive me for saying this, but it seems you are just going through the motions of defense, without any conviction that he is innocent. I don’t know, the word languid, comes to mind.”

  “We are doing the best we can against the prosecution’s case,” he replied, sternly.

  Bullshit, I said to myself. “Very well. I need to meet with Mr. Longworth; please arrange that. Then, I’m going to meet with the detectives that investigated the case. Let me just add, I, unlike you guys, am not going to go through the motions. For the next few days, I’m going to work my ass off to get to the bottom of this, at least until I run out of time and the whistle blows.”

  Pearson got up, “We don’t expect anything less from you. I don’t believe that the detectives that worked the case will talk to you at this stage, the prosecution won’t let you. Do you want Crunchy helping you in any way?”

  I got up from my chair, extended a handshake across the table to Pearson and replied, “No, Crunchy is off the case. Arrange for me to meet Mr. Longworth, first thing tomorrow morning, please. And, don’t worry about the detectives, I have my ways.”

  Pearson repeated, “You have your ways, you have your ways.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  On my way back to the pub, my thoughts were that these guys might be looking for a reason to appeal this case, based on a lousy defense on their part. I didn’t see any effort from them to exonerate their client. If he was guilty, fine, however, if not, someone was going to get away with murder. Not with me on the case, I was going to find the murderer, even if it was Mr. Longworth himself.

  I called Father Dom on my cell, “Bro, where are you?”

  “
Hey, Joey, I’m at the pub helping Mr. Patrick. It’s busy here. How about you?”

  “On my way back. How long are you going to be there?”

  “I can stay another hour before I go back to Saint Helen’s. Why?”

  Saint Helen’s Catholic Church, in Brooklyn, is the parish where my brother, Father Dominic O’Brian, tends to his flock in his pragmatic twenty-first century way.

  “I want to brainstorm about our new case. See you there.” Clicking off Dom, I dialed Agnes Smith. Agnes is our computer nerd extraordinaire. She works during regular hours for an insurance company, and has access to more information than she is willing to admit. Plus, when necessary, Agnes knows her way into the internet’s backdoors and such. To make things even more interesting, Agnes is, has been, hot for brother Dom, so much so, that she attends his Mass daily at six-thirty in the mornings and on weekends.

  I dialed Agnes’s cell phone, “This is your secret lover, can I see you tonight, darling?”

  “Joey, how are you? I have your picture in my contacts, so you can’t fool me. What’s up?”

  “Are you free for about an hour? I have a new case I need your help on.”

  “Where do you want to meet? At the pub?”

  “I’m on my way there now. You have time?”

  “Is your brother there?”

  “He is, yes,” I replied, smiling.

  “I’m on my way,” she replied.

  I was getting the crew together for our first session of brainstorming. I called Marcy’s cell.