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

  “And this, you thought, was because she was having an affair?”

  “It was like she was two different persons. When involved in social functions, she was her usual self; bubbly, outgoing personality, an extrovert. Planning her trips, she would be excited. But then with me, she would be the opposite. I could easily tell she was not interested in our marriage anymore.”

  “You refused to divorce her?”

  “Father Dominic, I feel a little strange speaking to a priest about my marriage, nothing personal.”

  “Don’t think of me as a priest, right now, I am an investigator. And by the way, I’ve heard all this stuff before. So, tell me about the divorce.”

  “We never got that far. I didn’t have to be a detective to know she wanted out of our marriage, after she told me she had spoken to an attorney. But, no, I didn’t want a divorce. We have children, and I thought we could resolve our issues.”

  “The prosecution’s case revolves around the divorce, and the potential affair she was having. These two items, they claim, are the reason you did it.”

  “I know, the fact I did not want to divorce my wife is why I killed her?”

  “I think their claim is the affair was the reason you killed her.”

  “But there’s no proof she was having an affair. The detective I hired was just starting the investigation when she was murdered,” he said, lowering his head and closing his eyes.

  “Did you have any idea as to who may have been the person Mrs. Longworth was having an affair with?”

  “I have no clue. Perhaps someone in the charities.”

  “Why them?”

  “Sheila lived in a small sphere of friends, we both did, with close friends.”

  ‘Before I leave, write those names down, and we’ll check on that,” said Dom, tearing off a piece of paper from his notebook and handing it over to Longworth.

  “Father, do you think you guys have any chance of proving my innocence?”

  “In all honesty, Harold, we are running out of time. We’re hoping we can find something to create doubt with the jury. I don’t think we can solve the murder in the time that’s left.”

  “I knew we should have gotten you both involved, sooner.”

  “When did you ask for us to get involved?”

  “About three months ago.”

  “Three months ago? And, why didn’t we?”

  “Adams and Pearson didn’t see the need. It was my daughter, Margery, who finally convinced them to do it, recently.”

  “I see. We’ll do everything we can to help you out.”

  “I appreciate that, Father. We’re grateful.”

  Both men got up from their chairs, said their goodbyes, and Father Dom left the hotel room. In the elevator, he got a text from Joey asking his whereabouts. Dom replied that he was leaving the hotel. After which point, Joey texted back to wait for him at the lobby.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was my turn to question Harold Longworth. I finally made it to the hotel, and had a few minutes to go over the conversation between Mr. Longworth and Father Dom, in a corner of the lobby. It had started raining outside, and snow was expected for the afternoon and evening. Dom gave me the names of the people in the charities and the small group of friends, and I was to pass them on to Agnes, for research on each. If we found out that Sheila Longworth was, in fact, having an affair, it could solidify the motivation behind the prosecution’s case. Of course, this information would be privileged. We thought the prosecution was already doing the same, then at least, we would be ready.

  Dominic had shared his impression of Mr. Longworth, finding him to be too relaxed about the possible conviction of first-degree murder. However, he had observed and shared with me, that he found our client be honest and truthful with the information he had extracted from him.

  Dominic was leaving, when I received a series of text messages from Detective Angelo Levy. The crime scene photos were there, including the video. I went back to the corner of the lobby where I had sat with Dom, and took a few minutes to review the messages. I observed a few things others had perhaps missed, and I wanted an explanation from Mr. Longworth. Taking the elevator to the ninth floor, I knocked on room nine-ten.

  “Mr. Longworth, I’m Joey Mancuso,” I said, introducing myself, as he opened the door.

  “Mancuso, please come in. You just missed your brother.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. We’ll catch up with each other later.”

  “May I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, I’ve had my share for today. Can we sit down and go over a few things?”

  “Please, have a seat here,” said Longworth, pointing to a sitting area in the suite.

  As I moved to the sitting area, I could see the rain coming down over Central Park. “Why would you kill her?” I asked, directly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why would you kill your wife?”

  “Mr. Mancuso, I did not kill my wife,” he said, emphatically.

  “I know. But, why would you?”

  “I would never think of killing my wife. Why the question?” he asked, sternly.

  “If she wanted a divorce and admitted to you she was having an affair, in a moment of rage, wouldn’t you kill her?”

  “I loved my wife.”

  “But, you get home, she wants to talk about the divorce, you argue, and she finally admits to the affair. You reach for the closest gun, the one she kept on her night table, and you shoot her.”

  He moved forward on his chair without taking his eyes off mine and said, “Look, you have this all wrong. I would never have killed her, even if she was having an affair.”

  “Why not?”

  He raised his voice, “Because that’s an irrational reaction. If she was having an affair, I would have divorced her, not killed her, my God!”

  ‘So why hire a detective to find out?”

  “Because, like I said, I loved her, and I wanted to repair our marriage, if possible. However, if she was having an affair, well, then I would know it was beyond repair, that’s all.”

  “When did you send her the roses?”

  “What?”

  “The two dozen yellow roses in the bedroom. When did you send them?”

  Longworth sat back and relaxed a bit, “The same day she was killed,” he replied, as his voice trailed off.

  “Did you send them yourself?”

  “I had my assistant do it.”

  “Did you send a card along?”

  “Yes, with a note saying that I loved her.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Send her flowers.”

  “I intended to come early that evening, as I was headed out of town the next day. I wanted to have a quiet dinner and talk. Something we did not do much of these days.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Talk about us, our family. The good times we’ve had. I wanted a restart if necessary. The lack of communication between us, and lack of intimacy was not her fault, alone. We both contributed to that. You get to a point in a marriage after so many years, everyone settles into a routine, their own routine, and forgets, or better yet, takes for granted, the other person. You make assumptions about each other, without actually discussing things.”

  “Did you call her to tell her you would be late?”

  “Yes, I did, and to apologize. I told her I would be in by midnight that night.”

  “So, you were early, arriving at eleven.”

  “I wanted to speak with her for a while, I was leaving the next morning.”

  “Did you call her to tell her you’d be in by eleven?”

  ‘No, there was no reason to do that,” he replied, a little perturbed at my rapid questions.

  “Were you having an affair?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Have you had affairs?”

  “No, not during my marriage.”

  “Did you wife shower before going to bed?”

 
“You’re a little bizarre with your questioning, Mancuso. No, my wife liked to shower in the mornings.”

  “Did she ever shower in the evenings?”

  My questions were rapid-fire with no sequence, or order, to them. I wanted to see his responses to them. Longworth was a bit taken by my questions, he glanced at the window, closed his eyes and replied, “I suppose she may have, at some time or another. I don’t understand the questions.”

  “But she showered after sex?”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “What kind of detective are you?”

  “For your sake, a good one, I hope.” Why didn’t you set the alarm to on, when you entered the home?”

  “You mean that evening?”

  “Yes.”

  “My hands were full, I had a briefcase in one hand, my phone and an overcoat in the other. I was going to go down to the kitchen after going upstairs. I figured I would do it then.”

  I leaned forward in my seat, “What exactly did you hear downstairs, after finding your wife’s body?”

  “The sound was like someone had knocked something down and it broke.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked, opening my hands.

  “I was on the floor next to her, after tripping over her. I heard the sound, then I saw her gun under the bed, grabbed it and walked downstairs.”

  “Did you know it was your wife on the floor?”

  “Not at first, I didn’t want to believe it was her. But, I could tell from the body and the white terrycloth robe.”

  “Did you each have a white robe?”

  “Yes, we bought those at the Helmsley Palace Hotel, we once stayed at, before it changed its name to the Lotte New York Palace, on Madison and fiftieth.”

  ‘That’s going back a few years. I assumed it was before your marriage.”

  “It was probably in the early nineties, yes.”

  “You still have yours?”

  “Yes, we both kept them in the bathroom. They brought back some good memories.”

  “From the pictures of the crime scene, your robe is not anywhere I could see. You’re sure you had it in the bathroom?”

  “You’re going a back a year. But, now that you mentioned it, I haven’t seen it since that night.”

  “Did the robes have the Helmsley Palace monogram on the front left?

  “Yes, above the top pocket.”

  “Okay, let me move on. In your first statement to the police, you said you didn’t know it was her until you came back upstairs the second time, turned the light on and saw her body.”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to believe it was her. But I knew.”

  “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one at that point?”

  “I would have, except I heard the noise, and I thought the person who had done this was still in the house.”

  “How did you see the gun if the room was dark?”

  “I don’t know, it was dark, I assume my eyes had acclimated to the darkness. There was a little light coming from the bathroom door, enough to see the gun. I mean, I was two feet from it.”

  “Then what?”

  “I walked cautiously downstairs. I said something, like ‘who’s there, I have a gun’.”

  “Then you shot the ceiling?”

  “I heard another sound, I was nervous, and I fired into the ceiling, yes.”

  “After the police came, did they find anything knocked over?”

  “I’m not aware. I told them what I heard. But I don’t know if they did.”

  “Were there any other cars parked in your driveway, when you came in?”

  “Not that I remember, no.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill your wife?”

  He thought for a second, looking down at the floor, then raised his head, glanced at me and replied, “There’s absolutely no reason why anyone would want to kill my wife, none.”

  “Would anyone want you dead?”

  He replied quickly, “No, no one.”

  “Any threats? Gambling debts? Business reasons?”

  “None of that. No threats, I don’t gamble. We compete for business, but not to the point someone would want to kill me for it.”

  “So, what do you think happened?”

  “It’s incomprehensible to me still, one year after. We kept no valuables in the house, sure, a little cash and maybe some artwork. But, to kill for it?”

  I made some notes letting the silence linger there for a few seconds. He asked, “What now?”

  “You’re back in court tomorrow. I understand the prosecution will be done in two days. After that, Adams and Pearson begin presenting your defense. Are you going to take the stand?”

  “I wanted to, but they’ve talked me out of it. You think I should?”

  “Harold, I’m not your attorney, I can’t tell you if you should or not.”

  “But, if it were you, would you?”

  I looked at him and thought for a few seconds, ‘I’m not sure. The prosecution has a solid case against you, and while your answers to me are good, they can turn things upside down, and you might incriminate yourself. Sorry I can’t give you a straight answer.”

  “I understand. Any other questions?”

  “Just one more,” I said, starting to get up and glancing at a light snow drizzle that had begun.

  Longworth got up, and also glanced out the window.

  Standing next to him, I asked, “Harold, how tall are you?”

  “Six-four, why?”

  “Just a thought. And your late wife, how tall was she?”

  He contemplated his answer for a second, “Sheila was about five-seven.”

  “I see.”

  I put my notes away and began walking towards the door. “How far did the detective you hired get with information about a possible affair?”

  “He had just started the day before. He didn’t get very far.”

  “Who is he? The detective,” I asked, knowing full well who it was.

  “A guy by the name of Billy Williams.”

  “Crunchy Williams?”

  “Yes, you know him?”

  I ignored his question, “Who referred you to him?”

  “The offices of Adams and Pearson.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Reaching the hotel lobby, I dialed for a car to pick me up. I own a red, nineteen sixty-seven Shelby Mustang, G500 convertible, in primo condition, that had cost me a small fortune. I only used it to drive on the weekends, but to get around the city, both brother Dominic and I use a car service. Parking near the pub, in the financial center of New York City, is at a premium, there was no need for us to incur that daily expense.

  I called the pub, and Mr. Pat answered. “Mr. Pat, how goes it?”

  “Our first shifters are starting to come in. However, it seems most are headed home to avoid the snow that’s expected. Looks like a slow night.”

  “That’s always the case. Is Father Dom there?”

  “Yes, but he is anxious to leave. He doesn’t want to get caught up in the snow, either.”

  “Tell him to hang in there for a little longer, I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll do that, Joey. See you then.”

  Patrick Sullivan had been working the bar for Dom’s dad, Brandon O’Brian, and both had returned from the Viet Nam war. To both Dominic and me, Mr. Pat, as we called him, well, Patrick was like our uncle. While not an owner with us, we shared all profits of the bar with him. Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub and Cigar Bar, without Mr. Pat, would be just another Irish pub. His presence there, a tall man with his red hair and full red beard, and his occasional Irish brogue routine added a certain authenticity to the pub that out regulars loved.

  As I was about to get into my car, I noticed attorney Chuck Pearson get out of a yellow cab. I told my driver to wait for a second, not making him happy.

  I walked over to Pearson. “Mr. Pearson, on your way to see Mr. Longworth?”

  “Hey, Mancuso, yes, need to go o
ver a few things and I want to get ready for our side of the story. Did you find our murderer yet?” He asked, smiling.

  “Almost there,” I replied.

  He looked up at me a little surprised by my answer, “Really?”

  “How well did you know the Longworths?”

  He hesitated, thinking about the answer, “Just for a few years, since I joined Adams. All business, I didn’t socialize with them, as Marshall did. Can we talk about this some other time? I’m in a hurry.”

  “No big deal. I’ll give you guys an update tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Joey. We’ll look forward to that. Now, if you will excuse me,” he said, as he turned to walk into the hotel.

  Arriving back at the pub, I noticed that our first shift, as we called the Wall Street gang that comes in after the stock market closes, was very light. This we have learned, was typical for a snow day, more so, if snow was late in arriving that day, like today. No one wants to get stuck in the city if they can avoid it. Our second shift of patrons usually began their entrance a little after six in the evening. The composition of the group was eclectic, police personnel, and other law enforcement. One Police Plaza, the NYPD headquarters, was but a few blocks from our pub. We had a sprinkling of some military, as had been the norm when the captain and then the sergeant had owned the pub, and then, what I called, the unsavory characters that usually mingle at an Irish pub. More like my old kind of people, if you know what I mean. Of course, we had our tourist crowd. The fact we had a smoking license, was an attraction to those that enjoy an excellent cigar with a drink.

  I noticed Father Dom eyeing his watch, as I walked towards him. “What’s up, brother?”

  “Joey, I want to get out of here, before the snow gets any worse.”

  “Marcy texted me that they moved back her trip to D.C. until tomorrow. Let me call her, and see if she can give us a ride back to Brooklyn. If so, we can talk in the car.”

  I dialed Special Agent Marcy, “Hey, love, are you still in the city?”

  “Are you coming over tonight?” she replied, ignoring my question.