by Owen Parr
I said, “I did see the one when I visited her home.”
Dom spoke, “There’s a third ashtray at Melody’s apartment.”
Marcy inquired, “A third?”
“What’s up with these ashtrays?”
“They were gifts from Ms. Wright to Parker, or so she says,” Dom replied.
“But they left other personal items—didn’t you say that before?” I asked.
“That’s right. Framed pictures of her and Mr. Parker were still on the credenza and desk. Other stuff, that seemed personal, was still there,” replied Marcy.
I asked, “So did she go to the office or not?” Marcy retorted “Everyone has a different story.” Father Dom became pensive.
“Go on, bro,” I said, receiving a nasty expression from him.
“Fine, she did admit now to having been there with her father that day. And said she left together with her father. Also, she admits to a discussion, albeit heated, but no screaming fight between her father and husband.”
I thought for a second and added, “Okay, so she lied to me about having been there and seems to be lying about the fight, because someone heard a loud one.”
Marcy said, “A loud discussion to one person could be a loud fight to another.”
I quipped, “In Cuba, any discussion is loud, right?”
Marcy snapped back, “And Italians aren’t loud, Mancuso?”
Pointing at Dom, I joked, “Father, when she’s mad and says ‘Mancuso,’ doesn’t it sound real sexy?”
Father Dom shook his head. “You sure you guys aren’t married?” he smiled. “One other thing, one of the partners said she left the office before her father, which means her father was alone with Parker. That is, if we believe that side of the story.”
“So, what do we have on Mrs. Parker?” Marcy asked. “Being the trained homicide detective, I’ll list the main points,” I said, turning to Marcy.
Softly, she retorted, “You are so full of shit.”
Dom, having heard that, added, “He is full of himself and that, too, Marcy. Go on, detective.”
“So, let me address my fan club here,” I said, replying to these insults and motioning as if asking for a group hug. “Numero uno, Adelle Parker had motive and opportunity. Assuming she doesn’t know about Parker’s mistress, who would add another motive, she was worried about her trust fund and the lack of return thereof. A one-year-old insurance policy for two million dollars was taken out at her request. However, the timing of the suicide, if a suicide, voids that policy because it wasn’t fully in force with respect to the suicide clause.”
Dom asked, “If she’s not going to collect, what’s her motive?”
“One of the first things she told me was about the policy—how the insurance company was telling her Mr. Parker delayed the medical exam and that the policy wasn’t effective until he passed his physical. She said her understanding of the policy was different; she thought that it was already in effect when he died.”
Marcy said, “Then, if it was her, she miscalculated the timing and blew the chance to collect?”
“Indeed,” I replied. “What’s interesting to note is that she knew the date she thought the policy would be inclusive for a suicide.”
Father Dom added, “She may have done herself in, if in fact she did it. No husband, no money.”
I said, “There is a small half-a-million-dollar policy in effect, but that wouldn’t last her long. Something else: numero dos, if she’d waited for Parker to be a partner, he would’ve had a buy- sell agreement with the other two partners, and she would have collected a portion of the value of the company’s worth.”
Dom asked, “Did she know about that?”
“I don’t think so. She knew about Parker becoming a partner, but I’m sure not about the policy. These two didn’t talk much about his work,” I replied.
Marcy had waited to ask, “With respect to opportunity, you’d have to think that, assuming she did it, she somehow pushed him out with her father watching or helping. Because he was in the office.”
“You are absolutely right, Doctor Watson. If she did it, her father is involved,” I responded.
Marcy asked, “What’s her father’s motive? We’ve established opportunity, but motive?”
“Not having spoken to him,” I started, “he’s got about thirty-two million dollars tied up with these guys, and he’s stuck. His returns are down considerably, so it is feasible that, in a moment of rage, he threw his son-in-law out the fu—,” I corrected myself, “the window.”
Marcy added, “From what we know, he may have been a shrewd businessman, and if he figured out the partners had a Ponzi scheme going on, he would surmise that his money was totally gone, adios, nada.”
Father Dom was listening as his tre formaggi melt arrived. Opening the bag, he added, “Now, that would be a strong motivator, his life’s work reduced to a claim in court and no income.”
I said, “A claim in court with little chance of recovery if there’s no money in the piggy.”
Marcy chimed in, “Again, if he did it, then his daughter, Adelle, is involved.”
“Not necessarily. If she was out of the room, like she said first, her father could’ve done it alone,” I said, reaching for the other half of the tre formaggi melt Dom left sitting on the table.
He blocked my hand with his right arm. “Wow,” Dom said. “Great detective work, right?” I asked.
“No, this sandwich is good. Touch that, and you’re a dead man, Mancuso,” Dominic said, looking at Marcy and laughing.
“Recapping,” Marcy commenced, “if she did it, her father helped. But if she left before, then she’s now covering for her father by saying she was there with him until they both left together.”
“That’s why they call it a mystery,” I added.
Marcy couldn’t help but laugh. “Have you guys done a background check on Adelle and her father?”
“No, that’s next,” I said.
17
“Let’s talk about Ms. Melody. What’s her motivation, and did she have an opportunity?” I asked, putting all the garbage from lunch in one bag and throwing it over the bar. “Did she make a move on you, Father?”
Dom began coughing hard. “She actually wanted to know if you were single.”
“Did she, now?” Marcy said. “And what did you say?” I asked.
Touching elbows with Marcy, Dom replied, “That you were spoken for and not available.”
“About her motive and opportunity,” I said, making an awkward escape. “According to what we know, Melody was the last one in Parker’s office. She admitted that much.”
Dom added, “She admitted that to me when I told her she’d been seen there, but she didn’t offer that confession when you spoke to her the first time. But, she also said Parker wasn’t in his office when she walked in.”
“Let’s put that aside for a moment. We have only her word for it that Parker wasn’t in his office,” I said. “Let’s find her motivation.”
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.
18
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 semi-private booth, 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 Charl
es, 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.”
