by Owen Parr
Of course, being the immature asshole that I am, I wanted to make the choice myself, not be told or asked to do it. I was having a hard time getting to sleep; I laid there talking to myself. Could I have my cake and eat it too? Was it feasible to continue to work crime cases from a stool in our pub? Would Marcy finally come around and follow her heart?
29
Monday—Six Days After the Murder
Morning came, and we were all full of anticipation. Would our suspects show up? We’d made a compelling case for them to do so without pointing fingers at anyone. They probably thought we were full of shit and that anything we had was nothing more than circumstantial evidence, if that. Their attorneys hopefully thought this was an opportunity to uncover any information that could be detrimental to their clients. Besides, at their hourly rate, they wouldn’t mind spending a couple of hours at our whodunit game show.
The pub, re-designed like a small theater, had five chairs in the front for our main characters, followed by a row of chairs for their attorneys, if any. Behind that, we had more rows of chairs for our law enforcement guests. We uninvited any “wits,” or witnesses, thinking they’d be better not attending and exposing themselves at this point.
In the front, we set up a table with some items, or props, that would be used during the presentation. Between this table and the chairs, we left room for me to make my presentation to our guests. Father Dom and Agnes would sit to the right side of the guests in a row of chairs, resembling a row of jurors. I had even set up a small white screen behind me, on which I would project some pictures I wanted to show during our little game.
When I became active in the management of the pub, I had initiated the idea of having wide tin buckets packed with plenty of ice and inserting twelve to eighteen various brands of beer in them. These buckets with ice-cold beers could be self-served by our guests when the bar was open. They’d simply show our attendants the bottles, and it’d go on their tabs. There was something about beers chilled with lots of ice that was enticing to me, and it proved to be a great way to sell beer during the afternoons and evenings, especially in the summer. We’d gone as far as serving six beers in smaller buckets right at the customers’ table. Everyone loved it. Today, we’d taken the buckets and filled them with bottles of water packed with lots of ice.
Mr. Pat volunteered to come in early and help us direct guests to their assigned seating. He was acting as our usher for the moment. Right after nine forty-five in the morning, individuals started to trickle in. Mr. Pat was asking everyone who he or she was so he could seat them according to our scripted seating plan. Sinatra’s “My Way,” playing in the background, was my way—pun intended—to rub it in slightly.
The first three that walked in were expensive, custom-made suits. I was standing in front with Father Dom, Agnes, and Marcy, although Marcy didn’t want it to seem like she was involved in the game for fear of a reprimand.
I asked Marcy, “You know these suits?”
Facing them, she replied, “The grey pinstriped is Stevan Kapzoff, attorney for Evans and Albert; the other three, I guess, associates of the firm.”
I nodded to Mr. Pat to seat them in the second row. The three suits glanced around our pub with disdain, even though they couldn’t stop commenting amongst themselves about the photos hanging on the walls. Kapzoff nodded to Marcy and then said something to his associates.
As it turned out, every new person walking into the pub had to glance at all the black-and-white photos hanging from the walls. It was a trip down memory lane, particularly for the New Yorkers.
A couple of minutes later, Mr. Evans and Mr. Albert made their appearance. They ignored us and wanted to sit next to Kapzoff, but Patrick gently asked them to sit in the front. With their backs to us, they remained standing and spoke to their legal eagles, exchanging a little laughter and showing some arrogance.
More suits walked in: four, as a matter of fact. This time, while the suits were expensive, they were off the rack. I recognized the district attorney for New York, the ADA, who’d worked with me in the homeless murder investigation of John Doe, and two other cohorts. They sat behind Kapzoff, and a little party broke out: Kapzoff et al., Evans and Albert—donors, “donees,” and intermediaries, I supposed.
Our mistress, model, and actress, Melody Wright, walked in by herself, sporting a mini-skirt that I knew immediately would be distracting when I made my presentation. Mr. Evans seemed a bit uncomfortable when he saw her walk in and said something to Albert in a hushed voice. Melody was all smiles. Totally ignoring Evans, she came over to the front to say hello to Dom and me. Dom then asked her to sit in the front row.
Our last two suspects walked in together with a third expensive, custom suit: Mrs. Adelle Parker, who came in with two men—one I assumed to be her father, Andrew Huffing, and the other, their attorney. They acknowledged Evans and Albert, but didn’t seem friendly towards them. Mrs. Parker came over to us and introduced her father, but not the suit. I asked them to take their assigned seats.
Glancing at my watch, I saw it was five minutes to ten, and I said, “We’ll get started in a few minutes. I’m expecting a couple more people. Thank you.”
Kapzoff said, “I assume you’re Mr. Mancuso?”
I nodded and replied, “Yes, I am.”
“Mr. Mancuso, be on notice that this charade of yours will more than likely result in a civil lawsuit against you, your brother, and anyone else involved in this outrageous game.”
Father Dominic took a hard swallow. Marcy extricated herself from the front and walked towards the back of the chairs. I faced Mr. Kapzoff and replied, “Point taken, sir.”
On cue, it was the DA’s turn to apply a little heat. “Mr. Mancuso, I don’t know what you have planned, but you’d better tread lightly, or there’ll be more than a civil lawsuit following this little game of yours.”
I turned to Father Dom, now sitting to the side. His face was turning white as pure snow. I smiled at Dominic. I wanted to say, “Father, you’re fighting the Powers of Darkness daily, and yet these two fellows intimidate you?” I faced the DA and said, “I understand, sir. Thank you for being here.”
Finally, our last invited guests, the cheap suits, walked in together: my good friends Cagney and Lacey—make that Detectives Farnsworth and Charles—and Marcy’s boss, Special Agent-in-Charge Victoria Stewart of the FBI’s New York white-collar crime division.
I was getting ready to start when the front door opened and in came my former partner, Detective Lucy, sitting in a wheelchair and aided by her husband Harry. They both smiled and took a position at the back close to Marcy, sitting beside her boss.
I stood in front of our assembled guests, glanced around, and tried to make eye contact with everyone. There’s always anxiety when you speak in front of a group. You can never get rid of the butterflies. The best you can do is to try and get the butterflies to fly in formation; however, when you are facing a group of panthers, tigers, and other ferocious wild animals ready to pounce on you, it takes added concentration.
“Thank you all for being here. Sorry we’re running a few minutes late. I believe this presentation will be informative and prove fruitful for many of you. Let’s begin.”
30
“Ms. Melody Wright,” I began, “thank you for being here.”
“Oh, this seems like fun. Happy to be here, Joey,” she replied, smiling and pulling her skirt down a bit.
“Good, I’m glad you’re happy,” I said, as I noticed Mr. Evans moving uncomfortably in his chair.
“For those of you who don’t know Ms. Wright, she was born in San Diego.”
Melody was surprised, and her smile turned into a frown.
I went on, “Anyway, she was born Susan Ashen, and at twenty-two, she became the close friend of a well-known Hollywood producer, following her quest to become an actress.”
Melody interrupted me. “What are you doing?” she said, uncomfortably.
“I’m just introducing everyone to our
guests,” I replied, looking at her and then at my notes. “Mr. Wesland Scott, our Hollywood producer, divorced his wife of ten years—that’s the marriage of ten years, not Mrs. Scott,” I said, facing the group, thinking I was funny, but no one had as much as a smile on their faces. Tough crowd, I thought. I went on. “Immediately after his divorce, Mr. Scott, thinking about Melody—make that Susan Ashen—who happened to be pregnant with his child, married Susan. That seemed the honorable thing to do. Unfortunately, Mr. Scott, who was twenty years older than his new bride, didn’t get to see what he thought was a new son or daughter, or even get to celebrate his one-year anniversary with his new young bride. Mr. Scott died of a drug overdose only six months into his new marriage.”
I could see over my notes that Mr. Evans kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. Melody, however, sat there stoically.
“Susan Ashen,” I said, facing at the crowd, “inherited a million dollars, as stipulated in the prenuptial agreement, with the balance of the inheritance going to Mr. Scott's children from his prior marriage.”
I walked a little closer to Melody and asked, “Did you have the child?”
Moving in her seat and again pulling down her skirt, she replied softly, “I had a miscarriage.”
All the way in the back, Farnsworth said, “We didn’t hear that back here.”
I raised my view towards the back of the room and said, “She said she had a miscarriage.”
Farnsworth replied, “Sure.” Everyone turned back to Farnsworth.
“Let’s go on. Suddenly, Susan Ashen, or Melody, vanishes from any public records. But our researchers find our Melody about four years later in Silicon Valley with a new name, Suzanne McIntyre, who then becomes Mrs. William Molden. Now, of course, the William Molden she gets hitched to is no Joe Shmoe: he is indeed the Mr. William Molden, innovator and creator of computer technology. Needless to say, Mr. Molden was then and still is extremely wealthy. Despite having paid Suzanne, a two-million-dollar settlement upon their divorce a year after their marriage, he has more to spare since to date, he pays our Melody a substantial annual stipend.”
I had the crowd’s attention now. Only Melody and Mr. Evans seemed a bit troubled by the revelations.
I approached Melody again. “Any children with Mr. Molden?”
She just shook her head.
“That’s a no, for you guys in the back,” I said, glancing at Marcy, who was smiling back at me.
I flipped the page on my notebook and winked at Dom to my left; he gave me a nod. “So, what became of Suzanne McIntyre or Mrs. William Molden, you ask?” Making eye contact with the crowd, I continued, “She moved east, right here to the Big Apple, and hooked up with a Mr. Vittorio Agostino. Unfortunately, Mr. Agostino declined our invitation to join us today. More on Vittorio in a minute. Suzanne must have gotten tired of her name. You know how it is. I’m sure we all at some point or another would like to change our names, right? Anyway, Suzanne became Susan again. But this time, she became Susan Osmond. There wasn’t much on Susan Osmond, other than her close relationship with Mr. Agostino. Mr. Agostino is one of the original investors in Evans, Albert, and Associates, a hedge fund company located two blocks from our building. Mr. Evans and Mr. Albert are here today, and I thank you for being here,” I said, looking at both.
I saw Kapzoff touch Evans’ shoulder and whisper something. Albert turned to Kapzoff and nodded.
“You’re probably wondering when Susan Osmond became Melody Wright, right?” I said, wanting to be a smartass. “There’s no trace of Melody Wright anywhere until last year when she becomes a resident of the Upper West Side and leases an apartment at Riverside South. It is at this point when she and,” I coughed, “Mr. Agostino become close friends. Plus, we find out that the company that owns Riverside South—where Ms. Wright lives—is also owned by none other than Mr. Evans and Albert.”
Kapzoff quipped, “What are you insinuating?”
“I’m sorry. Did I insinuate?” I replied, “Allow me to go on. None of these name changes by Ms. Wright were done in the traditional manner. All these names are new identities taken on by Melody,” I said, glancing at her over my notes. “As a matter of fact, all the other identities are still active, and two of the names have offshore accounts in Panama—the country, not Panama City in Florida.”
Sitting one seat away from Melody, Mrs. Parker asked, “How can you change identities so easily like that?”
I turned at Adelle Parker. “Good question. You can buy what’s called a ‘three-pack’ almost anywhere in the U.S., particularly in cities that have a high concentration of illegal residents. A three-pack can cost around three hundred dollars, and you get a driver’s license, a passport, and, of course, a Social Security card.”
Melody got up from her chair. “I’ve had enough of this game,” she said, starting to walk towards the back.
“Sit back on your chair, please,” said Victoria, Marcy’s boss.
“Who are you?” asked Melody, somewhat perturbed.
“Oh, that’s FBI Special Agent in Charge Victoria Stewart.” Everyone turned back as Melody took her seat.
“Melody, do you own a Cadillac Escalade SUV?” I asked.
“I don’t own any cars,” she replied.
Mr. Evans became very uncomfortable and turned to his attorney, Kapzoff, saying something I could not hear.
“Did you rent a Cadillac Escalade?”
“No,” she replied sternly.
It was time to begin the show-and-tell with my white screen. I nodded at Agnes. A picture of a black Cadillac Escalade flashed on the screen. Agnes oversaw the computer with the presentation we had prepared. The photo on the display showed an SUV with damage to the front.
“Do you recognize that SUV?” I asked, looking at Melody.
She replied, “No,” without even raising her face to see the photo on the screen.
“Let me ask it this way. Did you, as Susan Ashen, rent that SUV from Enterprise Rent-A-Car this past Thursday?”
Kapzoff got up from his chair. “Ms. Wright, do not answer that question.”
Melody looked back at him.
“That’s good advice, Melody. I would follow his suggestion,” I added.
I nodded to Agnes as a second photo appeared on the screen. This time, the screen showed a picture of a California driver’s license with a picture under the name of Susan Ashen, followed by a second scanned photo of the rental agreement signed by Ashen on Thursday, the day Kathy was hit by an SUV.
“Preliminary inspection of the SUV,” I began, “shows clearly that the SUV was involved in an accident and that there are traces of blood on the hood of the car. Once forensics examines the SUV, I am sure they’ll show that the blood belongs to Kathy Miller, the victim of a hit-and-run accident on Thursday two blocks from here.” I pointed at Farnsworth and Charles. I said, “Detectives?”
Both detectives got up from their chairs and walked over to Melody, cuffing her and walking towards the back.
Kapzoff said, “Our firm is representing Ms. Wright, and she is not to be questioned without us being present.” Kapzoff dispatched one of his associates towards the back, as Detective Charles began Mirandizing Melody.
“There’s more to this,” Melody said loudly.
Her new attorney spoke to her and told her to be quiet.
“Detectives,” I said, “you might want to stick around.” They nodded and began making a call to a squad car to remove Melody, I assumed. I wanted Melody to stay, so I asked, “Detectives, would you mind if Ms. Melody stays with us until the end?”
Farnsworth replied, “No problem.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
I started my presentation again. “Coincidentally, Kathy Miller was an employee of Evans and Albert, but more on that later. Allow me to turn my attention to Mrs. Adelle Parker and her father, Mr. Andrew Huffing.”
31
Another suit walked into the bar, not an expensive suit, but off-the-rack stuff. Another civil servant, I assu
med. The man spoke to FBI Special Agent Victoria, Marcy’s boss, and Victoria and the suit walked toward me. “Can we have a word in private, Mr. Mancuso?” Victoria asked.
“Of course,” I replied. We moved back behind the white screen and away from the guests.
Victoria spoke in a hushed voice. “This is Special Agent William Casals, with the FBI’s Organized Crime Division in New York.”
I nodded at Casals. “What can I do for you?” I asked.
Casals surveyed our surroundings to make sure no one was listening to us. “You spoke of Agostino, and Victoria called me immediately. We assigned an undercover agent to an ongoing investigation on Agostino. What you’re discussing today might jeopardize that body of work and, worse yet, oust our undercover agent.”
“I see you’re referring to Katerina Rostova,” I replied, taking a guess.
Casals’ eyes met Victoria’s, then back at me with consternation showing on his face. “I can’t discuss it, and I’d appreciate if you don’t, either.”
“Then I won’t, Mr. Casals. Neither Agostino nor Rostova are an integral part of my revelations today. Fair enough?”
“Thank you. I owe you, Mr. Mancuso,” Casals said, relieved at my quick acquiescence.
“Can I have that IOU in writing?” I asked, smiling to both.
Victoria grabbed my hand. “Joey, we won’t forget. Thank you. Get back to your presentation; you’re doing a great job.”
Casals shook my hand now, and we walked out to the front. Both Victoria and Casals went to the back, which I noticed was a little more crowded now with the arrival of four uniforms, standing in the doorway.
“Sorry about the interruption, folks. We were about to discuss Mrs. Adelle Parker, the widow of Mr. Jonathan Parker, who passed away last Tuesday.” I noticed Adelle shift her position on her seat. Her father grabbed her hand and whispered something to her.
“Mrs. Parker is one of five persons who may have seen Mr. Parker last before he lost his life. Ms. Melody Wright, sitting in the back, is another. The other three are Mr. Huffing,” I pointed to him, “Mr. Evans, and Mr. Albert, but more on that later. Unfortunately, besides losing her husband, Mrs. Parker’s finances have been significantly affected. Not only did she lose her husband’s income, but also the investments she made through him with Evans and Albert are tied up in illiquid assets. Also, the return has been greatly diminished, and thus, her income from those has suffered greatly.” I saw tears in Mrs. Parker’s eyes as she wiped them away.
