by Owen Parr
“Do you think they were?”
“Camouflaging?”
“Yes.”
“No, not when I lived there. But, like I said, I’ve been gone for a year, only back on vacations. So, I can’t say if something happened in the last year.”
“What does your father tell you?”
“He admits to Mom becoming a bit aloof. He was worried about them becoming distant in their relationship.”
“Did he share with you any other concerns about her?”
“Do you mean if she was having an affair?”
“Well, yes.”
“He never told me that himself. Dad blamed himself for being involved with work too much, and perhaps not paying as much attention to my Mom. You see, once Tom, that’s my brother, and I left the house, it was only the two of them.”
“How long has Tom been away?”
“He’s a senior at USC, so, he’s been out four years.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s in Florida, with our other grandparents. We decided to take turns, with everything that’s going on. But, he’s going to be in New York for the final days of the trial. We’ll both be in New York tomorrow.” She paused for a moment, and excitedly said, “Oh my God, are you watching the news?”
“No, why?
“There’s been a shooting in a plane at Newark Airport. A Jet Air flight.”
“Margery, I have to go. See you tomorrow.” Fuck, I said to myself. Marcy was taking a Jet Air to Reagan National. I turned on one of the televisions in the pub, as Father Dom walked in.
“Joey, why that face? What’s going on?” Said Dom, seeing my concern manifested in my expression.
“Shit Dom, there’s been a shooting in a plane at Newark. Marcy was there.”
“Is she involved?”
“I don’t know. I was just turning on the news,” I said, rushing to get the remote.
“I’ll call her,” said Dom, dialing her number.
A local news channel reporter was on the air.
“This is Harry Weld, repeating the breaking news. There has been a shooting aboard flight seventeen-forty-two, of Jet Air’s scheduled flight to Reagan National at Newark Airport. We are getting more details now, as passengers are disembarking the plane and being taken to a secured facility. We are making our way there. Excuse me, sir, were you a passenger on flight seventeen-forty-two?”
“Yes, I was.”
What is your name sir?
“John Samson.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
I looked at Dom who was standing next to me as we both looked up at the monitor. “Shit, Dom, that’s Marcy’s flight.”
Passenger John Samson replied to the reporter’s question.
“I was in Business class, two rows from the plane’s door. As the flight attendant was closing the door, we all heard a knock on the door. The attendant opened the door, and two men dressed in overalls, they looked like mechanics, or at least airline personnel, walked in, pushed the attendant to the floor and shot her with some type of rifle they both pulled out of a duffle bag.
What happened next?
A man sitting in front of me got up and screamed, I’m a Federal Marshal, then he pulled out a handgun and shot one of the men. Then, then, the other man shouted Allahu Akbar and shot the Marshal. Oh, my God, it was horrible, we thought we were all going to die.”
“What happened next, sir?”
“Then a young lady to my right, got up and screamed, ‘FBI, drop your weapon!’ The man with the rifle turned to her, and they both fired simultaneously. It all happened so fast.”
“What then, sir?”
“Both the man and the young lady went down.”
“Fuck, fuck. Oh, shit,” I said, as I prayed Marcy was not dead at the scene. Father Dom grabbed me by the shoulders, and held me from behind.
“You just heard from an eyewitness of the shooting aboard Jet Air’s flight seventeen-forty-two. The young lady who identified herself as an FBI agent has been taken to a nearby hospital, and is said to be in critical condition. We do not know her identity at this point, but she will be credited, along with the Federal Marshal, who unfortunately died at the scene, with preventing a potential mass killing inside the plane. The man she shot died at the scene. Neither of the men who boarded and began shooting has been identified. All flights have been halted as law enforcement personnel secure all planes for possible similar planned attacks. Stay with us for…”
"Dom, let’s get going. I’ll call her office and find out the hospital Marcy has been taken to.”
13
We took the first yellow cab that was passing in front of the pub, and headed towards Newark, New Jersey. I was still trying to connect with Marcy’s office. Finally, I spoke to someone who knew me, and told me Marcy was taken to University Hospital on Bergen Street. It felt as if every traffic light was turning red as we approached them. I called the hospital for an update, but they had no news on Marcy’s condition.
Arriving at the emergency entrance to the hospital, Dom told me to go in, and that he would deal with the cab.
The first person I saw was Special Agent Tony Belford, Marcy’s partner. He walked towards me.
“Joey, I’m so sorry, —”
I didn’t let him finish, “Where were you, asshole?”
“Joey, —”
“She’s the one that gets up to protect the passengers and gets shot. While you, what? We’re fixing the crease in your pants. Get the fuck out of my way,” I said, as I pushed him aside, and walked over to the nurse’s station. “Where is Special Agent Martinez?”
“Who are you, sir?” One of the nurses inquired.
“I’m her fiancé. How is she?”
“The doctors are still with her. They’ll be out in a moment. Please have a seat.”
I turned around, seeing Father Dom and asshole Tony speaking. I walked over to them. “Where was she shot, Belford?”
“She was shot in the right shoulder area. She’s going to be fine, Joey,” he replied.
“What are you, a fucking doctor, now? How do you know she’s going to be fine?”
Father Dom intervened, “Joey, take it easy, man. Agent Belford didn’t shoot her,” Dom said, putting his right hand on my chest, holding me back from Belford.
“No, he didn’t shoot her. He was probably holding his cock, instead of his Glock, when it all went down,” I said, trying to move in close to Belford.
“Now wait a second, —” began Belford.
Dom broke in, “Mr. Belford, why don’t you walk away, and let me deal with my brother. He is obviously upset.” Dom said, as he nodded for Belford to walk away.
I remained standing, waiting impatiently for more news on Marcy’s condition. Why was this happening? I asked myself. A few minutes passed, and finally, someone dressed in surgical attire came out to talk to us.
“Are you Mr. Belford?”
Before I could say something stupid, Father Dom replied, “This is Mr. Mancuso, he’s the patient’s fiancé.” Then he waved for Belford to join us. “This is Mr. Belford.” Belford stood away from me, next to Dom’s left side.
“My name is Angela Moore, I’m the physician assistant, the patient is in critical, but stable condition. She’s lost a lot of blood. It was a large round that hit an artery. Our first operation is to remove the bullet, that we are going to perform now, that she is stable.”
I asked, “The first operation?”
“Yes, sir. Once we remove the bullet, we’ll need to repair damage to her shoulder joint. Fortunately, it doesn’t look like a replacement is necessary for the joint. At least, from what we have seen at this point.”
Dom asked, “How long before you know?”
“It could be several hours between surgeries, and you’re not going to be able to see her until we are done with the surgeries. Of course, then there is the recovery room, where she will be awhile.”
“Is her life in danger?” I asked.
“Not from the gunshot, sir. Of course, and I don’t mean to scare you, we have two surgeries to perform.”
“So, assuming the surgeries go okay, she’ll be fine?”
“We don’t know the extent of the damage to the shoulder joint. Like I said, it does not need a replacement, we think. But, there will be the pain, lots of rehabs, and possible limited motion of the shoulder, at least for a while.”
“I asked, “You said we can’t see her?”
“No sir, it’s going to be hours. I suggest you go home. You can always call for updates, and we can let you know when you can see her.” The PA grabbed my right arm and moved in closer, smiled and said to me softly, “She’s in good hands, she'll be fine, sir. We’ll take good care of a hero. Don’t you worry.”
It had not registered that Marcy was being considered a hero. I looked at the PA’s angelic face and smiled, then asked, “Can I give you my cell number?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll call you,” she replied.
Her actions and soft voice made me feel a lot better.
Father Dom took advantage of my relaxed state, and said to me in a hushed voice, “I think you should apologize to Belford, at least talk to him, Joey.”
I turned to face Dom, expressionless, then approached Belford. “Tony, sorry for being an asshole, man. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“It’s understandable Joey, not to worry. I didn’t take it personally,” Agent Tony replied.
I tightened my face and quipped, “Well, you should have.”
His eyes bulged out, “What?” he said.
I smiled, “Just toying with you Tony, just toying with you.”
His shoulders dropped, and he relaxed, “Can you call me as soon as you know something? I’ll give you my number.”
“Of course,” I replied.
We said our goodbyes to Tony, and began to walk out of the emergency room.
Father Dom said, “Joey, let’s stop by the chapel, before we head back to the pub.”
“By all means, brother, I forgot you got a direct line. Do your thing.”
“You need to pray, too. Prayer is a powerful thing.”
We went into a small, non-denominational, very serene chapel, that was beautiful. The floors were cream-colored marble with a brownish vein running through them, sort of an earthy tone to it. The walls resembled the heavens, with small tiles in various shades of blues, light greens, and white. There were two other people quietly praying. Father Dom said his prayers, as I opted to talk directly to the Man. I felt guilty for never worrying about Marcy performing her job. Yet, with her, it was always a constant fear of me performing my job when I was with the NYPD. Why did I not worry about her at work? Was it my selfishness? I wondered.
14
We took a car service back to the pub. Dom and I spoke little on the way back. I spent most of my time answering or calling back people that had heard. In just a few minutes, I had talked to: Marcy’s boss, Mr. Pat, Agnes, my old partner, Lucy Roberts. Even the attorneys at Bevans and Associates, the ones offering me the partnership, had called. Evidently, Marcy was identified in news updates, and her picture and story were all over the news. She was being hailed as a hero, along with the Federal Marshal who lost his life in the shooting. The perpetrators were still unidentified, and minor mention of the last shooter’s scream of ‘Allahu Akbar’ was said after the initial report.
It was a little after two in the afternoon when we arrived back at the pub. Mr. Pat had opened on schedule, and a handful of customers were at the pub, intently watching the news reports on one of our twenty-one television monitors. My rule was sports only, but I guess today it was okay to break that rule. Some of the regulars who knew Marcy wanted an update, and most of my responses were limited to a ‘thumbs up’. I didn’t want to repeat myself over and over. Everyone wished the best for Marcy.
Dom walked all the way back with me to the Woody Allen booth, and we both took a seat.
“Joey, do you want to go over the information Agnes researched, or would you rather do it tomorrow?”
“I’d rather do it tomorrow, but we should go over it today. We are running out of time on this case. I’m almost sure Mr. Longworth didn’t do it, but I can’t find who else could have done it. And without that, he’ll be found guilty, for sure.”
Father Dom walked to our small office, retrieved the file and sat down again with me, at the booth. “Let’s start with Mr. Longworth, himself,” he said. “I’ll read what Agnes has here: Harold Longworth, born in nineteen-sixty-two, making him fifty-four years old. Went to private Horace Mann High School in New York, and later to Yale. Graduated with a Master’s in Business, and a double major in International Finance. Joined Simon Property Group out of Yale, and in the year two-thousand, opened his own real estate development company. In sixteen years, he has amassed a small fortune, and continues to be a very successful and respected developer in the Tri-State area.”
I was listening, and had not been surprised by anything yet. “What about finances?” I asked.
“Let’s see,” Dom replied, “Blah, blah, blah, net worth approximated to be seventy-five-million dollars, no debt on a personal level, or for his Longworth and Associates. He owns the company outright, no partners or investors. Mrs. Longworth is listed as a co-owner. Huh. What’d ya think about that?”
“I’m sorry, about what?” I was a bit aloof, and wasn’t paying attention.
“The fact he is worth seventy-five million dollars, and she owns half his company. A motive, or make that motives?”
“Fuck, I wouldn’t know the difference if I had seventy, or thirty-five million. How much is enough? You think it makes a difference to him? If so, maybe he can order his martinis without olives, in some of these fancy places that charge extra for olives.”
“Maybe not that, but, half the company?”
“I guess we need to consider that. Anything else on Harold?”
“Agnes says he is not active in any social media, except for his profile on LinkedIn. Not really much more. Looks clean and straightforward.”
“Okay. Move to the Mrs.”
“Very well, Sheila Sanders, born nineteen-sixty-three, which would make her fifty-three when she passed. Also, attended Horace Mann High School. From there she went on to attend Columbia University and graduated with a Psychology degree. Married Harold Longworth in nineteen-ninety-five. Met him in high school. But look here, oh, oh. Agnes writes the following, —”
I was looking at my cell phone, as if wishing for a call about Marcy, glancing at Dom, I asked, “What?”
Dom went on, “Per her sophomore year book, she wrote on a photograph: ‘my love forever.’”
I asked, “On Harold’s high school photo?”
“No, no. Over Marshall Adams’ picture of her and him.”
“What? Adams, the attorney?”
Dom replied, “It seems these two were an item before Harold Longworth came in the picture.”
“So, she writes ‘my love forever’ in high school. How long is forever? These three have remained friends since then. Is he, Adams, who she is having an affair with?”
Dom glanced up from the file, and turning his gaze on me, asked, “Like you asked, how long is forever?”
I put the phone down on the table, and said, “It could be just crap you say in high school. But, something to think about. Any social media information on Sheila Adams?”
“Yes. Agnes included several pages of her Facebook postings and list of friends including; Mr. and Mrs. Adams. Mr. and Mrs. Pearson, a bunch others not related to the case. Oh, here is a photo of Mrs. Longworth and Mr. Chuck Pearson, at what seems to be a Foundation party or gala, in Houston, Texas.”
“Is Mr. Longworth or Mrs. Pearson in the photo?”
“No, and there are a few of Sheila and Chuck together.”
I leaned over to see the photos. “Chummy, these two in the pictures,” I said, observing the photographs.
“Pearson is the attorney for the
ir Foundation, right?” Dom queried.
“How do you know that?”
“I was glancing at the organization of the Foundation just a second ago.”
“I didn’t know that. But, he mentioned he didn’t socialize with the Longworths.”
“Attending a gala is not equivalent to socializing, is it?”
“Technically, you’re right, brother. Anything else on Facebook?”
“The rest seems to be about the Foundation itself. The charities they contribute to, et cetera.”
“Dr. Watson, look beyond what you see there, observe. Tell me more about the charities they donate to.”
“Animal shelters, climate change, medical research for a cure for AIDS, LGBTQ groups, and something in the Congo. That’s about it.”
“Interesting.”
“What is?” Dom inquired.
“We didn’t want to limit her potential lover to a male partner, right?”
“I see, so, because she contributes to LGBTQ groups, she’s a lesbian, and thus her lover is a female?”
“I didn’t say that. But it adds a possible angle we shouldn’t ignore. It’s amazing how much you can glean from social media pages. People keep adding stuff to their pages, without realizing how much of a profile they are creating on themselves, for others to see.”
Dom said, “Let me get into the Adams’ section. Marshall Adams, also born nineteen-sixty-two, same as Harold. Attended the same high school and Yale. Graduated with a Juris Doctor degree. Joined Levan and Goodwin, as an associate upon graduation. In the year two-thousand he opened Adams and Associates. Same year Longworth opened his own real estate firm.”
“Adams did say they were like mirrored families,” I added, lighting up a cigar and keeping my eye on my phone. “What about a wifey and finances?”
“Getting there,” Dom replied. “Married Jessica Jones, eighteen years ago. Two children, a boy; sixteen, and a girl; eighteen. Blah, blah, blah, okay finances; no record of net worth, but no significant debts, except for a mortgage on their home. Mrs. Adams, Jessica Jones, is not employed; she’s listed as a homemaker. However, she’s on the board of the Longworth Foundation.”
