Joey Mancuso Mysteries Box Set

by Owen Parr

  “If it’s only going to be a day or two, I’ll wait,” she paused.

  “Okay, then I’ll see you soon,” I said before she asked more questions.

  “Joey, are you sure you’re done with the Drucker case?”

  “I’m not on the clock with Drucker anymore, right? So, yeah, we’re done with Drucker and Gavi. I’ll bill him up until his text, plus our airfare back, of course.”

  “Okay, be safe. See you soon,” Ruth said. The line went dead.

  No sooner than Ruth hung up, my phone rang again. This time I looked at the screen and saw the kind face of Father Dominic. “Bro, how you doin?”

  “Joey, why didn’t you call and tell me you guys got shot at? What in the world is going on?”

  I was pretty sure I’d pissed him off by not telling him. “I see you spoke to Marcy. How is she?”

  “Marcy called me from the Miami airport. She seems shaken and worried about you guys.”

  I wanted to say something like ‘shaken, not stirred.’ I thought it would be apropos seeing that we both own a bar, but instead I gave Dom a rundown of events and told him that we planned to see this through.

  “Joey, you’re a homicide detective. You have no business meddling in a conspiracy involving ISIS and the black market, or whatever.”

  “First of all, we do have a homicide, and frankly, we may have caused it. So, I’m going to solve it, or at least get involved. As for the other stuff? Well a crime is a crime. Just like a homicide, you follow the clues. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “I’m flying down. I’ll text you my flight number, so you can pick me up.”

  So much for my two-passenger Mustang. Neither Mr. Pat nor Dom would fit in the decorative second row in a Mustang. I sighed. “Okay, brother. We can always use your help.” I could tell Dom was worried for me. Ever since my Dad was shot at a bar in Little Italy, Dom took over and became my surrogate father. Thanks to him and his guidance—and with plenty of help from above, probably—I walked the straight and narrow. I’m convinced I would have followed in my dad’s footsteps, and his dad’s before him, and become another wise-guy in a city full of them.

  I walked back into the professor’s office and found Patrick and Doctor P. having a heated debate about the merits of the Vietnam War.

  I interrupted them. “Professor, thank you so much for your help. If we see an opportunity for you to help, I will contact you again. Right now, to be honest, I don’t know how much I want to get involved in this. It’s a little out of my league.”

  The professor looked a bit disappointed. “Well, fellows, I’m here and ready to help. I think it’s a crime for anyone to help fund terrorism, and believe me, it’s exactly what they’re doing. I should tell you about the time I was in Libya,” he began. “It was during the—”

  “Perhaps another time, Doctor. Right now, we need to get going.”

  I patted Patrick on his back, signaling that we needed to leave. On our walk back to the Holiday Inn, Patrick asked, “We’re not following up on this smuggling ring?”

  “Of course, we are. I just don’t want to get the professor involved. Why? You think he can pull it off?”

  “Let’s think about it. He might be helpful.”

  “In the meantime, we’ve got to get a bigger car. Father Dom is flying down, and I can’t fit you guys in the Mustang.”

  “Great! The Father adds another excellent deductive thinker to our investigation. So, what’s the plan?” he asked. Before I responded, he answered his own question. “I know, you’re working on it.”

  “I’m beyond that. First, let’s rent a car from SameDay Rentals. That’s the agency that the two guys tailing us rented from. Then, I want to visit Meso Trading as we originally planned. Let’s see what we can glean from them.”

  “Keep in mind the FBI has a stakeout on that place. Marcy’s friend, Agent Olmec, is going to find out we were there.”

  I smiled. “That’s how I roll, Mr. Pat. I follow the clues, and now that I’m a private citizen, I have no bosses to pull the reigns in. Alexa, is dead, and these people are involved in her murder. I don’t give a shit who is watching who. The first order of business is finding out who killed her.”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  20

  Friday

  Miami’s temperature cooled off a tad. Baby blue skies covered the city. Traffic, however, continued to be a shit-show. SameDay Rentals was a small car rental agency that survived principally because of its location across from the busy Miami Airport. It was tough competing with the big boys in the car rental industry. I rented a big-ass Toyota Four Runner SUV so that both Mr. Pat and Dom could sit comfortably. At thirty-five dollars a day, it was a very competitive price, which must have been another secret of their survival.

  “Jose,” I said to the agent who handled my rental, whose name was embroidered on his dark blue shirt, “a few days ago, two guys rented a blue caddy that was involved in an accident. Do you remember the incident?”

  “Of course. They fucked up the front-end of the car. It’s sitting on our lot. Why? Were you the folks they hit?”

  “No, but they left the scene of the accident without exchanging information with the other driver. Unfortunately,” I said, pointing at Patrick, “it was his brother in the car in front of the caddy.”

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry to hear that. Is he all right?” Jose asked, looking at Patrick.

  “He’s hurting all over. You know how it is. He’s worried.”

  “Motherfuckers, they called and said they were late to catch a flight. Just told us where the car was and that we should pick it up. I can’t believe they just left, idiots.”

  “We need your help,” I said, slipping a C-note across the counter.

  Jose lowered his gaze and put two fingers on the hundred-dollar bill. He looked around the small office. “Yeah man, what you need?”

  I spoke in a hushed tone. “We need a copy of the driver’s license and insurance information. Can you get that for us, Jose?” I let go of the bill.

  Jose pocketed the bill without looking at it again. “Hang on a second. Hijo de putas, those guys.”

  I glanced at Patrick, who was grinning. “We’ll know now.”

  We inspected our SUV, which had a distinct smell of cigarettes. Jose apologized for the marijuana seeds in the rear cargo area as he wiped them off with his hands.

  “How long do you need the car for?”

  “I don’t know. Does it make a difference?”

  “I don’t give a shit, man. Keep it as long as you want, and get those hijo de putas, for me.”

  We left the rental agency on or way to the airport to pick up Dominic. Patrick opened the envelope Jose handed him.

  “Joseph Petkovic,” Patrick said. “Queens, New York.”

  “Pass it on to Agnes. She’ll get us the rest,” I replied as Patrick began dialing.

  I drove across Le Juene Road and into the American Airlines arrival area, stopping in a lane where other passengers were being picked up. A security guard with a square jaw and an unfriendly face approached us, walking with a limp. He knocked on Patrick’s passenger window and said in a sour, deep voice, “You can’t park here. This is strictly for passenger loading.”

  Patrick began lowering his window to ask for patience on this guy’s part, but before Patrick could plead for mercy, the guy simply knocked on the car’s roof and said, “Move it!”

  We went around the winding road twice before we spotted Father Dominic. I stopped right in front of our antagonist, Señor Square-Jaw. Getting out of the car, I opened the cargo door. Square-Jaw froze in front of me without saying a word. He looked pissed. I looked through him at Dom and smiled. “Here we are, brother, take your time. No hurry.”

  Dom threw his bag in the rear cargo area, got in the back, and said, “Joey, have you been smoking a cigar in this car?”

  “Smells like an ashtray, right?”

  “Have you?”

  “In all honesty, Dom, I h
aven’t had a chance to smoke any cigars since we’ve been down here. I was looking forward to picking up some Cuban cigars in town.”

  “Father,” Patrick added, “we haven’t stopped. Not even for a single-malt scotch.”

  “By the way, Marcy remembered the make of the motorcycle that the rider was driving,” Dom offered.

  “Yeah…” I said as I turned to look at him. “It all happened too fast. All I remember is that it was orange.”

  “Marcy said it was a Kawasaki, but most importantly, it had a logo of a skull and crossbones in front of the name—”

  “That’s great, maybe—”

  “Let me finish my sentence.”

  “Sorry, brother. Go ahead.”

  “The skull, she said, had a red bandana over the head, and it had one earring.”

  “Like a pirate?” Patrick said.

  “Exactly!”

  “That’s a good clue if we ever see that guy again.”

  “What’s the order of business?” Father Dominic asked.

  “I want to go by the scene of the murder, just to look around. That’s our priority now. Then, I want us to visit Meso Trading—Drucker’s client who’s the importer.”

  “Do you know the exact location where the young lady was killed?”

  “No, but I have an idea of what to do. Let’s stop at the motel, have you check into your room, and I’ll make some calls.”

  I drove back to the Holiday Inn without the assistance of Ms. Waze. After all, this was the same road I’d taken about a thousand times so far. While Dom checked in, I called Captain Alex Johnson, my old boss at Midtown Precinct South. We reported to him when we were consulting to the NYPD. I brought him up to speed on what we were doing and asked that he contact Miami-Dade Police Department. My hope was that the locals would allow me to get involved, albeit in a small way, to help find Alexa Gould’s murderer.

  After a few minutes, Captain Johnson called me back. “Joey, don’t screw this up or get me in trouble with one of your schemes. Play it straight with these folks.”

  I knew where he was coming from, but I was sure he also shared with the MDPD that I’d been his top homicide detective for ten years and was now his go-to-guy as a consultant. I least, I hoped he had. I replied, “Straight up, Captain.”

  “Miami-Dade Police Homicide Bureau deals with the unincorporated areas of the county, as opposed to the local police in an incorporated city like Miami itself. So, this is their case. The lead detective is Albert Rodriguez. He’s waiting for you guys at the office. I’ll text you the address. It’s behind the airport in a city called Doral. Got that?”

  “Yes, Captain, thank you. We’ll head out now.”

  “I understand somebody took a shot at your car? Is that connected to this?”

  “Yes, they shot out our front left tire. I definitely think it’s all connected.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, no. We’re all fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “Joey, let me repeat this. Work with them. Emphasis on the with.”

  “I heard you loud and clear. Thank you again. I’ll report back daily, so you can feel better.” I clicked off the phone. I respected the captain too much to give him any shit. Alex Johnson was the beat cop, back almost twenty years ago, when my dad was shot in Little Italy. He was first on the scene, and I remember to this day how he pulled me away from the melee at the bar. He always stayed in touch with my mom and Father Dom, and like I said before, it was no coincidence that I ended up working for him at the NYPD.

  I met up with Dom and Patrick in the lobby of the hotel. “Get ready boys, we’re on the case.”

  21

  I was beginning to think that Miami was just this one street—Le Juene Road. Every time we went anywhere, it was on this road. Anyway, we drove past the Miami Airport and made a left turn to go west on NW Thirty-Sixth Street. We headed in the direction of where these ‘weather fronts,’ as Marcy called them, came in from. I missed my esposa. I’d only been away from her one night, but I was accustomed to her warm body next to mine in bed.

  Arriving at the MDPD’s homicide bureau, we were greeted by an officer who was expecting us. He showed us a self-service coffee machine, told us to help ourselves, and pointed to a conference room right next to the coffee, telling us to wait for Sergeant Allen. We did as instructed. I made myself a French Vanilla, Patrick a Donut Shoppe Flavor, and my brother a tea of some kind.

  Two men walked into the conference room, both wearing slacks and a sports jacket but no ties. We stood to introduce ourselves. “Hi, I’m Sergeant Arnold Allen,” one of the guys said, “this is Detective Albert Rodriguez.”

  I introduced us as we all took our seats.

  “Major Stevens spoke to Captain Johnson with the NYPD, and he has agreed to let you participate in our investigation in the death of Alexa Gould. Mancuso, you come very highly recommended. It seems your ratio of solved cases is still some kind of record back in New York City. Let’s hope you’re as good as advertised,” Allen said.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Please call me Joey.”

  “Now,” Allen began, “we have some rules you need to strictly abide by,” he said, putting what looked like a murder book on top of the conference table. “I don’t know about the NYPD, but in this bureau, we work in squads of four detectives who report to a team leader, who reports to me. Detective A. Rod, as he is lovingly called,” he patted A. Rod on the arm, “is the lead detective on this squad. So, you follow his lead. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. Dom and Patrick nodded.

  “Are you carrying?”

  “No, sir, we’re not,” I answered.

  “Good. You’re not to carry a weapon at any time. Now, I’ll turn this over to A. Rod, and leave you guys to discuss the case. Are there any questions for me?”

  I glanced at both Patrick and Dom, and we all shook our heads. “No, sir.”

  Allen stood up, slid the murder book in front of A. Rod, and said, “Good, go get ‘em.”

  A. Rod asked, “How about some cafecitos instead of that crap your drinking?”

  “I’m in.” I set down my cup.

  “Make it two,” said Patrick.

  “I’m fine, thank you detective,” responded Dominic.

  A. Rod made a call on his cell phone, said something in Spanish, and then turned to face back at us. “On their way. Now, I understand that you guys were at MarAir the morning our vic was killed?”

  “Just me and Patrick, plus my wife. Dom just arrived from New York.”

  A. Rod looked at his notes without looking up. “Marcy Martinez, that’s your wife, and she’s FBI in New York.”

  “That’s correct. She flew back yesterday,” I said, adding, “I have some questions for you.”

  A. Rod smiled. “I’m sure you do, and we’ll get to them. First, I need you to set the stage for me. Why are you guys in Miami? Why were you at MarAir? And, what happened while you were there? Can you answer those?”

  In the spirit of cooperation, the fact I promised Johnson I would be on my best behavior, because these guys were willing to let us play in their ballpark, I decided to tell him the entire story. So, I began with the call from Ruth Goldstein about Gavi Drucker’s abduction. The only part I left out was part two of our investigation—the black-market antiquities angle we were pursuing. I didn’t see a need to make that part of this case.

  It took us the better part of an hour as A. Rod, who I could see was meticulous in his work, had taken copious notes on everything I had said.

  He raised his head from his notebook and asked, opening up his palms toward me, “Great, now, what are some of your questions?”

  “I heard,” I began, “that our vic, Alexa, was found in an empty filed near Miami Executive. Is that right?”

  “Yes, about four blocks away. And, we got lucky on that, because a survey crew arrived moments after she was killed or dumped there. Otherwise, it could have been days before we found the body.”

  �
��Have you examined the scene? Can you tell whether she was dumped there or killed there?”

  “I did examine the scene with my partner. You’ll meet him later. Unfortunately, kids in the neighborhood ride their ATVs and play sports in that field. So, while there are fresh tire tracks, we couldn’t identify any of them.”

  “And her clothing didn’t provide any clues?” I asked.

  “You mean if she was dragged there or if we found torn clothing?”

  “Yes that. Was she wearing khaki slacks and a black tee shirt?”

  A. Rod looked down at his notes, “Nothing torn, and no marks on her clothing. And yes, she was wearing exactly what you described.”

  “Any defensive wounds?”

  From memory, A. Rod replied, “She had blood on her left fingers and left palm. No other defensive wounds.”

  “Are you testing the blood? Is it hers?”

  “It is not her blood type. So, we’re assuming it’s the killer’s. And, before you ask, yes, we sent the blood for a DNA test. I don’t know about your labs in New York, but here it’s going to take a couple of weeks before we get the DNA back. And then, we hope we get a match.”

  “I understand she was shot once in the head. You know what type of gun?”

  “One shot to the forehead, out on the back of her head. We did not recover the bullet. But, the killer was very close to her when he shot her.”

  “You didn’t find the casing, I assume. So, it may have been a revolver instead of a pistol.”

  “That’s correct, or the killer removed it.”

  I closed my eyes as Father Dom mouthed something, a quick prayer, I guessed.

  Patrick asked, “And no one heard or saw anything?”

  “We canvased the area, but like I said, it’s an open field, and there’s nothing close to where she was found.”

  “Shit…can we visit the scene?” I asked, feeling guilty as hell.

  “Sure, we can go now. It’s getting late, so let’s do it before the sun sets. One car or two?” A. Rod asked.