by Owen Parr
Williams looked at me as we pulled out of the dock with my two buddies from before, Officers Reed and Harrington. Taking off his Stetson, Williams said, “You may be on to something. Mr. Wetherly has been a sick man since he retired here. Over the last twenty years, he suffered a series of illnesses— heart, diabetes, cancer, and now Parkinson’s.”
“Shit, we’ve had to send an emergency boat with paramedics for him several times,” our boat pilot shouted over the noise.
We docked and took their parked Jeep over to the Wetherly home in Haig Point. I couldn’t help remembering the night I met old Bernard right here on this dock. I would have to stop and say hello to Carmelite and Bobby Valentine.
“You called ahead, right?” I asked the captain.
“Yes, and I think we’ll have an additional person at the meeting.”
“Who?”
“The attorney for the young Wetherly, Mr. Sam Cohen.”
“Good, so they know why we’re coming.”
“From what you tell me, they know the purpose of your investigation. I just hope Cohen lets him speak.”
“Follow my lead, Captain. I think at some point we’ll need to Mirandize him.”
“Let’s hope you know what you’re doing. Otherwise, you’ve wasted a trip here.”
We drove through the small streets and sand-packed roads arriving at the gate to the exclusive and secluded area known as Haig Point. The guard waved us in and made a call to alert the Wetherly home that we had arrived.
Eunice, the maid, was waiting for us at the front door, and the captain asked Harrington and Reed to stay in the Jeep. There was no need for a show of force. We were ushered to the outdoor patio overlooking Calibogue Sound, Hilton Head in the background. Wetherly had called this patio, adorned with beautiful colorful flowers, God’s waiting room.
As we walked out onto the patio, the first to stand, was who I assumed was Sam Cohen. I smiled as I saw him, being totally surprised by his looks. For some reason, my mental picture of Cohen had been a tall, heavy-set, balding man with white hair. What I saw was a diminutive skinny Asian person with a beak nose and a pointed beard that matched the angle of his nose. His rounded glasses enlarged his brown eyes out of proportion with his slender face.
“Ah, Mancuso, you’re a busy man,” Cohen said, extending his hand.
“Glad you’re here, Mr. Cohen. Pleasure meeting you.”
Williams and Cohen introduced themselves, and we proceeded to say hello to Mr. Wetherly, who remained seated.
“So, gentlemen, Mr. Wetherly has retained me as his counsel for this meeting. Please understand that I have advised him not to respond to any of your questions.”
“I’ll be the judge of what I answer or not,” retorted Wetherly, apparently not in agreement with his counsel.
Cohen smiled. “Proceed, gentlemen.”
“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Wetherly,” I began, as he turned his face to look at me. “I’m investigating a cold murder case that occurred twenty years ago. Actually, two murders. One was the murder of an FBI agent, and the second was the murder of Paolo Mancuso, my father.” I paused as Wetherly blinked rapidly and looked away from me.
I went on. “In all honesty, sir, I know you didn’t pull the trigger, nor do I believe you personally ordered the murders. So, we’re not here to accuse you of murder.”
Wetherly glanced back at me. “But,” he began to say.
Cohen put his hand on Wetherly’s arm and asked, “Then why are you here?”
“I realize this took place twenty years ago and memories fade, but when I was last here, you, Mr. Wetherly, had a good recollection of 1997. Such as the entry of Susana and Sofia into your life, as they related to your company. Is that correct?”
Wetherly nodded. “Yes.”
“Mr. Wetherly, I would prefer if we listened and refrained from responding. Mr. Mancuso was here last time under false pretenses, so I’m not sure how truthful he intends to be this time,” Cohen said.
“Mr. Cohen, I’m perfectly capable of deciding what I should answer. While I did not appreciate your rouse last time, Mr. Mancuso, I understand why you were here. And, if my grandson did what he’s accused of, he deserves to pay for it. Now, I do have a recollection of what happened twenty years ago, maybe not all of it, but I do remember talking to you about it.”
“Thank you, sir. I apologize for not being on the up-and-up last time we met. For the last twenty years, both my mother and I have lived with a feeling of sorrow. The sorrow of the manner in which my dad’s life was extinguished. We don’t have closure for his death, and we’ve been denied justice all these years.”
“Go on,” Wetherly said, nodding.
“I have taken the lives of a few people, in the line of duty or in self-defense. While none of those I killed were a murder, I will admit that they haunt me occasionally. I remember each and every one of them. Sometimes, to my regret, my mind replays the events.”
Wetherly sat back and returned his gaze to the openness of Calibogue Sound.
“I believe that you may have information that could help me solve these murders. Information that—”
Cohen broke in, “Stop right there, Mr. Mancuso. You’re not going to trick my client into admitting to being an accessory to two murders, like you did his grandson.”
“Mr. Cohen, if we were here to charge Mr. Wetherly with anything, I assure you that Captain Williams would have read him his rights by now. Frankly, we can do that and then take Mr. Wetherly back to Hilton Head and proceed with a different line of questioning.”
“I would like to avoid that,” added Captain Williams, as both Cohen and Wetherly looked at him.
“What is your theory, Mr. Mancuso?” asked Wetherly somberly.
“My theory sir is that you and your partner were involved in a scheme—and may I add that the statutes of limitations have passed on those crimes—a scheme that involved laundering funds for a member of an organized crime family. That individual involved in organized crime is no longer around, and there’s no way to prove my theory, but allow me to go on. In the course of performing these services, you, Mr. Wetherly, wanted to stop. You wanted no more part of the scheme. Am I triggering any memories?”
Cohen frowned as Wetherly quietly said, “Go on.”
“You, Mr. Stevens, and a Charles Maestro, a banker with Abacus Federal and AmericanCiti, were part of this illicit activity. That’s when you and Stevens, in 1997, almost closed the investment firm. I think Stevens was afraid to stop, but you wanted to end it.”
“Have you spoken to Maestro?” Wetherly asked.
“Mr. Maestro is under investigation.” I didn’t want to say he may not be alive anymore.
“Oh, I guess you haven’t heard,” said Cohen. “I received a call telling me Maestro was found shot to death in an alley in Queens.”
“I guess that your other client, Mrs. Susana Wetherly, called you about that.”
Cohen didn’t respond.
“In any case, back in 1997, Maestro, realizing that his gravy train could end, engineered a way for Sofia and Susana to meet both Stevens and your son, Thomas. By the way, Sofia and Susana are orphaned sisters who were separated when adopted.”
“They are sisters?” Wetherly asked, glancing at me.
“Yes, sir. They reunited back in 1996, and both were close friends of Maestro. So, Maestro, as I said, orchestrated their introductions to Stevens and your son. He used them not only as love interests, but also as a means to infiltrate the firm. Susana never went to Harvard, nor does she have any degrees. It was all faked to insert her into your company.”
“Sofia intended to—” began Wetherly.
“Hang on a second, Mr. Wetherly,” Cohen interjected. “Mancuso, are you saying that the illegal scheme to launder funds is ongoing?”
“I believe so.”
“In that case, Mr. Wetherly can’t continue to answer these questions. You see, he’s still part owner of the firm, thus possibly culpable, if you can prove that.
”
“Yes and no. You see, there is an NYSE document called the Responsibility Memo, which delineates the parties responsible for the supervision and compliance of the firm and its activities. Since Mr. Wetherly retired, he has not been a party to those duties. Only Richard Stevens and Susana Wetherly are responsible.”
“He’s correct, Sam,” said Wetherly. “I was going to say that Sofia intended to snag me instead of Richard. Having met Richard first, when I discarded her approach, I guess she, or they, decided to stick with Richard. My son, the fool, fell for Susana.”
“Well, sir, both these ladies are quite attractive and intelligent. I can only imagine what they looked like in their twenties. I wouldn’t blame your son.”
“Ah, he’s still a fool and a drunkard.”
“If I may get back to 1997. Perhaps you weren’t aware of it, but your company was under investigation by the FBI. At the same time, there was an informant inside the organized crime group who was reporting back to the FBI.”
“Your father,” Wetherly stated, almost whispering.
“Yes, sir, my father.”
“And you think my partner ordered their murders?”
“Right now, I think it was either him, Maestro, or the sisters. Maybe all of them. Do you know?”
“Don’t answer that,” called Cohen.
“Relax, Sam. I have no idea. But, I’ll say this: for whatever it’s worth, Richard has never had an original thought in his life. Look, my life is almost over. This mystery has bothered me for all these years. As I speak now, I feel a sense of relief. While I had no direct involvement, I was no fool. When the FBI dropped the case, I was well aware as to the reason for it. The murder of the FBI agent ended the investigation. I didn’t know there was a second murder associated with it. And, I’m sorry if my associates caused your family’s sorrow, Mancuso. After all that happened, I moved here hoping to seek solace, maybe even forgiveness. But, as you said, the thought of possibly being implicated in a murder always stayed with me.”
“Thank you for being candid with me, Mr. Wetherly.”
“I’m no detective, but these sisters were playing the long game, right? I would look at them a little closer. From what you’ve said, their plan was very well planned and executed. I had a feeling about those two from the get-go.”
“Thank you for your time. And, I’m sorry about your grandson, sir.”
“I’ve already told Sam here to take the plea bargain being offered. Of course, that’s up to junior. Also, that stupid lawsuit against you by Susana is simply a nuisance suit. That has to be terminated immediately. Right, Sam?”
“Yes, sir. It looks as if Mrs. Wetherly has bigger problems. I’ll call your attorney, Mr. Mancuso.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what are you going to do now, Mancuso?” asked Wetherly.
“I’m headed to Barcelona.”
45
Fortunately, this time Agnes booked me on a flight from Hilton Head-Savannah to Chicago, then, Barcelona. When I arrived in Chicago, I had an email from Agnes. “Joey, Susana Wetherly boarded a flight to Barcelona.” Is she on my flight? That would have been very convenient. While I waited for my connection, I called Agnes.
“Young lady, do we know if she has a connecting flight out of Barcelona?”
“I’ll have to check that. Larry followed her to the airport. That’s how we know.”
“Is she connecting through Chicago?”
“Funny, no. She’s headed to London first.”
“Okay. My thought is this: the sisters are getting out. I’m sure there are accounts elsewhere already. They’ve had a plan just for this for some time. Do me a favor and find the nearest country near Barcelona, Spain, that have no extradition treaty with the United States. Could you find if either one owns property in another part of the world?”
“I can easily do the extradition countries. However, finding ownership of properties outside the US, I’m not sure about. I don’t think I can.”
“I figured that. Do this. Check their social media. See where they’ve traveled in the past. Maybe we get lucky and they’ve posted while at a second home.”
“That’s why you make the big bucks. I’ll do that and email you. By the way, Maestro’s body was found. Shot to death.”
“I heard. Any information on that?”
“Like what?”
“Did they find the murder weapon?”
“Hang on. Let me scroll through the article.” Moments later, Agnes added, “No weapon, but he was shot in the head, and they recovered the bullet.”
“What caliber? Does it say?”
“A twenty-two caliber.”
“Thank you, Agnes, I have to make another call. Hang on a second, I just thought of something. Call Octavio in Barcelona and have him follow Susana wherever she goes. If she boards a flight, make sure he finds out where it’s going.”
Was the twenty-two used to kill Maestro a coincidence? Or was this part of the favor? I dialed Detective Oliva. “Al, you may have a break.”
“Maestro is dead. Did you hear?”
“Yes, I did. Did you notice the caliber?”
“A twenty-two?”
“Exactly. The same as the gun she owns. Listen, Susana Wetherly is on a flight to Barcelona. My thought is that she’s meeting her sister and getting lost.”
“You think she killed him?”
I think I knew better, but I replied, “Very possible, Al. She’s cleaning house on her way out of the country. Can you get a warrant for her arrest?”
“But, you said she’s on her way to Spain.”
“Yes, but can we have her arrested there before she goes into the wind?”
“I’ll give it a shot. Do you have any information on these two?”
“We have some. It’s unlikely you can use it in court. But, we do have pictures of the two. They were having an affair.”
“I want to see what you have. It might help with securing a warrant.”
“I’ll text you my assistant Agnes’s number in a minute. Email me back. I’m about to board a flight to Barcelona. And Al, if you get a warrant, let Agnes know. I have someone trying to meet her plane when she lands. Also, buddy, call the authorities in Barcelona and give them a heads-up.”
As I hung up, my phone chirped. Agnes had sent me a text. “Closest place to Barcelona without an extradition treaty is Morocco. Rabat is the capital. Checking social media.”
Shit. Was I going to miss a chance to get these ladies? I was so close to closing this case I could taste it. Yet, if they boarded a flight to Morocco, I was done. I needed that warrant to have Susana arrested at the airport. After all these years, we were at the goal line, but I had to keep pushing to close the game.
A few anxious hours later, I arrived in Barcelona. I hoped that I had come before Susana and that both Octavio and I could meet up with her, or at least tail her if she and her sister didn’t board another flight. I dialed Octavio’s number. “Octavio, where are you?”
“Señor Joey, I’m at the airport.”
“Where?”
“At the Air France counter. The sisters just boarded a flight to Casablanca.”
“Shit. Was Mr. Stevens with them?”
“No, just the two of them. Mrs. Stevens was here waiting for her sister. I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything else.”
“Not your fault. Stay put. I’ll walk over to you.”
I sped over to where Octavio was, trying to put a plan in place, but it seemed fruitless. These ladies were gone. As I approached Octavio, my phone rang. Putting my luggage down, I reached for my phone.
“Yes, Al.”
“It took a lot of effort, but I got a warrant for her arrest. We are searching her place as we speak.”
“Good job, but we’re fucked, buddy. Susana and her sister just boarded a flight to Casablanca, Morocco. No extradition treaty with the US. Did you find her gun?” I asked, not that it made a difference. I didn’t think Susana killed him anyway.
&
nbsp; “Not yet. We’re on it. What are you going to do?”
“I’m here. I might as well go question Richard Stevens on my other case.”
“I’m sorry we were late.”
“We just missed them. I’ll figure something later. And thanks, Al.”
“Looks like I may have a cold case on my hands. I hope we find the gun and are able to link it to the Maestro murder. If so, if Susana ever comes back, she’s toast.”
I wanted to tell him that even if he did find the gun, it wouldn’t have been the murder weapon. It might, however, prove it was the gun fired at brother Dom. “I hope so too, buddy. I’ll let you know what happens.”
Octavio and I shook hands. I said, “Let’s head to the Stevens’s home. I want to know what he knows. By the way, do you still have friends in the local police?”
“In Barcelona, but not in Catella, where he lives.”
“Okay. We’ll figure it out if we need them.”
Traffic was crazy. We drove for a solid two hours to the Stevens’s residence. As we were approaching the front, I could see the rising moon casting vibrant silvery tones on the calm waters of the Mediterranean. The westerly winds made the Mediterranean look like a still lake. It would have been a beautiful scene for an artist to capture. My mind, however, was intent on another capture.
Knocking on the front door, both Octavio and I waited for a few minutes until a maid opened the door. “Good evening. Would you tell Mr. Stevens that Mr. Mancuso is here to see him?”
“Un momento por favor. ¿Su nombre es Mancuso?”
“Sí, gracias,” I replied, as she closed the door.
About four minutes later, Mr. Stevens, the Monopoly Man, opened the door. He was wearing a bright red smoking jacket, black slacks, and leather slippers. “Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Joey Mancuso. What brings you back to Barcelona? A follow-up on your fake article?”
“May we come in Mr. Stevens?”
“Sure, I’d love to hear what story you’re telling these days.”
“By the way, this is my associate Octavio Cardona,” I said, as we entered the home.
