by Owen Parr
Hernandez was about six feet tall and very heavy. His large tummy protruded out from his midsection, giving the impression that he was eight months pregnant. Which explained why he was wearing sweatpants and a white long-sleeved dress shirt to cover his paunch. His bushy white hair was uncombed, and his thick brown eyebrows met right above his eyes.
After flashing his creds, Logan told him that we had met with the girls and their parents, and that they were genuinely sorry about what they had said. That it was a stupid joke, and both would stop by to apologize.
He scowled at us. “How are they going to tell my neighbors? Everyone in the block is looking at me as if I was a child molester. Tell me how.”
“Perhaps,” I started carefully, “you can ask them to go door to door, just like they did when they were selling whatever it was and tell the neighbors it was a stupid joke.”
“It was beyond stupid." Hernandez huffed. "These days, charges like that could send me to jail. Guilty until proven innocent. The world is upside down. Right?”
“Yes, sir, you’re correct,” I replied. “We have other questions, sir. Are you aware that Gene, the son of Mr. Ed Wells, your neighbor across the street, was killed in a hit-and-run accident a week and three days ago?”
“My wife told me, yes,” Hernandez replied, eyeing both of us.
“Can your account for your whereabouts early that morning at about one? I’ll tell you the exact date, let me look at my notes,” Logan began.
Hernandez waved him off. “You don’t need to look at any notes. I do the same every day. My wife and I have dinner watching TV. After dinner, I walk for an hour. Then, about midnight, we go to our bedrooms to sleep.”
“So, your wife will say she was sleeping with you at that time?” Logan inquired.
“Wait,” I interrupted, catching the particular wordage, “you said bedrooms, right? So, do you sleep in separate rooms?”
Hernandez slid forward on his seat. With a disgusted look as his eyes bulged, he asked, “Wait a fricking second, are you accusing me of killing this kid, Gene? So now, after being accused of indecent exposure, you want to hang his death on me? I don’t think I have to listen to this shit.”
“No, sir, we are eliminating possible suspects," Logan replied calmly.
His eyes flashed in anger. “So, I’m a possible suspect? I can’t believe this crap!”
“Well, sir, you and Gene had words in the front of your home. He did, albeit incorrectly, accuse you of exposing yourself to the girls. Some people may react to that in a very aggressive way,” I pointed out reasonably.
“I bet they do, particularly if it’s a lie. That idiot believed their accusation without any proof and came to my home indicting me of a serious crime. You bet I had words for the stupid shithead! But my reaction was not to go after him. No, instead I took a Valium after my blood pressure topped two hundred. I have a heart condition, you know. I probably would have had a heart attack if I went after him. Now, I’m getting agitated again. I think you both need to leave.” His hard tone brooked no further argument.
“Did you not tell Gene to leave or you were getting your gun?” I asked.
“Get the hell out of my home!” he thundered as he staggered to his feet.
I held up my hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. We're leaving."
Left with no other choice, we left Hernandez’s home and headed to Franco Scarpelli’s office.
“I think we pissed him off just a bit,” Logan said as we pulled onto I-95, going south to downtown Miami.
I snorted. “You think? But, is he capable of the hit-and-run?”
Logan glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “He’s got a temper, but I don’t see him driving his car into Gene’s motorcycle.”
“I don’t know. If I was accused of what they said he did, I would be hot,” I replied. How would I react if I were accused of indecent exposure to two minors?
“Yeah, but enough to kill somebody for it?”
“He does have a four-door dark green Kia parked in his home. So, there’s that.”
We arrived in downtown Miami after thirty minutes and went into a building’s crazy-ass maze of a parking lot that seemed to have every car in Miami parked there. Finally, we located a spot on the last floor of the building’s lot. After taking the elevator down to the lobby and checking in with security, we proceeded to a different bank of elevators to Scarpelli’s office on the forty-fourth floor.
The receptionist informed us that Mr. Franco Scarpelli had stepped out for lunch and would be back around two in the afternoon. Furthermore, he had a two thirty appointment. So, he might not be able to see us.
I looked at my cell phone. It was twelve thirty. “Let’s go get a quick bite somewhere near and be back before two and wait for this guy,” I suggested.
We did accordingly and made our way back to the forty-fourth floor at one forty-five. We sat in the spacious and luxurious lobby of the office, waiting for hothead Franco. Large, colorful abstract paintings adorned the lobby walls. Area rugs with designs that matched the colors of the paintings covered the plank floors. All in all, it was a very nice, plush look.
After a few minutes, four individuals walked into the lobby. Even without having seen a photo of Franco, I knew who he was right away. Short and slender, with his black shiny hair combed back, and a pinstriped dark blue suit that probably retailed north of a thousand dollars.
He led the pack as his companions opened the double glass door for him. He frowned the moment he saw Detective Logan and me after quickly taking inventory of our off-the-rack attire. Ignoring us, he went directly to the reception desk and asked if he had any messages.
Logan stood up and walked toward him. “Mr. Scarpelli, my name is Detective Robert Logan from the Miami Beach Police Department and this is Mr. Joey Mancuso. We need to ask you a few questions please.”
Scarpelli glanced at his gold diamond-lined Rolex. “Gentlemen, I have an appointment in a few minutes. Can this wait?”
“It will only take us a few minutes and we have been waiting, sir,” Logan replied.
“Very well, follow me,” he said and led the way down a hallway to the back office. Without stopping or glancing back at me, he asked, “Mancuso, paisan?”
“Mio padre,” I replied. “E tu?”
“Mio nonno. Have a seat, please,” he added when we reached his large, opulent office with an incredible view of Biscayne Bay, Miami Beach, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
“We only have a few questions to clear something up,” Logan said.
“Do I need an attorney present?” he asked, grinning as he sat behind his larger-than-life desk.
Not picking up on the intended joke, Logan replied, “That’s always your prerogative, sir. But we are not accusing you of anything.”
“Go ahead. What is this about?” Picking up a pen, he fiddled with it.
“About three weeks ago when you were at a club in Miami Beach, the Miami Beach Police had to be called in due to a fight you had with a young fellow.”
Scarpelli studied us closely. “What’s your name again, Detective Hogan?”
“Logan, Robert Logan.”
Scarpelli shrugged. “You probably read the police report. Nothing happened and no one was charged. We shook hands and everyone went about their business.”
“But you were very upset with the fellow who ripped your suit’s front pocket, according to the report,” Logan said.
“You would be too if you owned a tailored-made, two-thousand-dollar suit. But I suppose the police department doesn’t pay enough for you to own such a suit,” Scarpelli said with a smirk.
I was getting annoyed with this punk, and as I glanced at Logan, I could see his patience was being tested. “Do you know who this fellow is?”
Scarpelli opened the top drawer to his right and pulled out a little yellow piece of notepaper. Reading from it, he replied, “Gene Wells.”
I frowned. “Why do you have his name?”
“One of the
guys I was with wanted me to sue the kid for ripping my suit. So, we got a copy of the police report.” Scarpelli gave me a look that said it was obvious.
“And did you?”
“Nah." Scarpelli waved his hand. "Who wants to bother with that shit? The kid probably doesn’t have a pot to piss in. Shit, he doesn’t even own a car.”
“How do you know that?” I asked curiously.
“After we shook hands, he jumped on some crappy motorcycle parked on the curb, right behind my Lamborghini, and took off. I can always replace the stupid suit. But he almost scratched my car when he peeled off. I would have killed him for that.” Realizing what he had just said, he added, “Well, not kill him, but sue him is what I meant to say.”
Uh-huh. Logan and I glanced at each other. “Is it true that one of your friends grabbed Mr. Wells from behind his back and you sucker punched him?”
“No, it was a bouncer, And, yeah, but not intentionally.”
“Where were you Wednesday two weeks ago at one in the morning?” Logan asked.
“How the hell do I know? What is this about anyway?” Scarpelli asked, pushing back from his desk and throwing the pen down.
I studied his reaction. “Did you know Mr. Gene Wells was killed in a hit-and-run on McArthur Causeway, Wednesday, two weeks ago?"
Looking at us with disdain, he said, “So, I do need an attorney. You know what, fellows, get the hell out of my office. And, if you come back, ask to meet with my attorney. You little piece of shits, coming in here under false pretenses. Out!” he said, standing up.
Being the smartass I am, I asked, “Potresti validare il nostro parcheggio?”
I could almost see smoke coming out of his ears as he replied, “Fuori di qui!”
On the way down the elevator, Logan asked me, “What did you ask him?”
“I asked if he could validate our parking,” I replied, and we both busted out laughing.
We got back in the car, and after paying fifty dollars for parking on Miami Beach Police’s expense account, we resumed our conversation. Logan took Biscayne Boulevard to McArthur Causeway, which would take us to the marina and Logan’s office.
“You want to brainstorm these suspects over a beer back at the Easy Ryder?”
Logan looked at his watch and turned to me. “I can join you guys later. First, I want to write these reports and we can compare notes this evening.”
13
Joey Mancuso ~
Back on the deck of the Easy Ryder with my new best friend, Max, and a Tito’s vodka on the rocks, I lit a cigar, enjoying the profusion of colors displayed on the western sky as the sun began its descent in the early evening. The glittering bay water flowed rapidly toward the Atlantic Ocean.
A loud ding from an email brought me back to reality. It was Agnes with an update. I opened the message and read it.
As I finished reading the text, my host showed up, but I noticed him looking back and around every few minutes. “Welcome back, captain. Anyone following you?”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, entering the boat.
“I don’t know. You seem to be checking for a tail. Is there one?”
“I lost anyone following me some time ago. Hey, Max,” Jack said as Max laid down for his belly rub.
“Go get a beer, I bought some. I want to update you on a few things, and I want to hear about your first day on the job.”
“Yes, dear,” Jack said, laughing. “I’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, both Jack and Max, still wagging his tail, returned to the deck. “My first day on the job was uneventful. But I did get a feeling that our boy James has a lot more to tell. He keeps telling me to put my head down and just follow the instructions from Bobal. He seems scared. And, he didn’t want to get into a long discussion about the lien on his mother’s home. Other than it was satisfied. He did admit to sort of gambling with options and that he lost his ass.”
“You believed that?”
“Yes, he seemed truthful about it. So, what’s your update?”
“Have you ever heard of the Organized Crime and Corruption Reporting Project, also known as the OCCRP?”
Jack took a sip from his beer, thought for a second, and replied, “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Simply, it’s a worldwide nonprofit organization based in the US by journalistic reporters covering crime and corruption around the world.”
“Sounds fascinating. What about them?”
“Agnes, my researcher, drilled down on Peníze Private Equity, LLC. This is the company in New York that has a fifty percent interest in our target company—Fönix Securities and Financial Services. Your momentary employer. While organized in New York, Peníze is funded and owned by a shell company in Prague in the Czech Republic.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Hang in there, would you like a cigar?” I asked as I relit mine.
“Maybe after dinner. Keep going.”
Letting out a puff of white-gray smoke, I replied, “The OCCRP reports that Prague has become the center for organized crime families. Mostly composed of Russians, Ukrainians, Romanians, almost every Eastern European nation, plus Chinese and Vietnamese. These families have branched out into the rest of Europe, France, Germany, and so on.”
“Cut to the chase," Jack said dryly, scratching Max's head. "Are you going to tell me Peníze is owned by one of these families?”
“Not yet. We haven’t tied that knot. However, as Agnes reported from her research, the wife of Jan Bobal, Valeria Drako, who happens to be Czech, is the daughter of Stevan Drako, one of the named alleged families or crime figures in Prague. Jack, these crime organizations are into every imaginable crime you can think of, from white crimes, to drug smuggling, to trafficking women and children.”
Jack sat up a little straighter. “Shit, how did she tie that in?”
“She’s just that good. She began with Bobal and the Czech Republic and expanded the search to organized crime in Eastern Europe, connecting dots and names.”
Jack sat back, downed the last of his beer, and asked, “And you think Peníze is part of this crime group?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, do you?” I asked, taking the last sip of my Tito’s.
Without answering my question, Jack asked, “Agnes is sure that Valeria Drako is the daughter of one of these crime figures?”
“That part was easy. Valeria has a photograph on social media with her brother and father on her last trip to Prague.”
“Wow. So, this could be bigger than just one hedge fund cheating the system.”
I stood, on my way to the galley to fix myself another drink. “How about another beer?”
“Fix me one of yours. I need something stronger than a beer.”
Moments later, I came back to the deck. The sun was down and the sky in the east was being illuminated by a bright, white moon that had yet to show itself. Soon a silvery road glittering above the Atlantic Ocean would stretch from the horizon to our location.
“Here,” I said, handing Jack his vodka. “What’d you think?”
“Thanks. I think we need to call John Landers from the SEC. Let him know what you found.”
I sat back down and took a drink. “We can do that, yes. But I'd rather call Marcy in New York. Her FBI white-collar crime division is probably the place to start. That’s if they haven’t started something on their own already.”
“But we can’t leave Landers out. He brought this to us,” Jack pointed out.
“Understood. But I don’t want these agencies pissing over each other. Let Marcy find out if something is going on first. If not, have her start an investigation, then we can brief Landers. I’ll call Marcy later and give her a head start.”
I always wanted to find a way to work with Marcy. It was fun sharing thoughts on a case with her. She was bright and a great investigator with great skills for sniffing out the truth. Besides, she had the badge I didn’t have and the resources of the agency were unl
imited.
Jack was quiet for a few minutes. “What are we doing for dinner?”
“You’re the captain." I thought about what I wanted. "Let’s order something in, but I don’t want more ribs.”
“Monty’s is the quickest. They have a good grilled mahi-mahi with coleslaw and a baked potato."
My eyebrows drew down. “Mahi-mahi?”
He chuckled. “I forgot you’re from Brooklyn. It’s a saltwater fish, a dolphin. Not the mammal. Thin fillet of tasty white meat. You’ll love it, trust me.”
“I’ll trust you on that.”
“Tell me about your suspects,” Jack said.
“I’ll wait for Logan to join us, but we picked up two additional suspects today.”
He gave me a surprised look. “For Gene’s case? Really? So, you both think it was a murder?”
“Well, so far we have motives, means, and opportunity from three people. I would say it’s looking that way.” In every crime, especially a murder, you had to look for these three items. Find a suspect with them, and you were on your way to solving it.
“I can't wait to hear.”
We ate in the salon with Max taking turns going from Jack to me, hoping to pick up some of the mahi-mahi that smelled and tasted fresh and delicious. We kept the conversation about trivial things such as Jack’s new love life and some of his newfound rules. My mind was occupied, as Jack’s probably was, at the thought of this case possibly being a huge worldwide scam that siphoned millions of dollars out of the US stock market and fed it to a foreign crime syndicate or simply a case of rage and revenge.
Jack threw things away in a plastic bag as I filled Max’s container with food from a bag that read, "Your dog will love this food that is fit for humans." Somehow, I wasn't tempted to check it out.
“Let’s go out on the deck again," Jack said as he wrapped the garbage bag. "It’s nice outside, and I’ll take that cigar you offered. Come on, Max, your last walk of the evening, buddy.”
I took a bottle of Zacapa and served two nice pours over one cube of ice each and waited for Jack and Max to return. Shining stars filled the sky, and the quietude of the evening made me sigh and wish Marcy were sitting on my side. We loved to share quiet moments such as this. The only thing bothering me was Jack’s phone, which rang four different times while I was enjoying the moment.
