The Unsub: Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mysteries Book 7: (Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery)

by Owen Parr

  I grimaced and rubbed my head. “That’s bullshit. We know James and those two guys weren’t acting on their own.” Of course they didn't want cases to remain open. It wasn't a good statistic for any homicide division to have.

  “I agree. But unless you can come up with the person who ordered the hit, that’s all they got.”

  “Yeah, well, the guy that ordered the hits is dead. I’m sure it was Jan Bobal. So, we’re screwed. Speaking of Wells, how’s Gene’s father?” I asked, looking out the window and trying to locate the sniper across the way.

  “That’s a sad story. I should have mentioned it before, man. I’m sorry. His wife passed from a massive heart attack at work. She was very stressed after Gene’s death. Now the poor guy has buried his son and has to bury his wife all in a matter of a few weeks.”

  I dropped the hand holding the phone and covered my face with my free hand. The anger and sadness this man must have felt were beyond anything I could imagine. “My God, I can’t believe this happened. Have you spoken to him?”

  Jack heaved a sigh, sounding just as upset as I was. “I didn’t speak to him, but from what Logan tells me, he was very upset at the lack of resolution. But then after his wife passed, he acted as if he didn’t give a shit anymore. I guessed he accepted the fact and is moving on.”

  “When did his wife die?” I asked in disbelief.

  “I think five days ago. He’s taken a leave from work.”

  “Shit, I’ve got to tell Captain Johnson, they’re personal friends. Let me ask you, have they buried her yet?” The captain would take this hard.

  “No, they put that off for a few days. I asked Logan to let me know because I want to attend the services.”

  “I’m still in shock, man. I’ll have Johnson call him immediately. Keep me posted.”

  “You as well. Take care,” Jack said and disconnected.

  I called the captain over to me. He was glued to the monitors, inspecting all the people entering and leaving the building from all angles. Like ripping a Band-Aid, I quickly recounted the news that Jack shared with me, and I thought he was going to be sick. His shoulders dropped and he sat on a chair, just gazing at the floor.

  Retrieving a bottle of water from an ice chest we had in the room, I handed it to him, wishing I could do more. “When you call him, I would like to say my condolences also.”

  He looked up at me, frowning. “What?”

  I repeated what I had said and this time he heard me.

  “Give me a few minutes. I need to process this before I call him.”

  A hushed voice came over the com. “We have a possible. White male with a beard, about six-three. Muscular. He looks military. Wearing a baseball cap, khaki pants, and a blue long-sleeved shirt. Camo backpack. Do you see him?”

  “Copy that,” our young tech guy replied.

  Everyone stood and moved closer to the monitors. Our possible was talking to the same old janitor we saw yesterday, who was cleaning the windows in the lobby today. It seemed he was asking for directions to the elevators.

  The captain stood next to me and said over the coms, “Get ready, this could be our guy. Patrick, are you listening?”

  Patrick’s voice came over the coms. “Copy that.”

  The man walked over to the elevators and entered. We should have placed cameras in the elevator, but we had enough everywhere else. He exited on the third floor and began walking to our end of the hallway. Was this it? I had a good feeling about this one. Instead of feeling anxious, I felt a sense of satisfaction. The plan was going to work. I stared at the monitor.

  C'mon, baby, I’m ready for you.

  “He’s walking toward us. Be ready,” the captain said to everyone.

  39

  Joey Mancuso ~

  The man stopped at the office just short of Patrick’s. Three people had entered the office in the morning and left about twenty minutes ago. Possibly for lunch. We watched as the man tried to open the door, but it was locked. Then, he took off his backpack and hung it from the doorknob. He took three steps in the direction of Patrick’s office, but made an about-face and walked over to the elevators.

  “What’s he doing?” Detective Farnsworth asked.

  “It could be a bomb,” one of the SWAT team officers offered, and everyone looked at him in horror.

  “Apprehend the man as he steps out of the elevator. And, evacuate the building,” the captain barked over the coms.

  “Wait, wait. That’s not his MO,” I shouted as everyone began to file out of the office. This could expose our trap if the killer was casing Patrick. Shit, if that happened, then this was over. Finito.

  “Joey, we can’t take a chance. You and Father Dom get Patrick and get out. We’ll evacuate the building.”

  I wanted to look at the backpack. But it was too late. The evacuation order scattered the SWAT team to all the floors to begin the process. From the monitors, I could see the man being apprehended by the officers in the lobby.

  “Joey, get out, man,” the captain shouted at me.

  I stepped out of the office and Dom grabbed my arm. He had already retrieved Patrick from his office. “Let’s run down the stairs, don’t stop.”

  “We just blew our cover,” I said out loud.

  Dom’s face was red with anger and fear. “The hell with our cover. Just go!” he yelled at me.

  We walked out on Nassau Street, and a perimeter was already being set up. Sirens blared from everywhere, and police and FDNY rescue lights glowed on every glass window. We were pushed back to the corner on Maiden Lane. The suspect was handcuffed and pushed into the back of an NYPD van, which swooped right by us. I tried to get a glimpse of the suspect, but I had no chance.

  The bomb squad arrived with their specialized truck, the TCV unit, and another with the EDCs, and were ushered right into the cordoned-off area. Members of the squad were already wearing their protective gear, as one took out the dog from behind a van.

  “What are they going to do now?” asked Dom tensely.

  From experience, I had an idea of what was about to happen. “They have a variety of procedures called random safe procedures. More than likely, they'll have a unit member walk up with an EDC to determine if the backpack contains explosives.”

  “Again, I need a translation for EDC,” Dom asked.

  I shot him an apologetic look. “Sorry, an EDC is an explosive detection canine. Simply a trained dog specializing in detecting explosives."

  “Why not send the robot first?” asked Patrick.

  “The dog is quicker and can determine if they have a live ordinance. If so, they’ll send the robot in to pick up the ordinance. Then, they’ll put in the TCV and transport it out of here,” I replied, pointing in the direction of the vehicle.

  “TCV means nothing to me,” added Dom.

  “Total containment vehicle,” I said as the old janitor moved closer to us among the crowd.

  “Where do they blow it up?” Dom asked.

  “They’ll take it to Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx, where the NYPD has demolition range.”

  The old janitor stopped next to us. He had long white hair coming out of his baseball cap on the sides and back, and a semi-grown white beard that hadn't taken a good hold yet. Taller than me, about Patrick’s height.

  I wanted to ask him what the suspect had asked him, but I quickly realized that I would be making him aware of our cameras. Instead, I asked, “You work at the building?”

  “Yes,” he replied without looking at me.

  “Did you see the guy enter the building?” I asked him.

  Still not turning to face me, he replied, “Yes, I was in the lobby.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” I went on.

  He kept looking at the scene and simply replied, “He was looking for a particular office.”

  Okay, I had to ask another question. “What office if you don’t mind me asking? We work on the third floor.”

  He almost turned to face me but didn’t. “Not your
office, but an accounting office on the third floor.”

  Not your office. So, this old guy probably knew who we were and had seen every move we made. Surely, he knew the space we occupied was empty, and Patrick’s office had been vacated days ago.

  The crowd clapped as the squad’s robot was rolled down from another truck. They liked seeing this baby in action.

  “So, if they did that, it means the dog smelled explosives?” Dom asked.

  “Possibly,” I replied.

  Everyone in the gathered crowd of a few hundred now waited patiently to see the robot bring down the backpack. Unfortunately, this was all too common in New York. Numerous times, people left backpacks or other suspicious items in various places, and the bomb squad would be dispatched.

  Almost choreographed, there was a collective sigh, and everyone took two steps back. The robot and the backpack were now on Nassau, about to be placed in the TCV unit.

  The street was loud with all the commotion going on. I thought I heard two muffled pop, pop, but I wasn't positive. Then, all I saw next was Patrick in front of me, falling backward. There was a grimace on his face, and he was holding his chest.

  “Fuck! Dom. Patrick has been shot,” I shouted over the sound of the loud crowd.

  Both Dom and I lunged for Mr. Pat, but Dom got there first, breaking Patrick's fall. Immediately, I looked up, trying to locate the old janitor. There was a break in the crowd where the janitor had made a beeline out of the area.

  “Mr. Pat, Mr. Pat, are you all right?” asked Dom frantically.

  There was no response from Patrick. He was on the floor, face up, not moving. I needed to go after the janitor, but I was worried for Patrick, and I wanted to alert the captain.

  “Dom, stay here. I need to get help and go after the perp,” I said quickly. I stood and ran in the direction of a uniform officer who was directing traffic. “We have a 10-10S, man down. Get an ambulance and Captain Johnson. I’m in foot pursuit of the perp.”

  I had seen him running south on Maiden. For an old guy, he ran like a Greyhound race dog. So, I took off after him, pushing my legs as fast as they could carry me. My feet pounded against the pavement, and my breath sawed in and out of my chest. When I got to the corner of William Street, I stopped, winded. I had no clue where he had disappeared to.

  “Excuse me, did you see an old guy with a baseball cap, white hair, wearing brown overalls?” I asked a person standing and talking on his cellphone.

  The man put the phone down. “You mean that?” He pointed to a baseball cap lined with fake white hair, and brown overalls lying by the curb.

  Dammit, he changed. “Was he old?”

  The man shrugged. “Not the way he was running, dude.”

  “Which way did he go?” I asked, gasping for air.

  With his phone in his hand, he pointed up on Williams Street. I took off in a jog this time. I doubted I could catch him. Plus, he looked different by now. Still, I went on and heard a commotion when I got to the corner of Williams and Dey. I ran up Dey. On the way back to Nassau, I found a lady lying on the sidewalk.

  “What happened here? I’m NYPD,” I said to the crowd.

  “Some asshole ran into this lady and kept running,” someone replied, his face twisted in disapproval.

  “What did he look like?” I asked frantically.

  “Like a white asshole, man,” the same person replied.

  I took off running again, and I heard, “Aren’t you going to take care of this lady?”

  I didn’t stop. I had to catch our shooter. As I was getting close to Nassau, I realized the guy’s route. Fulton Street Subway Station was two hundred feet from me.

  "Fuck."

  I ran down the steps and looked everywhere. Fulton Subway Station had four different stations. The shooter was gone. Frustration, disappointment, and anger shot through me.

  I sat on a bench, looking everywhere and catching my breath. My heart pounded in my chest. Even if I saw him, I wouldn’t know it. The shooter was a ghost, and a good one at that.

  My phone rang, and I barely heard it with the noise in the station. Without looking at the caller ID, I answered in a loud voice. “Hello.”

  “Joey, where the hell did you go?” Dom demanded.

  “I went after the shooter. How’s Patrick?” I asked, closing my eyes and hoping.

  “He’s alive thanks to the vest. But he’s in a lot of pain, probably broken ribs. We’re on our way to Lower Manhattan Hospital on Williams Street.”

  I let out a big sigh. “Oh, my God, Dom. I thought we lost him. So, he’s going to be fine?” I asked again for assurance.

  “Yes. Out of commission for a while, but he’ll be fine,“ replied Dom in a low, calming voice. "What happened to the shooter?”

  I wish I knew, Dom. Please don’t ask me these questions, I wanted to say because I was pissed, and I wasn’t going to take it out on my big brother. “Lost him at the Fulton Subway Station. He disappeared into the crowd.”

  “Was it the old janitor that shot him?”

  “A guy dressed as the janitor, and not old at all. The guy runs like a sprinter.”

  “Are you coming over?”

  “No, I’m going back to the office building. I want to find the lady at the rental office. She must have hired this guy.”

  “Okay. I spoke to Captain Johnson and Agnes, she’s on her way here. I’ll tell Patrick we spoke. Joey," Dom said, his voice taking on a more serious, grave tone, "find this guy.”

  40

  Joey Mancuso ~

  The police presence was still there removing the cordoned-off perimeter. The crowd had dispersed, and it looked like another day in New York. Everyone going about their own business, aloof to what had happened.

  I entered the building and went directly to the rental office. It was closed. A sign posted by the door read, "In case of emergency call…”

  I dialed the number, hoping to get Janice, the rental agent. Instead, an answering service picked up. “This is Joey Mancuso with the NYPD. I need to speak with Janice don’t-have-a-last-name. She’s the rental agent at this building.”

  “This is the answering service, sir," the lady said, sounding bored. "What building are you referring to?”

  “Ah, the one on Nassau Street. 70 Nassau.”

  “Please hold,” came back the response.

  A lifetime later, which was realistically only two minutes, a lady’s voice came back. “You said your name is Manuso?”

  “Man-cu-so,” I replied slowly.

  “And you’re NYPD?”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Yes, what’s the problem?”

  “Is this about the bomb scare?”

  What fucking difference did that make? “I need to speak to Janice. Can I have her number?” I asked patiently.

  “Let me have your number. We’ll locate her and have her call you back, Mr. Mancuso.”

  I gave her my number and had her repeat it back to make sure she got it. I then took the elevator to the third floor. I wanted to talk to the occupants of the office where the bomb had been placed. I doubt it had been a coincidence. These two guys, the shooter and the guy who left the bomb behind, had to be working together.

  There was no one at the office. The sign on the door read, "Brown and Garcia, CPAs. IRS registered." So, it looked like these two guys were tax resolution CPAs. Huh, could the bomber be pissed at these guys for a tax problem they didn’t solve? No, too much of a coincidence. I took down their phone number to follow up.

  I was going to call Captain Johnson when my phone rang. No caller ID. I answered, “This is Mancuso.”

  “Mr. Mancuso, this is Janice from the rental office. Are you a detective with the NYPD?” asked Janice in a wispy voice.

  I didn’t want to get into an explanation about my consultant’s role, so I replied, “Janice, I was one of the persons with the NYPD who rented the office for a stakeout on the third floor.”

  “Oh, my God, did you see what happened today?”

  �
��Of course, I was here," I said, trying to keep my impatience out of my voice. "I need to ask you some questions. Where are you?”

  She hesitated. “I’m in Queens. But we can do this on the phone. What are your questions? I don’t know much.”

  I preferred a personal visit but heading to Queens now was going to take too long. “What is the name of your janitor who’s been working in the building?”

  “Beto, our janitor?" She sounded surprised I'd ask about him. "You think he’s involved?”

  Count to ten, Mancuso, and ask again. “I need his name and address. Beto what?”

  “Beto hasn’t been in for two days.”

  “Who,” I paused, avoiding an expletive, “who is the man taking his place?”

  “Oh, Beto called two days ago and said he was sick. He said he was sending his cousin who was experienced until he got back. But—but I don’t know who this man was. He worked pretty hard all day." Her voice dipped lower as if she were revealing a secret. "Even more than Beto if you wanna know the truth.”

  Like I really gave a shit about his work. “What’s Beto’s full name, number, and address?”

  I heard when she put the phone down. I was hoping she was looking for Beto’s address. In her wispy voice that was driving me insane, she came back on the line a second later and asked, “Are you still there, detective?”

  “Yes, I’m ready to write down the information.”

  Janice proceeded to slowly give me Humberto Gonsalves’ address in East Harlem, or better known as Spanish Harlem, and his phone number. Repeated everything twice.

  “Did you talk to Beto’s replacement at all?”

  “Yes, the first day he showed up, he came to my office and introduced himself. He said his name was John and that he knew what to do while covering for Beto.”

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  “He was white, tall, maybe fifty, but he looked older. Nothing else comes to mind.”

  ”Why did he look older?” I asked.