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

by Owen Parr

She thought about that for a moment. “His face was worn, he had wrinkle lines up and down his face. I remember thinking a few Botox treatments would solve that.”

  “How about hair color, scars, tattoos, anything?”

  “He was wearing a knit cap, but I think his hair was white. A mustache.”

  “How about color of the eyes?”

  “He wore sunglasses. I didn’t get to see his eyes.”

  “I need one last favor, Janice, do not call Beto and tell him the NYPD called. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes. I won’t call him.”

  “Thank you, Janice.”

  My God. I thought I'd died and gone to hell. I'd never been happier to hang up the phone. I immediately called the captain.

  “How’s Patrick?” he asked immediately upon answering.

  “He’ll be fine. Listen, the janitor who was there shot Patrick,” I began and gave him a quick run-down of what had happened. “We need to send units to this guy’s home in East Harlem. I’m taking a car there now.”

  “I’ll come with and pick you up. Are you at the pub?”

  “No, I’m at the office building.”

  “Be there in five. The 23rd is only a few blocks away from this guy. They should be there in no time.”

  “I’ll wait outside.”

  Even with lights and sirens on, it took us thirty minutes up FDR. Upon arrival at Lexington Street, we saw four cruisers, a CSU van, and an EMT unit. At least no coroner was here.

  Captain Johnson parked and we approached a uniform next to the CSU van. I observed what was going on and it looked as if they were about to move out. Some officers were removing their bulletproof vests. EMTs were packing their stuff back in the trucks. They were done.

  “Officer, I’m Captain Johnson, and this Joey Mancuso, it looks that they’re wrapping things up here. What did they find?”

  The dark-haired office glanced back. “We’ve been here a while now, captain. The first officers that arrived found a man tied in his apartment. From what I heard, he had been tied for two days. He’s been taken to North General on 102nd Street.”

  I exchanged dumbfounded glances with Johnson. “I called this in about twenty minutes ago. How did everyone get here that fast?” asked the captain.

  The officer gave him an odd look. “Oh, no, sir. We’ve been here over an hour. There was a call to the 23rd alerting us of a possible man being held against his will. The caller gave us an address and apartment number. He was very specific.”

  “A male caller?” I asked with a sinking feeling.

  “Yes, sir,” the officer responded.

  “Victim's name Humberto Gonsalves?” I asked, looking at my notes.

  “That’s what I heard,” the officer replied.

  “You want to go up and see the apartment?” the captain asked me.

  I shook my head. “No, we need to question the victim immediately. He’s our only link to the shooter.”

  The captain handed the officer a card with instructions to have whoever was in charge give him a call, and we took off to North General.

  “Who called in?” Johnson asked.

  “Our shooter, I’m sure. He had no intention of hurting Gonsalves.”

  “So, he came into his apartment and tied this guy up, then took his place at the office building?”

  “Seems that way. We’ll find out more when we question Gonsalves,” I replied.

  We made our way to the hospital within minutes and parked in the emergency spot designated for law enforcement.

  Gonsalves had been placed in an area within the emergency room section of North Central. A group of officers was gathered just outside the immediate area.

  “Guys, who's in charge?” the captain asked, flashing his badge.

  “I am, sir." A serious-looking man stepped forward. "Officer Tom Witmer. My partner and I were first on the scene.”

  “What did you find?” Johnson asked.

  “We were dispatched after a tip was called into the precinct. We responded to the call. Third-floor apartment, unit 310. The manager opened the locked door to the unit, and we found the victim, Humberto Gonsalves,” he said, looking at his notes, “bound and tied inside a large closet.”

  “Obviously the victim lives alone?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes, sir. Gonsalves told us he’s been divorced for five years. He lives in a small one-bedroom apartment,” replied Witmer.

  “What was his condition?” I asked.

  “That’s the funny part,” he started to reply as Johnson and I exchanged looks. “The victim was handcuffed in the front. So, he had use of his hands. But both legs were handcuffed to a water pipe that runs up and down the building within the closet itself. And, whoever did this to him left bottles of water and snacks for him to drink and eat,” Witmer said, looking at us for a reaction.

  “So, he’s in good condition?” Johnson asked.

  Witmer blushed and hesitated. “Well, seems the junk he ate gave him diarrhea.” The other officers laughed. Witmer frowned at them, as if asking for mercy. “And the smell in the closet–”

  Grimacing, Johnson cut him off. “I think we get the idea, thanks.”

  Johnson and I found the attending physician and asked for permission to ask Beto a few questions. He pointed us to the trauma bay where Humberto Gonsalves was being attended to.

  After introducing us, Johnson asked, “What can you tell us about the individual?”

  Beto sat up straighter, frowning as his ass rubbed on the hard bedsheet. “I really didn’t get a good look at him.”

  Johnson frowned. “How is that possible? Start at the beginning."

  Beto licked his lips. “I heard a knock at the door. When I opened the door about two inches to look, he flashed a badge, covering his face. Then, I closed the door to remove the latch and when I opened the door again, he had a ski mask covering his face and a gun.”

  Johnson and I exchanged looks. “What kind of badge?” I asked. This was a new twist, a badge? Of course, it was a good trick to get anyone to open a door, right?

  “No se. I don’t know, man, a badge is a badge,” Beto replied.

  “It could have a school patrol crossing guard badge,” I offered.

  “Whatever the hell it was, it was a badge,” he responded, pounding his hand on the bed as he turned his head to look at the drip pouch that was hydrating him.

  “That’s fine. Tell us as much as you can about this person,” said the captain.

  “White guy, taller than me. So, over five-ten. Blue piercing, mad eyes,” he started.

  I put my hand out. “Wait. What’d you mean, mad eyes?”

  “This guy was intense. Like on a mission and in a hurry. I could see odio in his eyes,” Beto replied.

  “What’s odio?" Johnson asked.

  “Hate,” I replied.

  Beto glanced at me curiously. “Ah, you speak Spanish?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Johnson replied. “But he didn’t hurt you, right?”

  Beto shook his head. “No, the dude was cool about me. All he wanted was to know about my schedule and what I do at work. Oh, and where all my supplies are, my keys to work, and all that shit. Strange.”

  “About how old was the man?” Johnson asked.

  He didn’t reply for a few seconds, then he said, “Look, man, I don’t want trouble with this dude. He was okay, no damage.”

  “We need to know more, Beto,” the captain asserted.

  He went quiet. Was he afraid this guy would come back, or was he hiding something?

  “What part of Mexico are you from?” I asked.

  “Oh, shit, you calling la INA?" Beto asked, closing his eyes.

  “Guadalajara?” I asked.

  “No. man, Merida. What you going to do?” Beto asked, shaking his head.

  “Nada, no INA. Answer the questions,” I replied.

  “How old?” the captain repeated with more authority.

  Beto shrugged carelessly. “I don’t know, fifty, six
ty? Something like that.”

  “How about features?” I asked.

  His blank face said he clearly didn't understand. “What’d you mean, features?”

  “Scars, color hair, tattoos, limp, stuff like that,” I replied, glancing at Johnson.

  “He was wearing clear plastic gloves, a mask, and long sleeves. No limp. I think he had a little tattoo above his watch,” Beto offered, closing his eyes. “Oh, I think a mustache, brown mustache hair came out of the mask, you know, around his mouth.”

  “You’re doing good. On what hand was he wearing his watch? Left or right?” I asked.

  Beto shook his head a couple of times, maybe trying to shake the gray cells. “Ah, I think the right hand. Sí, sí, the right hand.”

  I wanted to follow up on the watch, but the captain spoke first. “That’s good. What color shirt and what kind of pants?” asked the captain, looking up from his little notebook.

  “Man, you think I have a recorder in my head. I was scared shitless. Let me think.” He paused, closing his eyes again. “Okay, dark green work shirt and khaki pants.”

  The captain turned to me. “Do you have any more questions?”

  I nodded in agreement, then move closer to Beto and patted him on his leg. “Just a couple more, Mr. Gonsalves. We appreciate your help. You said he was holding a gun. In what hand did he hold his weapon? Right or left?”

  “Left, left. Because he pushed me into the apartment holding my shirt collar with his right hand,” he replied.

  “What kind of firearm?” I queried.

  “I don’t know guns, man,” he said.

  “Is it a revolver or a pistol?” I queried. Hearing no response from him, I said, “Captain, show him your firearm.”

  The captain pulled out his standard-issue Glock 19. “Is it like this?”

  “Yeah, man, sí. Just like that,” Beto replied with a dip of his head.

  “Okay, good,” I said. “One last question. Tell me about the man’s watch.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Oh, man, I loved his watch. I remember because I have the same in layaway. Used, you know.”

  “So, what was it?” I asked impatiently.

  “Is a Rolex Submarino with the blue face. Es precioso, man.”

  “Beto, you’ve been good, thank you for your help. Here’s my card in case you remember anything else,” said the captain.

  “Hey, you think I’m going to get paid for the two days?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Did your work get done?”

  He shrugged again. “No se, what the guy do?”

  “We saw him working, doing windows, vacuuming. Call the captain if they don’t pay you, okay?”

  We had a bunch of clues, but nothing that could lead us to the unsub directly. There was a lot to go over to put the pieces of this puzzle together. The corner of the puzzle was where you start. We had a description of the firearm, possibly a .380. A Rolex. The guy’s built. A mustache that was likely real because he wouldn’t wear a fake mustache. And a mask covering it. Or, was that another misdirection?

  41

  Joey Mancuso ~

  “Where do you want me to drop you off?” the captain asked as we drove away from the hospital.

  “Captain, we need to sit down and put everything Beto gave us. I took notes, as you did.”

  “We do. But I want to bring in the detectives. They’re part of this.”

  Oh, great. The brain-trust of Midtown South Precinct. “With all due respect, sir, those two together couldn’t find a dollar bill in a cash register. Farnsworth and Charles are chasing after the two companies, right?”

  The captain held back his laughter. “Only because you made Farns think that was the main lead. I know what you did. Besides, the State Department killed that investigation.”

  “In that case, drop me off at Lower Manhattan Hospital. I want to visit with Patrick, and Marcy texted me she’s there.” I turned my head to look a peloton of cyclists streaming down a street.

  “And so is the rest of your team. So, I know you’re going to work on the case,” he said, turning to face me.

  Looking back, I smiled. “We might brainstorm a little. I’ll call you if we come up with an angle on our shooter. This guy is in town, we need to grab him before he disappears.”

  “Right now, he’s a ghost. And if he’s a pro, he’ll be long gone by tonight.”

  It was a straight shot down FDR, and we didn’t say much the rest of the ride. I had messages to call both Jack Ryder and Detective Robert Logan back. I decided to wait until later.

  “Give my best to Mr. Pat. I’ll try and visit tomorrow if he’s still here,” said the captain as he dropped me off.

  Just as the captain was about to pull out of the entrance to the hospital, I knocked on the roof of the car. He rolled down the passenger window. “I want Officer Smythe from your precinct and three other offices to search for the weapon that was used to shoot Patrick as soon as possible.”

  Johnson considered that. “I don’t know if he’s on shift. Why Smythe?”

  “Captain, the young guy is smart as a whip and a good learner. You met him in the case of the victim we found in Washington Park a few months ago.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember the kid thinks you’re the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes,” he said dryly.

  I smiled. “I told you he was smart. As a matter of fact, he would be a great addition to your homicide squad when you have an opening. Look, if he’s off duty, we saved funds on the stakeout, so use that money for overtime. Tell him to call me immediately, and I’ll give him the route I chased the shooter on. He needs to start at the Fulton Subway Station and work back.”

  Johnson sighed. “I guess we'd better get there before the sanitation department begins cleaning up for tonight.”

  “Yeah, well, this being New York City, I’m not too worried about that." I mean, it wasn't exactly the cleanest of cities. "Anyway, I’m sure the shooter disposed of the firearm before he boarded the subway. So, it has to be there somewhere.”

  As he rolled up the window, he said, “Fine, I’m on it.”

  I didn’t remember the shooter wearing gloves when he shot Patrick. Of course, he could have wiped the weapon clean before he ditched it. But there was a chance we could find partials on it. As I thought about that, I realized Beto’s imposter could have left prints in the janitor’s closet and all the equipment he used in those two days. Taking the elevator up to Patrick’s room, I texted the captain to send a forensic team to the office building. Those little gray cells were firing on all cylinders.

  42

  Joey Mancuso ~

  I found Patrick’s room, and sure enough, the group was all there. Agnes, Marcy, Father Dom, Larry, Harry, and even our pub manager, Reilly, was there. And, another lady I didn't know. She was about fiftyish, good-looking, beautiful hazel eyes.

  As I entered the room, she approached me. “Hi, you must be Joey Mancuso. My name is Carla Torres, I’m Pat’s next-door neighbor at his new apartment.”

  “A pleasure, Carla,” I replied, smiling. The sly dog had a new lady in tow. I guessed the manicure and hair styling had worked. “How’s the old Irish bull doing?”

  Carla glanced back at him with a fond look. “He’s in a lot of pain, but medicated.”

  Smiling, Marcy embraced me with her right arm as I turned to Patrick, who was slightly inclined in his bed. “Why’d you go get yourself shot, you old man? What are you trying to prove?”

  He wheezed out a choked sound and winced. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

  I grabbed his left hand and squeezed it gently. “You’ll be fine in a couple of days. You scared the hell out of us.”

  “Not my intention. You met Carla?” he asked, glancing at her with a certain twinkle in his eyes.

  I winked. “Yes, I did.”

  “So, what happened?” Father Dom asked.

  “Mr. Pat, do you remember if the shooter said anything to you?”

  Patrick thought for a sec
ond. “I think he said something I didn't understand, like ‘U-turn.’ Didn’t make sense, but it was loud with the commotion on the street. So, I’m not sure.”

  I looked around the room at everyone. I wanted to update the team, but not in front of Carla. Frankly, I didn’t know how long she’d known Patrick, and besides, she wasn’t part of the team. “Why don’t we let Carla visit with Mr. Pat? Maybe you guys can join me in the cafeteria. I need a snack or something. I don’t know when I ate last.”

  Agnes stood at the suggestion. “Am I going to be taking notes?”

  “Of course, bring your laptop,” I replied.

  “I have a tablet,” Agnes corrected me.

  We took the elevator down, and I began my story from the moment I chased the shooter up Nassau Street, mentioning that a crew of uniforms would be looking for the weapon. Which reminded me I hadn’t heard from Officer Smythe.

  As I followed the group to the cafeteria, I dialed Smythe, whose number I had in my contacts from past use.

  “Officer Smythe, this is Mancuso.”

  “Yes, sir, we just arrived at the Fulton Subway Station,” he replied.

  “I was expecting a call from you.”

  “I was about to do that just now, Mr. Mancuso,” he said apologetically.

  “No problem. Here’s what I want you to do…” I went on to give him instructions on where to start and finish, asking him to look at all garbage disposals, and so on, impressing the importance of finding the weapon. I could almost see him writing down every smidgen of my instructions. I liked this kid, and not simply because he looked up to me. But because he was truly sharp and studious, the mark of a good detective.

  We sat down in the cafeteria in the same order as if we were back at our office-slash-squad room. Marcy to my left, followed by Dom, then Larry and Harry, or was it, Harry and Larry? Then, Agnes to my right. The only missing member was Mr. Pat to her right.

  “How much is a used Rolex Submariner watch?" I asked.

  Marcy looked at my wrist, as the others were somewhat taken aback by my first question. Agnes began pecking at her keyboard.

  Seconds later, she replied, “About nine thousand dollars,” attracting all eyes to her.