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

by Owen Parr

  I started pacing in the apartment, eventually stopping to look at the East River from the partial view we had on our balcony. “Marcy, I’ll be on the balcony smoking a cigar.”

  Marcy looked up from the book she was reading. “Just do me a favor when you’re done.”

  “Sure, I’ll shower before jumping in bed,” I said as I slid the glass doors shut.

  I began feeling guilty for keeping the captain out of the loop. After all, he was my mentor. He gave me the opportunity to become a detective many years ago. He was like family. If we went after Wells, I was going to have to tell him anyway. So, I decided to call him. “Captain, am I interrupting dinner?”

  “No, we’re done. What’s up?”

  “You’re going to want to take notes. Anyway…” I gave him the whole rundown of our findings. Why and how we matched the shooter to Wells. Finally, I told him I had Agnes looking for a sister.

  “Joey, when did you come up with all this information?” he asked in a serious tone. The tone he only used when he was pissed.

  “In the last few hours." It wasn't a lie, not really. "We’ve been brainstorming this, and I made calls to Ryder and Detective Logan in Miami.”

  “I see," he said carefully, the words stiff. "Do you remember our first conversation about this case?”

  I winced. “Yeah, way back you called and asked for a favor about Ed and his son, who had been a victim of a hit-and-run.”

  “Yeah, well, you forgot I met Wells at the police academy here in New York. So, it didn’t occur to you to call me about finding something about his family?”

  This was his way of coming down on you. Just asking the right questions and making you realize you screwed up. And I screwed up. “You’re right. But here we are on the phone.”

  I heard a sigh from the other end. “His family is from New Jersey. Princeton, to be precise. Father and mother both deceased. He has a sister, Emely. At one point, she worked at a casino in Atlantic City. She’s a couple of years older than Ed. His wife’s name was Marie.”

  “What about now? Can we find out her whereabouts?” I asked.

  “Have you tried locating his phone?”

  Illegal as that was for my team to do it, he knew we occasionally cut some corners. “We’ve tried. Nothing. His phone is either dead or shut off.”

  “Stay put. Let me find out a few things. It’s hard for me to believe Ed would do something like this.”

  I sighed and hoped I was wrong for his sake, but I knew I wasn’t. “I know, captain. That’s why I want to cross all the Ts and dot all the Is. We don’t want to make a mistake. Ed has suffered enough as it is.”

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I know something.” He paused. “Later."

  I was sure he wanted to add unlike you, but he didn’t. We respected and trusted each other too much, which made me feel guilty. I had to bury the hatchet with Farnsworth. It was affecting my relationship with Johnson.

  My phone rang almost as soon as I ended the call with the captain.

  “Yes, Logan,” I answered.

  “Something new came up I wanted to share. The attorney for Mrs. Newton called me. They’re filing a petition tomorrow to get copies of all documents in the safe. Up until now, the Feds have kept those sealed.”

  “Good,” I replied. “Maybe there’s a case to be made after all for the FBI.”

  “The attorney said he would share a copy with me to follow up. Mrs. Newton wants answers and justice for her husband’s death. I’ll shoot you a copy. Maybe Marcy can get involved now.”

  “I’ll tell her. Listen, Captain Johnson is finding out about the Wells family. So, don’t bother asking your buddy. Let’s not risk a leak.”

  “Fine, I’ll do the research on Wells’ arrest records.”

  I texted Agnes not to worry about the property records in Miami. I had the sister’s and wife’s name. Things were moving and coming together fast. I was hopeful an end was in sight.

  I finished my cigar and before I jumped in the shower, I relayed to Marcy the information about Mrs. Sanae Newton.

  It was almost ten in the evening when the captain called. “Joey, I’ve got a plain wrapper anchored a few doors from Emely Norton’s home in Princeton. She’s a widow and lives in the same home they grew up in. If Ed is there, I’m sure we’ll get a glimpse of him.”

  “Are you ready to move in?”

  Johnson didn't answer immediately. “If he’s there, I want to do this my way. No raid or any crazy stuff. I’ll go in and talk to him. I owe him that much.”

  I bit my tongue. “Sir, I think that’s a mistake. We don’t know how his mind is functioning. If he killed three—”

  “We’re doing it my way," Johnson said firmly, his tone leaving no room for arguing. "Understood?”

  “Let’s see if he’s there first,” I replied instead of agreeing. “Call me the moment you know.”

  No telling what could happen if the captain went in there alone. If he was guilty of three murders…? I didn’t want to think about it.

  45

  Joey Mancuso ~

  It was six in the morning when I finally decided to get up. I had been tossing and turning all night, thinking about the next moves. It was out of my hands, and I felt impotent worrying about the captain and his hardheaded decision. I wanted a report but calling him now wasn't something he would appreciate.

  I made some coffee and sat on the balcony to see Lower Manhattan, from the small view I had of it, light up as the sun rose. Glass windows from the high-rises went from a soft yellow to a brilliant orange, slowly and methodically.

  Marcy, wearing a robe, joined me with her coffee around seven am. “You didn’t get much sleep.”

  “I know. Did I wake you?”

  “No. The scent of the coffee did. I have to go to work anyway. Anything new?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “Waiting for Johnson to call,” I replied, sipping the last drop in my mug.

  “You think he’ll call you?”

  “I’m sure he will. Can you drop me off at the pub?”

  “Get dressed and we’re on our way.”

  An hour later, I was at the pub by myself. Agnes had gone to the hospital early in the morning to visit with Patrick, who was being discharged at noon. Carla would take him home with a police escort Captain Johnson had assigned. Officers would stay with Patrick until we caught our man. We weren’t sure if the shooter knew he hadn't killed Patrick, and Johnson wanted to protect him just in case.

  I enjoyed the empty ambiance of the pub and the lingering scent of liquor, cigars, and espressos leftover from the night before. It all fused together, and I could almost hear the glass clattering, laughter, and music that was prevalent night after night.

  For a few minutes, as the sun rose from the east, its rays would shine on the mirrored wall behind the old oak bar that adorned the left side of the pub. Its reflection would carry to the opposite wall, illuminating the many photos of the celebrities that hung above each booth. Father Dom’s grandfather, Captain Sean himself, with Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, and Babe Ruth, going back many years. Then, there was Dom’s dad, Brandon, with Broadway Joe Namath, and Mickey Mantle. And the more recent photos of Kelsey Grammer, Jerry Seinfeld, Derek Jeter, and many more.

  Normally, Father Dom joined me after his two Masses at Saint Helen's, and we would take advantage of our one-on-ones, discussing anything from politics to the many challenges the Catholic Church was facing. Fortunately, Dom was a pragmatist, and he would preach and counsel his congregation with a more practical approach in his attempt to bring the faith to the younger generation instead of driving them away. This morning, Dom had a baptism and would stay at the church after.

  Not surprisingly, my mind drifted back to the case. We were convinced we had our shooter in Ed Wells, but still, we had no hard evidence. Everything pointed to him, but it was mostly circumstantial, and I could see an ADA shaking her head, wanting more evidence.

  Detective Logan called at
nine thirty. “Good morning, Mancuso.” I greeted him back, hoping he'd found our proof. “In 2017, Sergeant Wells and his partner at the time, a rookie trainee, responded to a 10-37, suspicious vehicle, in Miami Shores. They stopped the vehicle and, upon searching the inside, found an Ithaca 37, 12-gauge shotgun, and a black Bersa .380. They arrested the individual and placed the weapons in an evidence locker for the trial, which was held in 2019. The individual was convicted of illegal possession of firearms and is serving five years.”

  “Sound interesting, but is the gun still in the locker?” I asked with anticipation.

  “That’s where it gets good. The 12-gauge is still there, but the Bersa is gone. Now, two weeks ago, Sergeant Wells signed out a small cache of opioids for a trial—”

  My impatience cut him off. “And he took the gun?”

  “We don’t know that. However, your ballistic tests in New York could easily tie this Bersa to the one you recovered.”

  “Except we have no prints on this weapon,” I replied.

  “Didn’t you guys see Wells dressed as a janitor and then close up when he shot Patrick?”

  “Patrick and I couldn't match Wells' real picture to the photo of the janitor. He was disguised with a craggy, cavern look on his face and a fake mustache, making him look much older.”

  “Shit. Well, I’ll send this report in a minute, including the local ballistic report. Do the best you can. It’s no coincidence if ballistics prove it’s the same gun. Didn’t you see Wells trash the gun when you chased him?”

  “Huh.” I paused. If I replied yes, it would be a direct connection. If not, then merely circumstantial. So, I would have to think about it. “Maybe I did, maybe I did.”

  “On the other topic, Mrs. Newton’s hearing to get a copy of the documents is set for eleven this morning. I should have a copy shortly thereafter if they're successful. So, expect another attachment.”

  “Logan, great job, my man. I really appreciate your help. How’s our buddy Jack?”

  “He’s off on the Easy Ryder to Islamorada with my sister. He’ll be gone a month or so. I envy his lifestyle. And, he’s hoping for a resolution in this case because he wants to finish his next novel.”

  I chuckled. “Son of a bitch, he’s making money thanks to us. I’m glad someone is. By the way, this relationship with your sister has blossomed. No more expiration dates on his lady friends.”

  “Yeah, that was a defense mechanism he was using to avoid serious commitments after his divorce. I think I’ll have a brother-in-law soon.”

  I smiled. “That’s great. I hope I get an invite. Hey, brother, thanks again. I’ll keep you posted.”

  The puzzle was coming together, more and more pieces falling into place. I was anxious to hear from Johnson about the stakeout at Wells' sister's place and to make sure the ballistic examination was concluded.

  I dialed Johnson. “Captain, any signs of Wells?” I said when he answered.

  “None yet. Emely came out to get the paper and went back inside. I’m thinking of just going and knocking on the door.”

  “Are you there now?”

  “No. Just waiting on word from our officers.”

  “Can you get a warrant to tap the landline? Maybe they’ll order some pizza or something and we can send one of your guys to see if they can spot him.”

  He considered that. “Good idea. I’ll do that.”

  “I think you should wait before showing up at the front door. If he’s hiding elsewhere, Emely is sure to tell him. Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I’ll wait. You have a point.”

  I went on to update him on the report from Logan and told him I would send it over the moment I got it.

  Agnes came in right after eleven, and I moved to the office part of the pub. We sat around the conference table, and Agnes fired up the smartboard with all the pictures of the players.

  “So, we're in a waiting game,” Agnes commented, fiddling with a pen.

  “We are, but there’s two cases here. One, the murders of Bobal and Newton. Two, the activities of this company and how that ties in. We might get a break in a few minutes." I paused. "How’s Patrick, by the way?”

  “In pain when the meds wear off. But he’s on his way home with Carla. She seems like a nice lady.”

  “What do we know about her?” I asked, giving Agnes a silent hint, one she apparently took.

  “Got it. Let me get to work on that,” she replied with a smile.

  “I’m ordering from Leo’s Bagels, what can I get you?”

  “Get me a roast beef sandwich, mayo, with Swiss cheese on a plain bagel.”

  We ate our lunch, and I was still waiting for Logan’s attachment of the documents in the safe. Earlier, he had sent in the ballistic report on the Bersa, which I had forwarded to the captain for further comparison.

  My phone rang finally, and I quickly picked it up. “What’s up, Logan?”

  “I’m about to send you something that’s going to blow your mind,” he said with a certain glee in his voice.

  I frowned. Something that would blow my mind? “Tell me about it.”

  “No. I want you to read it and enjoy the surprise. Call your wife and tell her to get ready for a big one. The Feds tried to redact names, but the judge ruled they were Mrs. Newton's docs. And, we got it all.”

  “I can’t wait. Do me a favor, email them to me instead of texting. It saves me a step.”

  “Text me your email. It’ll take me about twenty minutes to get to my home. I’ll do it from there on my personal computer, not the station’s computer.”

  I called Marcy with the news, and she said she would be over in fifteen. Someone was going to get really pissed at the leak of these documents if they incriminated some biggies.

  I couldn't wait.

  46

  Joey Mancuso ~

  Marcy showed up as Agnes was opening the email on the smartboard.

  “Have a seat. Just got it,” I said to Marcy after a little hug.

  We all read and smiled as we did. According to his personal diary, it seemed Dr. George Newton, the MIT graduate and computer genius, had indeed developed a logarithmic program to track stock momentum and other variables that improved his chances in trading stocks. But it wasn't one hundred percent accurate, as the results for the last few years showed from audits conducted by the SEC.

  In his diary, Newton writes that after a couple of years of associating with Jan Bobal and selling majority ownership of Fönix to Peníze Private Equity, his program was highjacked and he simply became the cover by which Bobal and Peníze disguised the true secret of their success.

  “Agnes, keep scrolling down. This is getting interesting,” I said, patting Marcy’s hand.

  Agnes did and we read on.

  The true secret of the operation started in 2018 by Jan Bobal. A small company in Prague, a Peníze subsidiary, was masterfully hacking into financial news agencies that reported stock earning such as Bloomberg, Reuters, and others the night before the earnings became public. Thus, they were able to acquire embargoed information before the next day’s release, as well as company directors’ decisions, including mergers and acquisitions. They falsely subscribed to the news agencies’ services and dropped a spider program in their system that, while it didn't give them access to controls of the system, it crawled around the site from link to link, reporting information back to the owner. Obviously, this gave them a foolproof advantage in predicting the possible movement of the stocks once the earnings and other financial news were released.

  “Hold it there,” I said. “That’s why their trading was so concentrated on the beginning of the quarterly earnings reporting season. This was like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “Keep going, Agnes, I want to see if there are names,” Marcy said.

  Newton wrote that he was blackmailed into continuing the falsehood for fear that he was incriminated and due to threats of harm to him and his wife. Smartly, he kept a written account and a separate bank a
ccount for all illicit gains from these trades made with the hacking of the earnings report. He knew that once discovered, all assets related to these gains would be confiscated and clawed back.

  What followed was better than Indiana Jones finding the Holy Grail—and the reason the Feds wanted to redact the names. A second attachment with the list of clients participating in the illicit scheme. But Newton had gone a step further. He had divided the list into two groups. One was titled "Clients I met with Bobal and were cognizant of the scheme." The second was "Clients who were not aware of the scheme, but benefited from it."

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “Open it!”

  And there it was. In order of dates, accounts were opened. Each entry contained names, amounts invested, names of stocks, and profits made from each transaction. And, to add fuel to the fire, it included a list of offshore accounts where the profits sat for each client. Name one on the list, Lance Friedman, account opened May 2018. Name two, Senator Thomas Shenbeck, opened May 2018. And the list went own. Other politicians, top corporate CEOs, and other prominent names. Twenty-two in total were on list one.

  Marcy and I exchanged glances, both wide-eyed and eyebrows raised.

  Marcy's eyes gleamed. “My God, this could be as incriminating as Epstein’s black book of guests to his sex island!”

  I smiled, sat back, and put my feet on top of the conference table with a big-ass grin. “This calls for a good cigar and a drink. Anyone else?”

  Both Marcy and Agnes passed on the offer. I went on get a Padrón Dámaso and a good pour of Balvenie Portwood twenty-one-year-old single malt as Agnes printed the attachments for Marcy.

  “Were these documents classified by the Feds by any chance?” asked Agnes as I sat back with my rewards.

  I looked at Marcy. “There’re not marked as such. Why?”

  “It’s against the law to leak classified documents,” Agnes replied.

  “So, who leaked them? The rightful owner, Mrs. Newton? Or, if we handed over to the FBI in the form of Marcy, us?”

  Marcy observed, “There’s another side to this. All these profits went unreported to the IRS. These people owe thousands, maybe millions, in taxes, besides of course their criminal acts of insider trading.”