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

by Owen Parr

  I raised my glass with a smile. “In that case, we leak them, and we get the reward from the IRS.”

  “Two things,” Marcy said, holding up two fingers. “One, make sure they’re not classified, and two, if not, I’ll give you my contact at the IRS and you give them the attachments.”

  “That could be a large windfall. Aren’t we going to have a conflict with Mrs. Newton, her attorney, and even your buddy Logan?” Agnes asked.

  “Maybe Newton or her attorney. Logan is law enforcement, and I don’t think he qualifies for it,” Marcy replied.

  “I’ll worry about that later, but if I walk them over to the IRS, I think I have a good claim on the reward money,” I replied. “Shit, maybe we can actually make money on this case, after all.”

  “In that case, you should do that as soon as feasible. I’ll sit on this until you do. But please, make sure they’re not classified," Marcy repeated.

  “You got it. Text me your contact at the IRS,” I said. “I’m calling Johnson for an update. If nothing is going on, I’ll take a car service to Patrick’s apartment and visit with him. Call me when you’re ready to go home, and I’ll meet you at Federal Plaza. Then, we celebrate.”

  “Before you go to Patrick’s, I have an update on his lady friend, Carla Miranda,” Agnes said.

  Marcy looked at me, a little annoyed. “Why would you do that? He’s a big man. I’m sure he won’t appreciate you meddling into his life.”

  “He’s family and this lady came out of nowhere. I’m just being cautious. Go on, Agnes,” I said.

  “Nothing to worry about. She doesn’t even have a parking ticket. She has a green card and is a Spanish citizen. Arrived here six years ago. I can’t connect her to anything or anyone we would need to worry about,” Agnes read from her laptop.

  “See? We’re good. Erase that report and we’ll live happily ever after,” I added as Marcy shook her head.

  A few minutes later, Marcy went back to her office, and I contacted the captain. No visual of Wells at Emely’s home. The anchored police plain wrapper would stay another two shifts of ten hours each. Otherwise, the captain would visit with Emely. No phone calls in or out of the home had been made. However, Wells' fate had been sealed when ballistics confirmed that the weapon Officer Smythe found was the same as the one missing from the evidence locker in Miami. Now we had a solid predicate for the arrest, and no jury would ignore that.

  Johnson promised to call me the minute they had a visual on Wells, and I went on with my plans for the rest of the afternoon.

  47

  Joey Mancuso ~

  I finally got a good night’s sleep. Woke up rested and enthused at all the findings. Still somewhat concerned with the lack of progress on locating Wells.

  I was pouring coffee into two mugs when my phone rang. Marcy picked up the call. “Good morning captain, let me put Joey on.”

  I picked up the phone as I took a sip of my coffee. “Yes, captain?”

  “The plain wrapper spotted a man fitting the description of Wells retrieving a newspaper from the front lawn of the home. I’m on my way,” Johnson said.

  “Text me the address, I’ll join you there. But, captain, don’t do this alone. It’s not protocol,” I said.

  He chuckled. “You're following protocol now?”

  “Are you taking backup? At least tell me you are,” I replied.

  “I have New Jersey police units standing by. I’ll be fine,” he answered.

  “Be careful sir. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said and disconnected.

  Marcy had been listening to the conversation. “Are you taking your Mustang?”

  My 1967 cherry-red Mustang Shelby GT500 was my pride and joy, and probably the most expensive possession I had. Only drove it on weekends if the weather was right. It sat covered in the underground parking of our building.

  I looked at Marcy. “It's the quickest way to get there.”

  “Yeah, it's also a police magnet if you’re speeding. It’s about an hour and a half to get to Princeton from here if you’re lucky. We’ll take my car and light it up.”

  “Deal. Let’s go,” I said hurriedly.

  Twenty-five minutes later, we were on the 278 West with lights on. It felt as if it was taking forever in rush hour. I kept looking at my watch, trying to anticipate when Johnson would get there. His travel time was over an hour, but at least thirty minutes less than ours.

  Marcy and I didn't say much in the car. Marcy was concentrating on driving, and I was too absorbed in my thoughts. An hour later, we had made progress, but we were still forty-five or more minutes away.

  I looked at my watch and pictured the captain already there.

  ***

  Captain Alex Johnson —

  I parked and walked to the front door of Emely’s home. Knocked and took two steps back.

  When Emely answered the door, she looked surprised to see me. “Oh, my God, Alex, what brings you here? It’s been so long.”

  I smiled tightly. “Hi, Emely, it has. How are you?”

  “Older but wiser. Are you still in the force?” she asked, not opening the door fully.

  “Yes, I am. Listen, is Ed here?”

  She hesitated and looked around. “Why? What’s going on?”

  I deliberately ignored the question. “I just need to talk to him for a moment. Say my hellos.” She didn’t reply. “Everything is fine, Emely. I just need a word with Ed.”

  Ed showed up behind Emely in the entryway. “Alex, what a nice surprise. What brings you all the way out here?”

  “Hi, Ed. Can you step outside and we can talk for a few minutes?”

  Ed surveyed the street from one end to the other, still standing behind Emely. “Buddy, if you’re going to visit, the least you can do is come into our home.”

  “I’d rather talk outside and privately,” I replied. Going in would be a mistake. Plus, I’d be out of the direct sight of the officers.

  “Is this an official visit? Or, are you here as a friend? If a friend, then come inside and we can talk all you want.”

  I looked both ways on the street and took two steps forward.

  “So, what is it that you want, Alex?” Ed asked, standing in the living room.

  I noticed a bulge under Ed's white shirt on the left side. Looking at Emely, I said, “Emely, can I talk to your brother privately?”

  Emely glanced at Ed and he nodded in approval. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you want something."

  “Can we sit and talk Ed?”

  “I prefer standing. Why are you here?” Ed crossed his arms across his chest.

  “How long you been in town?” I asked, looking around the room.

  “A few days visiting Emely. I needed it to get away from Miami.”

  “I’m so sorry about Marie. I tried calling you, but I couldn’t connect,” I said, sitting down on the sofa.

  “I lost my phone,” he said, still standing.

  “Have a seat. I just want to talk.”

  Ed looked around and sat erect on a chair he pulled over from the dining room. He opened his arms as if asking so now what?

  I forced the words out of my throat. “I don’t want to believe what I’m hearing. Tell me it's not you.”

  Ed jumped to his feet, taking deep breaths. The veins in his neck bulged. “No one was doing anything. How would you like to lose a son and a wife, and no justice is served?” he said, placing his hand on what I was sure was a firearm.

  I tensed, keeping an eye on Ed’s left hand. “You should know that the wheels of justice are slow.”

  Ed sneered. “Bullshit clichés. These people had to pay. It’s done. They paid.”

  I closed my eyes. I had been in a state of disbelief until I heard those words from Ed's own mouth. “Ed, you have to come in. Let’s sort this out.”

  “There’s nothing to sort out. You know I can’t come in. This is the end for me,” Ed said, shaking his head, looking at the floor.

  “Doesn’t have to be. We’l
l get you a good attorney that can help you.”

  “And what?" Ed snorted. "Plead insanity? Go to some detention hospital for crazies? I think I prefer GP in a prison. Listen, I planned and carried out the execution of two owners of this company. That’s a Class A felony, premeditated murder. No attorney is going to plead that down. I shot two people dead. No one can plead that down to manslaughter. I’m done.”

  How did he know Patrick wasn't dead? We held back on reporting his condition.

  “Killing me isn't going to make you feel any better. I’m sorry we didn’t stop you at the office building. I should have tried harder.” It didn’t have to come to this if we had identified him at the building. I knew what he was thinking, and I dreaded the thought.

  “Oh, I know. I saw you and this Mancuso guy. I figured you were protecting the last owner.”

  “That person was a decoy, he works with Mancuso. That’s how we found you. Let me have your firearm, Ed.”

  He smiled and cocked his head. “No, Alex, let me have yours,” Ed said, pointing a Smith and Wesson M&P at me.

  48

  Joey Mancuso ~

  We parked a block away, got out of the car, and approached a patrol car. His name badge read Tony Maxwell.

  “Officer, my name is Joey Mancuso, and I work for Captain Johnson,” I said, showing him my NYPD consultant creds. “This is FBI Special Agent Marcy Martinez. Who’s in charge?”

  He pointed to the car in front. "Sergeant Gable. He’s in that car.”

  Marcy and I walked over and went through the same routine with Gable. “Get in the back seat. We’re waiting on Johnson. Is the FBI taking over?”

  “No, Sergeant. Strictly observing,” Marcy replied.

  “How long has Johnson been in the house?” I asked.

  “About twenty minutes,” Gable replied, his eyes glued to the house.

  “Have you set a perimeter around the house?”

  “Yes. And we have two SWAT snipers on the roofs across the street." He finally swung his gaze to me, but only briefly before returning to the house. "What’s going on? The captain didn’t elaborate.”

  “We have a suspect wanted for two murders and an attempted third," I replied. "But he’s an officer with the Miami Shores police and an old friend of the captain's from their academy days.”

  Gable relayed the information over the coms to his fellow officers. “Why did Johnson go in there alone?”

  “He wants to bring him in quietly,” I replied.

  “That was a stupid move,” he said, looking at us through the rearview mirrors.

  “I can’t argue with that,” I added, looking into his eyes.

  “What are we going to do?” Marcy asked tightly.

  I took out my phone and called the captain. Five rings later, when I was about to give up, he finally answered. “Joey, I can’t talk to you right now.”

  “Say we’ll have a beer at the pub if you’re not okay,” I said

  “Later, we can have a beer at the pub. But I can’t talk to you now,” he replied and disconnected.

  I swore. “We have a problem. Sergeant, do you have a phone number for Emely Norton?”

  “Yes. Are you calling? Shouldn’t we wait to see what happens?” Gable asked.

  I gave him an incredulous look. “Wait? No. Let me have the number please, I know Wells.”

  I dialed, but no answer. I dialed again.

  A man answered. “Who is this?”

  “Sergeant Wells, this is Joey Mancuso. We met at your home in Miami Shores,” I said.

  “Yeah, I remember you and your other friend," he said after a moment. "What d'you want?”

  “Sergeant, the FBI is about to start an investigation to indict the other individuals involved with these two companies. We can—”

  “I don’t give a shit anymore," he interrupted me, his tone hard. "My son and wife died because of these bastards. It’s over as far as I’m concerned."

  “Captain Johnson tried to help you. No reason for you to hold him hostage. Let Johnson and your sister walk out of the home. We can talk this out,” I pleaded. I had a bad feeling about what was about to happen.

  He didn't respond immediately. “Mancuso, you wore the uniform once, right? What happens if you go to prison?”

  I knew the answer. Your life expectancy was minimal. But before the end came via a shiv in your heart or neck, the beatings could be unbearable. “Ed, you don’t want to hurt any more people. I know how you feel, man. Stop this before more people get hurt.”

  “Yeah, how the hell would you know? Did they kill your son?”

  I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. “No, but my father was gunned down in front of me when I was sixteen. I know the pain.”

  “And the police solved the case? I bet they didn’t, right?”

  It had taken me twenty years to solve my dad’s murder after it went cold as an iceberg. So, I lied. “They did, man. It took a while, but we got the killer. You need to end this. Let Emely and Johnson walk out.”

  “We’re done here, Mancuso,” he said shortly, and the line went dead.

  I swore again. We were at a standoff. If he came out with a firearm in hand, he was going to get shot on the spot. If he didn't come out, well, he'd get shot anyway.

  “I’m closing the street and setting a visual perimeter,” Gable said. With that, he called over the coms that we had a hostage situation with an officer in trouble.

  That would seal the deal for Wells if he stepped out without surrendering.

  Marcy and I stepped out of the car as Gable began giving orders for SWAT to develop a contingency plan. More police were arriving, and barricades were being erected about one hundred feet from the home.

  ***

  Six hours later, the standoff continued. The landline was disconnected, probably by Wells pulling the cord off the wall. Johnson’s went directly to voicemail, which was full. What was going on in there? Ed was intransigent in his thinking, and what could the captain say that would sway Ed into turning himself in? However, time had maybe softened Ed’s stance. I only hoped it had.

  We stayed close to Gable, so we could hear all his instructions. The lead of the SWAT team walked over. “Sergeant, we have a floor plan of the home. And, we found a point of ingress to the basement from behind the home. Once we’re in, we can walk up and surprise our perp.”

  “And have Wells begin shooting with an officer in the room. No way. Sergeant, tell them to stand down,” I implored.

  Gable glanced at me, considering what I had to say. “Hold back on that for now. But be ready to go.”

  The front door of the home opened, but no one came out. About two minutes later, Emely Norton came out with her hands up. Officers with shields rushed her and brought her back to our command post, which was now tented and stocked with bottles of cold water in an ice chest.

  Local news media had set up their trucks with their satellite dishes raised to the max. Reporters were using the backdrop of the barricaded area for their live reports. They tried to interview Emely, but the officers held them back.

  “Mrs. Norton, what's happening in there?” Gable asked.

  She looked at Marcy and me, her eyes begging us to make this all better. “My brother is despondent. He’s not making any sense. What did he do?”

  “He’s a suspect in two murders. Is he holding Captain Johnson at gunpoint?” Gable asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Please don’t kill him,” she pleaded.

  No one replied as she looked at Marcy in tears.

  Another three hours went by and Sergeant Gable’s attempt to talk to Wells via a bullhorn had utterly failed. I had started my day before sunrise, and now it was sunset, and no progress had been made. I wanted to approach the house again, but this time Gable wouldn't approve. I could see he was running out of patience.

  Gable turned to me. “Mancuso, I’m sending in SWAT. We can’t wait any longer.”

  I dropped my head, looking at the pavement. “I understand, sergeant.”
<
br />   Marcy took my hand and squeezed as Gable went over to the SWAT team to greenlight their operation. I glanced at Marcy and bowed my head in silent prayer.

  Now that they had the go-ahead, the SWAT team walked toward the back of the home from two homes away. The snipers remained in place on the roofs across the street. I had spoken to Father Dom various times during the day, and I was hoping he was going through the rosary beads at full speed. Agnes was aware of the situation and told me that Patrick was watching the local news, as she was.

  The infiltration was moving forward, as we heard on the police radio. One by one, the SWAT teams were making their way into the basement. My only thought was that they take out Ed with one shot. It was the way to avoid a firefight and the safest way for the captain to come out alive.

  Suddenly, the front door opened. It was now pitch-black in the front of the home. Only the moon and street lights offered any illumination of the scene. Perhaps Wells had waited for the darkness to make his next move, whatever that was.

  Gable communicated to everyone that the front door was opening. I could imagine the snipers focusing their night scopes on the door and the SWAT speeding up their entry without worrying about being detected.

  The home went dark and the silhouette of Johnson with Wells behind him showed up at the front door.

  “Anyone, what d'you see?” Gable asked.

  “Suspect is holding the hostage’s neck with his right hand while holding a firearm to his back. Don’t have a clear shot.”

  Wells stood frozen behind Johnson. Not a word was uttered by him or Johnson. I expected Wells to push Johnson forward, so he could be shot by the snipers. That was his way out. Despondent, as his sister had described, meant he had reached the end.

  I stood and, without alerting anyone, raised my hands and began walking to the front lawn, where both hostage and suspect were standing.

  Gable swore. “What the hell is he doing? Note,” he said into the coms rapidly, “civilian approaching our two men. Hold your fire.”