A Murder on Long Island_A Joey Mancuso Father O'Brian Crime Mystery

by Owen Parr

  “Luisa, can I ask you one last question?”

  She was quiet, but nodded in the affirmative. I could tell she was very uncomfortable being in this room. “Let’s go downstairs,” I said.

  She closed the door after me, and we began walking downstairs.

  “Luisa, why would Mr. Longworth kill Mrs. Longworth?”

  She held on to the railing, as her knees went weak. “Oh, my God, sir. Mr. Longworth did not kill Mrs. Longworth. Impossible!” she said, emphatically, “he loved her.”

  “Did they get along?” I asked, as we reached the landing.

  “They fight sometimes. But, I fight with my husband, and we love each other.”

  “Did they fight in front of the children?”

  “No, never in front of the children. Alone sometimes, not always. They don’t talk very much.”

  “I see. Una mas, Did Mr. Longworth drink white wine?”

  “The Mr., only like French red wine, no white, he’s allergic, he gets sneezes.”

  “You are very kind Luisa, thank you, and sorry for all the questions.”

  “Please help Mr. Longworth, he is good man.”

  My next destination was the offices of Bevans and Associates. But, I needed to wait for a call from Mrs. Ruth Goldstein, Longworth’s new leading counsel, after she met with the judge. Our hope, or at least, that of Goldstein, was that we could get the judge to agree on a continuance, thus giving the new attorneys time to prepare whatever new angle we could factor into the case. However, I already had an idea as to who pulled the trigger, and was anxious to get on with the trial. Personally, I was hoping for no continuance in the case.

  Marcy’s Lincoln Continental was a nice change of pace for me, although parking is ridiculously expensive anywhere in New York. I decide to visit Marcy while I waited for Goldstein’s call, and pointed the car towards Bergen, New Jersey, when my cell phone vibrated in my pants pocket, giving me a jolt.

  Hitting the green button, I answered the phone.

  “Joey, this is Ruth Goldstein. Come over to our office as soon as you can.”

  “Did we get a continuance on the case?”

  “No, we did not. Judge Wesley was not too happy about the change of law firms at this juncture. His take is that we’re doing this to buy time, and he sees no reason for it. He looked at the scheduled list of remaining ‘wits’ for Longworth, and he laughed at the need for more time.”

  “Did you tell him we were adding people to the witness list and we need to get subpoenas out?”

  “I need to get the names to him by later today, if everyone is local, January fourth, we are back in court as scheduled. Is everyone local?”

  “Yes, they are. But, I don’t know if they’re traveling for the holidays.”

  “He wants the subpoenas hand-delivered, and everyone sitting in court on the fourth. He is not going to keep this jury waiting for us.”

  I was excited, but, I was not going to share that with Mrs. Goldstein. “I’ll be over in a few minutes, I was headed to see Marcy.”

  “How is she, by the way?”

  “Recovering nicely, thank you for asking.”

  “Is your brother going to join us?”

  “I don’t know his schedule for today. I’ll ask and see if he can join us. See you soon.”

  I gave a quick call to Marcy and spoke to her stepdad. She was doing better and was in therapy at the moment.

  Arriving at One-Hundred-One Park Avenue, I realized that this location was as expensive as the Monopoly game portrays it to be. Fifty-five dollars for parking was a hefty sum for an Italian boy from Brooklyn. I smiled, as I flashed back to the Seinfeld show, remembering the character of George Costanza, who claimed to have been meeting Art Vandelay for lunch in this building.

  The forty-fifth floor was the main floor for Bevans and Associates. There was nothing pretentious about these offices, just plain expensive. I was ushered into a small, but very luxurious conference room, where a silver coffee service was ready for us. Real cream was available, none of that powdered stuff, here.

  “Joey, how good to see you,” said a smiling Ruth Goldstein, as she walked in the room with a second person. “This is Inez Hartman, my second chair on the case.”

  Two ladies defending a man accused of killing his wife, smart. I thought. We got through with the pleasantries quickly and got down to business.

  “Do you have the list of witnesses we need to subpoena?”

  “We have four individuals. Both attorneys; Marshall Adams and Charles, or Chuck, Pearson. Both local. Then we have two ladies; Mrs. Jessica Adams, maiden last name, Jones, and the Executive Director of the Longworth Foundation; Ms. Geraldine Francis. Also, local persons. Plus, I think you should review the testimony of the lead detective, Angelo Levy, and call him back to the stand. I have some thoughts on that I’ll share with you.”

  Inez dialed an extension on the conference table’s phone, and within seconds, another young lady picked up the list. “We’ll get those subpoenas out immediately,” Inez said, sitting back.

  I asked, “Have you retrieved the case files from Adams and Pearson?”

  “On their way here now,” replied Goldstein, “those two are not very happy about this.”

  “They’re going to be delighted when you serve the subpoenas on them,” I said, grinning.

  Ruth gave Inez a quick background story about Father Dom and me, and a detailed description of how we solved three murders last summer. Inez listened intently to every word Ruth spoke, nodding and beaming throughout. “Joey, tell us what you got,” said Ruth, as she sat back.

  For the next hour, I went over my observations and deductions, and politely suggested a series of questions for each of the new witnesses. I refrained from telling them who the real killer was, as I did not want to influence their questions in any way. Should I be mistaken, which was not likely; I still wanted them to treat each suspect as the possible killer, which would add reasonable doubt in the mind of the jurors.

  “By the way, Joey, we’re going to be meeting with Mr. Longworth today. You are welcome to be present, if you like.”

  “Thank you, but I think you guys need to strategize with him, yourselves. One thing I would suggest though, is not to necessarily make him privy that we might be pointing the finger at anyone specific. What I told him was that I had enough to create a reasonable doubt with the jury as to his own guilt. I didn’t say we might be accusing any of the new witnesses. After all, one of the them, Mr. Adams, is someone he’s known most of his life, and a close friend.”

  “Are you saying that one of these four is the killer?”

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  While I was with Ruth and Inez, a text had come in from Mr. Rodriguez, Marcy’s stepfather, and while he said she was fine, he did ask if I would stop by, as Marcy was very depressed at news she had received from her doctor.

  Driving towards University Hospital, I played in my mind ways to turn the negative news Marcy had received, into a positive. I knew that at some point the doctors would reveal to her that movement in her right arm would, or most likely could, be limited. And what that meant was; her future with the FBI could be in jeopardy. Having experienced a similar situation myself, when I was shot in the line of duty, a little over a year ago, I felt that I could bring some perspective to her dilemma. But, knowing Marcy’s energetic and feisty attitude, I was sure it would be an uphill battle.

  Entering Marcy’s private room, I could see her stepfather and mother trying to console her as best they could. Their facial expressions showed trepidation. They excused themselves, and allowed me to be with Marcy by ourselves.

  “Did you know that I would have limited use of my arm?” she asked, in a cheerless manner.

  “The doctors said it could be a possibility, but, they wouldn’t know until after surgery, and the start of your physical therapy.” I replied, noticing she had been crying. “What did they tell you?”

  “They said I can lose twe
nty to twenty-five percent of my mobility.”

  “Yeah, but what they don’t know is how resolute you are, and your ability to overcome the odds. They’re being cautious and managing your expectations, which is their job. I think it’s too soon to come to that conclusion, on your end.”

  “You know what that means as far as my job, right?” she said, tearing up.

  I was holding one of her hands and I grabbed the other. “Marcy, don’t think of that now. Your job, right now, is to recover, and get out of this place. Continue with your therapy, and prove everyone wrong.”

  “You still have a job for me at the pub?” she said, with a weak smile.

  I thought for a moment, and decided to share some of the news I’d been holding back. “As a matter of fact, there are some things developing in my world, and I need your input.” I would let her fill in the blanks.

  “Sit,” she said, palming her bed. “Tell me about it.”

  “Dino’s, next door to our pub, is thinking of selling, and he called us first. It seems his wife is in a bad health, and they want to retire in Costa Rica.”

  “Do you guys want to own a deli?”

  “No, but your conversation the other day about the Grand Havana Room, the cigar club at The Top of the Sixes, gave me an idea after he called.”

  “Aha, a cigar club next to the pub?”

  “Maybe not in the style of the Grand Havana, but, yes, a cigar club and bar.”

  “Your location is perfect for that,” she said, as her eyes gleamed with some excitement. “You have the Wall Streeters a few blocks away, and the NYPD headquarters, also a few blocks away, with all the top brass. What does Father Dominic think about the idea?”

  “He said we should explore the idea, but we decided to table it, until after this case we’re involved in.”

  “Tell me about the case.”

  “In a minute. Something else I want your thoughts on. In the last few days I’ve had two, call them, job offers.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Investigative work.”

  “What about the pub?”

  “I don’t think I would leave the pub, after all, I made a commitment to Dom, and that’s sacred in my book. But, what if we could do both? For all practical purposes, we are doing that now.”

  “What were the offers? she asked.

  I could see that I had been right about discussing these things, she was no longer dwelling on her on thoughts about the FBI. “A very prestigious criminal law firm wants to hire us as exclusive investigators for their firm. Not to work under them, but for us to be independently handling all, or most, of their work.”

  “That sounds enticing. Who else?”

  Before I could respond, a team of nurses came in to the room for a routine check; blood work, blood pressure, and the like. I was politely asked to step outside. This reminded me of my own stay in the hospital. Every hour of the day and night, someone would wake me up for something or other. How can you get better, if they don’t leave you alone? I asked myself.

  In the waiting room, I spoke to Marcy’s stepdad and mom briefly, and told them I was trying to get Marcy’s mind off the FBI topic. However, I added, that we would have to deal with it, if in fact, it became an issue. It’s going to be hard on her if that happens, I said to them, and asked to wait until I finished my conversation with her, before they went back in the room.

  Returning to the room, I reengaged Marcy with her last question. “You asked who else made me an offer. You’ll get a kick out of this,” I said, smiling, “Captain Alex Johnson, my old boss, wants me to consult for his homicide division.”

  Marcy’s smiled vanished, instead, a frown replaced it.

  “Why the face?” I asked.

  “Are you going to be carrying a gun again?”

  This was her point of contention, her fears that something would happen to me.

  “Not at all,” I replied, grabbing both her hands again, “a consultant does not carry a weapon. We’re there to consult, observe, analyze. We’re not chasing bad hombres. And, we can pick and choose the cases we want to get involved in.”

  “It all sounds fantastic. How are you going to manage the expansion of the pub into a cigar club, and at the same time, get involved with all the new investigative work?”

  “Good question. Father Dom and I agree that we should make Mr. Pat a partner in the business, and we can hire someone to manage the cigar club. Then, Bevans and Associates, that’s the law firm that wants us involved, has two in-house investigators we can add to our own staff, that’s if we want them.”

  “Sounds like you have all this worked out. I’m happy for you,” she said, with a sad face.

  “Listen, I know your concern is your career with the FBI, and I know you’re going to recover one-hundred percent. But, God forbid you can’t—,”

  She interrupted me, “I don’t want to talk about it now,” she said, going back into a depressed mood.

  “You want to hear about the case?”

  “No, not now, Joey. I want to get some sleep, if you don’t mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  New Year’s Eve, Saturday the thirty-first came, and the party Marcy had organized for friends at the pub had been canceled. Instead, I worked helping Mr. Pat and the staff with a full house of celebrants, mostly our locals, who had made reservations for that evening. At about ten that night, I headed over to the hospital to be with Marcy and her parents.

  Marcy’s mood was not much better. She was reserved and not very talkative. At midnight, we drank an awful non-alcoholic cider her parents had bought, and ate the twelve grapes, her mother insisted was a Cuban tradition that could not be broken. Mrs. Rodriguez was having an issue with another tradition, which consisted of throwing a bucket full of water out the front door, this she said, cleansed the home for the start of the New Year. The window was not an option, as there were people below. So, trying to be inconspicuous, she walked downstairs with a glass of water and tossed the water onto the driveway. Whatever works, I thought to myself. Father Dom apologized for not joining us. His midnight Mass took precedence. I had failed to ask him if Agnes had attended the Mass.

  Marcy asked, “Joey, how long are you going to stay?”

  I glanced at Mr. & Mrs. Rodriguez, smiled and asked, “Why, you want to kick me out?”

  “I want to get some sleep.”

  “Sounds like you expect me to go. Sleep all you want, and I’m here with your parents.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, turning to her left, and ignoring us.

  Mrs. Rodriguez whispered, “She’s been like that all day. Doesn’t want to talk, or eat. All she wants is sleep. And in a bad mood.”

  “She'll be all right,” I said, getting up from a recliner to leave. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

  It was going to be a long three days before the trial started on the fourth of January. There was not a lot for me to do, but visit with Marcy, and hang out. The wait was driving me crazy. I had spoken to Ruth Goldstein, the attorney, and she had assured me that they were ready to proceed, and had met with Mr. Longworth. There would be no need for him to take the stand in his own defense. Ruth was amazed at the additional research Agnes had provided to us, and she wanted to make sure Agnes would join my team, if we ever agreed to join forces with them. Of course, I did not mention that some of Agnes’s research was a little outside the legal constraints. But, in my book, research is research, right?

  On our last big case, which had been our claim to fame, and had resulted in so many accolades for brother Dom and me, I had enjoyed, what one observer called; an ‘off-Broadway play.’ This we did by solving the case, in which we exposed the guilty parties, at a reveal in the pub, with all five of the suspects, their attorneys, and law enforcement present. With a flair for the dramatic, which I got a kick out of, we had brought the guilty to justice, in a show and tell. However, this time, it was out of my hands. I would have to sit back, and let someone else, namely: Mrs. Goldstein a
nd Ms. Hartman, run the show and tell. I was anxious, and I hoped these ladies were up to the task.

  I spent my days at the pub. Plus, I had a chance to meet Larry and Harry. They brought me to date on assignments I had given them. With nothing else to do, I waited anxiously for the start of the trial.

  PART 2

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Trial

  Tuesday, January 4th

  Judge Samuel Wesley, attired in the traditional black robe, entered the courtroom, and the court was in session. He wished everyone a Happy New Year, explained that the defendant had retained new counsel, and gave the jury instructions not to make anything out of that fact.

  It was a cool day in Riverhead, New York. The courtroom was packed, reporters from the Tri-State area sat in the back, with family, friends, and the curious taking up the rest of the space.

  “Mrs. Goldstein, are you ready to proceed?” the Judge asked.

  “Yes, we are Your Honor.”

  “Very well, call your first witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. The defense calls Mr. Marshall Adams, to the stand,” Ruth said, standing by her table, with Mr. Longworth to her right, and Inez, sitting to the right of the defendant.

  Adams took the stand and was sworn in by the County Clerk. Adams went through the preliminary routine of stating his name, and his profession.

  Ruth asked, “Mr. Adams, would you tell us how long you’ve known the defendant?”

  Adams looked at Mr. Longworth, and smiling, replied, “Harold and I have been friends since high-school.”

  “Did you also attend college together?”

  “We did. We were roommates at Yale.”