A MURDER ON WALL STREET: A Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery

by Owen Parr

  She remained quiet for a few seconds. Taking a deep breath, she said, “It was, Joey. Like I’ve said before, with Dad’s death in ‘Nam and then Alberto deployed in Iraq for a year, it was hell for Mom and me. I don’t think I can live with the daily fear of losing you. You and I have witnessed too many of those stories.”

  “The good news is, I’m not in law enforcement anymore. I’m not risking my life every day.”

  “I need to know: would you ever consider going back to law enforcement?” So that was her fear, me going back to work as a detective. I said, “When I joined the NYPD sixteen years ago, I wanted to make a difference. In all honesty, it was either be a part of righteousness, or follow in my dad’s footsteps in a life of crime. So, I dedicated myself to being the best at what I was doing, always with the goal of being a homicide detective. It bothered me, and still does, to see innocent people die at the hands of others. You can say that my father taught me a lot of what not to do.”

  “So, it wasn’t Father Dom that pushed you into the police force?” “Dom had a big influence in my life. He may have been the catalyst or offered the guidance for me to see a better way of life. But it always bothered me to see the injustices committed and the total lack of respect for life that some displayed around me when I was a kid. No, Father Dom didn’t push me; he showed me a different way: I could be a good person, something I was searching for myself.”

  “I understand. But I can’t live with the fear that I might come home one day, and you won’t come back from work.”

  “You still want to know if I would, assuming I could, join a police force?”

  “Yes.” I gazed into those beautiful green eyes of hers and knew she wouldn’t be happy with my answer, but I had to be honest with her. “Marcy, I don’t want to have to rule it out or make promises that I may not be able to keep. Who’s to say what the future holds for us? We’re young. You can’t define your future with certainty. You can plan and wish for something, but destiny is dealing the cards. The best we can do is learn and be prepared to deal with the opportunities and the challenges dealt to us.”

  “It hurt me when you refused to take the medical disability offered you then. You could’ve walked out with almost your entire salary as disability pay.”

  “Why would that hurt you?” I asked, somewhat confused. “It showed me that your job was your number-one priority, and I was second. You ignored my pleas then, and that hurt me.”

  I could’ve turned that around about her job. But I’ve learned never to ask a question I don’t already know the answer to. What if she said, “Yes, I’ll give up my work for you anytime.” Then what? Instead, I embraced her and said softly, “I see it now, but I didn’t see it then. I was selfish, but honestly, back then, I thought you were being selfish asking me to give up a career I loved. I’m sorry, Marcy. I do love you.”

  “Thank you, that means a lot. I love you,” she replied, pushing back a bit and kissing me gently on the lips. I smiled. “Then. That settles it.”

  She let go of the embrace and stepped back, smiling. “Not so fast, cowboy. Let’s finish this case. I may still get transferred to Siberia.”

  “The FBI has a field office there?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do, but you just might end up running the office here in New York, if we put all these clues together.” “We’ll see.”

  “Regardless, my clock is ticking,” I said, laughing. “Mancuso, your clock is just fine.”

  Frank walked over to us. “Joey, Dad says to come over. You can go in and see Mom now.” Lucy was alert and talking. She seemed weak, yet was in good spirits. She flashed as big a smile as she could muster when I walked in and waved me closer. “Is Edmonton okay?”

  That was probably what she wanted to ask me before she went into a coma. “He is, Lucy. He’s safe.” She smiled and closed her eyes, adding faintly, “Sorry about lunch Sunday.”

  “Hah, you have a rain check on the moros. We’ll do it soon. Not a problem.”

  Marcy and I said our goodbyes to Harry and the boys. It was time for the family to be together, and we had to plan our reveal for Monday morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sunday I was stressing about the presentation on Monday. Sunday's break was perfect to plan and prepare. Marcy and I enjoyed a peaceful day in her apartment. In the evening, we headed back to the pub to help Mr. Pat and the staff close. I wanted to set up for Monday’s whodunit game. Upon closing, we moved all the tables that covered the center of the establishment to the walls. We lined up the captain’s chairs theater-style, with their backs facing the front door of the pub.

  From last count, I knew we had a full house showing up. The five participants, or our suspects, had all agreed to come in. Some of them had said their attorneys would accompany them to this “charade,” as one called it. Then we had law enforcement personnel who had also been invited and acquiesced to participate, albeit unwillingly. Finally, I had two more groups, our humble team, including Agnes and a handful of surprise guests. It isn’t that I have a flair for the dramatic, but it’d be fun to expose some of these folks in front of an audience.

  We’d worked hard to put all these clues together, and we’d uncovered a series of other potential wrongdoings along the way. Someone was guilty of a double murder, maybe more, and Joey Mancuso wasn’t going to let innocent people die without exposing the perpetrators.

  Jonathan Parker may have been guilty of a few things himself, after all he wasn’t without sin. But murder wasn’t the way his life should’ve ended. I’ve noticed that there is a credit and a debit counter. There is a doubleentry system in life. While my brother will tell you exactly who the Master Accountant is without hesitation, for us wishy-washy believers, all I can say is, someone is keeping score. Regardless of our position in life, the double-entry system works. Some call it karma. Jonathan Parker was a son to his parents and a husband to his wife. Perfect or imperfect, his life shouldn’t have ended as abruptly as it did.

  Kathy Miller, our Stella, was another innocent victim. She was in her twenties, full of life, with a young boyfriend to partake in a future they together should have chosen. Her righteousness and willingness to do the right thing cost her the ultimate sacrifice. I wasn’t going to let her killer go free.

  And then there was John Doe, my unsolved murder, in my last case at the force. Homelessness itself is a penalty, brought about by circumstances and probably in some cases, by choice. I don’t know if the double-entry system had caught up with my John Doe. Perhaps it had, but it wasn’t for another person to cash him out the way they did. Whatever the reason, my Mr. Doe was homeless. Whatever penalty he was paying, if any, was his to live with. This case was allowed to go cold—thus, my indignation at the time. My investigation became a cold case. Not because we couldn’t find a perpetrator, but due to some political pressure. The lack of respect for his life by whoever decided to close his murder investigation was beyond my comprehension. This case was a bitter remembrance for me, and I’d carried that bitterness with me for over a year. I was excited to finally unveil Mr. Doe’s killer.

  As usual, I ended up at Marcy’s for a quiet evening, some adult beverages, and a romantic night. My life was good, but I still wasn’t fulfilled. I really felt that I’d found in Marcy my soul mate, and I didn’t want to lose that opportunity. I’ve always heard that luck happens when opportunity meets preparation. I was prepared to do whatever, including giving up a chance to be in law enforcement again, if the opportunity to be with Marcy forever became a reality.

  Of course, being the immature asshole that I am, I wanted to make the choice myself, not be told or asked to do it. I was having a hard time getting to sleep; I laid there talking to myself. Could I have my cake and eat it too? Was it feasible to continue to work crime cases from a stool in our pub? Would Marcy finally come around and follow her heart?

  Part 3

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Monday—Six Days After the Murder

  Mornin
g came, and we were all full of anticipation. Would our suspects show up? We’d made a compelling case for them to do so without pointing fingers at anyone. They probably thought we were full of shit and that anything we had was nothing more than circumstantial evidence, if that. Their attorneys hopefully thought this was an opportunity to uncover any information that could be detrimental to their clients. Besides, at their hourly rate, they wouldn’t mind spending a couple of hours at our whodunit game show.

  The pub, re-designed like a small theater, had five chairs in the front for our main characters, followed by a row of chairs for their attorneys, if any. Behind that, we had more rows of chairs for our law enforcement guests. We uninvited any “wits,” or witnesses, thinking they’d be better not attending and exposing themselves at this point.

  In the front, we set up a table with some items, or props, that would be used during the presentation. Between this table and the chairs, we left room for me to make my presentation to our guests. Father Dom and Agnes would sit to the right side of the guests in a row of chairs, resembling a row of jurors. I had even set up a small white screen behind me, on which I would project some pictures I wanted to show during our little game.

  When I became active in the management of the pub, I had initiated the idea of having wide tin buckets packed with plenty of ice and inserting twelve to eighteen various brands of beer in them. These buckets with ice-cold beers could be self-served by our guests when the bar was open. They’d simply show our attendants the bottles, and it’d go on their tabs. There was something about beers chilled with lots of ice that was enticing to me, and it proved to be a great way to sell beer during the afternoons and evenings, especially in the summer. We’d gone as far as serving six beers in smaller buckets right at the customers’ table. Everyone loved it. Today, we’d taken the buckets and filled them with bottles of water packed with lots of ice.

  Mr. Pat volunteered to come in early and help us direct guests to their assigned seating. He was acting as our usher for the moment. Right after nine forty-five in the morning, individuals started to trickle in. Mr. Pat was asking everyone who he or she was so he could seat them according to our scripted seating plan. Sinatra’s “My Way,” playing in the background, was my way—pun intended— to rub it in slightly.

  The first three that walked in were expensive, custom-made suits. I was standing in front with Father Dom, Agnes, and Marcy, although Marcy didn’t want it to seem like she was involved in the game for fear of a reprimand.

  I asked Marcy, “You know these suits?” Facing them, she replied, “The grey pinstriped is Stevan Kapzoff, attorney for Evans and Albert; the other three, I guess, associates of the firm.”

  I nodded to Mr. Pat to seat them in the second row. The three suits glanced around our pub with disdain, even though they couldn’t stop commenting amongst themselves about the photos hanging on the walls. Kapzoff nodded to Marcy and then said something to his associates.

  As it turned out, every new person walking into the pub had to glance at all the black-and-white photos hanging from the walls. It was a trip down memory lane, particularly for the New Yorkers.

  A couple of minutes later, Mr. Evans and Mr. Albert made their appearance. They ignored us and wanted to sit next to Kapzoff, but Patrick gently asked them to sit in the front. With their backs to us, they remained standing and spoke to their legal eagles, exchanging a little laughter and showing some arrogance.

  More suits walked in: four, as a matter of fact. This time, while the suits were expensive, they were off the rack. I recognized the district attorney for New York, the ADA, who’d worked with me in the homeless murder investigation of John Doe, and two other cohorts. They sat behind Kapzoff, and a little party broke out: Kapzoff et al., Evans and Albert—donors, “donees,” and intermediaries, I supposed.

  Our mistress, model, and actress, Melody Wright, walked in by herself, sporting a mini-skirt that I knew immediately would be distracting when I made my presentation. Mr. Evans seemed a bit uncomfortable when he saw her walk in and said something to Albert in a hushed voice. Melody was all smiles. Totally ignoring Evans, she came over to the front to say hello to Dom and me. Dom then asked her to sit in the front row.

  Our last two suspects walked in together with a third expensive, custom suit: Mrs. Adelle Parker, who came in with two men—one I assumed to be her father, Andrew Huffing, and the other, their attorney. They acknowledged Evans and Albert, but didn’t seem friendly towards them. Mrs. Parker came over to us and introduced her father, but not the suit. I asked them to take their assigned seats.

  Glancing at my watch, I saw it was five minutes to ten, and I said, “We’ll get started in a few minutes. I’m expecting a couple more people. Thank you.”

  Kapzoff said, “I assume you’re Mr. Mancuso?” I nodded and replied, “Yes, I am.”

  “Mr. Mancuso, be on notice that this charade of yours will more than likely result in a civil lawsuit against you, your brother, and anyone else involved in this outrageous game.”

  Father Dominic took a hard swallow. Marcy extricated herself from the front and walked towards the back of the chairs. I faced Mr. Kapzoff and replied, “Point taken, sir.”

  On cue, it was the DA’s turn to apply a little heat. “Mr. Mancuso, I don’t know what you have planned, but you’d better tread lightly, or there’ll be more than a civil lawsuit following this little game of yours.”

  I turned to Father Dom, now sitting to the side. His face was turning white as pure snow. I smiled at Dominic. I wanted to say, “Father, you’re fighting the Powers of Darkness daily, and yet these two fellows intimidate you?” I faced the DA and said, “I understand, sir. Thank you for being here.”

  Finally, our last invited guests, the cheap suits, walked in together: my good friends Cagney and Lacey— make that Detectives Farnsworth and Charles—and Marcy’s boss, Special Agent-in-Charge Victoria Stewart of the FBI’s New York white-collar crime division.

  I was getting ready to start when the front door opened and in came my former partner, Detective Lucy, sitting in a wheelchair and aided by her husband Harry. They both smiled and took a position at the back close to Marcy, sitting beside her boss.

  I stood in front of our assembled guests, glanced around, and tried to make eye contact with everyone. There’s always anxiety when you speak in front of a group. You can never get rid of the butterflies. The best you can do is to try and get the butterflies to fly in formation; however, when you are facing a group of panthers, tigers, and other ferocious wild animals ready to pounce on you, it takes added concentration.

  “Thank you all for being here. Sorry we’re running a few minutes late. I believe this presentation will be informative and prove fruitful for many of you. Let’s begin.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Ms. Melody Wright,” I began, “thank you for being here.”

  “Oh, this seems like fun. Happy to be here, Joey,” she replied, smiling and pulling her skirt down a bit. “Good, I’m glad you’re happy,” I said, as I noticed Mr. Evans moving uncomfortably in his chair. “For those of you who don’t know Ms. Wright, she was born in San Diego.”

  Melody was surprised, and her smile turned into a frown. I went on, “Anyway, she was born Susan Ashen, and at twenty-two, she became the close friend of a well-known Hollywood producer, following her quest to become an actress.”

  Melody interrupted me. “What are you doing?” she said, uncomfortably. “I’m just introducing everyone to our guests,” I replied, looking at her and then at my notes. “Mr. Wesland Scott, our Hollywood producer, divorced his wife of ten years—that’s the marriage of ten years, not Mrs. Scott,” I said, facing the group, thinking I was funny, but no one had as much as a smile on their faces. Tough crowd, I thought. I went on. “Immediately after his divorce, Mr. Scott, thinking about Melody—make that Susan Ashen—who happened to be pregnant with his child, married Susan. That seemed the honorable thing to do. Unfortunately, Mr. Scott, who was twenty years older than h
is new bride, didn’t get to see what he thought was a new son or daughter, or even get to celebrate his one-year anniversary with his new young bride. Mr. Scott died of a drug overdose only six months into his new marriage.”

  I could see over my notes that Mr. Evans kept crossing and uncrossing his legs. Melody, however, sat there stoically.

  “Susan Ashen,” I said, facing at the crowd, “inherited a million dollars, as stipulated in the prenuptial agreement, with the balance of the inheritance going to Mr. Scott's children from his prior marriage.”

  I walked a little closer to Melody and asked, “Did you have the child?”

  Moving in her seat and again pulling down her skirt, she replied softly, “I had a miscarriage.”

  All the way in the back, Farnsworth said, “We didn’t hear that back here.”

  I raised my view towards the back of the room and said, “She said she had a miscarriage.”

  Farnsworth replied, “Sure.” Everyone turned back to Farnsworth. “Let’s go on. Suddenly, Susan Ashen, or Melody, vanishes from any public records. But our researchers find our Melody about four years later in Silicon Valley with a new name, Suzanne McIntyre, who then becomes Mrs. William Molden. Now, of course, the William Molden she gets hitched to is no Joe Shmoe: he is indeed the Mr. William Molden, innovator and creator of computer technology. Needless to say, Mr. Molden was then and still is extremely wealthy. Despite having paid Suzanne, a two-million-dollar settlement upon their divorce a year after their marriage, he has more to spare since to date, he pays our Melody a substantial annual stipend.”

  I had the crowd’s attention now. Only Melody and Mr. Evans seemed a bit troubled by the revelations. I approached Melody again. “Any children with Mr. Molden?”

  She just shook her head.

  “That’s a no, for you guys in the back,” I said, glancing at Marcy, who was smiling back at me. I flipped the page on my notebook and winked at Dom to my left; he gave me a nod. “So, what became of Suzanne McIntyre or Mrs. William Molden, you ask?” Making eye contact with the crowd, I continued, “She moved east, right here to the Big Apple, and hooked up with a Mr. Vittorio Agostino. Unfortunately, Mr. Agostino declined our invitation to join us today. More on Vittorio in a minute. Suzanne must have gotten tired of her name. You know how it is. I’m sure we all at some point or another would like to change our names, right? Anyway, Suzanne became Susan again. But this time, she became Susan Osmond. There wasn’t much on Susan Osmond, other than her close relationship with Mr. Agostino. Mr. Agostino is one of the original investors in Evans, Albert, and Associates, a hedge fund company located two blocks from our building. Mr. Evans and Mr. Albert are here today, and I thank you for being here,” I said, looking at both.