A MURDER ON WALL STREET_A Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery Read online

  AMURDER ONWALL STREET

  AJoeyMancusoFatherO’BrianCrime Mystery

  OwenParr "Parr is a master storyteller, equally adept at weaving a tale of international political intrigue or, as he proves in his latest novel, a classic story of private sleuths cracking a New York murder mystery, with a side order of whiskey and cigars. You'll want to have both on hand when you pick up this book."–Jim Nesbitt, author of The Last Second Chance and The Right Wrong Number, Ed Earl Burch hard-boiled detective thrillers.

  “A well-plotted and researched detective mystery novel. As much as I tried to solve the case while I read, Parr proved me wrong every time.”—

  Oscar Rodriguez, Criminal Attorney

  “Parr has a knack for creating memorable characters that come to life in the pages of his novels.”—Tom Spencer, Esquire “If Michael Connelly and Robert Ludlum wrote a book together, the result would be an Owen Parr —Crime Mystery Novel.”—Mike Pettit, Best Selling Author

  “Parr’s, A Murder on Wall Street, had me guessing ‘whodunit’ all the way through the end. The culmination is unexpected. Wow, I thoroughly enjoyed the first Mancuso, O’Brian crime mystery novel.” —Jose Valero, Entrepreneur

  “Joey’s love and relationship with Marcy, makes this crime mystery, a love story. Can’t wait for these two to reappear in Parr’s next novel.

  Enjoyed every minute.”—Cheryl Walker Castela, Author. Title: A Murder on Wall Street

  A Joey Mancuso, Father O’Brian, Crime Mystery Author: Owen Parr

  Published by: Owen Parr [email protected]

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  ISBN-13: 978-154269324 ISBN-10: 1542693241

  Copyright © 2017 by: Owen Parr Published in United States This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To all law enforcement and first responder personnel. Thank you for your dedication and unselfishness.

  “Women are like police, they can have all the evidence in the world but they still want a confession...”

  —Melchor Lim

  Part 1

  CHAPTER ONE Day 1

  Tuesday

  He jumped from the twenty-first floor of his office building? I thought after my brother texted me the news. I couldn’t believe it.

  This fellow who jumped—we called him Tito, because that was his customary drink at our Irish pub and cigar bar—was celebrating last night with a stunning lady, a Marilyn Monroe look-alike. He bought Champagne for everyone at the bar and was headed to Portugal with her today.

  I remember distinctly when Tito told me, “Joey, my life has changed for the better. I just landed a whale of an account for my firm. Life is good.”

  So, why would someone commit suicide after celebrating life the night before? I asked myself. After sixteen years as a homicide detective with the NYPD, I knew this didn’t add up.

  I’m Joey Mancuso, and my life has changed dramatically in the last year. For sixteen years, since I was twenty, I went from a police cadet to a first-grade detective with the NYPD Homicide unit. Last year, the NYPD forced me to either retire or face some cooked-up charges by Internal Affairs. My record was impeccable, and my ratio of solved homicides was number one in our precinct. However, it seems my methods, which had never been questioned before, were used as an excuse to boot me out of the force after my last case.

  On my way to solving the murder of a homeless man in the alley of the famed 21 Club, I probably stepped on some dog shit. The suspects involved were an up-andcoming politician and a Wall Street type with plenty of political juice.

  So, here I am, the half-owner of Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub and Cigar Bar on the corner of Hanover and Beaver streets in Manhattan’s Financial District. In 2016, my half-brother and the half-owner of the pub, Father Dominic O’Brian, and I inherited the pub from his dad, Marine Master Sergeant O’Brian.

  Father Dom is not your typical Irish priest. Yes, he is dedicated to his flock and his duties as a priest, but like me, he is a bit unconventional in his ways. Fifteen years my elder, he was my mentor, my moral compass, and substitute father. Every day, Dom takes time from his busy schedule to stop in at the bar and help in any way he can. If he were not a priest, he would be a great detective, as he also loves solving crime mysteries. Dom’s demeanor could be mistaken for someone who was always serious, but those that know him know better. Reserved but affable. He is tall, thin, and good-looking with blue piercing eyes and reddish hair. My cell phone rang; the caller ID showed Dom’s picture.

  “Hey, brother, how you doing?” I said, in my Italian slang.

  “Joey, are you watching the news?” Dom asked. Normally our TVs are set to sports channels, but today the news channel was on. “Yes, I saw a commotion two blocks away. Lots of police and first responders, so I’m watching.”

  “Did you see who jumped to his death?” Dominic queried.

  “You texted me. Yes, I did, our Tito. I heard his name is, or was, Jonathan something.” “I’m not buying the suicide line. I mean, I was there last night when he was celebrating his new account. The news says he was depressed and then jumped from a twenty-first-floor window. That doesn’t make sense. Don’t you agree?”

  “You may be right. The only reason might be if the big-breasted platinum-blonde with the tight red halter top he was with told him it was over last night.”

  Father Dom didn’t react to my reasoning. “Let’s follow up on this. I think we may have a case to research, if it’s ruled a suicide. I’ll be in later.”

  I hung up. Hearing the traffic from the busy street that fronted our bar was always the clue that someone was entering our establishment. I turned to see who had walked in. It was Marcela. FBI Special Agent Marcela Martinez, or Marcy, for short. Here was a striking Cuban bombshell—a body that left nothing to the imagination; big bright green eyes that could mesmerize anyone, and long, thick auburn hair that she usually wore in a ponytail. When she let it loose, wow, I could feel a tingling up my legs.

  As if that wasn’t enough, she wore the newly FBIissued sidearm, a forty-caliber Glock 22 on her left side, and a gold shield on her right. She was hot! Marriage had been discussed at one time, but the two of us being in law enforcement put a strain on our relationship. So, we had decided—make that, she decided—to chill it and let things take their course for a while. Still, when I saw her, my heart responded with palpitations. I fell hard for her two years ago, and I wanted nothing else but to settle down with her. Marcy, however, was cautious, and frankly, I had given her reasons to feel that way.

  “Marcy, good afternoon. What brings you here?” I said, smiling. “Hey, lover; Hi, Mr. Pat,” she replied, waving at Mr. Pat, who was behind the bar stacking glasses on the shelves. “I was two blocks away at the scene of the jumper. Did you hear about that?”

  I pointed to the television. “Watching it now. Why were you there? They’re saying it’s suicide.” “You know, The Bureau’s white-collar-crime division wanted someone there since this guy is a Wall Streeter. But there seems to be nothing for me to do there. So, here I am.”

  “Marcy, can I get you your usual?” asked Mr. Pat. “That would be great,
Mr. Pat, thank you. Lots of ice, please,” she replied.

  “One Pellegrino on the rocks, coming up,” Mr. Pat said. Patrick O’Sullivan, or Mr. Pat, as we called him, had served with Dom’s brother, Marine Sergeant Brandon O’Brian, in Vietnam. Returning together from the war, Mr. Pat worked alongside Dom’s brother since he took over the pub from his dad, Captain Sean O’Brian. Mr. Pat, a large man with red curly hair and beard, spoke English perfectly, but he preferred using an Irish brogue. He always said it added a certain authenticity to the pub.

  “Have a seat,” I said, pointing to a comfy captain’s chair at the table I was seated at. “That guy—we called him Tito—was here yesterday celebrating a new account that he had just gotten, and he was happy as a pig in mud.

  “Really? His name is Jonathan Parker; he is—was— a senior VP with his firm. So, what are you saying?” “I don’t know; Father Dom seems to think it wasn’t a suicide. We took care of this guy while he was here. I mean, he was buying Champagne for everyone, had a trip planned for Portugal with his hot squeeze.”

  “So, you noticed she was a hot squeeze?” she quipped.

  I turned to Patrick. “Mr. Pat, help me out here. “Was this guy’s lady a hot squeeze or what?” Marcy turned to Mr. Pat and smiled.

  “I was tending bar at the other end; I know nothing,” Mr. Pat replied, in his Irish brogue and with his eyes opened widely.

  I started to add, “Even Father Dom was a little apprehensive. I mean, she was wearing a tight, tight red halter top, and her—”

  Marcy interrupted. “Fine, fine, I don’t need you to paint a picture. I’ll keep an eye on the final report and let you know.”

  “For whom did he work?”

  “Evans, Albert, and Associates. A hedge fund.” “Evans? Isn’t Evans a big political donor?”

  “Darling, many Wall Streeters are big political donors.” “Can you find out who…,” I hesitated, “…the lady was?” I asked, not wanting to share some information I already had on halter-top.

  “Now she’s a lady, not a hot squeeze?”

  “We had a different name for her.”

  “Do all your customers have nicknames?”

  “We never ask a customer their name. That’s a rule of mine. If they volunteer it, that’s fine. Otherwise, yes, we name them usually based on their drink order. However, this lady earned a different name, ‘cause—”

  Again, Marcy interrupted, “I don’t want to hear it.” “I was kidding. But Father Dom thinks there is more to this than meets the eye, and I tend to agree with him.”

  “I guess it can’t hurt. I’ll let you know, once I get back to the office. Bye, Mr. Pat,” she said as she turned to leave the bar.

  “Bye, Marcy. Be good,” replied Mr. Pat.

  “Only if I have to, Mr. Pat,” Marcy quipped. “What, no kiss?” I asked.

  Marcy waved back at me without turning, said nothing, and pushed down the holster with the Glock on her waist as she walked out.

  I love spunky women with attitudes. CHAPTER TWO

  Day 2

  Wednesday Our research was strewn over the bar. We don’t open the pub until two in the afternoon, so in the mornings we use the bar to brainstorm any cases we are working on. So, here we were, developing a case file for what Father Dom baptized the “Murder on Wall Street.” Dom was in early today. His church duties for the morning had been completed, and he was now ready to jump on this. Of course, we didn’t know if in fact we had a case, but that’s how most our investigations began, with a hunch.

  The night before, Father Dom had started compiling a case file with some of the potential suspects on his computer at St. Helen’s rectory in Brooklyn. “Joey, this is a picture of Robert Evans, co-owner of Evans, Albert, and Associates. Mr. Evans is fifty-eight and married with two children: a boy, Robert Jr.—married and working as an attorney in Chicago, and a girl, Stephanie—attending NYU and getting her law degree,” said Dom, as he displayed photos of the family he had printed from Facebook on the bar.

  “Don’t we have enough attorneys already?” I quipped. Dom didn’t respond and added, showing more pictures, “Here is Thomas Albert III, also partner and coowner of the firm. Married to Lillian, with three children. He’s sixty, and before opening the hedge fund with Evans, they both worked at Salomon Brothers as bond traders.”

  “I remember reading a book that said these bond traders at Salomon called themselves ‘The Big Swinging Dicks,’” I said.

  “You would remember that,” said Dom, in a somewhat disapproving tone.

  “What else you got?”

  “Moving on, the last person I researched is Mrs. Jonathan Parker, Adelle.”

  “Wait a second. Tito, or Jonathan Parker, was married?”

  “Yes, to his wife of eight years. Here’s her picture.” “So, ‘Big Tits’ was a plaything? There you go. The wife did it.” Eyeing the picture, “Wow, an attractive lady. Do they have kids?”

  “No, no children.”

  “My hunch was right. Tito was paying for—” Dom interrupted, “Don’t say it.”

  “I was going to say, ‘Paying her rent.’ That’s all.”

  Mr. Pat came into the bar. “Working on the case, boys?” “It’s promising. Maybe we have something here. We have a wife, a mistress, and two senior partners who were part of a group who called themselves the Big Swinging Dicks,” I said. “What do you think, Mr. Pat?”

  Patrick laughed. “I’d be careful with those guys. Who wants a macchiato? I’m making myself one.” Dom passed, but I replied, “Perfect timing, I was going to light a cigar.”

  “I’ll get it for you. Rocky Patel, 1999 Vintage?” Patrick asked.

  “Yes, a Churchill, please, Patrick. And thanks.” Dom said, “I’m going to call Evans and Albert and see if I can stop by and ask a few questions. Joey, why don’t you take Mrs. Parker, and find more about the young lady from last night, and meet with them?”

  “Happy to do so. But, what is our reason to do this? These people are assuming this was a suicide.”

  “Has it in fact been ruled a suicide?” Dominic asked. “I’ll call Marcy and see if it has. But we still need a reason to speak to these people, don’t we?” “We are licensed private investigators, aren’t we?” “Yes, but who is the client?”

  “Key word is ‘private.’ We never divulge who the client is.”

  “Let me call Marcy,” I said.

  “Let’s find out if there is a life insurance policy on this guy. Maybe the life insurance company can hire us.” I smiled and nodded as Marcy answered her phone. “Marcy, it’s me.”

  “I can see that. I still have that idiotic picture of you on my cell phone’s contact list.”

  “Hey, you were next to me in bed when I took that selfie.” “Yeah, well, I need to delete it. What do you want?” “That hurts my feelings.”

  “I’m sure. What’s up?”

  “Has the Parker death been ruled an official suicide?” I inquired.

  “You guys on that?”

  “Father Dom, through his divine intervention, has a hunch.

  We have nothing else going, so, yes, we’re considering it.”

  “Who is your client?”

  “Ah, we don’t have one yet. We’re working on that, too.” “I see. The body is still at the morgue. His death was ruled a suicide at the scene, so there is no rush for the medical examiner to do an autopsy.”

  “But in New York, a suicide requires an autopsy, right?”

  “That’s why the body is with the ME, Mr. PI.” “You want to join me and pay a visit to the ME’s office?”

  “No, I have no reason to. The FBI isn’t involved.” “What if this was a crime involving the partners covering something up?” “You have any proof of that?”

  “What if I get some?”

  “Then you can call me and let me know. In the meantime, I don’t want you dragging me into this. And don’t use my name at the coroner’s office, either. I don’t need my boss all over my ass again.”
>
  “If your boss gets close to your ass, you tell me, and I’ll take care of him,” I replied, with Father Dom wide-eyed. “You idiot, my boss is a woman.”

  “In that case, let me know, and I’ll join you both.”

  “You are a sick puppy. Bye, Joey,” Marcy said, clicking off her phone.

  Father Dom turned to face me and asked, “Are they doing an autopsy?” “In time. They don’t seem to be in a hurry. I’ll stop in the ME’s office tomorrow. I know all those people there.”

  “Where are we going to start?” Dom asked. “We have a bar to tend to. I’ll call what’s her name and ask her to stop in this evening.” “Who is that?”

  “Big tits,” I quipped.

  “How did you get her name and number so fast?” asked Dom, a bit dumbfounded.

  “I follow your teachings, bro. ‘Ask, and you shall receive.’” “You got her number when she was here?” “When the jumper was making the rounds serving the Champagne Tito bought, she asked if I was hooked up with anyone.”

  “To which you answered was, ‘No, I’m not?’” “Not exactly. But she wrote her first name and number on a napkin, and I filed it in the cash register.” “I don’t think even if I became the Pope that God would save your soul, brother.”

  “Father, you better intercede for me.” It was my turn to talk to big-breasted red halter top. Reaching into the cash register, I retrieved the napkin with her number.

  After a few minutes on the phone with her, I had more information. Her name—Melody Wright; she claims to be an aspiring actress working as a model of some kind, and lives in an apartment complex, Riverside South, on the West Side or what is known as UWS, for Upper West Side, an affluent area. Donald Trump built it for her. As an aspiring actress and part-time model, in my opinion, the rent was beyond her capabilities, unless of course, she was the recipient of a nice inheritance. Or maybe our Tito, the jumper, was footing the bill.

  One thing for certain: Melody was more than happy to stop by the pub later in the evening to join in the celebration with Tito.