A MURDER ON WALL STREET_A Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery Page 6

  I reached over the mass of food on the table and grabbed Marcy’s hand. “I’m sorry. I should’ve never brought this up. You never shared those fears before.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, too. We had a great thing going, and I blew it.”

  “I didn’t stray too far. And now that I’m a business proprietor, things are different.” “What about the issue with monogamy?” “No hablo Español,” I replied, laughing.

  “Are you always going to be an asshole, Mancuso?”

  “You turn me on when you say M-a-n-c-u-s-o like that. It’s so sexy.”

  “So?” she asked, raising her fork and knife in a threatening fashion.

  “What, am I going to be monogamous or an asshole forever?” “Both.”

  “Yes, and maybe.”

  She smiled a wonderful smile. Opening my mouth, I pointed to my teeth with my index finger.

  She asked, “What?”

  “You have yellow rice stuck on a tooth.” She closed her mouth, truly concerned that she did have something stuck on a tooth. She was so easy.

  Marcy drank some sangria and said, “And here I was going to take control and start foreplay with a—” She paused. Lowering her voice and then covering her mouth with both hands, she softly finished her sentence.

  “Check please, Camilo,” I said, a bit too loud. “Let’s head to your place.”

  CHAPTER TEN We proceeded to Marcy’s apartment. Camilo hadn’t given us a bill; he said that it was his and Marcia’s treat. I left the waitress a hefty tip. And as much as I’d wanted to make love to Marcy, and she, I think, to me, we were both bummed out about Kathy’s accident. Of course, the huge meal didn’t help either. My plan was to wake her up to a passionate lovemaking breakfast.

  Something was bothering me about one of the partners: Evans, to be specific. Somehow, I knew he was a big political donor, but there was more to his name that kept me up tonight thinking about him. Sometime around two in the morning, I sat in Marcy’s living room by myself. After two servings of bicarbonate of soda to relieve my accumulation of gas, it came to me.

  My premature departure from the NYPD was due to, according to my captain, my unconventional ways of solving cases. As a result, my last case I had gone unsolved. I had a feeling this case was somehow related to Evans, but all my notes and case files were kept confidential after my retirement.

  I had been assigned the homicide of a homeless person who was murdered in an alley behind Manhattan’s celebrated 21 Club. The victim wasn’t identified, and he was listed as a John Doe. No prints on file, no DNA, nothing on Mr. Doe. Because of that, the case became a low priority, and since I was already in the shithouse, it rolled down to me.

  Witnesses said that day, prior to the murder, they had seen two well-dressed men arguing in the alley. Both witnesses had identified one of the two men as a candidate for U.S. Congress. The victim, John Doe, was in fact one of the witnesses who saw, or at least claimed to have seen, the same person, the candidate, in the alley with the second man. The COD had been a blow with a blunt object to the head. My initial investigation had ruffled some big feathers because I’d requested from the 21 Club the list of guests who had reserved a table for that evening.

  Unable to get the list from the restaurant voluntarily, I requested that we issue a warrant, and that was when the shit began to hit the proverbial fan. The assistant district attorney assigned to my case told me that I had no reason for such a request. She added that there was no cause for me to think that the club or any of its patrons were involved in the murder of Mr. Doe. The toxicology report on the victim showed that he’d been intoxicated or drunk the evening he was murdered. The other witness, also homeless, was never seen again after the initial statements he’d given to the police on the scene.

  None of this sat well with me. First, I didn’t give a shit that the victim was a homeless person. In my book, he was a person before he was homeless, and his murder deserved a resolution. Someone had taken the life of an innocent person, and if the higher ups didn’t want this case solved, they should have never assigned this freaking case to me. The captain knew my reputation. I took my assignments seriously, and I was always relentless in pursuing a case. So why me?

  Second, all the obstacles thrown my way made me just that more resolute in finding the perp or perps responsible for this senseless killing. Could it in fact have been a fight between two homeless men, like the captain and the ADA kept telling me? Sure, it could have, but why the roadblocks? And who were those two mysterious men who’d been seen arguing?

  It had set me back five hundred dollars the next day to take Marcy on a date to the 21 Club. This place was a New York institution, open since the time of Prohibition; it was a place for the rich and famous, neither of which I was. But I put on my Sunday best and never revealed to Marcy why we were there. As a matter of fact, she later disclosed that she thought I was going to propose that evening. I felt guilty about not telling her the reason, and that just made me feel even worse.

  I was startled when Marcy walked in the living room and said, “It’s three in the morning. What are you doing here by yourself?”

  I looked up at her. “I couldn’t sleep. Too full and too many things on my mind.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Have a seat,” I said, as I brought the recliner to its seated position. “Were you sleeping here?” she asked, as she sat down on a couch next to me and put her feet up. She was sexy, disheveled, wearing long pajama pants and a white tee shirt.

  “No, like I said, I’ve been thinking. Remember when we went to the 21 Club last year?”

  “Of course, I do. That night was special. Why?” “Maybe you won’t think so after I tell you why we went there.”

  “Go on.”

  “You might recall I was in the third day of a homicide investigation.”

  “Of a homeless person. I do.” “I had been denied a warrant for the guest list that had reservations the evening of the murder at the restaurant.”

  “So, you were on a case?”

  “Yes and no. It was also a special night for me to be there with you.”

  “But you had an ulterior motive, and you used me as a prop?” she said, a bit angrily. “Marcy, I would never use you as a prop. That hurts. We had a great time, and I paid full attention to you. So much so, that you never knew I spoke to the waiter and the busboy.”

  “We did have a good time. Did the NYPD pick up the tab?”

  “I would’ve been fired if I’d tried to put that in as an expense.”

  “That makes me feel better.” “Anyway, I was able to get a confirmation that a candidate for U.S. Congress was there with, I think, Robert Evans.”

  “Our Evans from Evans and Albert?”

  “The same.”

  “How?”

  “Both the waiter and the busboy identified the candidate and said he was there with a Wall Street guy who frequents the restaurant on a regular basis.”

  “Do you know how many Wall Street guys frequent 21?” “I wish I had my notes, but I’m certain that they mentioned his name, because he usually reserves table thirty-one, which is also Bill Clinton’s favorite table when he’s in town. Just thought I’d share that trivia tidbit with you.”

  “So, what does that have to do with the murder? I mean, the fact those two were there means nothing.” “The waiter remembers they went out the back and never came back inside. Their spouses were picked up in the front of the restaurant, but they never came in.”

  “And who paid the bill?”

  “If you are a regular there, they have your credit card on file. It’s classy not to get a bill if you have invited guests.” “You want some coffee? We have to get up soon,” she said, laughing.

  “I’ll help,” I said, getting up and heading to the kitchen with her.

  “I still don’t see a connection between them being out in the alley and the murder.” “I’m getting there. Both witnesses, Mr. Doe and the other homeless guy, claimed t
o have seen the candidate and a second person arguing in the alley. So, we know it was them in the alley.”

  “What happened to the other homeless person?”

  “Conveniently disappeared.”

  “Maybe not for him, right?”

  “Who knows?”

  “You actually think the candidate for Congress and Evans had something to do with the murder?”

  “I have no proof. But, why ask for my retirement when I was in the middle of a murder case?”

  “Maybe because you’re a pain in the ass?” “Take me off the case, but push me out of the force? After sixteen years? No, I was getting close to something no one wanted resolved. That’s why.”

  “How does that fit in with our current case?” “I don’t know yet, just something to think about. What time are you going to see Evans and Albert tomorrow? Wait, make that today.”

  Marcy eyed the kitchen clock, which read four-thirty in the morning. “In about five hours.”

  I grabbed her hand. “Come on,” I said, heading to the bedroom.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Day 4

  Friday

  Marcy drove me to the bar early in the morning. Her plan was to walk over to Evans and Albert for her surprise interview of the two men. As I was making some espresso for us, Father Dominic arrived.

  “Father Dom, good morning to you,” Marcy said. “Good day to both of you,” Dom replied. “Joey, I’ll take one of those espressos also, if you made enough.” “We’ll share, Brother. Slept okay?” I asked. “I spent the night thinking about Kathy, who’s still in critical condition. She suffered a crushed parietal lobe,” Dom said, pointing to the top and back of his head. “There’s something still bothering me about the accident,” Dominic replied.

  “Marcy is headed to the partners in a few minutes. I’ll let her tell you why,” I said. Father Dominic heard me, but he wasn’t listening. He began, “I can’t comprehend how the SUV veered off the street, drove onto the sidewalk, ran Kathy down, and then sped off. It just doesn’t fit as an accident.”

  “Let’s go with the supposition that it wasn’t an accident. Why the hit-and-run?” I asked. “If they wanted her out of the way, why not something less obvious?” Dom looked at me, “I disagree detective, a hit-andrun is a perfect cover.”

  I thought for a second, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Marcy was stirring some sugar into her espresso when she chimed in.

  “What if they were watching her? When they realized, she was coming to talk to you, Father, having seen you guys speak at the office, maybe they decided to act.”

  Father Dom thought for a moment. “I can see that, but if in fact this was a preventive strike, it was extremely violent and sudden. Someone has something big to hide.”

  Mr. Pat walked in. “Lady and gents, good morning to all.” In unison, we greeted Mr. Pat, and he added, “As I was closing the bar last night, a customer told me that some people sitting at the bar saw the vehicle that struck the young lady.”

  We turned to Mr. Pat with anticipation, and I asked, “Did they get a plate number?” “No, all they saw was a black Escalade Cadillac SUV. They said that it deliberately drove onto the sidewalk and struck the lady.”

  Dom asked, “How about the driver? Did they see who was driving?”

  Mr. Pat replied, “No, I asked them that. It was dark, and the SUV had tinted windows.” I took my last sip of espresso and remembered something. “Wait a second, I saw a black Escalade parked at Mrs. Parker’s home when I visited her.”

  “Was there anyone else there?” Marcy inquired. “No, as far as I know, it was just her and me. So, the SUV parked at their home must be hers or Parker’s,” I replied.

  “Guys, I have to go meet with the partners. I’ll see you after,” Marcy said.

  “Why are you going there?” Dom asked. Marcy and I looked at each other. I quickly responded, “She’s involved in an investigation of the partners for potential insider information fraud.”

  “Really?” Father Dom asked. “Now, that may shed some light on this mystery,” he said, making a face as he downed his espresso. “Wow, this stuff is bitter.”

  “It’s better with sugar, Father,” Marcy said, smiling. “I’m going with you to the partners,” I said.

  Marcy retorted, “The hell you are.” “I think we need to go back and talk to all our suspects again. But this time, we’ll change it up. Father, you talk to Mrs. Parker and Melody. By the way, check the Escalade for damage. I’ll talk to the partners,” I said.

  “Mancuso, you’re not going with me to see Evans and Albert. You are not part of my investigation. I cannot have you there with me,” Marcy added emphatically.

  Dominic said, “We still need to talk to Mrs. Parker’s father. He’s part of our suspect list, isn’t he?” I replied, “Very much so, but the last I knew he was in the Caribbean. Find out from Mrs. Parker if he’s returned. By the way, the body is to be released today to the family for cremation. If so, and if we find the murder weapon, we won’t be able to match the head wound to the object.”

  “Marcy, can you help with that?” Dom asked. “I can call the coroner and ask that they hold off. But, I’m going to get questioned about that. I’m not investigating the suicide,” Marcy retorted.

  I said, “Tell them you want to make sure the suicide isn’t related to your investigation and you need the body one more day.”

  “I’ll get some shit for that, but what’s new, right? You have the coroner’s number?” I gave Marcy the number, and she made her call. I expected some blowback from the family. But the guy was dead anyway, so what was the hurry, unless they were covering something up?

  Marcy disconnected her call. “Guess what?” “What?” I replied.

  “The body was cremated this morning. We are S.O.L.,” she said.

  “Doctor Death promised me he was going to hold off for one day,” I said, a bit loudly.

  Dom glanced at me. “By ‘Doctor Death,’ I presume you’re referring to the coroner?”

  “His name is Frankie,” I said, hitting the bar counter with my hand.

  Marcy said, “I’m out of here. Let’s reconvene here at noon or so.” “I’ll call Ms. Melody and Mrs. Parker to tell them I’m coming over,” said Father Dom. “What are you going to do, Joey?”

  “I’ll wait a while and visit the partners after Marcy is done. Wouldn’t want to interfere with an FBI investigation,” I said, making a face at Marcy.

  She stuck her tongue out at me and walked out. I turned to Mr. Pat. “Mr. Pat, you can’t be here eighteen hours a day. Go home. We’ll open the bar at two in the afternoon. Come in about four, please.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. Everything is clean and ready to open. See you then,” Mr. Pat said as he walked out. Besides being the manager of the pub, Patrick O’Sullivan was like an uncle to Dom and me. We shared any profits from the pub with Mr. Pat, as if he was an owner.

  Father Dom and I stayed for a few minutes comparing notes to make sure we’d advanced the investigation by asking the right questions. I was wondering if Ms. Melody would make a move on Dom. After all, she was a bit aggressive. Maybe a nymphomaniac, I thought.

  I’d love to be a fly on the wall for their meeting .

  CHAPTER TWELVE Marcy showed up at Evans, Albert, and Associates wearing her dark blue FBI windbreaker. “Good morning, I need to see Mr. Evans and Mr. Albert, please,” she announced, flashing her creds to the receptionist.

  “Do you have an appointment?” replied the receptionist, a bit snappy.

  “Let them know FBI Special Agent Martinez is here, and I need to speak to them.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll see if they’re available.” Fifteen minutes later, Evans’ assistant came for Marcy. “Ms. Martinez, follow me, please.” They walked to the conference room. “Mr. Evans and Albert will be right in.”

  “Thank you.” Another three minutes went by, and Albert showed up alone. “Good morning, I’m Thomas Albert. You must be Ms. Martinez?”

  “Yes, good
morning. I’m special agent Martinez with the FBI. Is Mr. Evans not available?” “He may join us in a few minutes. He’s tied up in an overseas conference call with a client. How can I help you?” Albert said in is raspy voice.

  “Mr. Albert, I’m with the white-collar division of the local FBI office here in New York City.”

  Albert sat up in his chair. “I see, and what can I do for you?”

  “This is simply a preliminary discussion. I’m just gathering some facts.”

  “I’ll be happy to answer your questions, unless you think I need an attorney present.”

  “That’s always up to you, of course.”

  “What sparked this visit? Perhaps you can start with that,” he replied, smiling. “The Department of Justice received an anonymous letter that claimed your firm is involved in the practice of insider trading.”

  “That sounds like a broad allegation. Do you always follow up on anonymous letters without any facts?” Albert asked, crossing his arms and leaning back.

  “I didn’t say the letter did not have facts.” “If you had serious facts, this might not be just a preliminary investigation now, would it? Sounds more like a disgruntled former employee—or even a client,” he said, opening his arms.

  “Have you let any employees go lately?”

  “I’d have to check, but this is a highly competitive field. Some make it; others don’t.”

  “I see. How about clients? Have you lost some lately?”

  “We always have clients that close their accounts or change firms, for some reason or another.” “Is it possible to get a list of both?”

  “We can put that together for you, of course. But we’ll need a warrant. You understand that our clients’ files are confidential.”

  “How many traders and portfolio managers do you have?” “I assume you’re asking about individuals who manage funds invested by our clients. We have five portfolio managers overseeing different styles of portfolios, and then we have twelve traders who perform the buying and selling of the actual securities based on the portfolio managers’ direction.”