A Murder on Long Island: A Joey Mancuso Father O'Brian Crime Mystery (A Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery Book 2) Read online

  A MURDER ON LONG ISLAND

  The Last Advocate

  A Joey Mancuso and Father O’Brian Crime Mystery

  by

  Owen Par

  A MURDER ON LONG ISLAND

  —The Last Advocate

  —A Joey Mancuso and 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: 978-1546726012

  ISBN-10: 1546726012

  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.

  Dedication

  In memory of,

  Owen Gordon Parr

  Blanca Alvarez Parr

  Edgardo Buttari

  Gloria Puig Buttari

  “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

  – Arthur Conan Coyle, Creator of the Sherlock Holmes Series

  Part 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, December 26th

  “With all due respect, Mr. Adams, you’ve had a whole year to find the murderer, and you’ve failed. What makes you think that we can do it in ten days?” I said, on my cell phone.

  Adams replied, “In all honesty, Mr. Mancuso, no one at our law firm thinks you fellows can.”

  Harold Longworth’s final day in court was to be Tuesday, January third, 2017. Ten days from today. His attorney, Marshall Adams, had requested a meeting with my brother, Father Dominic and me. Longworth’s reputation in New York City, as a reputable and successful real estate developer, was deserved. His charitable contributions were numerous, including building homeless shelters out of his pocket. His social life was like an ongoing series on page six of The New York Post.

  The notoriety we had received after the newspaper articles, and the appearances on local and national television because of the last case we worked on during the summer, had made us into local celebrities. I must admit that I didn’t mind the fuss they had created about Mancuso and O’Brian. My brother, the priest, not so much. Although secretly, I think he loved it. The Catholic Diocese hadn’t appreciated the front-page news about one of their priests being a private investigator and owner of an Irish pub and cigar bar.

  During the last six months, flurries of cases were offered to us—none of which interested us. We’d accepted the book deal, A Murder on Wall Street, in which brother Dom and I were the main characters. The cable channel USA was negotiating with us for a detective series based on the novel. Otherwise, I continued working the bar with Mr. Patrick, our manager, and brother Dominic continued his daily duties at St. Helen’s Catholic Church in Brooklyn.

  Mr. Harold Longworth was facing a first-degree felony murder charge if found guilty of killing his wife. Both Dom and I had followed this case in the papers and local news, and from the looks of it, Longworth was as good as done. That, by itself, got my attention. My methodology in solving cases while at the NYPD homicide desk, was always to look beyond the obvious, beyond the expected. In my book, what was, is not necessarily what is. The newspaper reporters, the television pundits, and the law enforcement personnel that had publicly rendered an opinion on this case, all mentioned the same, the apparent. Perhaps this case had been as simple to solve as that, but my curiosity piqued as soon as I got the call, and I was anxious to meet Mr. Adams.

  Our pub, Captain O’Brian’s Irish Pub and Cigar Bar in Manhattan’s Financial District, was a New York institution. It was opened in nineteen forty-eight, after the war, by Captain Sean O’Brian, Father Dom’s grandfather, and it was almost seventy years old. Coinciding with Captain Sean’s death, his son, Marine Master Sergeant Brandon O’Brian returned from Vietnam and took over the pub in nineteen-sixty-nine. Since that time, and up until his death last year, Dom’s dad, Brandon, and Mr. Patrick had managed the pub.

  Father Dom and I sat and waited for attorney Adams. The mornings were quiet in the pub. The occasional ray of sun shone in through the stained-glass windows in the front, and reflected on the wall-long mirrors behind the bar, guiding the sun’s rays in various directions inside the pub. We both enjoyed reading the papers, and savoring our espressos, with an occasional morning cigar for me. The pub was comfortable for us to work. It was the center of operations for our investigative service. Other than the TVs, and the brass banker’s lamps with the green shades we’d added to the booths, the pub was identical in décor since its inception. A row of comfortable booths with worn green leather seats ran the length of the bar on its right side. Black and white photos of Captain O’Brian with celebrities, like Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, Mickey Mantle, and others, hung above the banker’s lamps along the walls. Four-top wooden tables with captain’s chairs occupied the center of the pub. Brass lamps, also with green glass shades, hung from the ceiling above the tables.

  Hearing the jostle of traffic always alerted us that someone was walking into the pub. Our pub is located on the corner of Hanover and Beaver Streets in lower Manhattan, and traffic flows as constant as the currents of the East River, just blocks away from our pub. Sure enough, two tailored suits walked in, one pinstriped, and the other navy blue. Dom and I got up from our chairs and greeted them. As I did, I could see through the front glass pane window of the pub, a checkerboard sky, patches of blue sky and dirty gray, around the tops of the tall buildings surrounding our location.

  “You must be Father O’Brian,” said pinstriped, smiling and shaking Dom’s hand, “I’m Marshall Adams,” he said, in a low, deep voice. His tone reminded me of Henry Kissinger, who had been Secretary of State under President Nixon. Adams was in his mid-fifties, athletic build, tall, and handsome. A massive head of jet-black hair with a few gray ones, trying to make their way out on the sides, above his sideburns. Full black eyebrows and dark under-eyes framed his smoky gray eyes.

  “What gave it away, Mr. Adams?” I asked, as I shook hands with him, and ushered them forward.

  Dom smiled, as he put down his espresso, and got up to greet our guests.

  Father Dominic, my half-brother, was a good-looking man of forty-nine. An Irish priest, but like me, he also was a bit unconventional in the practice of his duties. Pragmatic is a word that comes to mind, and while religious, his practice is geared for the twenty-first century.

  “Don’t have to be a detective to see that one. Hi, Mr. Mancuso,” Adams responded. “This is my associate, Mr. Chuck Pearson.”

  Pearson was a chubby-looking character, in his late forties, short, balding, but styling a comb over, from the right side of his head. He, too, was impeccably dressed. We exchanged a couple of more pleasantries, and sat down at a four-top in the middle of the pub to discuss the case.

  Adams said, “Mancuso, and O’Brian, safe to say you fellows share or shared a mother?”

  “Briana is our mom, living in Florida, that’s correct. First, she married Dom’s father. As you can see, h
e’s much older than me,” I said, as we all laughed and looked at Dom. “Then she married my dad. She went from an Irishman to a second-generation New York Italian.”

  I pointed to a table, and we all sat down.

  Dom, not being one for small talk, asked, “How can we be of help, Mr. Adams?” Dom folded The New York Post he was reading.

  Before he replied, I asked, “Can we get you anything to drink?”

  Both Adams and Pearson replied, “No, thank you.”

  “Let’s get down to business. We don’t have much time, as it is,” said Adams. “You might already know a little bit about our case if you’ve been reading the local papers. Allow me to begin at the top, and then you can decide if you’re willing to help us. Fair enough?” He asked, glancing at both Dom and me.

  Dom motioned with his hands, and replied, “Proceed, please.”

  Adams began, “A little background on Harry Longworth. Harry and I met in high school. We ended up together at Yale. He went on to become a real estate developer, very successfully, I might add, and I went into the law profession. We’ve been friends forever and stayed close with our friendship. Our wives were good friends, and our kids went to the same elementary, and high schools. Other than for our professions, our families are almost mirrors of each other. His wife’s murder was a shock to our family, needless to say.”

  I had my hands on the table. Opening my palms, I asked, “Would it be fair to say you believe Mr. Longworth to be innocent of the murder?”

  Adams nodded. “Without question, Mr. Mancuso,” he said, without any noticeable gestures.

  “Please call me Joey,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  Adams went on, “Thank you. Mr. Longworth arrived at his home in Sagaponack, Long Island, a year ago, at about eleven in the evening, from his office in midtown. He went upstairs to his bedroom. And, as was the custom between him and his wife, if she had gone to sleep, the room would be dark, except for a light in the en-suite bathroom, which she’d leave on for him, so that he could see his way there, and to the walk-in closet. Mr. Longworth entered the room, and tripped on something on the floor, not immediately realizing it was the body of his wife. He fell on top of her, still not recognizing the body, and felt around to see what it could’ve been. Moments later, Harold realized it was a body, but wasn’t sure who it was. He called for his wife, but heard no response. He got up and turned on the night light, on the table next to the bedroom door. It was then he recognized it was her on the floor, and her body was covered in blood.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and asked, “I assume that’s how he got the blood on him?”

  Adams cleared his throat, leaned forward, and replied, “He knelt beside her and felt her pulse. Then he put his ear over her mouth to see if he could detect breathing. None was evident. His falling on the body, and the other steps he took to see if she was alive, caused the transfer of the blood to him, correct.”

  Mirroring Adams, Dom leaned forward on his chair, and asked, “How did his blood end up on the murder weapon?”

  Adams responded, “Harry saw a gun, inches under the bed, and at the same time, he heard a noise on the first floor of the home. He grabbed the gun, not thinking it’d turn out to be the murder weapon, and proceeded downstairs, all the time believing the perpetrator was there, about to leave the premises.”

  I asked, “What happened next?”

  Adams turned to look at me. “He took the stairs down, expecting to find someone. He moved quietly, and cautiously, then, inspected the entire first floor. There was no one. Secured all the doors, and then rushed upstairs. He put the gun down on the night table; again, he felt her pulse and concluded she was, in fact, dead. That’s when he called nine-one-one.”

  I raised my right index finger, signaling to stop there. “When you say, he secured all the doors, did he find any doors opened?”

  Adams replied, “Not opened, but he did say the kitchen door leading to the side patio was unlocked.”

  Dom inquired, “We heard there was gunshot residue found on his right hand and arm.”

  “Yes, there was.” Adams replied.

  Putting down my coffee, I queried, “How do you explain that?”

  “Harry, as he inspected the home, heard more sounds, and nervously fired a shot into the ceiling, trying to warn the intruder that he was armed,” Adams responded.

  I sat back, “Being the devil’s advocate, that could have been done on purpose, to explain the GSR found on him.”

  Pearson leaned forward, and speaking for the first time in a slightly high-pitched tone, said, “Yes it could have,” and repeated, “yes, it could have.”

  “And what is the prosecution saying about that?” I inquired, as I moved my empty coffee cup to an adjacent table.

  Adams replied, “They claim he shot his wife, then walked downstairs and fired the weapon into the ceiling, to cover up the gun residue found on him.”

  Dom asked, “Any witnesses?”

  “None,” Adams replied.

  I asked, “Anyone hear the gunshots? Neighbors, or others?”

  Pearson responded, “None that we’ve been able to find.”

  I began, “We’ve established that your client had the opportunity. What about motivation?”

  Adams closed his eyes, thought for a second, then said, “The prosecution brought forth a divorce attorney that Mrs. Longworth had consulted. According to her testimony, Mrs. Longworth, Sheila, wanted a divorce and expected a nasty, contested one.”

  Dominic asked, “Why did she want a divorce?”

  Adams glanced at Pearson, and Pearson replied, “According to the divorce attorney, Mrs. Longworth no longer was in love with her husband. She wanted to file for divorce based on the irretrievable breakdown between her and her husband. But he was adamant about staying together.”

  I glanced at Adams and asked, “Mr. Adams, your families were friends, I assumed you socialize with the Longworths?”

  Adams brushed his nose gently and replied, “Yes, we are, and did socialize with them. However, when we were together, I never noticed anything obvious. They seemed fine, for a couple married over twenty years.”

  Motioning with my hands, in an inquisitive fashion, I said, “I’m a little lost. Mr. Longworth does not want a divorce, he wants to stay together, but he then turns around and kills her, because she wants a divorce? Is there something I’m missing?”

  Pearson nodded to Adams. Adams turned to me and replied, “Harry did tell me that he suspected his wife, Sheila, was having an affair.”

  Pushing the New York Post aside, Dom inquired, “Does the prosecution know that?”

  Pearson responded, “There’s a witness yet to take the stand for the prosecution, a private investigator. He will testify that Mr. Longworth hired him, to check on his wife and a possible affair.”

  Looking at Adams, then at Pearson, I said, “Then, that’s the motivation they are going to use. Mr. Longworth kills his wife, not because she wanted a divorce, but because she was having an affair. Does the PI have any proof?”

  “Not from our deposition of him, no. He had just started on the case,” Adams replied.

  Father Dom asked, “Gentlemen, this is not looking too good for your client, is it?”

  Adams and Pearson exchanged glances, before Pearson replied, “True, yes, true.”

  I glanced at Dom, and then back to Adams and asked, “Where are you in the case right now?”

  Adams nodded at his associate, and Mr. Pearson said, “The prosecution concludes their case in two days. We are not due back in court until Wednesday, after the Christmas break. Then, we begin to present our defense. Even knowing that our client is innocent, we have a weak case. Their case against Mr. Longworth is very solid. They have the gun, the murder weapon, the GSR, and his bloody prints on the weapon. Her blood all over him. No other witnesses in the home, at the time of the shooting,” Pearson paused.

  Adams added, “Frankly, we have very little chance of succeeding. All we have are charac
ter witnesses in his defense.”

  I could see Dom wanted to ask a question, so I nodded to him, and he asked, “What can we possibly do at this stage?”

  “We need you to find the real murderer,” Adams replied, looking straight into Dom’s eyes.

  My cell phone vibrated, I ignored it, and let it go to voice mail. Then, a second later, the Pub’s land-line rang, I ignored that call, nodding to Father Dom. He asked, “That’s a big ask, Mr. Adams. And you said you had ten days?”

  “We think we can stretch our presentation that long, and hopefully, with the holidays, we can add a few days. But we don’t believe that we can go beyond that,” Pearson replied, as Adams nodded.

  I opened my hands. “So, why are you here?”

  Adams leaned forward. “Harry’s oldest daughter, Margery, who’s nineteen, begged us to talk to you. She believes in you guys, having followed your other case. Plus, she liked the nickname the press gave you: ‘the last advocate’. She and her father spoke, and you have a blank check to see this through to the end. Name your price.”

  “Well, that’s flattering,” I said, “but I think the media has made us into something we’re not. I mean, there are no convictions yet in the other case. This Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson tag that they put on us is a bit exaggerated. Besides, you guys are the advocates.”

  Pearson added, “We are the advocates of the accused. You were called the last advocate of the victims. Because of the relentless pursuit that you display on your cases.”

  Shaking my head, I responded, “Again, the press has a way of romanticizing the stories.”

  Adams asked, “Would you mind if Margery called you?”

  Dom broke in, “No, no, that’d be highly inappropriate, at this stage. We can’t raise her hopes like that. I’d be very uncomfortable with that. Wouldn’t you, Joey?”

  “Yes, I agree. How soon would you want an answer from us?”