Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk Page 8

  “The video is missing over five hours. I thought you said this was state of the art,” Regan said.

  “It is. Something’s definitely not kosher,” Ichowitz replied as he pulled a card from his shirt pocket and reached for his cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  Ichowitz waved for Regan to be quiet and said, “Please tell Special Agent Ossberg Detective Ichowitz is on the line.”

  Regan listened to half a conversion as Ichowitz described what happened with the security video. When he hung up Regan asked, “So, what did he say?”

  “He said it must have been sun spots.”

  “Sun spots?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me,” Regan said.

  “Me too, but I got the impression that Ossberg couldn’t speak freely, like maybe the Homeland Security guy was breathing down his neck. Anyway, Ossberg mentioned buying me lunch to make sure local and federal law enforcement cooperation remains at optimal levels.”

  “Make him take you to the Palm.”

  “I was thinking more like Shank and Evelyn’s or Chickie and Pete’s, you know, give him a real taste of Philly cuisine. Jack, how do you want to handle the Mayor? I was hoping the video would have given us something more to discuss with him, but now we got bupkis,” Ichowitz asked.

  “If I’m involved he’ll probably accuse us of harassment. I think we need to find out if there was any connection between the Mayor and Megan Larson, or if he had any relationship with anyone else who lives at the Pickle Works, before we question him,” Regan replied.

  “Good call.”

  TWELVE

  Liam scored the winning goal and his team qualified for the Regionals. His coach, Jimmy Mack, and all of his teammates surrounded him as Katey and Regan cheered. Katey smiled and squeezed Jack’s hand as her son approached them.

  “Way to go Liam!” Jack said and tousled the boy’s hair.

  “Mum, coach is taking the team for pizza to celebrate. Is it OK for me to go?”

  “Of course, there wouldn’t be a celebration without your goal!”

  “After, can I go to Ryan’s? His parents are taking him to the movies and he invited me to go along.”

  After Katey discussed the logistics of the party and movies with the coach and Ryan’s mother, she approached Regan, who was sitting in the bleachers fiddling with his I-Phone.

  “Must be something important, you seem concerned,” she said.

  He looked up. “I’ve been waiting for a message from Izzy, and he hasn’t returned my text. I guess everything’s OK.”

  “So where is this art museum you told me we’ll be going to?”

  “It’s the Barnes Foundation; it’s only a few miles from here. The Barnes has one of the largest collections of post-impressionist art in the world: Renoir, Cézanne, Picasso, all of them. It’s really special.”

  “I didn’t know you were such an expert on the fine arts,” she said.

  “I’m really not. My mother was a student at the Foundation and has been involved with fundraising for years. She dragged me, yelling and screaming, to the gallery when I was a kid. But after a while, I don’t know, the serenity of the place, and the incredible beauty of the works of art, just overwhelmed me.”

  “And here I thought ya were just another heartless lawyer, like my Uncle Mike warned me about.”

  Regan pulled up to the gate of the stately mansion on North Latches Lane in Merion, a couple of blocks across the county line from Philadelphia. “Mr. Regan, good to see you,” the guard greeted him.

  “Harlan, how are your wife and Harlan Junior doing?”

  “They’re fine, thanks to you and your mother. Getting Junior in that special study at Children’s Hospital, it was a life saver.”

  Katey shook her head once again surprised by Regan’s heretofore undisclosed sensitive side.

  “What?” he asked as he noticed her studying him.

  “I’m beginning to see why O’Malley holds you in such esteem. There’s definitely more to Jack Regan than I initially believed.”

  “And what was it that you first thought of me?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure. At the very first I thought you were trouble. Tryin to get on my good side by being nice to Liam and all, but O’Malley says I misjudged you.”

  “And what do you think now?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He smiled and said, “OK, why don’t we talk about that later? Let’s go inside now, and let me show you why this place is so special.”

  For the next two hours Regan and Kate O’Malley walked through the downstairs gallery admiring the works of art. Regan took his cues from Kate when she lingered at a painting or sculpture. She was especially drawn to Amedeo Modigliani and Auguste Matisse, two of Regan’s favorite artists. Modigliani’s “The Red Head” was among the impressionist’s most prominent and greatest works, in Regan’s opinion. He explained how the artist used angles throughout the portrait of his mistress – a technique that was often featured in his work.

  “How did Barnes acquire all these paintings?” she asked.

  “He was the Bill Gates of his times. He amassed a fortune after he and his partner developed Argyol, an antiseptic used to treat gonorrhea and to prevent gonorrhea blindness in newborn infants; it’s still being prescribed today. Anyway, Barnes bought out his partner and then his business really took off.”

  “Barnes entered the art world with a load of cash and the same intensity he employed in his business dealings. It turned out he had a keen eye for art, especially young and under-appreciated artists who couldn’t make a living selling their works before he discovered them. Eventually he had to use surrogates to acquire the art because whatever he purchased more or less set the market. Barnes literally made the careers of Renoir and all of the artists whose works now sell for millions. Unfortunately, many of them didn’t live long enough to benefit from Barnes’ discovery.”

  The two of them had the gallery virtually to themselves since the museum was closed to the public in anticipation of the opening of the new museum on the Parkway in Philadelphia. Regan could tell from Katey’s reaction that she had fallen under the spell the collection cast on first time visitors. “When does the new gallery open?”

  “In a few months; this is probably the last time we can see the collection here. The curators will be preparing for the relocation pretty soon.”

  As they drove back to Manayunk, Regan asked, “So now that I impressed you with everything I know about Post-Impressionists, Miss O’Malley, do you still think I’m the heartless lawyer who tried to gain your affections by befriending your son?”

  She laughed and touched his arm. “No, no. I don’t think you’re heartless, nor do I believe you used Liam. You know Liam favors you. I overheard him ask O’Malley about you. He’s borne his share of disappointments from his dad. I don’t want that to happen to him ever again.”

  As they approached Main Street he asked, “Should I drop you off at the Grape or can we spend some more time together?”

  “I suppose you have some more art history to impress me with,” she smiled and touched his arm again.

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Regan said as he drove past the Grape Pub without hearing any protest from Kate.

  They sat on the deck of his house and looked out on the park across the street. “That’s where I took Liam to soccer practice the day we met,” he said. “He told me his father taught him how to play.”

  “He did.”

  “He told me the reason you came to the states was to get away from his father. Is that true?”

  She looked at him and contemplated her response.

  “Kate, look, if it’s none of my business just say so.”

  She shook her head and sighed. “What Liam told you is partly true. It’s a bit more complicated than that. I did come to the states to take Liam away from his father, but his father and I agreed it was all for the best. Is it all right if w
e leave it at that for now?”

  “Sure, just one more question.”

  She waited.

  “Are you still in love with Liam’s father?”

  She took a sip of her wine and said, “I don’t know, maybe a little. Why do you want to know?”

  Now it was his turn to contemplate his response, “I’m not sure. It’s just that my family’s telling me it’s time for me to move on with my life. My mother even tried to fix me up with my girl friend from high school.”

  “Would that be that beautiful woman who gave me the stink eye at the Grape the other night?”

  He nodded.

  “Well I can’t say much for her manners, but your mother’s got an eye for beauty. Will ya be seein her again?”

  “You already know she’s picking me up tomorrow to take me to the race.”

  “I think she has something more on her mind than watching you run around in yer short pants.”

  “I think you’re right about that,” he laughed.

  “So what are ya gonna do?”

  He sighed and said, “I’m going to tell her I just want to be friends.”

  “Well good luck with that,” she said.

  Ichowitz greeted Ossberg as he took his seat at the counter at Chubby’s on Henry Avenue in Roxborough. “I ordered you a cheese steak and an order of onion rings,” he said as the FBI agent sat down on the stool next to him.

  “This place smells like an onion ring,” Ossberg said as the waitress brought over his order.

  “What you having to drink, hon?” she asked.

  “Bring him a draft of the Yuengling,” Ichowitz answered for him.

  “Is that a Chinese beer?” Ossberg asked after the waitress walked away.

  “Something like that, only they make it in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. Don’t worry. You’ll like it. And by the way, there’s no mayonnaise here. Put some of those hot peppers on your steak sandwich and chow down. You’re not in Minnesota anymore!”

  When the FBI agent had bitten off a mouthful of steak sandwich, Ichowitz asked, “What’s the deal with the farkakte surveillance video?”

  Ossberg stared at him with a blank expression, swallowed his steak sandwich and asked, “What’s farrkarda mean?”

  “Farkakte, it’s Yiddish for screwed up,” Ichowitz replied.

  “Oh yeah, sorry about that, it was Homeland Security Director Conway’s and one of the Nazis who work for him idea. They claim the video had to be redacted for national security reasons. Hey, this steak sandwich is really good,” he said as he wiped the grease from his chin.

  “So are you going to give me the emess on this?”

  “Emess, that means the truth, doesn’t it?” Ossberg said. “I was assigned to the New York office for a few months. We were investigating an international organ-selling conspiracy that involved Orthodox Rabbis in the Hasidic community in Brooklyn. They called it a real ‘Shandeh,’ I think that means a scandal.”

  “That’s right. You’re a quick learner. I’ll have you fluent in Yiddish in no time. So are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Ichowitz waited as Ossberg took another bite of his sandwich.

  For the next forty-five minutes, in between bites of his cheese steak and onion rings, Ossberg told Ichowitz the skinny on the Homeland Security surveillance of the Nooris condo.

  “And you’re telling me the video didn’t show the murderer.”

  Ossberg nodded.

  “But that’s impossible. The camera had an unobstructed view of the front entrance.”

  Ossberg nodded his agreement and said, “But there’s a back door. The perp must have gotten in and out using the back door.”

  “Jack, where have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours,” Ichowitz sounded excited.

  “Izz, it’s a long story, sorry my phone was off. What’s up?”

  “Boychik, I met with Ossberg and he gave me some very interesting information on Avi Nooris and his little brother.”

  “Does it link them to the murder?” Regan asked.

  “Not sure about that, but it may. It certainly opens a lot of avenues for us to proceed with the investigation,” Ichowitz responded. “I think we should get together and see where this leads,” he continued.

  “Izz, I’m running that race tomorrow. I can’t miss it, a lot of people, including you have pledged money and I have to run to get the money to the Cancer Foundation,” Regan replied.

  “Right, Jack I completely forgot about the Broad Street Run. Look we can meet up after. Jack what’s wrong? You sound funny.”

  “It’s nothing really. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  The next morning at 6 AM, Regan waited in front of his house for Courtney Wells who his mother had volunteered to drive him to the starting point for the run.

  She pulled up in her Mercedes convertible with the top down.

  “Hey there handsome, need a ride?” she said.

  “Court thanks for being on time. I seem to recall that mornings were not your forte,” he said as he threw his backpack in the backseat that obviously had not been designed for passengers and got in the front seat. She leaned over and kissed his cheek and said, “You really do look sexy in those running shorts. Why don’t we skip the run and I can write you a check to cover the donations you would have raised? We can spend the time in more productive pursuits.”

  “Court, stop it; you know I can’t do that.”

  She put her hand on his thigh and squeezed. He pushed her hand away and said, “Court, please.”

  She stared at him for a moment, shook her head and pulled away from the curb. They drove in silence to the registration area at Broad and Somerville.

  “I’ll see you at the Navy Yard, we can talk then,” he said. She looked up and asked, “You alright?”

  “We’ll talk after the run. And Court thanks again for picking me up.” Even Regan was amazed at the crowd at Central High. He overheard someone say there were 30,000 runners scheduled to participate. He gave up attempting to find his sisters and brothers-in-law in the mass of humanity and took a place well behind the elite racers and celebrities who had cued up in front of the television cameras.

  It took until Hunting Park Avenue, nearly three quarters of a mile, for the crowded field to assume a semblance of order. Once he was able to pick up his pace without fear of running into someone else or being run over, Regan allowed himself to feel the energy of the crowds that cheered the runners on as they made their way on this picture perfect morning. As he got into his rhythm he let his mind wander back to the previous evening with Katey. Did he want to be more than just friends?

  He made it to the finish line in eighty-seven minutes, a personal best far exceeding his previous efforts. His parents and nieces and nephews were standing in a preferred spot near the finish line, with the families of other local officials and celebrities.

  “Great time Jack,” his father said as he approached. “Did you see the rest of the Regan clan?”

  “Dad, I was lucky to get through the throng in one piece. I’ve never seen so many runners.”

  “Jack, what did you say to Courtney?” his mother asked.

  “Nothing; why?”

  “Well, she dropped your bag off and ran out of here. I thought we were all going to the Merion Golf Club for lunch. Jack are you sure you didn’t do anything to offend her?”

  Regan met Ichowitz at the Fourth District later that afternoon. Ichowitz filled him in on Ossberg’s briefing. Ossberg swore the video did not show the murder. In fact, Ossberg could not recall anything of a security significance that was worthy of being redacted. In Ossberg’s opinion, it was all some ego trip Homeland Security bullshit the Director was doing to show the locals who had the bigger dick.

  “So why was Homeland Security monitoring Nooris’ condo?” Regan asked.

  “Ari Nooris is an Agent for the Mossad, the Israeli Secret Service, or at least he was once upon a time. According to Ossberg, the word is he has gone
rogue.”

  “What?”

  “They think he has some contacts with a terrorist group. There’s some chatter on websites about some kind of attack on a site where our nation was born. That could be Philly or Beantown, or even New York City. The terrorists are sometimes a little fuzzy on our history.”

  “Izz, why don’t they just arrest him?”

  Ichowitz shrugged. “According to Ossberg, there’s always some chatter about attacks and it’s normally a bunch of nonsense. Nooris is a big time player in this town. Before the feds take him down, they need to be sure.”

  “What about his brother?”

  “Avi’s just a thug who likes to throw his weight around and impress underage girls. Ari’s the one with all the brains and clout.”

  “So is the real estate business just a front?”

  “No, it’s a legitimate business, somewhat on the sketchy side.”

  “So how does this tie into the Larson murder?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ichowitz said. He looked at the conference room wall where they had put up photos of the suspects and persons of interest and the time line of events. “So far the only name with a solid line through any of them is Gold, the Comcast tech,” he said.

  “That leaves both of the Nooris brothers, Dorothy Wiggins and Mayor Gallo, and who knows,” he added.

  “Izz, why didn’t we strike Wiggins? The video confirmed that she left Larson before the Comcast tech arrived at the condo.”

  “Yeah, but she had motive and, I don’t know, she’s just so cocky. Let’s keep her as a possible for now.”

  “What’s next?” Regan asked.

  “We need to question His Honor, the Mayor. Jack something on your mind?”

  Regan stared at him and finally said, “Remember Kate O’Malley?”

  “The really pretty chef at the Grape?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You got a thing for her?” Ichowitz asked.

  “I’m not sure. I mean I think we’ve developed a friendship. She may still be in love with Liam’s father. I don’t know. I really like her and Liam.”

  “Jack, take some advice from an old man. Don’t over think it.”