Cold Plate

By Nino Lama

What starts as a “slip and fall” case, soon becomes a murder case. Four more seemingly unrelated murders follow in a cluster with one common thread: attorney Vince DeMarco. The FBI and US attorney follow each thread with the help of the DeMarcos to eventually uncover a nation-wide murder-for-hire syndicate taking only clients who seek revenge for conceived wrongs of at least twenty years ago. DeMarco himself becomes a target. Fast moving, gripping and a basket well woven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664190474

Nino Lama

Nino Lama is a trial attorney practicing in partnership with his son, Ciano, in Ithaca, New York.

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COPYRIGHT © 2021 BY NINO LAMA.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 01/05/2022

Xlibris

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter One

PRESENT TIME

She arrived at the law office a few minutes early, parked and pulled herself out of the car by hoisting herself up with the handle at the top inside of the door. She’d never realized just how low her car seat was to the ground until now. The stitches on her forehead, knees and hands were still fresh, and bandaged; the limp and pain worse with each step she took. The doctor had given her a prescription for a walker, but out of pride she’d refused it.

As she pulled the glass and steel door open with a grunt, she again thought to herself, why would anyone do this to a sixty-eight year old woman?

Miranda looked up from her desk situated in the front of the bull pen area of the office and greeted her.

Mrs. Henley?

Just Sandy is fine, Henley responded. She took a moment to take in the office; it was exactly how someone would expect a law firm to look—hunter green walls, dark mahogany wainscoting, polished brass letters that spelled, DeMarco Law Firm, LLP on the façade of the second-floor library above Miranda’s office. She took a breath.

You can take a seat, Miranda said, as she stood from her desk. I’ll let them know you’re here.

Sandy took a seat in the dark leather couch against the wall next to the spiral staircase that led up to the library balcony. Sandy pressed on her upper left thigh to try to relieve some of the pain that shot down her leg; her head never stopped throbbing despite the load of hydrocodone she’d taken that morning. Her next appointment with the doctor was six weeks away, and she wondered if she should try to get in sooner.

Promptly, Miranda reappeared with a warm smile on her face. Miranda was 36 years old—but looked ten years younger, slim built, with long black hair down to her waist, and a face that projected calm, confidence, and inner beauty commensurate with her outer beauty.

Sandy, you can come back with me now, Miranda directed.

Sandy stood slowly, grimacing as both knees delivered a knife-like shot of pain as she did. All right, she said.

Miranda showed the way with her right hand, and Sandy preceded her down the hallway which was decorated with a series of plaques including law degrees, federal and state bar admission certificates and a variety of awards. Had she felt better, Sandy may have bothered to look at them. Instead, all she could do was walk slowly down the hall, her head down, her eyes forward. Miranda pointed to double heavy mahogany doors with decorative brass handles, reached in front of Sandy, and opened the door to the right.

There you go, Sandy.

Thank you, Sandy responded, and walked into the private office.

As she entered, the two attorneys stood simultaneously. Both dressed impeccably; the older one in a three-piece black pin-striped suit, reminiscent of the 1970s, and the young one in a contemporaneously fashionable dark grey two-piece suit; both wearing red ties. Sandy took them in as she scanned the office. Again, more plaques, but interspersed with works of art—mostly of the sea; one with a ship in enormous waves, clearly in danger.

Both attorneys were slim, and nearly the same height; Sandy guessed five foot eight. Mike with a full head of hair, short and neatly trimmed; Vince with a sloppy, wavy coif with a few strands of grey.

Good morning, Ms. Henley, Vince DeMarco said, as he gestured to one of the maroon leather wing-back chairs in front of his desk. She sat and looked to her left.

This is my son, and my partner, Mike, Vince said.

Nice to meet you, Ms. Henley, Mike said.

Sandy. Sandy is fine she responded.

Vince leaned back in his high-back maroon leather chair, pen in hand. Mike had opened the laptop on his lap, and typed a few words, then looked over at Sandy.

"Sandy, we’re sorry to hear what happened to you; how are you doing?

Well, Sandy started, an awful lot of pain, but luckily nothing should be permanent, at least so far as we know now. My left knee isn’t doing so good.

This happened this past Saturday? Vince asked.

Yes. I was on my way to the 4:30 afternoon Mass at Immaculate. Just walking down the sidewalk.

What happened, as best as you can remember, Sandy?

Well, it was fast, awfully fast.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Miranda came in with a cold bottled water for Sandy. Sandy took it, smiled at Miranda, opened it and took a long well-needed sip.

All I remember, is that as I was walking, something hit me from behind, and I mean hard, and I went face-first onto the sidewalk, and I must’ve blacked out, because that’s all I remember of that. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the hospital, and alone.

She paused and pulled out a piece of paper folded in quarters from her jacket pocket and opened it up.

This is the police report, she said as she handed it over to Vince.

Vince took it and read it. It didn’t take long, being one page.

That’s it? That’s all? Vince said incredulously.

Yes, Sandy responded. That’s all.

Vince read it aloud: Complainant states while walking on East Seneca Street sidewalk, she suddenly fell to the ground. Complainant was found unresponsive by other pedestrians, and emergency services were called. Complainant was taken to the hospital.

Vince paused.

Mike piped up, Was your purse stolen?

Sandy shook her head. No.

Was anything taken from you—a watch, jewelry, or anything?

No.

Mike turned and looked at Vince; their eyes met—both thinking the same thing: maybe she just tripped and fell over her own feet, and was trying to blame someone else.

What do you think happened? Mike asked her.

Somebody pushed me down from behind.

Who? Vince asked.

Somebody. I don’t know who. That’s why I came to see you. Sandy said.

Did you have an argument with anyone that day, or recently that would do something like this? Kids maybe? Vince asked.

No.

Mike took a breath about to ask a question he knew Sandy wouldn’t like and chimed in, Sandy, do you have any medical conditions that might cause you to black out, or lose your equilibrium?

Sandy took offense to this question. Are you accusing me of something here?

God no, Sandy. Just have to cover all the bases. Were you close to any public buildings where you fell, like a bank, or office building?

Yes. Right in front of the First National Bank, the one with the drive-thru on the side. Why?

Because there might be security film footage of your accident, Vince said, waiting to see whether she’d react to that in a positive or negative way.

Sandy picked up on Vince’s intent.

Mr. DeMarco, I tell you it was no accident.

l’ll get a hold of the security at the bank, Mike volunteered.

Good, Vince said.

Moving on, Vince spoke, Sandy, what is it that you would want us to do for you?

Sandy pulled her head back as if surprised buy the questions and narrowed her eyes.

I want to find out who did this to me and why, and I want my medical bills paid, and I want pain and suffering!

The two attorney’s eyes met again.

I understand, Vince said in a calming voice. Mike nodded his head in sympathy.

We’ll need to get your medical records and talk to the police. Is that OK with you?

Sandy took a long pause before she answered.

Well, my medical records? I guess I should tell you that I’ve had—you know, at my age—lots of medical issues lately. But nothing to do with this!

Understood, Mike said. We’re just interested in the medical records for this accident.

Sandy relaxed.

They exchanged niceties, and Sandy left.

*        *        *

Vince DeMarco had been at it for a long time, well over three decades, following in his own father’s footsteps. His Dad had just become an attorney in Rome Italy as World War II came to an end. With the complete devastation of the Italian economy from the ravages of war, there were no employment opportunities. So, in 1947 Santino DeMarco, at the age of twenty-eight, borrowed five hundred dollars from family members and made his way to the United States on the old Greek ship Nea Helas with his new young bride, Angela. They landed in New York Harbor, and were greeted by several distant cousins at the port who promptly swept him up and took him to their adopted hometown, Ithaca, New York. There, Santino attended the law school at Cornell, and set out for the American Dream. His new solo practice was bolstered by the Italian population of the area—many of whom were from families that had come over years ago during the railroad boom in the States and had built the Lehigh Valley Railroad that ran through Upstate New York. Some paid his fees in cash, many paid his fees with eggs, fresh-baked goods, and even a chicken or two. Little by little his client base expanded until he was an iconic or maybe notorious local figure with a clientele that included many of the town’s businesses, families, and yes, criminals. He had built a comfortable lifestyle for Vince, his mother and himself starting out in a small two-bedroom walk-up apartment, then to a modest ranch style house, and eventually to the stately two-story brick and stone house on East Hill, which Vince inherited on his father’s passing, as his mother had predeceased him. It was now Vince’s home. Vince’s father, Santino, had only recently passed away; never really having left the practice of law, but little by little backed away giving Vince the spotlight. Vince was now ready to pass that spotlight on to his son and partner, Mike.

Vince had enjoyed a happy marriage to his college sweetheart who gave him two wonderful sons, Michael and Bobby. That blew up after twenty years, and Vince had a number of false starts with other women. Now, in his sixties, he had glided into a relatively comfortable singleness, unattached and at peace with it for the most part. His only discomfort came every night when he went home alone to his inherited home; a house too grand, and several sizes too large for a single person. Vince didn’t do alone well. It usually took a double bourbon and his Golden Retriever, Rex to take the edge off that. In the very back of his mind, he could not accept this would be forever. Further back in his mind he knew it would be.

Chapter Two

"I hate these long fucking nights," he thought to himself as he finally left his small, dank rented by-the-month, one-room office on the third-floor old walk-up building near midnight. "But motion deadlines are motion deadlines." Grossly overweight, three hundred pounds on a good day, he trudged toward the dark parking lot on the corner of two unlit streets, worn briefcase in hand. He reached into the left pocket of his too-small tan suit jacket, retrieved the keys to his ten-year-old Mazda and clicked the unlock button. Expecting the car to beep and the lights to flash as always, he was surprised nothing happened. Fucking car, he said aloud to no one.

There was a tap on his right shoulder that startled him to the extent he dropped his briefcase to the ground. He did not turn around but froze in his tracks.

Phil! the voice behind him said, in a friendly, familiar voice. Phil Bradley, is that you?

Phil relaxed at the friendly tone of the voice and turned around; a half smile on his face. He squinted his eyes trying to make out the face on the six-foot ten-inch figure standing there; shadows obscuring his face.

Do I know you? Phil asked.

The figure gave a sharp chuckle, Don’t recognize me, Phil?

Phil took a step toward the figure and cocked his head trying to get a better view of the man’s face.

No, Phil said, now beginning to worry. This guy knew his name, and he had no clue who he was now dealing with and it was midnight for chrissake.

He must’ve just come from the bars, Phil thought.

So, look, it’s almost midnight and I have to get home, so,……. Phil turned his back to the man.

How was work today, Phil, the voice asked. File a lot of reports? Talk to the judge a bunch of times? Make a whole lot of recommendations?

Phil froze in his steps and then turned to face the man but did not respond. This was no casual conversation, and Phil knew it. He took a deep breath trying to lessen the growing tension in his chest.

What do you want? Phil asked him.

The voice slowly pulled a silenced Glock nine-millimeter semi-automatic from his back waist.

Oh, I just want to ask you a few questions, and if you’re honest with me, I’m going to just walk away, and you can call the police for all I care.

Despite the forty-degree weather, and stiff night October breeze blowing on Phil’s mostly bald head, his face heated and he broke into a profuse sweat.

Questions? Phil asked the voice.

Just a few. And oh, by the way, the man said, his voice now ominous, gravely and dark, this gun is loaded, and a Glock 9 has no safety, so I promise you Phil, if you make any sudden moves, I’ll empty this fucking thing into your fat fucking body. Understand?

Phil nodded his head nervously and wiped the sweat that had trickled into his eye. Yeah. He said.

OK, then. Question number one…

Phil swallowed hard, and realized he had no spit.

You know me?

No, Phil said, in a low choked voice. I don’t know you.

Well, let’s see. You remember Sylvia Blanche? The man asked.

Phil looked down to the ground now realizing he was not getting out of this alive. The name tickled his brain, but no real memory.

No. I don’t know her. Phil said.

Yeah? You remember her kids Phil? —three of ‘em?

Phil shook his head. This was going badly, and he was afraid; his vision began to tunnel.

Where are they now, Phil? Where are they now?

I don’t know, Phil answered. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Well then there’s a problem here isn’t there, Phil? Wrong answer. You see, we don’t know either, thanks to your FUCKING reports to the judge!

We? Phil pondered, we?

The first bullet hit Phil in the sternum, shattering that bone, and driving most of it into his right heart atrium and ventricle and inferior caval vein. The bullet would’ve gone through and through, but it lodged in his spine. The second and third bullets struck him in the forehead and left cheek. He was dead before he fell off his feet.

The man walked nonchalantly to his one-year-old black Porsche 911, drove ten minutes to the lake which was matched in its absolute pitch blackness only by the sky, and heaved the gun as hard as he could, knowing the shoreline dropped at 180 degrees. That guaranteed a depth of at least one hundred feet of murky water even that close to shore.

*        *        *

It appeared to be nothing other than a good old-fashioned bar room armed robbery or at least an attempt at one.

An hour after the owner Josh Phillips, a man in his late forties, had locked the front door after all the patrons and staff had left, he heard a loud crash coming from the back. The sound was unmistakable to him: someone had smashed the back door in. In the scant two years he’d owned the place, he had never experienced anything like this. And so his actions revealed his inexperience. At first, he could not move; his feet disobeyed him. When he was finally able to move—now hearing heavy, slow footsteps coming toward him at the front of the bar—he went behind the bar and pulled out his .38 Smith and Wesson revolver; his hand shaking.

Just then, two figures appeared to his left. Standing behind the bar, he raised the revolver, and one of the intruders laughed out loud.

You never loaded it, you fucking moron!

Phillips dropped the gun and raised his hands into the air.

Take whatever you want, he said in a voice stymied as if someone had their hands around his neck.

Figure number two produced a double-barreled sawed-off shot gun and let loose two six gauge slugs at once. One slug from that gun would destroy a full-grown deer from a hundred yards. Two slugs cut Phillips in half.

He turned to his accomplice, Cameras. He said.

No, man. I told you, and I’m not fucking stupid. He never activated them. Let’s go.

No money was taken although the cash drawer was full—no booze either.

Chapter Three

Vince knocked on Mike’s office door.

Come in, Mike said.

Mike’s office was a mirror-image of Vince’s office—furniture and all, just different plaques and less dreary artwork.

Vince went in and sat in front of Mike in one of the client chairs.

Sandy. Vince said.

Sandy? Mike asked?

Remember her, the woman who claims she was body-checked?

Oh right, Mike said.

Miranda gave me the medical records this morning and I’ve had a chance to look them over. I don’t know, but with all the slip-and-fall cases we’ve done, seems to me her injuries—considering she didn’t fall down some stairs, or even off the curb—are too severe if she just tripped and fell or even blacked out and fell.

He handed the medical reports over to Mike.

Anyway, Mike, take a look and let me know what you think. I’m going to call Detective Ken Ludlow at the police station and ask him about this report.

You got it, Dad.

Vince stood to leave Mike’s office.

Dad, Mike said, You got a minute to talk?

Vince knew immediately from the tone of his son’s voice that this was serious, and not about any case. Vince sat back down slowly.

Of course, son. Of course. What’s going on? Vince said, almost dreading to hear, yet knowing what was to come.

There was a long pause, with Mike leaning back in his hair, arms crossed in front of him. Vince leaned toward his son, and felt his throat tighten.

It’s Megan? Vince suggested.

Mike nodded his head. She didn’t come home again last night.

Vince slumped back in his chair, shaking his head. What he wanted to do was pound his fist on the desk with all his strength and let out a litany of every vile and foul word he could come up with about his daughter-in-law. But, instead, he lifted himself from the chair, walked around Mike’s desk to him, and put his arm around his son’s shoulders.

Vince took a deep breath, trying to think of the right thing for a father to say to his son under these circumstances but nothing came. Mike slightly lifted his shoulder as if to tell his father the hug had gone on long enough. Vince patted Mike on the back and went back to his seat.

Yeah. She strolled in around four this morning, went straight to bed.

Did you talk to her? Vince asked.

I tried, Dad. She wouldn’t talk. Just told me to leave her alone.

Vince took in the mental image.

Same story, I imagine, Vince said.

I assume so. Mike answered. Just out with friends trying to have some fun.

Well, she’s a 36 year-old married woman, Vince said, as if that helped anything. I’ll be glad to talk to her. Vince offered.

No, Dad. I don’t think that would help; maybe make things go worse.

I understand, Mike. Then I want you to both go see Henchel.

Henchel?

"Yeah, Miles Henchel. He’s the counselor I saw to get