A Case for Murder

By George L. L Proferes

A sudden winter storm at the end of January takes the east end by surprise after an unusually warm autumn and a moderate stretch of early winter weather. It also serves as the backdrop to the discovery of two frozen bodies buried under a drift of snow in their car on an unpaved lane near the coastal village of Ocean View on Long Island’s south fork. Initial forensic investigations prompt the authorities to lean toward accidental deaths until subsequent investigation reveals the deaths to be probably homicides. The local community is shocked to learn that the two deceased are prominent local residents. The concerns become more pronounced when it is learned that the local high school football coach, whose wife was one of the victims, becomes a prime suspect in these deaths. The village law office of Fanelli & Lorenzo is contacted by the suspect to provide him with a legal defense, should one become necessary. It is Lorenzo who receives an anonymously printed note with explosive information detailing what the unknown note writer saw on the night in question. Failure to identify the informant, however, imperils his attempt to defend his client. A Case For Murder is replete with characters such as an involuntary fugitive from a federal witness protection program, a contract killer, and the man he is working for; a mob boss from another state, two families torn apart and humiliated by the deaths of the two victims, and a newly licensed private investigator, like Lorenzo, a retired police detective, who joins forces with the law office to gather the facts necessary to represent Lorenzo’s client as the pace of this thriller continues to accelerate, a hallmark of the author’s Marc Lorenzo murder series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781684097791

Book preview

1

The man shivered for a moment despite several layers of clothing that he wore. Seated behind the wheel of his old blue Ford van, he looked out through the windshield at a steady procession of gray waves crashing violently against the deserted barrier beach, the force of their surge throwing a white foamy spray onto the rocky shoreline. He had been aware of the steady drop in temperature throughout the day, a sure sign, he felt, that the weather was about to turn bad.

He was tall and thin, in his early forties. Except for two piercing blue eyes set widely upon a narrow, angular face, his features were literally obscured by a drooping mustache, a thick, scruffy beard, and long, unruly gray-blonde hair. He was dressed for the elements in a set of thermals over which he wore a faded pair of lined jeans. Covering his upper torso were two long-sleeved heavy pullover shirts and a hooded dirty-green sweatshirt. A pair of weathered leather boots and a woolen knit cap sporting the Chicago Bears logo completed the image he had created for himself—that of a typical modern day mobile, homeless man.

If asked, he would have had to admit that homeless status was technically correct, given his current circumstance. However, the man was a completely different animal, one who would have jumped at the chance to simply be one of the homeless, unwashed rather than what he actually was—an unfortunate fugitive.

Staring at the deteriorating weather through the gloom of an approaching winter evening, he reluctantly decided that it was time to find a more sheltered place for this night. The weatherman was now predicting the probability of a coastal storm, and the wind had begun to swing around to the northeast. He didn’t relish the opportunity to see a northeaster up close and personal, especially out here on the beach. He knew that he would probably be stranded should the storm’s surge succeed in breaching the narrow roadway leading back to Long Island’s south shore.

He was using a set of forged documents identifying himself as one Blane Sutcliff, fabricated for him when he had decided to make a run for it, by an old personal acquaintance, one who had owed him a debt. With this falsified identity, he had also obtained a phony driver’s license, purchased the old van, obtained plates and insurance, and hit the road, amazed by how easy it had been to negotiate the system.

He had arrived in the area in late October, aware that it was the off-season for tourists and other visitors in these parts and had found the miles of relatively deserted ocean beaches of Long Island to be exactly what needed, safe haven from the two groups who were looking for him.

Taking up surfcasting he would soon become a familiar sight as he began to fish and clam for his daily meals up and down the coastal beaches from Montauk to the village of Ocean View, a small rural hamlet that he had chosen as a temporary spot to settle.

Living in his van, his presence was soon noticed by locals who figured him for just another of the homeless who were sprinkled randomly among the towns and villages of the county’s rural east end.

His living expenses were kept as low as he could manage. Having invested in a small charcoal cooker, he would cook his meal each evening on whatever beach location he found himself to be, his meals featuring fish or clams, canned beans or vegetables, and either instant coffee or simply water from an army surplus canteen.

As he sat, huddled in the van against the dropping temperature, his thoughts returned to his first days in October when he had become seduced by the unseasonably warm autumn weather. Surprised when the benign weather had continued through December and now even halfway through January, he had decided against taking again to the road for a more southerly location down the east coast. And now the frigid weather had begun to invade his world, and with the storm approaching, he would be forced to abandon one of his usual overnight spots for a more sheltered one. Fortunately, he had recently scouted out just the place a few days earlier. It was in a wooded hollow off a private dirt road that served to divide a local farm from a much larger tract of undeveloped county-owned acreage.

With a sigh of resignation, he started up the old vehicle and, turning around, began to slowly drive out along the narrow beach road. When he had crossed a small bridge spanning the inlet, he turned west onto the highway and headed toward the seaside village of Ocean View. Low on gas, he pulled into a Sunoco service station a mile from the village. Twenty-six dollars of a dwindling cash reserve bought him ten gallons of gas, a large container of black coffee, and a couple of buttered hard rolls which would serve as his food for the evening. He was now down to four hundred dollars and would soon need to access the savings account he had under another alias, this one using his mother’s surname. To accomplish this, however, would require traveling back to a bank in the city he had fled, he realized—a task he didn’t relish. To complicate things further, his ability to fish and clam, which provided him with his basic supply of food, would become diminished with this belated onset of winter. Perhaps it was time to drive south into warmer climes, he was thinking, as he drove along. But he knew that his old van wouldn’t tolerate a long trip, unless he could replace tires and check the brakes, not to mention the plugs, radiator, belts, fluids, and probably other problems. This, he knew, would also require tapping into that savings account.

I’m up a creek without a paddle, he muttered to himself as he was turning off the highway onto a rutted slash of a dirt road that served to separate a working farm on the east from a larger tract of public land to the west Twilight was upon him as he slowly drove over and around serious potholes and small boulders. The lane, used primarily by the family that owned and cultivated farmland, was suitable for their tractors and trucks, but his old van was being put to its test. On the public land to the west were small copses of forest, spaced randomly among vast meadows filled with tangles of wild roses, blackberry bushes, poison ivy, and other uncultivated surprises. Dirt trails could be seen leading off from the lane and meandering throughout the property, the product of an army of local dirt bikers. Sutcliff was confident, however, that he would probably have the land to himself in January with a winter storm on its way.

Finally he spotted his narrow turnoff and carefully left the lane, turning onto a narrower path that led into the undeveloped land. Seeing the opening to the woodland hollow he had chosen for the night’s shelter, he pulled in under an overhang of large cedar trees and came to a stop now hidden from sight. The silence, interrupted only by the rising wind in the trees, was profound for someone who had spent most of his life in urban environs.

This would be fine for the night, but with the predicted winter storm due to hit before morning, he knew he would have to leave at early light or risk being snowed in. Where he would go to ride out the storm he would deal with tomorrow, he decided.

Climbing into the van’s interior, he opened his arctic sleeping bag that was stretched across an old mattress, then pulled up a small piece of carpet remnant that was covering a rusted-out hole in the van’s flooring. Then he placed a small propane heater, one designed for golf carts, next to the tiny opening, which would provide the minimum amount of ventilation necessary and clicked on the battery powered igniter. A humming sound followed almost instantly by a gush of warm air. Sutcliff then reached up to retrieve his container of coffee, turned on his small battery powered radio, bunched up an old pillow under his head, and laid back to relax, his camping efforts completed for the night, or so he thought.

He had barely finished his coffee when he began to feel drowsy. Shutting off the radio, he snuggled down inside the sleeping bag. Soon calmed by the sound of wind in the trees he fell asleep.

Sometime late in the night the roar of a car engine suddenly woke him. Startled and disoriented, he struggled to free himself from the bag and scurried up to the driver’s seat, instantly prepared to drive out of harm’s way if that was necessary. He had been forced on two other evenings to drive away from groups of troublesome youths bent on mischief, alarmed that this might be the case tonight. Straining to see the whereabouts of the vehicle that had wakened him, he spotted a sedan parked less than two hundred feet from his hidden location, between two rows of cedars in another wooded area up the path from where he was parked. As he watched, the car’s lights were extinguished and the engine noise abated to an idle.

The radium dial on his watch read eleven o’clock, so he had been asleep for three hours. Now fully awake, however, he would sit there vigilantly until the car left, unwilling to risk a return to his warm sleeping bag. Instead, he reached back for the radio, which he turned on to a popular late-night talk show, and pulled on his boots prepared to leave if necessary.

He was becoming interested in a dialogue between the talk show host and a radical Islamist of American birth when he heard another vehicle approaching. As he turned to look back through the van’s rear window, a vehicle driving without lights pulled into the entrance of his hollow and parked! He crept back to the rear and peered out of the small window and heard, rather than saw, a car door open and close.

Acting instinctively, he rushed back to the front and slipped out through the passenger side door, then crept back toward the other vehicle, crouching down as a pale moon peeked through a break in the cloud cover. He could now see a small car blocking the entrance to his hideaway. He lay, unmoving on the frigid ground, watching as a shadowy figure in a hooded jacket begin a stealthy combat crawl toward the idling sedan up ahead of Sutcliff’s position. He was now eager to jump back into his van and leave the area, except that his way was now blocked. Instead, he could only lie there and watch the hooded man’s approach, continuing an advance toward the other sedan. Sutcliff kept still, finally emitting a sigh of relief when the interloper passed within yards of his hiding place.

The hooded man finally reached the rear of the idling sedan and ducked out of sight behind the trunk. Reappearing in a few seconds, he now began a steady crawl back toward his auto that Sutcliff could now identify as a late model BMW, identical to the one that he had owned at the time of the misfortune that had resulted in his current status. He continued to watch as the man got into his car and, without headlights, backed out and turned away toward the highway.

The sedan continued to idle, the occupants obviously unaware of the hooded man’s visit.

Too much traffic for me, Sutcliff muttered as he returned to his van, frozen from his time on the frigid ground, and started up the old van, pulling out also without headlights and carefully began to slowly drive out along the hazardous road. He had driven three hundred yards when he turned on his headlights in time to come upon the BMW now parked on the side of the road facing in his direction!

Slamming his foot down on the gas pedal he accelerated past, his lights illuminating the other car’s interior, allowing him a brief glance at the other man—not enough, however, he realized, except to note that he was still wearing his hood. Keeping his foot on the pedal, he bounced his way along the rutted lane until finally reaching the highway.

His breathing was beginning to return to normal when he reached the village. The illuminated neon sign of the Atlantic Diner caught his attention and he impulsively decided to pull in for a late-night meal, just what he needed despite his dwindling cash. Besides, it would allow him the time to warm up following his enforced period out on the cold ground. There were only a few souls occupying booths, with no one at the counter where he took a stool.

His decision to stop would soon prove fortuitous. He had finished a burger supreme and two cups of coffee when Tommy Pappas, the diner’s owner, came over and asked him if he might be looking for work.

Could be, he replied, surprised by the question.

Well, my dishwasher quit on me tonight. Have you ever done any kitchen work?

Stifling a laugh, he nodded. How much? he asked.

Three squares a day and five an hour, Pappas answered. What about it?

Would I be able to park my van overnight in your rear parking lot? he asked, a plan forming.

Why not? You could park next to my outside storage shed near the outside kitchen entrance. So what about it? Pappas asked.

I’ll take it and thanks, Sutcliff said.

Good man, and, my friend, I want you to make use of the staff washroom. It has a private shower that I would suggest you use before starting. I’ll expect you at noon tomorrow. Will you be parking there tonight?

If I can, Sutcliff answered.

That’s fine with me. You know there’s a heavy snow on the way. And, Blane, is it? Get yourself a haircut and a trim the beard in the morning. You can walk to the barber’s shop. It’s only three buildings away.

You’re on, Mister Pappas, Sutcliff replied, reaching to pick up his check only to have the owner take it away. Before he could thank the owner, however, a group of night revelers came in and Pappas rushed back into the kitchen, ready to help his night chef with what probably be multiple orders of burgers and fries.

Later, now parked in his designated spot next to the shed Sutcliff, excited over this sudden answer to his immediate needs, crawled back into his sleeping blanket, having almost forgotten the strange happenings out on Hallock Farm Road.

2

Marco Lorenzo, one half of the village’s only law practice, awoke to the depressing sight of heavily falling snow outside his bedside window. His only consolation was the fact that he was alone in the old farmhouse for the first time in years, and so he decided to roll over and sleep a while longer. Yesterday he had driven his Aunt Rose, his self-appointed housekeeper since he had moved to Ocean View, and her brother-in-law, Tony Donato, to Kennedy for a flight to Tampa for a few weeks of sun and fun. Tony, who maintained a condo there, had finally enticed Rose to join him. They were both widowed. She had been married to Tony’s brother and was Marc’s maternal aunt. Donato owned Blue Moon, a successful vineyard and winery on the outskirts of Ocean View, but would not be needed there until late March. Lorenzo, content to ignore the depressing day, pulled the covers over his head and didn’t stir again until his bedside clock registered ten in the morning and his dog, Toby, began scratching on the bedroom door.

Reluctantly, he crawled out of bed and stood yawning and stretching as he began to join the living. Looking again out the window, he could see that it was a winter disaster in the making. Lorenzo was a sturdily built, six feet, three inches, finally approaching a more normal weight of two hundred pounds after three and a half years of slow recovery from a nearly fatal gunshot wound, an event that had prematurely ended his police career. He still carried some seriously ugly scars along his abdomen and left side, almost up to his armpit but his stomach and intestines had finally begun to return to normal functioning.

In his late thirties, he looked a decade younger thanks to a full head of curly black hair and an athletic profile that featured steel gray eyes and a Roman nose. Considered handsome by the ladies, he hadn’t yet made it to the altar despite several close calls along the way.

Toby, an energetic black lab, bounded into the room as he opened the door, and Lorenzo, dressed in denims and a woolen sweater over a flannel shirt, dutifully followed his pet down the stairs. He pulled on a pair of boots and donned a heavy hooded parka before following Toby out the back door into the blowing white stuff. He stood hunched up against the wind and snow and watched as the dog began to frolic, running in circles, then jumping up on his master before speeding off in pursuit of something he had spotted.

Probably a rabbit or squirrel, Lorenzo surmised as he tried to keep the bitter cold away from his exposed face. After ten minutes of this nonsense, he called a halt by whistling and watched with satisfaction as his faithful pet bounded back into view and followed him back into the warm house.

Realizing he was hungry, he went into the kitchen and, as Toby watched patiently, cooked up a breakfast of bacon and eggs, a double order for each of them. As they dug into their meals, the weatherman was warning that sustained winds of forty miles an hour would be transforming the heavy snowfall into a full-blown blizzard. That did it for Lorenzo, who decided that since it was a Saturday and the office was therefore closed, this would be a stay-at-home day for him, an opportunity to catch up on some recreational reading, one of those pleasures that he had been recently neglecting.

An hour later, as he was making serious progress into a new Baldacci novel, seated in his favorite chair in front of a roaring fireplace in the den with Toby at his feet, he heard a weather update announcing several power outages on the island with a prediction of more than a foot of snow by the time the storm had passed off to the east. He began to relish the fact that he would finally get the chance to try out his renovated pickup truck’s new snowplow, something he had been anticipating since it had been readied almost a year ago!

At half past six in the evening, he and Toby made their third and last sojourn out into the storm followed by a quick supper of franks and beans, another of Toby’s favorites. At the unseemly hour of eight, he crawled back into bed, actually feeling exhausted despite his purely sedentary day, hoping that he wouldn’t lose power overnight. He soon fell into a sound sleep as the storm raged on.

3

Under a bright morning sky, Ellen Perry slowed to a stop as she approached a large snowdrift stretching between two rows of cedar trees that marked the boundaries of the path they were using. Looking back over her right shoulder, she watched with amusement as her husband, Ken, struggled to catch up. With his arms pumping furiously on the ski poles, his effort to propel himself along was being compromised by the unfamiliar feel of the cross-country skis. This was his first time on them while she, a child of northern Vermont, had been raised on skis and snowshoes.

The skis had been sitting for years in their basement, a long-forgotten Christmas gift from Ken. Ironically, since that time, winters on the island had been mild and almost snow-free. However, when Ellen had looked out on the winter wonderland, this morning, she had insisted on dragging her husband out into the frigid air, For a little spin on our skis.

Now, as she waited for him to join her, she knew that he must be hurting from such a vigorous introduction to her sport. Truth be told, she was feeling muscle soreness herself, she realized, as he finally drew abreast of her.

Honey, let’s take a break, she suggested.

What’s the matter, you tired? he asked, a lopsided grin exploding across his face.

Isn’t it beautiful up here, Ken? she enthused, ignoring his question as they gingerly rested up against the trunk of a large snow-encrusted cedar. Although the temperature was barely out of the teens, there was no wind. It was a sparkling morning, the sky an unblemished shade of azure blue.

Above a red-tailed hawk’s whistle caught their attention, and they watched as it glided overhead searching for a careless field mouse or squirrel for its breakfast. An answering whistle announced the arrival of the predator’s mate, and they watched as it swooped down to join the other miniature eagle.

She must have caught something, Ken said, pointing to the second bird.

How do you know that? she asked as she secretly worked to regain her breathing, somewhat annoyed that Ken didn’t seem winded at all.

Well, when they hunt, they usually don’t search the same ground. Look at her talons. She’s carrying something, he said as the two large birds flew directly overhead and landed softly on the branch of a white pine twenty yards away. The form of a rabbit became recognizable.

Ugh, I hate to see animals killing each other, she exclaimed in disgust.

It’s nature, kiddo, a dog-eat-dog world. Man is the biggest predator of all. Let’s not forget that, he remarked with a smirk on his face.

Okay, no lectures this morning. Let’s get going. Maybe we can make it down to the highway and then it’s less than a mile to our house, she suggested, painfully aware that it was she who was stiffening up. Ken, however, seemed to have no problems as he quickly pushed off into the lead. He hadn’t gone ten yards, however,