Murder and Sangiovese

By Scott Savoy

When Michael Dubois, a young architecture professor from Louisiana, lands his first job in one of the most prestigious cities in the world, he’s ecstatic. Though fluent in French when the wheels of his 747 touches down at Rome’s Leonardo de Vinci Airport, he starts to learn Italian and is quickly drawn to the city’s street life. Little does Michael know as he agrees to a late night meeting on a secluded side street that within hours he’ll be in a desperate struggle for his life.

While being pursued by both a group of assassins and by the Italian military police, Michael Dubois meets Gabriella, a beautiful middle aged bohemian with dark green eyes and a troubled past.

How long can they keep one step ahead of death? They both know it’s only a matter of time before their luck runs out and they’re caught or killed. What Michael and Gabriella don’t expect is how much they need each other, and what they have no way of knowing is that one of them is connected to the mysterious events threatening to engulf their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Savoy
• Release date: Oct 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301859351

Scott Savoy

Scott Savoy is an award winning writer whose numerous articles, short stories and plays have appeared in newspapers, magazines and anthologies in Louisiana and Arkansas. From their log cottage in one of the pine forests of southern Louisiana, he and his wife spend as much time as possible writing, reading, and taking long walks to soak in the rich Cajun French culture.

Book preview

Murder and Sangiovese

By Scott Savoy

Copyright 2012 Scott Savoy

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Epilogue

About the author

Discover other books by Scott Savoy

Connect with Me Online

Chapter 1

The man had once been a very good burglar, some said the best, but that was years before, and he was now well past his prime in a career that tolerated no weakness. Laboring under the weight of the rappelling equipment, the man already felt drained but optimistic knowing that this would be his last job. He’d finally convinced himself to give up the only thing he ever truly loved or was any good at. But he knew he’d have to find some other way to give him an adrenaline rush, learning to replace the tingling feeling of pure exhilaration as he left a clean crime scene with a sedate life on a beach in Marseilles. Lowering himself from the rooftop to the window ledge of the fourth floor, it took him less than a minute to cut his way through the glass pane of the storage room window and enter the building. Two minutes later, he’d cut the wires, disengaging the alarm system, knowing that for three minutes a silent alarm could have been going off. He had to work fast. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, burning his eyes as he ran down a long corridor to the large office at the far end of the hallway where he popped the lock on the door and on several filing cabinets lining the far wall of the room. Pulling documents from the cabinets and using his pin-light to illuminate the papers, he snapped off one photo after another with his cell phone. A few seconds later, he took photos of several documents he found locked inside a mahogany desk in the center of the room.

Unfortunately for the intruder, the building’s W-20 PAR burglar-alarm used a set of multi ray sensors, and a micro controller relaying a silent entry warning, not to the local police station a few blocks away, but to a building next door where a group of men slept lightly.

Hearing a loud beep as the front door opened, sliding the phone and pin-light back into his pocket, the intruder sprinted back down the hallway. Their response time had been much quicker than he’d expected, realizing too late that he was dealing with professionals. Reaching the storage room, locking the door and climbing to the window, the intruder heard the thunderous echo of footsteps in the stairwell. The men responding to the alarm reached the fourth floor in less than half the time that his plans had allowed, and rushing out the window, his foot slipped off the ledge. Ripping off one of his gloves, he lunged for and grabbed the rappelling rope. Clutching the line with his gloved hand, gripping it for his life and leaning in, he touched the window to steady his swaying body. Pulling himself back up the rope to the rooftop, he heard crunching sounds as his pursuers shot and kicked their way through the storage room door. Seconds later, sliding down an escape line he’d stretched over the back wall of an enclosed courtyard, he climbed into his car and drove away. The intruder had escaped but not before leaving his calling card. For a man with a mug-shot on file, he left behind something as obvious, as telling, as his passport. In the top right corner of the window, he’d left behind a clear set of fingerprints.

Even after reaching the south side of the city, the intruder didn’t fully understand the danger involved with his last job. If he had, he would’ve never taken the assignment, or at the very least, after leaving the building, he would have headed straight for the airport. He should have immediately boarded a plane. He should have left for Marseilles; and once there, changed his identity and lived out the rest of his life, soaking up the sun along the beaches of southern France. Unfortunately for him, a carefree retirement of sunbathing and relaxation would not be his fate.

~~~~

Chapter 2

Jet-lagged, Michael jogged across the piazza of Campo de Fiori, feeling his chin and realizing he hadn’t shaved since the morning before when he’d left Louisiana. His bus ride to Baton Rouge and flights to New York and Rome all went well, but as Michael slid his tongue across the front of his teeth, he wished he’d taken time to at least brush. He couldn’t think about that now. All he focused on was getting to class on time to give his first lecture as a college professor which seemed like a long shot. Procrastination had been Michael’s Achilles, dogging him since youth, and though he’d accumulated more baggage along the way, procrastination was the only problem he would readily admit to. He’d been awake for almost an hour, standing on his balcony watching the piazza below come to life, and had lost track of the time. Looping his tie over his head, cinching it up and adjusting his collar, he’d pinned his lecture notes under his armpit. He was in that awkward period after arriving at a new place; feeling lost and frustrated. The city’s landmarks, its street signs, were an enigma. Watching the light, impatiently, Michael waited for it to freeze the metallic caterpillar of traffic contracting and stretching its way down the wide thoroughfare lined with soot smeared churches their walls echoing the beeps and honks of passing cars. The instant the pedestrian light turned green, he sprinted across the street running along the edge of Rome’s famous Piazza Navona. Hurrying down Via de Saint Maria to the huge oak doors at number 17 and swiping his card through the electronic reader, Michael looked at his watch then back again at the card-key reader. Nothing happened. Be here at nine, sharp, the Dean had said. Stomping his foot and yanking on the door handle, he hoped to hear a click but didn’t. Shit! he muttered. His watch showed 9:09 as he slowly slid his card-key through the reader and blowing out a breath as the lock clicked and the tiny portal door, hinged into the bottom right of the door panel, automatically opened. The ceilings, covered with frescoes, scenes of clouds and cherubs, loomed fifteen feet above his head as he ran to the end of an enclosed entranceway. Reaching a set of French doors, he saw with red lettering painted on a rippled glass pane that read ‘Collegio de Architetto del Arkansas 3rd’. On the first swipe, his card-key opened the French doors. Turning right, Michael started up the stairs, taking them three at a time, knowing he was late, wondering why he always was. Shit … shit … shit, he mumbled. Reaching the third floor, trotting down the hallway, passed a row of tiny offices and a good looking red haired receptionist sitting at a desk, he thought about what he would say to the room full of students. Twenty students sat waiting in the small classroom. They jabbered on excitedly talking about places they wanted to see, things they wanted to do during their seemingly endless semester in Rome, unaware at how quickly it would come to an end. The Dean of the College, a man he’d never meet before, sat frowning with prominent bushy eyebrows, his arms crossed, in a chair at the back of the room. When he spotted Michael, he glanced at his watch and picked a piece of lint off the sleeve of his tweed jacket. Pitching his notes onto the podium and swiping up a marker, Michael wrote his name on the board hanging on the wall before turning back to face the class. My name is Michael Dubois, he said. I’m here to teach you Architectural Theory and Urban History. We’ll start with Theory.

He was finally in front of the class. It had taken him seven grueling years of architecture study to be able to stand there. Ever since he could remember, he wanted to be an architect. For him the academics always came easily, but he’d struggled to finish his PhD and, more than once, wondered if he’d chosen the right career. Watching his friends graduate and move on with their lives made him feel like he’d been in college too long. He’d felt stuck, wishing he’d not chosen to pursue his PhD. All that had now changed. Within days of passing his Oral Exams, he became Professor Michael Dubois PhD and was offered his first teaching assignment in Rome.

Taking a deep breath, Michael launched into his lecture, following his outline for the first hour, noticing no one asked questions and only a few students even looked up from their laptops. While technically correct, his first attempt at lecture had gone badly. He knew it was too dry and lacked emotion. At 1:00 PM, as Michael’s stomach began to growl, the Dean stood up and walked out. A deep abdominal moan, loud enough for the students in the front half of the room to hear, caused a few of them to smile.

Michael walked out from behind the podium moving toward the first row of desks. Sorry about that growl, he said. You see, in Louisiana we eat lunch at noon.

Several students agreed, their stomachs’ just as empty as his, and had also not yet adjusted to the later European lunch time. For the last twenty minutes of his lecture, his caged roar continued unabated, the sound adding a much needed levity, and by the end of the morning, more students were making eye contact. Michael had a lot in common with them. After all, he was just a few years older than they were and until the week before, he himself had been an architecture student.

Besides being late for his first day of class and giving a lack luster lecture, Michael had convinced himself he’d done all right, certain he could do better once he got more rest. That’s it for today’s lecture, he said. Be back at 3:30 for studio. Only arriving in Rome the afternoon before, he still had a queasy stomach and eyelids he just couldn’t keep open, both the result of jet-lag.

For lunch Michael ordered a cheese panino sandwich from a street vendor near the college, carrying it back to his office, which turned out to be the size of a broom closet, where he ate slowly enjoying every bite. His office had just enough space for a small desk and chair, but Michael didn’t care. At least he was an Architecture professor with his own office. Eating his sandwich, he wondered if the Dean was having second thoughts about offering him a teaching position. The Dean knew he'd only passed his Oral Examinations the week before and must have been aware he was taking a gamble by hiring an inexperienced teacher. Maybe no one else had applied for the job, Michael thought, though this seemed difficult to believe. For whatever reason, they’d hired him. They’d actually approached him, not the other way around.

The college closed down each day from 1:30 PM to 3:30 PM to give the students and staff time to eat lunch and participate in the ancient Italian custom. The "siesta". Closing their doors, many shop owners hurried home for lunch and a nap, the city taking its quiet time when even in Rome the pace relaxed just a bit.

Beginning the studio session, he realized the Dean was not there. Apparently, he’d chosen to skip the afternoon class. After studio, Michael dismissed the class and was making his way down the hallway when he spotted the Dean ahead of him.

The old man was leaning over Nicole’s desk, trying to talk to the red haired receptionist in shattered Italian, speaking loud and slowly. "Nicole, Per favore, tell me if the contract is pronto?"

Michael smiled. It was almost unfathomable to him that someone living in Rome could know so little Italian.

In her late 20’s, Nicole, sat with the phone wedged between her tilted shoulder and ear, rattling on in Italian while nodding impatiently to the Dean and thrusting a hand full of papers toward him.

Turning to Michael, who had almost reached his sliver of an office, Dean Russell called out to him. Finally able to officially meet, he said, stepping forward and extending his hand.

Michael closed the distance between them quickly and shook the man’s hand. Michael Dubois, he said.

I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes. Come on back to my office.

Of course. Michael followed his boss into the largest office in the hallway where after shutting the door, the old man motioned to an empty chair. Please sit down.

~~~~

Chapter 3

A small window overlooking the street let in late afternoon sunshine lighting the bookshelves lining the Dean’s office overwhelmed with paper and Baroque style balsa wood models.

Pulling the chair